by David Estes
“Not a lot. I mostly communicated with Lady Zelda. Arme could tell you more, he’s known your mother since he was just a little lad.”
Annise stood, squirming out of Arch’s grasp as he tried to stop her. She marched over to the Armored Knight, who stopped his pacing when he noticed her presence. He was as still as stone, the only evidence of life the white ghosts of his breaths slipping through his mask.
“How do you know my mother?” she demanded.
“Your mother, the queen, knew my mother,” he said, his voice a low growl. He sounded dangerous, but Annise didn’t care. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he could’ve let her get hit by the archer’s arrow back on the platform. As easily as he’d participated in her mother’s death, he’d saved Annise’s life, a contradiction she was struggling to make sense of.
“How?”
The question hung in the air like a fine mist, and when Arme didn’t answer, she stepped closer. “Take off your mask.”
“No,” Arme said.
“Why not? Are you missing an eye? Do you have a growth on your chin? Are you the ugliest man in the Four Kingdoms? Whatever it is, I don’t care about that. I just want to know why in frozen hell you killed my mother and then saved me and my brother?” Annise snarled the last words, her anger consuming her.
When the Armored Knight remained silent, her emotions boiled over, out of control. She launched herself at him, slamming her shoulder into his midsection—which was protected by thick iron—pummeling her coiled fists into his breastplate—which sent shockwaves through her hands. She didn’t care about the pain, or the futility of her attack. She just wanted to feel something different, something that might chase away the hurt and sadness.
With the same skill she’d witnessed during the melee, the knight spun her around and subdued her furious arms. She tried a backwards kick, but he dodged it and eased her to the ground, his strength akin to that of a blacksmith’s sledge.
The Armored Knight’s mask hovered over her, a dark net that rumbled as he spoke. His eyes bored into her with an intensity matched only by the words that followed. “I loved your mother like my own,” he said. There was something more than sadness in his tone. Something desperate, like a plea for her to hear the truth behind his declaration. “What I did I will never forgive myself for. My only hope for redemption is to protect her children. To protect you.”
With that, he released her and stalked from the cover of the trees and into the storm. His footprints were dark with blood.
“Shouldn’t we go after him?” Annise asked. She was finally warm and dry, and was just finishing an apple. The apple was dessert. She’d already eaten a full serving of salted mutton, two dried pork shanks, and a half-frozen bread roll. Sir Dietrich stared at her the whole time, his mouth opened in awe. She stared right back, crunching into the apple and spraying juices into the fire, which sizzled and spat.
“Better not to poke a sleeping bear,” Arch said.
“Don’t fear, princess, he’ll return before we leave for Blackstone,” Dietrich said.
“Blackstone?” Annise said, still chewing. “I thought we were going east. We could hide in one of the small towns near Walburg.”
“We’re not going to Blackstone,” Arch said. “Nor Walburg.”
“But your mother said—” Sir Dietrich started.
“My mother isn’t here,” Arch said, which finally vanquished Annise’s appetite. “She saved us, but now we have to do what’s right for the kingdom.”
“Exactly,” Sir Dietrich said. “We need to hide you. Blackstone is the largest city in the north. There you can blend in, just another snowflake in the blizzard. And when you come of age…”
“Though you’re big enough to have surpassed thirty name days, you’re barely two years older than me, Dietrich, so don’t act like a wise elder. I don’t care about age,” Arch said. “I am king. Not two years from now. Not tomorrow. Now. And I refuse to hide from my uncle or anyone else.”
Annise was prouder of her brother than she’d ever been, but that didn’t change the fact that they needed to go east. “We should make for Walburg,” she insisted. “Sir Jonius—”
“Sir Jonius is Uncle’s lackey,” Arch said.
“He saved us.”
“We saved ourselves. I was two ticks away from running him through before he let us go and misled the King’s Defense.”
That made Annise laugh. “You might ride with perfect form, brother, but you don’t exactly have the temperament for spilling blood.”
“Then I would’ve handed my knife to you, and you could’ve done it. The point is, Jonius is not our keeper, and if we go east and he has a change of heart…the east will be flooded with Uncle’s men.”
