by N M Zoltack
“Can I help you?” Rase asked eagerly.
The old man shook his head. “You shouldn’t be around these parts.”
“Why not?”
“No one else is. Atlan is dying. Tenoch is dying. All of Dragoona is dying.”
Rase shook his head. “No. We can save—”
“No one wants to be saved anymore,” the old man said. He turned to walk away.
Rase rushed up to him and seized the man’s arm. “I can help—”
“I don’t need your help,” the man said.
“But—”
The man might be feeble, but his punch to Rase's gut took the young man by surprise. He staggered back a few paces, and the old man rushed away.
Rase could have easily caught up to the man, but he ignored him and headed a little closer toward the castle. He honestly didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to return to Leanne until he could actually truly prove to her that he had changed, but he wasn’t certain how to do just that.
“Halt!”
Rase’s first instinct was to run, but he slowed down and glanced to his right.
A guard approached with a concerned expression on his face. “Do you need something?”
“I don’t suppose you need help, do you?” Rase muttered.
The guard blinked a few times. “Do I… No.”
“Nothing at all? Not even something small?” Rase didn’t even attempt to conceal the eager desperation in his voice.
“No, but if you need something, you should head to the castle.”
“I should?”
"Most of the peasants, most everyone who has remained in the city, is within the castle walls," the guard said slowly. "Are you not from around here?
“I…” Rase shook his head and grimaced. Not that long ago, despite the war and the dragons, Dudley Hill’s hotel had been open. Not only that, it had been wildly successful. It had attracted a raucous crowd, and as could often happen, a fight broke out, and Dudley ended up dying.
The hotel was closed, and when Dudley died, so had almost all of Rase’s aspirations. He sought to save up coins so he could take Leanne and leave Atlan. He had invested in Dudley’s hotel, and he had been paid a portion of each night’s profits.
No Dudley? No profits.
But even worse than that was the realization that Dudley had been one of the few people to accept Rase’s help and to offer help in return. They had helped each other.
Now, no one believed in Rase. Fates alive, he did not even believe in himself.
And the peasants in the castle? Surely the guards and the queen were looking after them and their needs. He’d assumed it would be a struggle to find people to help, but this, this was maddening.
To make matters worse, Rase felt as if he was worthless, as if he couldn’t possibly help anyone at all. What good could he do for anyone? What did he have to offer? He was light on his feet, and he had several kills under his belt. He could throw a punch and handle taking one, and as long as the purse wasn’t too heavy, he could swipe and steal. All of his skills, every one of them, did not help a single person. He was done stealing. He would not even take from the nobles to give to the poorest peasant.
Why? Why did he live when others who were so good, if a bit naïve, had died? Maxene should be still alive. Her baby should still breathe. How old would the babe be now if the baby had survived?
But Rase had failed her, failed them all, and he was helpless to change his life around.
Dragoona would be better off without him.
17
Bjorn Ivano
Curled up into a huddled ball in the corner of his cell, Bjorn worked feverishly to warm his body.
When Sabine Grantham, the wife of the late Jankin Rivera, a one-time queen alongside Rosalynne, had come to visit Bjorn, he had not known what to think. Her offer of a drink came at a time when he was nearly weak from lack of both food and drink, and he hadn’t thought that she might have poisoned him.
Oh, what a fool he was! Especially because he had given the blond-haired woman a potent poison native to Maloyan. She had ignored his advice on how to use it, and instead of slowly poisoning Jankin to death, she killed him swiftly and publicly.
The drink… It tasted… He could not even recall the taste, but it had started to freeze him the moment it first passed his lips. A blue fire of deathly chill washed over his body, and he thought his hands, his fingers, his arms, all of him would turn into ice, that he would become an ice sculpture.
His teeth chattered so violently he feared they would fall out of his mouth, and he could not stop his body from shivering.
And then… the deathly chill warmed enough to merely be a dreadful chill and then a mere chill. Perhaps in time, he might be able to recover the use of his body.
He struggled to unwrap an arm from around his waist, and he stared at his hand. He couldn’t feel his hand, and even just the thought of trying to move his fingers made him want to weep because he feared that a digit would snap off.
Something wet rolled down his cheek. Something wet and warm.
A tear.
More tears came, and slowly, his face began to warm up. He started to rock his body, and he opened his good eye. His breath was no longer coming out as if he were in a snowstorm.
Eventually, he became willing to try to push up to standing. He braced himself as he pressed a palm to the wall to help lift himself up, but his hand did not snap at the wrist. Lacking the strength to pick up his feet, Bjorn merely shuffled forward. His body ached terribly, and he couldn’t tell which pain was from that poison and which had been from the beating Aldus had ordered.
At one time, Bjorn would have plotted revenge. He would have figured out all of the ways he could get back at Sabine and Aldus and the guards as well, the ones who had actually tortured.
Instead, he thought of Olympia Li, waiting for him. No, knowing her, she would only wait for some time. Most likely, she was off, maybe trying to find her brother through another means.
