by David Estes
Tarin looked back sharply over his shoulder.
Annise sighed. “Look, I might not be able to understand exactly what it feels like to be you, but I want to understand. You don’t have to be alone, Tarin. Not anymore.”
He began chipping away at the ice, which broke off in chunks. “I will always be alone.” He cleared a large enough hole in the ice directly in front of the thatch of inkreeds to fit his message into.
Annise watched him as he worked, how tenderly he handled the sheet of parchment, his giant gloved hands as agile as a seamstress’s. She could hardly imagine the man before her was the same man who’d brutalized four soldiers without breaking a sweat.
He dipped the parchment into the cold water, holding it under for a few moments. Slowly, the ink faded away until it vanished completely, leaving the parchment wet and clear. Although Annise had streamed hundreds of messages herself, usually requesting the results of tournaments across the realm, the process still amazed her, how the ink could travel such great distances through water only to reform in the exact letters and words in which it was written. Somewhere in Gearhärt—wherever the ink was harvested from—the message would appear in the water only to be transferred to parchment and delivered to this Netta woman.
“How long do you think it will take her to respond?” Annise asked as Tarin gathered up the wet parchment and laid it out to dry in the snow.
Tarin said, “You’re not going to argue about what I said before?”
Annise shrugged. “I can’t change your mind. Only you can change your mind. In any case, you’re not alone now, even if you think you are.”
His eyes met hers, and he shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
She laughed. “Was that an attempt at a compliment?” Before he could respond, she added, “Anyway, you have met someone like me…me! About ten years ago, remember? We ran, I rubbed snow in your face, you cried?”
Finally, he laughed, and Annise was acutely aware how much she’d missed that sound, a deep rumble that seemed to originate deep in his chest. “I could never forget you,” he said. “Or the snow being rubbed in my face.”
She was considering her next jape, when something caught her eye. “Look!” she said, pointing at the hole in the ice.
In the water, words were forming. They were difficult to read as they bounced and churned on the crests of tiny wavelets. Tarin placed the damp paper back in the water, and the ink immediately stuck to it. When he withdrew it, Annise peered over his shoulder. The message was short:
I’ll pick some hope flowers tomorrow then.
Come hungry.
Netta.
“Come hungry?” Annise said. “Is that another code for something?”
Tarin laughed. “No, in this case Netta means exactly what she says. She’s the best damn cook I know.”
Annise’s stomach rumbled. Moira’s thin soup had done little to sate her appetite.
Despite having been given the lumpy bed and getting the best sleep she’d had since fleeing Castle Hill, Annise had been surprised to find herself missing sharing the little tent with Tarin, feeling his arm tight and warm against her, her body nestled within his gargantuan frame.
Frozen hell, I’m pathetic, she thought as he offered her a hand up onto the timber-laden cart. His face mask was smudged with something ash-dark.
During the night, she’d woken once, in the darkness, and heard a soft sound arising from Tarin’s large form. Crying. He’d been crying. She’d listened to his muffled sobs for a few moments, wondering whether she should go to him, to comfort him, but then they’d stopped.
I will always be alone—his words from the pond the day before continued to unsettle her.
She’d rolled over and gone back to sleep.
Now she ignored his hand and used brute strength to haul herself aboard. She turned back and provided her own hand to pull him up beside her. He shook his head. “My lady is in a queer mood this morning.”
“Your lady got cold last night.” It was a lie, but, after a good night’s sleep, she was feeling exceptionally bold.
“It was plenty warm next to the fire,” he said. Tarin had slept sprawled out like a cat beside the hearth, refusing to remove a single plate of his armor, even when Moira had offered a large blanket to cover him. What is he saying? Annise wondered. That she should’ve joined him beside the fire? She hated that she could never read his expressions because of his damn mask.
He made his way toward the front of the cart, where Killorn had created an empty space within the stacked timber. It would be tight, but they would fit well enough to remain hidden should anyone happen upon the cart on the road to Gearhärt.
Tarin slid in first, squirming to one side so Annise could follow. She dropped inside, propping her back against the rough wood. It would be a long, uncomfortable ride to the castle, but it would be better than traipsing through the thick coat of fresh snow that had fallen overnight.
Killorn’s face appeared above them. “If anyone stops us, shut yer traps,” he barked. “Once we arrive, I’ll find a place fer ye to slip away. Then I ne’er want to see yer faces agin. Ya hear?”
Moira’s face appeared next to his, and she said, “What my lovin’ husband means is that we ’ppreciate what ye done fer us and this is how we repay our debt.”
“Thank you,” Annise said. “But your debt is already paid.”
“Then why are we haulin’ ye to—” Killorn started to say, but was cut off when his wife jabbed his ribs with a finger.
“We’re honored to be of service to a princess of the north,” Moira said.
Their faces disappeared, and were soon replaced by several wooden boards, which covered the hole, allowing only thin slits of light to peek through. Wind whistled between the timber as Killorn said, “Giddup, lasses!” and the cart lurched forward, hauled by a trio of grizzled gray ponies.