Annise hadn’t thought of that. “Then if not east or west, where shall we go?” She closed her eyes, immediately thinking of her daydream about crossing Frozen Lake to the north, disappearing into the Hinterlands forever.
“South, of course,” Arch said, snapping her eyes open.
“South? But the only thing south is—”
“Gearhärt, and then Raider’s Pass,” Sir Dietrich finished. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous. Your uncle’s troops will be everywhere.”
“They’re not his troops—they’re mine. And I will claim them.”
“You don’t understand what you’re asking, prince—I mean, Your Highness,” Dietrich said. “I am from Gearhärt and I’ve been on the front lines at Raider’s Pass. Ever since your father broke his marriage alliance with the west, there has been continuous bloodshed in the armpit of the Mournful Mountains. You’d do well to steer clear of the battle.”
“Which is exactly why I can’t,” Arch said.
“Your mother would’ve been proud.” Arme stepped through the pine branches and into the clearing. His armor was coated in a layer of snow, making him look more like a monster from the Hinterlands than a knight of the northern realm.
“Welcome back,” Dietrich said, frowning. “And Queen Loren instructed us to take them west, to Blackstone. Would you defy her last wishes?”
The Armored Knight reached across his body and grasped the arrow still protruding from his arm. With a grunt, he wrenched it out. Black droplets fell from the tip, and a thin river of dark blood drew a line through the snow stuck to his armor. Obviously the strange coloring was a trick of the light, but still, it gave Annise the creeps.
“Her last wish was that her son shall be king. That’s exactly what he’s doing.”
“Thank you,” Arch said. “Then I command Sir Dietrich to escort me to Raider’s Pass.”
“As you wish, my king,” Dietrich said. “But I shall do so under protest.”
“Noted. And you, Sir Armored Knight, I command you to protect my sister as you travel west, to Blackstone. She’ll be safest there.”
“What?” Annise exclaimed. “No! I’m going south, with you. We’re going together.”
“I am the king, and you will do as I command.” Arch stood, stepping into his boots and pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders.
Annise gained her feet just as quickly. “I am your elder sister, and we will be separated over my dead body.”
Arch laughed, and the sound grated on Annise’s nerves. “Don’t be so dramatic. You are my sister, and I love you,” he said. “May we meet again when the kingdom is ours once more. Travel safely.”
With that, he turned and marched away, motioning to Sir Dietrich.
Annise gawked at him, but then pulled on her own boots and started to follow. He could make commands all he wanted, but he couldn’t actually stop her.
Unfortunately, the Armored Knight could. Still bleeding profusely, he stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Get out of my hellfrozen way,” Annise demanded.
“Sorry, my lady,” Arme rumbled. “I can’t do that.”
“You can and you will.” When he didn’t move, Annise dashed to the right, slapping at the knight’s arm as he lunged for her. He was t
oo strong, wrapping her up and tackling her to the blanket of pine nettles.
“Release me!” Annise shrieked, pounding on his helmet, his chest. When he still didn’t unhand her, she shoved a finger between his armor where the blood was trickling out. He grunted in pain, but his grip didn’t diminish.
She swiveled her head around, searching for Arch, but he was gone.
Her brother had left her with the most dangerous knight in the realm.
The man who’d killed her mother loomed over her, closing his gloved fingers around her neck.
PART II
Grease Bane Rhea
Roan Annise
The deathmark is the most misunderstood of all the marks, for it brings not death, but life.
The Western Oracle
Eight
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Grease Jolly
The rising sun seemed to set the waters of the Bay of Bounty ablaze, chasing away the shadows of night. At the bay’s widest point, Grease Jolly could just make out the ramparts of Bethany; and beyond, the fang-like peaks of the western edge of the Mournful Mountains. On the opposite side of the bay’s mouth was a wall of spiked sentinels, piercing the sky like massive spearheads. Rising behind them were the numerous towers of Blackstone, stone behemoths that were as much a symbol of the strength of the Northern Kingdom as the golden cracked-but-never-broken shield printed on their banners.
