by David Estes
The inner circle was significantly smaller than the previous rings, and also less busy. Metallic steps rang out under his feet.
The prince was already at the top, waiting, grinning as Roan struggled to join him. Roan daydreamed of breaking free of his bonds and pushing the prince down the steps. The thought made him smile.
“Have you thought of a jape, jester?” Gareth said as Roan climbed the last step.
“I have,” Roan said, trying to control his heavy breathing. “It involves you, your mother, and a hairless donkey. Shall I skip straight to the punch line?”
“That is up to you. It might very well be the last joke you ever tell, just as the hard bread you ate this morning may have been your final meal.” The prince spun around and led the way inside a metal-columned circular building with a massive sphere sitting on top.
Again, Roan couldn’t tell how much of what the prince had said was in jest. One of Gareth’s men nudged him from behind and he had no choice but to follow.
His breath caught when he saw the inside of the palace. The walls were festooned with intricate metalwork that seemed to flow like water across and up and down. Silvery horses ran, their riders working the reins and slashing swords at red-garbed furia warriors. One by one, the furia fell, only to rise again, the battle resetting itself. How is this possible? Roan asked himself. Could the magic of the forest dwellers really create such beauty? From what he’d seen so far, he was confident the answer was yes.
Gwendolyn was standing as straight as a sword on the side of a large throne that, like everything else in Ferria, seemed to grow and change continuously. The regal arms morphed from a long creature with snarling fangs to a sword to the point of an arrow. The throne’s high back curved with eagle’s wings before becoming a bear’s head and finally a shield marked with the crossed swords of the Eastern Kingdom.
A large man with a reddish-brown beard sat on the raised throne, his fingers drumming impatiently on the ever-changing arms. His head appeared to be bald, although it was difficult to tell due to the iron crown that hugged his scalp. Spikes protruded along the edges of the sides, forming into crossed swords. He could only be the one known as the Juggernaut, King Oren Ironclad himself. Gareth’s father. Besides Beorn Stonesledge, the king was the most enormous man Roan had ever seen, making his nickname almost seem insufficient to describe his size.
Beside him stood Prince Gareth and…Prince Gareth? But wait, Prince Gareth was still in front of him, leading him toward the end of the throne room. Roan closed his eyes, shook his head, and then opened them again. The three Gareths remained. One of them stepped forward. “Brother,” he said. “What news from the south?”
Roan gaped as they clasped hands. Obviously, they were twins. No, triplets. He had the sudden desire to throw himself on a sword. The only thing he could imagine worse than one Prince Gareth was three.
The lie sat on his tongue for a moment before dissolving.
“We defeated a raggedy tribe of nomads who attacked our camp,” Gareth said. “But that was all we saw of the Southrons. It seems the infernal Scarra Desert is as much a wall to them as it is to us.”
“Pity,” the second prince said. “Your younger brothers have bested you once more. My squadron managed to cross the Spear to Felix. We claimed it for the east.” He pulled up the sleeve of his dark blue tunic, revealing a long slash wound stitched neatly together. “I have the scar to prove it.”
The third brother stepped forward. “Prince Guy is bragging again,” he said. “According to what I heard, there was hardly anything left of Felix by the time he arrived, because of the Phanecians, and I expect he cut himself shaving his hairy arms. I, on the other hand, made significant progress reconstructing the Bridge of Triumph. The bridge is nearly halfway complete, even though we were harassed by the furia the entire time. I lost an ear from one of their fire arrows.” He tilted his head on an angle to show the charred stump of flesh that had once been an ear.
“Thank you, Prince Grian,” Guy said, gritting his teeth. “Still, a victory is a victory, and a scar is a scar.”
Roan stopped just shy of Prince Gareth. Now that he was closer, he noticed subtle differences between the three brothers. Guy’s hair hung a little longer, while Grian’s looked messier, not to mention the missing ear. Gareth’s auburn hair, on the other hand, was trim and neat.
“Molten ore! Will my sons never stop competing?” King Ironclad said from the throne.
“We compete for you,” Gareth said. “And though I cannot match my brothers’ scars, that is simply because I am a far better warrior and did not permit my foes to harm me.”
Roan couldn’t hold back the laugh, nor his own jape. “He did, however, get a little wet in the Barren Marshes. If you sniff closely, you can still smell the stink of fetid water on his clothes.”
All heads turned toward him, and to Roan’s surprise, Gwendolyn was forced to mask a laugh with a cough. But when he looked at her she fired knives from her eyes.
“Who in the Four Kingdoms are you?” King Ironclad asked.
He didn’t hesitate to respond. “Roan the Calypsian, Your Royal Highness, Oh Juggernaut of the East,” Roan said grandly. He bowed as deeply as he could. He would’ve swept his arms out before him had they not been bound.
Gareth cut in. “He thinks he’s amusing,” he said. “He calls himself ‘Born From Dust,’ a bastard son of an unnamed westerner, raised by his whoring Southron mother.”
Had any of the prince’s words been true, Roan might’ve felt the need to aim a kick at his royal groin, but as it was, there was no need. He knows nothing of my mother’s moral character, he thought.