The snowy road was bumpy, and soon Annise was almost regretting her decision to accept a ride. Twice she banged her head on the timber and cursed, and twice Tarin chuckled. “You should wear armor,” he said. “Like me.”
“To hide my face?” Annise snapped back, rubbing her bruised scalp. A goose egg was already rising from her skin.
Tarin went quiet for a moment, and then said, “Your words wound me, my queen. Maybe you are not what the lordlings of Castle Hill call traditional beauty, but you are beautiful all the same.”
Annise practically choked. It was the last thing she expected him to say. The last thing she expected anyone to say. She remembered what he’d said before, about her tendency to hide behind self-deprecating japes as a hundred sprang to mind. She chose one of her favorites: “The princess of the north is so robust that if she stretched out she could insulate half of Castle Hill.”
“At least you’re not scrawny.”
“The princess of the north once bested a royal steed with both hands bound behind her back. How? you might ask. She sat on him.”
“At least you’re not weak.”
Annise was on a roll and not about to stop now. “The princess of the north once devoured an entire royal feast in one sitting. And then she ate the plates and silverware, not to mention the table and chairs.”
“A healthy appetite, by my reckoning,” Tarin said.
Annise finally stopped, unable to hold back her laughter. Once the very quips she’d just spoken had wounded her deeply, but now they seemed so unimportant. Such small things. Frozen hell, she’d fought off an ice bear!
“Why do you defend me? Because we knew each other once?”
“No,” Tarin said. “Because we know each other now. Because I see the snowstorms in your eyes. Because you were worth it then and you still are, my Queen of the North.”
Annise was dead glad to be able to hide in the shadows of their tiny crawlspace, her face turning as red as the rising sun. Before he could embarrass her further, she went on the offensive. “And what of you?” she said. “You hide your true self behind dark armor,
making the world believe you’re a monster.”
“Maybe what they believe is true.” His voice sounded like it had descended into a deep pit.
“Why? Because you fight like a champion of the north?”
Tarin said nothing.
“Why were you crying last night?” Annise asked.
Silence for a moment, and then, “I’m sorry you heard me. I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep.”
“Sleep be damned, answer my question.”
“I was mourning.”
“Whom?” Annise asked, but then had a thought. “My mother?”
“Yes.”
Fresh anger, as hot and bright as the sun, burst inside her veins. “You don’t get to mourn her. Not you.”
“I loved her as much as my own mother,” Tarin said.
Annise squeezed her fists until her fingernails bit into her palms. The familiar urge to launch herself at him was there. It wasn’t fair that he should love a woman she’d always tried to love. Sabria Loren was her mother, not his. But the way he’d cried for her, his secret tears spilling through the night like a dark waterfall…
The anger shredded itself into ribbons of sorrow. She couldn’t imagine what he was feeling. He’d killed someone he’d loved. The order wasn’t his, and someone else would’ve done it if he hadn’t, but still. He’d kicked the platform away. He’d been close enough to catch her body before the rope tightened around her neck.
But he hadn’t. Tarin had watched her mother die, and then he’d saved Annise and her brother. Sir Dietrich too.
All because it was what the queen commanded him to do.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Tarin said. “Everything I am is darkness. Even my tears are black.”
The ashy smudges on his face mask, she realized. Dried tears from the night before. “I’m trying to understand,” Annise admitted.
“There’s nothing to understand. I’m a dangerous man. But not to you. Never to you.”
It was Annise’s turn to remain silent, unable to find the words, her tears threatening to cascade like clear waterfalls down pale cliffs.
“I almost killed Killorn,” Tarin eventually said. “An innocent man.”
“Adrenaline and bloodlust,” Annise said. “Nothing more.” Was she really defending him? Yes. And maybe he deserved it.
Thin lines of light carved his helmet into pieces as he shook his head. “I lost control. The thing inside me was the only voice I could hear.”
“And then you heard mine,” Annise said.
“And if you hadn’t been there?”
“I was there.”
“But if you weren’t I would’ve killed him. So what does that make me?”
“Imperfect,” Annise said. “Human. You can’t control everything. You can’t control the disease that afflicted you as a child. You can’t control that the witch had to curse you to save you. All you can do is take what you’ve been given and live.”
Tarin sighed. “I will if you will.”
“I already am,” Annise insisted. “I’m here. I’m fighting.”
“No you’re not,” Tarin said. “You’re off in the Hinterlands hiding from your destiny. That’s what you keep talking about, aye?”
“So what? I don’t want to be a princess. I don’t want to be a queen. I don’t want to rule the north. Why can’t I choose another path?”
Tarin grasped her hand with his gloved fingers, his grip fierce and firm. “Because that’s not who you are.”
“What do you know of me? You’ve been gone for years! As a child I mourned your death! You were my friend. And you left me.”
“Not by choice.”
“You could’ve said goodbye. You could’ve told me something, not let my mother lie about what happened to you.”
“I was just a child. I was scared of my own skin, of the darkness flowing through my veins. I still am.”
Annise knew he was right and that she wasn’t being fair. “I’ll find Arch and convince him to leave the kingdom forever. Let my uncle tear the north apart in his war with the other three kingdoms. Frozen hell, I don’t care if he’s victorious and anoints himself King of the entire Four Kingdoms. As long as I don’t have to be a prisoner in Castle Hill any longer.”