Not that Grease gave two dungheaps about the north. All he cared about right now was getting out of the stocks so he wouldn’t be late for his royal rendezvous. After he’d been caught thieving two lousy loaves of bread from the baker, he’d been clamped in the wooden stockades by a power-hungry city guardsman who clearly had at least two sticks shoved between the cheeks of his buttocks. Grease knew he hadn’t helped his cause by spitting in the arrogant fellow’s face, but the guy had it coming to him.
Then again, staring out across the crystalline waters of Bounty, with Knight’s End behind him, Grease could think of plenty of worse places to be stuck in the stocks.
Not that he was staying. Although his legs were starting to cramp and his back felt as crooked as a question mark, Grease couldn’t help but to grin at the scheme he’d concocted months ago in the event he ever got caught stealing.
Right on time, Silent Billy appeared. The kid was supposedly fourteen, but was so small and skinny he might’ve been eleven. He was also extremely nimble and flexible—he’d helped Grease with several tricky jobs already. The boy claimed surviving the stockades would be a snap of the fingers for someone like him.
“Did my man give you your coin?” Grease asked.
Silent Billy nodded.
Grease sighed in relief. Relying on another street rat to handle the money had been the riskiest part of the deal. He’d purposely included extra coin just in case Brawny Johnny skimmed any off the top. Not that Grease would blame the meathead if he did. He’d have done the same thing.
“And the city guardsman?” Grease asked, holding his breath. Bribing a guardsman wasn’t the most difficult task, but you never knew when one of them would suddenly turn righteous. Knight’s End was nicknamed the Holy City, after all.
Luckily, this wasn’t one of those times. Silent Billy scrounged around in his pocket and produced a key.
Grease let out a soft whoop as Silent Billy unlocked the stockades. Having all his savings go toward his escape sucked goose eggs, but it was better than the alternative. Plus, he was always one scheme away from getting rich.
Billy’s scrawny arms struggled to push the heavy top half of the stocks off of Grease, but he eventually got the job done, the wooden planks thudding to the side. Grease stood up slowly, feeling his joints pop and his muscles scream at their newfound freedom.
He massaged his shoulders and neck for a few minutes, and then said, “Get in.”
The boy looked ready to run, so Grease grabbed him by the scruff and shoved him into the stocks. “A deal’s a deal,” he said, closing the upper half and relocking it in place. They couldn’t leave the stocks empty, or the entire gig would be up. The guard he bribed for the key would face accusations, and he would most certainly point the proverbial finger at Grease, who would then face more than just a few days in the stockades.
“Hey, urchin,” a withered old man hissed from down the line. “Get me out of here.”
Grease laughed, pocketed the key, and whistled a tune as he walked away from Silent Billy and the other poor souls stuck in the stockades. He had a date, and he wasn’t about to miss it.
He traipsed along the streets outside the walls of the castle, watching the city start to come alive with beggars and barterers, monks and crooks, men wearing long robes and longer beards, and women dressed in chaste frocks so large and frumpy they appeared as shapeless as men. For the most part, they wore all white, the color of purity, occasionally trimmed with light blue or green thread. By law, they were all devoted followers of Wrath, their deity. From what Grease had seen in the three years that he’d been here, Wrath was a very mean-spirited god, his righteous anger meted out by the Three Furies and their holy army of furia. Although he’d never utter it aloud, Grease thought Wrath was created by the royals as a way of governing by fear. Gods, he hated this city. If he had to choose a deity, he would prefer the varied gods of the south. Not that he was religious. At the moment, his only religion involved worshipping the fairest maiden he’d ever laid eyes on. If not for her, he would’ve left already, off to find his fortune somewhere else, dragging his sister behind him.
His stomach growling, he snatched a plum and two pears off a vendor’s cart as he passed, his fingers so quick that the seller was none the wiser. Yes, Grease Jolly was in top form today.
He munched on the pears as he walked, saving the plum for the girl he was meeting. She’d be delighted, and that would surely earn him a kiss at the least. He’d tell her the plum was stolen, which would only excite her the more.