Olympia. The idea of her being a scullery maid would have made him laugh if he had the heart to still be capable of laughing. She might lack an army to help her acquire the throne, but honestly, he wondered if the true reason she had ventured from her island home was for her to be reunited with her brother. No one could truly think they could claim the throne without military might. Jankin might not have needed to go to war to take his crown, but he had the backing of warriors had it come to that.
There was something so very good and honest about Olympia. She claimed she only sought the crown because her parents had been murdered and because it was her birthright, but he knew her. She would make a wonderful queen despite being ignorant of the nature of nobles and politics.
For she had something that most leaders lacked—empathy. She had lived among the people, some of the poorest people in all of Dragoona, and yet she seemed rich in other ways.
The more he thought of Olympia and all she had to offer the world, the more Bjorn wished he could see her sit on that throne, but how could it happen? Who might her twin be?
Dark eyes, straight, long, raven-colored hair… Bjorn had spent time within the castle during the tournament and after. There had been so many people within the walls… Knights, guards, nobles, servants…
Most likely, her twin would have dark hair and eyes. Maybe a small nose. Olympia’s was rather delicate.
But what if they did not favor one another? What if she looked like the mother or the father and he the other?
Bjorn lowered his head and almost vomited again. He had forgotten he had been beaten so badly he had gotten sick on himself while he had slept.
With great fumbling about, Bjorn managed to strip off his clothes. The wrestling act had him on his rump during the struggle, but he managed.
A guard walk by. “You smell—”
“If you want to splash me with water, I would be much obliged,” Bjorn muttered.
Not that he expected much at all from the guard, but two m
inutes later, Bjorn was slammed back by water from a bucket.
Bjorn sputtered and wiped a hand down his face. “Thank you,” he said, noting that he hadn’t seen this guard before. “I appreciate it.”
“I don’t know what you did to deserve to be in here,” the guard said, “but you’ve been… What did you do?”
“I acted in Rosa—Queen Rosalynne’s name when I should not have. She banished me away from Atlan, but with everything that happened, I had to return…”
“I know a bit about returning,” the guard said. “I’m not a guard anymore. Name’s Col Hobbs, by the by. I just thought I would swing by and see how everyone was faring, and Pate—Pate Callow—convinced me to take a shift for him. Wait. Are you… You’re Bjorn Ivano!”
“I am.”
“I remember. You won that tournament… There was talking you and the queen might… Then you…”
"I killed a man in the marketplace for stealing," Bjorn murmured. "I didn't realize at the time, but he and his family were starving, and he stole food. I… The queen banished me, and I said some things I shouldn't have."
“Did you fight in the battle? I think I… Yes, I saw you. You fought the Vincanans! You… That maid, you tried to save her. A real shame.” Col rubbed his face and then nodded before wandering off.
Bjorn thought that would be that, but Col returned with some food for them both and some ale, and Bjorn could have started to weep again.
“The last prisoner I befriended was Ulric. Ulric Cooper,” Col said. “Do you know him?”
Bjorn pressed a hand to his forehead. “Honestly, most everything’s a bit fuzzy,” he admitted.
“Some food in ya, some rest, and you’ll feel better. I… When I was a guard, Queen Rosalynne had none of this. Her father, now, he did a little, but since he wanted to save the prisoners for executions, there couldn’t be marks on their face, you know? But the queen, she’s not… I wonder—”
“Aldus Perez,” Bjorn muttered darkly before he could think better of it.
“That so?” Col mused. “That advisor… I don’t know about him.”
Bjorn laughed so hard he almost choked. “I do not like him. I’ll tell you that much.”
“No,” Col murmured. “I suppose you wouldn’t. So… what have you been up to since you had been banished?”
Bjorn honestly wasn’t sure where to begin, and he certainly wasn’t going to mention Olympia, but he did share a few stories with the man until he started to nod off, and he slumbered away in the darkness, a calm darkness for once.
18
Queen Rosalynne Rivera
The moment a scout gave Rosalynne word that her sister was approaching the castle, Rosalynne rushed out to meet her. The queen was shocked by her sister’s appearance—Vivian looked as if she had been through several battles. Even more astonishing was the rider beside her, none other than the Prince of Vincana and, Rosalynne supposed, her betrothed.
“Well met,” she said warmly to her sister and then nodded to the prince, feeling a bit apprehensive, which was preposterous. She had spoken with the prince many times before, and she had known for well over a decade that she would have to marry for the sake of Tenoch Proper. She should be happy that the one she would wed would be a man who was as strong, smart, and courageous as the likes of Marcellus Gallus.
But something felt so utterly wrong about it all.
“Come,” she bid, and within short order, several maids had a small feast prepared in one of the parlors. Rosalynne then motioned for the maids to all leave, and she vainly attempted to rub away the pain in her chest at the knowledge that Amee would never again help her, talk to her, share with her. One of the last few nights before the surprise attack, Amee had come to talk to Rosalynne when Rosalynne could not sleep, and the maid had told her about how she could not stop thinking about the butler.
Rosalynne had told Amee to not be afraid, to declare her intentions. After all, if the butler did not return her affections, would it not be best for her to learn now?