The king stroked his beard. “In some kingdoms, insolence such as yours would be met with death,” he said.
“I figured death was already a foregone conclusion,” Roan said. “Your son has pegged me as a Southron spy.”
“And are you?” King Ironclad asked.
“No more than my father is a king,” Roan said, continuing to play his dangerous game. Lies and half-truths had kept him alive thus far.
“You don’t look like a Southroner,” the king noted. “Your hair is too…sunny. Too curly too. And your skin is too light by a hundred shades.”
“As I told the prince—”
“Your father is a westerner. I heard the first time. Where is your mother?”
“Dead.”
“And you don’t know your father?”
“I don’t want to know him. He abandoned me. And my whoring Southron mother.” Truth with lies.
“Your tongue is sharper than many of my swords,” the king said. He didn’t seem particularly angry, Roan noticed. Probably because he can squash me between two fingers anytime he wants.
Roan said nothing.
“What information can you give us about the Calypsians?”
“Nothing.”
“Then you have no value to me,” the king said. He stood. When he rose to his full height, Roan felt like an ant about to be stepped on. “Unless there’s something you haven’t told us.”
Was this what it would come down to then? Roan wondered. His life matched up against a truth he’d kept secret his entire life, a truth his mother had died for, a truth his guardian had killed two innocent children for?
Luckily, Roan had more than one secret, and one might be enough to save his life.
He breathed in and out, considering his words carefully. The king flicked his fingers impatiently. “Take him away. Never let his face see the sun again.”
Two of Gareth’s men grabbed Roan’s arms. “Wait,” he said, barely more than a whisper.
Gareth looked at him, an eyebrow raised curiously. The king said, “I wait for no one. Speak or be gone.”
On the edge of his vision, Roan could see Gwendolyn leaning in, frowning. He had everyone’s attention. He opened his mouth, but the words remained chained inside his throat. “I’m…” he said. He faltered. He couldn’t do it. They could kill him, but his secret would go wi
th him to the grave.
There was a flash of movement from the side as Gwendolyn launched herself off the podium. With a quick thrust, she shoved her sword, which was sharp and deadly once more, through his gut.
Roan choked out a gasp, the pain and the pressure ripping through his stomach, radiating outwards to every part of his body through his shattered nerve endings. Gwendolyn pulled out the blade, slick with his blood, and he toppled backwards. He clutched his broken flesh, blood bubbling between his bound hands. The Orian stood over him, her face scrunched. She looked puzzled. “Why do you not save yourself?” she asked.
Agony roaring through him, Roan knew his secret would not go with him to his grave, no matter what he did. He gave himself to the heat in his chest, which swarmed to his gut. Knitting, mending, healing.
Gwendolyn’s lip curled into a smile as she watched his blood stop rushing out, his skin growing together until it was whole once more. Gareth said, “Molten ore. You really are full of surprises, jester.”
Roan yawned. “Is there somewhere I can sleep for a while?” Healing life-threatening injuries was exhausting.
King Oren Ironclad, the Juggernaut of the East, said, “You think this changes anything? Execute him.”
As one, the three princes laughed.
Thirteen
The Northern Kingdom, West of Castle Hill
Annise Gäric
Her mother’s killer hadn’t choked the life out of her. Instead, the Armored Knight had pushed her knotty hair away from her face, and helped her to her feet. She hadn’t tried to fight him this time. Not because she didn’t want to, but because it was fruitless. Now, as they trudged through the snow, Arme refused to look at Annise, much less speak to her. If she tried to veer from their course west, he would grab her by the arm and manhandle her like a child. Eventually she gave up. She would bide her time, waiting for a ripe moment to escape and flee toward Gearhärt. She would find Arch and persuade him that he needed her. He does need me, she thought, trying to convince herself.
Better yet, she would persuade him to flee north, to leave the kingdom forever. After all, what was in Castle Hill but heartache and sorrow? The Dread King was dead, but her father had been replaced by a new tyrant, as it always would be. Nothing would ever change. With her mother dead, she had no reason to stay, so long as she could convince her brother to accompany her to the Hinterlands. Dietrich and Arme could come if they wanted to.
But everything changed when they reached the edge of the Howling Tundra. It was a wild, uninhabited expanse that separated Castle Hill from Blackstone. “This is folly,” Annise said. “We cannot cross the tundra and hope to live.”
Finally, Arme looked at her and said, “This is the fastest route to Blackstone. And we cannot travel by the roads along the mountains—your uncle will have patrols.”
“Yes, and we are two heavy-footed stompers. Our footprints will be deep and easy to track.”
He shook his head, but didn’t argue. “To go on well-travelled roads is impossible,” he said instead.
“Is it better to die on the ice?”
“You will not die.”
“The few who have survived the tundra have spoken of ice bears twice the size of men.”
“I am no ordinary man,” Arme said, staring out across the frozen wasteland. He looked like he was searching for something.
“Herds of wild mamoothen travel these plains. They don’t care if you are man or rock, they will trample you the same.”
“I’m quicker than I look.”
So am I, Annise thought, but that doesn’t mean I can stop a beast from stepping on me. “Not to mention the exposure. We will freeze before we reach Blackstone. Is that what my mother would want?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Annise wanted them back. Arme flinched visibly, gritted his teeth, and started across the tundra.