He knew he was risking his life meeting her—if her father ever found out, Grease’s execution would likely be slow and painful—but that just made her more appealing. He couldn’t help it, he thrived on risk and adrenaline, which were his drugs of choice in the city where “getting a drink” meant a long pull of rose- or lemon-flavored water.
Grease skirted the southern edge of the castle wall. When he finished eating the pears, he smashed their cores on the stone. The wall came to a ninety-degree angle, and then shot northward. All in all, the castle walls formed a perfect square, a thick, impenetrable barrier to attack from all sides.
But Grease didn’t care about that, because he wasn’t meeting the princess within the castle walls.
Instead, he hung a left and moved swiftly along the western coastline, the ocean still dark blue, the rising sun blocked by the walls of Knight’s End. Somewhere in the distance, Grease could make out the shape of a Crimean merchant vessel, heading for the Bay of Bounty. He wondered whether the ship was looking to sell to the north or the west, and whether there would be a battle over their goods. More and more, the bay had become a warzone as the dueling kingdoms sought to control the largest shipping port in the realm. Grease also wondered whether the Crimeans would ever tire of having their ships sink to the bottom of the harbor.
Probably not, he thought. Not as long as there was coin to be had. Grease knew that at the core of all humans was a greed for wealth and power that could never be fully sated.
As he approached the entrance to the Cryptlands, Grease shined the skin of the plum on the bottom of his shirt. When he heard voices, he darted behind the wall of one of the tombs, pausing to listen.
“You’ve heard the rumors from the north?” a familiar voice said. It was Sir Barrow, a round-faced lamp-chop of a guard who accompanied the princess everywhere she went.
“I give no credence to rumors,” a second voice said. Damn. Sir Cray. He was a nasty old knight with eyes like a hawk and ears like a royal hunting hound. Grease knew he’d have to be extra cautious today.
<
br /> “But you’ve heard them?” Barrow said. “They’re official streams, you know?”
“Yes. I’ve heard them. But official or not, they’re still rumors.”
“Even the most outlandish of rumors hold a glimmer of the truth,” Barrow said. Instead of sounding wise like he surely intended, he came off like a child reciting a line taught by his tutor.
“Not this one,” Cray said.
“Then how do you explain it? The Dread King was killed, not by poison or arrow, but by falling down the largest staircase in the kingdom.” Grease already knew all of this. Everyone had heard about the northern king’s untimely demise. But Barrow wasn’t done speaking. “Some are saying it was his own shadow that killed him.” Now that was a rumor Grease hadn’t heard.
“Absurd,” Cray replied. “The so-called Dread King was probably drunk on his own power and tripped of his own volition.”
“There’s been talk of the start of the Kings’ Plague,” Barrow said, not backing down. “We’re being told to be especially vigilant.”
“The Kings’ Plague is the equivalent of the contents of my chamber pot,” Cray said crudely. “One king’s death means nothing.”
“One out of eight,” Barrow said. “Not to mention all the guards who have been dying.”
“Coincidence,” Cray said. “Nothing more. You should know better than to talk of fairytale prophecies by a woman who was naught but a witch.”
Grease almost laughed, but managed to clamp a hand over his mouth. Sometimes the westerners were so stupid he wondered how they’d risen to power in the first place. More than a hundred years had passed since the Western Oracle’s prophecy about the one who would come bearing the deathmark, ushering in the Kings’ Plague, a time when the Four Kingdoms would be torn apart by the death of eight kings. Despite the efforts of several generations of kings to stamp out talk of the Oracle altogether, there were still fools like Barrow who spoke of her from time to time.
Just because a stupid king fell down the steps of his stupidly high tower and broke his own stupid royal neck didn’t mean rot. Grease had also heard about how a castle knight had died each day for the past week, but Cray was right, it was nothing more than coincidence. Each death had been the result of an accident. One knight fell from his post on the castle walls, probably because he’d been craning to look down a peasant girl’s billowy frock. Another had choked on a large chunk of beef in his stew—he was obviously eating too fast. And on and on. Grease shook his head and climbed the wall silently, ignoring the rest of the knights’ pointless argument.