As far as Rosalynne knew, her maid had said nothing at all to him yet, and now, she had lost her chance for happiness. Not that happiness could only come from the love of another. Still, love remained a powerful force that could cause men and women to go temporarily mad.
“Help yourselves,” Rosalynne murmured when there was a knock at the door.
Grinning broadly, Rosalynne crossed over and opened the door. She had asked Ulric to go and see to Sabine and return with a report before she had learned Vivian had returned. A maid had directed him here.
“Ulric, welcome. Please join us.”
Her personal guard—it still felt so strange to think him that, although he had truly earned that honor—entered and rushed over to Vivian. "You come back! You gave your sister and me…" He had been about to hug Vivian but now drew back, his gaze on the prince.
“Ulric, this is Marcellus Gallus, the—”
“Prince of Vincana,” Ulric said stiffly, straightening.
Vivian grimaced at Ulric and shook her head, but the guard did not seem to notice. Rosalynne frowned at her sister, and Vivian merely sighed and shook her head again.
Confused as to what was transpiring, Rosalynne moved to pour them all tea, but Vivian jumped to her feet.
“You are the queen. Sit. I’ll serve.”
“Since I’m the queen, you should not be ordering me around,” Rosalynne murmured.
“Oh, we’re all friends here,” Vivian said with a wave of her hand, and she expertly poured them all tea, better than she ever had during their lessons. It seemed her learning weapons and masquerading as a Vincanan had not diminished her ladylike skills.
“Friends,” Ulric muttered under his breath.
Rosalynne forced a smile. “Marcellus, this is Ulric Cooper.”
“Her personal guard,” Ulric added haughtily.
She winced. “And friend.”
Ulric's dark eyes flared, and she shifted toward the prince. Likewise, his eyes were dark. The two of them both had dark hair as well, although Marcellus's locks were curly, tight to his scalp. Ulric's hung longer, and he desperately needed his hair trimmed. She wondered what it might be like to run her fingers through his strands, to cut his hair for him, and then wondered where her head was.
"You and your forces attacked the castle," Rosalynne said, lifting her tea but not drinking, staring down her betrothed over her cup.
“My father’s forces did,” Marcellus said stiffly.
“You do not need to concern yourself with the Vincanans anymore,” Vivian added.
“You found a way for there to be peace?” Rosalynne asked.
Why was it that she hoped for peace without a marital union? Marriages were often merely tools for the highest of nobles so that power could be fortified or even increased.
This would be no different.
Marcellus gave Vivian a wry smile. “She means to say that the… My father is dead.”
Rosalynne slowly lowered her cup. It clattered against the saucer. “I… I honestly do not know how to react to that. Forgive me. I supposed condolences—”
“None of us here have had the best of fathers,” Marcellus murmured. “Forgive me. I do not mean to assume, Ulric. For all I know, your father was a strong and capable man.”
“For all I know, he was,” Ulric said evenly.
Well, was this not most awkward?
Rosalynne gestured for the meats, the cheese, the rolls. “Please, eat. You must be hungry. I am certain that we can discuss more later—”
"We should discuss more now," Vivian insisted. "There is more you must know."
“After you two eat and have had a chance to freshen up.”
“Your guards are liable to kill me,” Marcellus said.
“You would let them? Not draw your sword against them?” Ulric countered.
A verbal war. Just what they needed.
“I might have been in the castle during the fight, but I did not fight against your people, Ros
alynne.”
“How is it that you two are so close?” Ulric asked warily.
Rosalynne stared at her sister, unable to look at either of the tall, dark, handsome men seated at the table. “The time has come for peace, don’t you think, Ulric?”
“You mean…”
“There won’t be peace,” Ulric sputtered. “Two dragons—”
“One,” Vivian corrected.
All eyes turned to her, but she nodded to Marcellus.
"After the battle, we retreated to our ship," he said slowly. "A dragon was waiting for us, and we slew it."
“The dragon took exception to your presence—”
“There is only one dragon left, Ulric,” Rosalynne said. “One dragon. One dragon is all that lies between us and peace.”
“Your people will not take kindly to such a union,” Ulric said, returning to his stiff posture. He had not drunk any, and he had not placed any food upon his plate either.
Neither had she, but Marcellus and Vivian had eaten a little.
“Eat, the both of you,” Rosalynne said as she rose out of her seat.
“Where are you going?” Marcellus asked.
Ulric grimaced, and she supposed he thought the prince should not have to know her every movement.
Or maybe it was because Ulric knew where she was heading.
“Every day, about this time, I go and see the wounded.”
Marcellus hung his head and pushed his plate away slightly.
“You might want to eat,” Vivian told him.
“I do not plan on leaving this room anytime soon,” he told her.
Vivian rolled her eyes.
What was going on between the two of them? What had Rosalynne missed?
“Did something happen?” Rosalynne blurted.
“A guard muttered an insult to Marcellus as we were walking here.”
“When?” Rosalynne cried. “I did not—”
“He did not wish for you to hear him. Naturally. But I did.”