“You don’t mean that. And anyway, Arch will never leave the kingdom.”
“He will. He must. I lost a brother once, I won’t lose another.”
“What?” Tarin said, his tone full of surprise. “What brother?”
Annise clamped her mouth shut, annoyed that in the heat of the argument she’d said more than she wanted to. “Nothing. It’s not important.”
“You had another brother? I’ve never heard about another prince.”
“He died as an infant. It was kept secret from the realm. Dead royals are considered bad luck.”
“What was his name?”
The question took Annise by surprise. Why did his name matter? “My parents hadn’t decided. He was three days old when he was killed.”
“Murdered?”
Annise swallowed a lump in her throat. She’d mourned the loss of her brother for days and months and years. The truth was, she’d never gotten over him, not really.
“When I said I bore no scars, I lied,” Annise said.
“Who would kill an infant?”
“Wolves,” she said, the word sticking in her throat. Her mouth tasted bitter. “A door to the nursery was left unlocked and ajar, as well as an outer door. My mother had only been gone for a moment, but that was all it took.”
Annise realized Tarin’s hand was still clutching hers. She pulled away, both from his hand and from the topic of her dead brother. “Help me or not, that is your choice. But I will flee to the Hinterlands.”
“If that is truly what you want, I will help you.”
The road bumped. The wind whistled through the timber. Annise cursed under her breath. “Damn you for being so gallant all the time.”
Tarin chuckled. “I’ve been called many things, but never gallant.”
“A gallant monster,” Annise said.
“Sounds like an awful bedtime story,” Tarin said.
“Shhh!” Annise hissed.
She’d heard hoof beats and shouts.
Twenty-Two
The Eastern Kingdom, Approaching Glee
Roan
Apparently Gwendolyn’s opinion meant much to the king, because now Roan found himself riding beside her and a dozen scouts, heading for the small waystation called Glee, which had been overrun by the eastern disease known simply as the pox, or occasionally as mottle, a flesh-eating illness that was known to twist the minds of its victims. The king and the princes would not risk coming within a league of the town.
Great, he thought. My life can be summed up as ‘From the Plague to the Pox’. At least he was fairly certain there would be no dragons, two-headed or otherwise, to contend with.
When the edges of the ramshackle town appeared in the distance, the scouts reigned their horses to a stop. Tendrils of gray smoke curled from the roofs of several of the town’s structures. A good sign, Roan thought. At least the people are well enough to build fires in their hearths.
“Orespeed,” one of the scouts said, an eastern wish for good luck and success.
Gwen nodded to Roan and dismounted. “We cannot risk the horses. The disease spares no living creature.”
Roan followed her lead, handing his ropes to one of the scouts. Gwen strode forward, ever fearless. Roan scurried after her, nearly tripping on the thick tufts of grass sprouting from the hillside.
Glee was nestled in an emerald valley, a long narrow river snaking down the gradual decline and swooping along the edge of the town. Blades of sunlight snuck past the clouds, which made the flowing waters sparkle like newly forged steel. Roan veered off toward the stream, his mouth suddenly dry. He cupped his hands in the cool, clear water, bringing it up toward his mouth.
“Do not drink,” Gwen cautioned. “We do not know where the pox o
riginated. The water may carry the disease.”
Roan stopped, and when he looked at the water it now seemed dark and foreboding. He let it spill between his fingers, which he rubbed dry on the grass. “Thank you for the warning.”
“I did it for the people of Glee,” Gwen said, turning away. “They need what you can offer.”
What can I offer? Roan wondered. He didn’t truly know what he was capable of. The urge to flee from the town was like a stone wall pushing him back.
Gwen turned and glared at him. “Time is of the essence,” she said.
Roan forced one foot after the other, each step feeling more difficult than the one prior. Still, he managed to catch up to the Orian when she slowed. “Will your mark protect you from the pox?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. But you will.”
“What?” A flood of fear washed over him, as if the stream had burst its banks and crashed upon his shoulders. He couldn’t let her life be in his hands. “No. Stay here. I will go into the town alone,” he said.
“The pox…changes people.” She pointed to her head. “The afflicted see things that aren’t there. They’re unpredictable and dangerous. You can’t protect yourself and help them at the same time. I’m coming.”
Her words were as firm and unmoving as the trees of Ironwood, rooted in the metallic ground. When she spoke them, the mark on her cheek blazed to life momentarily, and then flickered out.
“What power does your mark give you?” Roan asked again. And why would it show itself when you merely spoke?
“That is not your concern,” Gwen said. She started forward once more, the town a mere stone’s throw away now.
Again, Roan followed, the smell of smoke growing thicker and more pungent with each step. That’s when he saw the flames, bright red and orange tongues licking the tops of several of the wooden structures. What he’d originally thought was smoke from hearth fires was in reality a raging inferno devouring the town.
Roan tried to call out to Gwen to wait, but she had already slipped between the first two buildings on the edge of town. He hustled to catch up, sidling up beside her at the corner of a wooden structure that was, thankfully, not on fire.