Annise stood for a moment, watching him, wondering how long it would take him to notice if she slipped away. She could hide in a snowbank…or something.
She sighed, her breath clouding the air. He would catch her. With no other choice, she stomped after him. The wind howled around them, unbroken by the flat terrain. Despite the heavy layers she wore, icy spikes seemed to cut right through her.
On the first day, they saw no signs of life, unless you included the snowfall, which swirled and danced like flocks of butterflies. By the time they stopped, their shadows were long and thin, trailing behind them like silent stalkers.
“We’ll make camp here,” Arme said, dropping the bag of supplies. It made a heavy thud in the snow.
Annise looked around. “Where? There is nothing but snow and ice. We have no shelter and little hope of a fire. We will die as we sleep.” Hope was slipping away. They’d gone so far that even if she could escape, she wasn’t sure if she could make it back or even head in the right direction. She’d more likely end up wandering in circles until she became a snack for some wild beast.
“I pledged to your mother that I would protect you, and I will.”
Although she was chilled to the bone, hot rage rose up inside her. “You mean like you protected her? You kicked out the platform like she was nobody, you let her fall, let her hang there like—” Unbidden, tears burst from Annise’s eyes, freezing on her cheeks long before they could complete their path to her jaw. “You should be dead, not her!” she sobbed. She flung herself at the knight, adrenaline pumping through her tired legs and arms. Each time she pounded on his armor, pain shot through her hands, but she didn’t care—she relished it.
He didn’t fight back. He merely grabbed her arms, holding back her fists, pulling her toward him, wrapping her in a…there was nothing else to call it…a hug. She stopped fighting, shocked at the gesture, all strength leaving her limbs. She sank into him, crying, crying, crying.
“Get the frozen hell off of me,” she snarled, pushing him away. How dare he use her grief against her. How dare he pretend to care about what happened to her mother. She flopped down on the ground, flexing and massaging her face to break off the ice crystals that had formed from her tears.
She refused to look at Arme, but could sense his stare for a few moments, before busying himself setting up camp. She pretended to ignore him, but watched him from the corner of her eye as he began pushing snow into piles. She knew what he was doing, and it was smart. Even in the bitter cold, the snow would provide protection and insulation from the wind.
She waited a few more seconds, and then rose and began helping him. He glanced at her, but didn’t say anything. The work was a good distraction from all that had happened over the last two days. Annise threw herself into the work, glad for once that she was built like a small ice bear and able to really help the knight.
By the time the sky grew dark, they had a suitable wall around a small circular space. On the side away from the wind, they’d left a small entrance. Next they set up a tent in the middle. It was a difficult task even with the wall, the winds whipping the thick canvas into a frenzy, causing them to have to pound the stakes deeper and deeper before they held.
When they finished, the tent was almost tall enough for Annise to stand up in, although the Armored Knight’s sheer size forced him into a crouch. Length- and width-wise, things were even tighter. “We’ll be like fish in a pot,” Annise said.
“This is for you,” Arme said. “I’ll sleep outside, behind the wall.”
A tempting offer, Annise thought. But not one she could accept. “No. We’ll sleep back to back. It will work.” They settled down next to each other to eat, precariously close. Night fell swiftly, and soon they had to work by feel alone, which made for several awkward moments when Annise grabbed Arme’s gloved hand by mistake.
Eventually, however, they managed to ration the food and water between them. In the dark, they ate an unsatisfying supper of dried reindeer meat and half-frozen flatbread. Their water supply was solid ice, so they were forced to clamp the skins beneath their armpits and knees for a long time before they co
uld take a few cold sips.
Annise had never felt more unsatisfied in her life, something that made her strangely sad. The commoners starved and I’ve never felt the ache of an empty belly until now.
Still, the snow-insolated tent was surprisingly warm, and getting warmer by the minute, their bodies coming back to life and acting as a fire without flames. That’s when Annise remembered the knight’s injury. “I need to inspect your wound in the morning. It will need stitches.”
“No,” Arme said.
“No?”
He didn’t repeat himself.
“Why not?” Annise pressed. “I can’t have my great protector dying on me, can I?”
“My armor stays on,” Arme said.
This again. He wouldn’t let her see his face, wouldn’t remove his armor—what was he hiding? “You’re going to sleep in your armor?”
“Yes.”
“Suit yourself,” Annise said, stretching out as far as she could and turning away from him. “Just don’t bang into me during the night. And don’t let that spiked ball of yours poke me. What kind of weapon is that anyway?”
“An effective one,” he grunted.
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t argue with that—she’d seen what it could do. “Does it have a name?”
“Morningstar,” he said. “At least that was the name the woman who gave it to me called it.”
“What woman?”
“No matter. That was a lifetime ago. I was still just a scared little boy.”
Annise closed her eyes, trying to imagine the massive man as a smaller person, a boy. She couldn’t. She listened as he creaked and groaned in his armor, trying to get comfortable. Absurd, she thought. He was the largest man she’d ever seen—there was no way he’d sleep a wink tonight.
