by David Estes
The eighteen-year-old brushed a strand of long, dark hair away from his face. “I’m looking for my sister. Stand aside!”
Bear barred the entrance. Behind him, a low growl rumbled from Naia’s throat. “This is my home. I decide who enters.”
“Provided by my father.”
“Correct. So if your father would like to come in, he may do so. You’ll require my permission.”
Somewhere inside, Zelda snorted out a laugh.
Wolfric gritted his teeth. “Stand aside or I will make you, and take pleasure in the act.”
“Is that so?” Bear widened his stance, rising up to his full height.
“Am I supposed to be scared?”
Naia’s growl grew louder.
“No, you’re supposed to be smart. Never fight someone twice your size.”
“He’s not smart,” Zelda said from inside.
“Come out, you little urchin,” Wolfric said.
“Maybe later,” Zelda said.
Wolfric bit the side of his lip, contemplating his options. To Bear’s surprise, the prince ducked his head and charged, smashing his shoulders and head into Bear’s midsection. Bear released a breath, taking a step back. But that was as far as the prince was able to push him. Before he could peel Wolfric’s arms off of him, however, Naia sprang forward, through his legs, unleashing a snarl and a flurry of snapping jaws.
The prince cried out, falling back under the onslaught. Naia’s head shook back and forth as she bit at his arm.
“Naia release!” Bear commanded. Grudgingly, the wolfhound let go, backing away, but not all the way inside. She stood at the threshold, guarding it, her hackles up.
Wolfric, his face as white as the Frozen Lake, stared at his arm. Blood seeped through his shirtsleeve. “She bit me! The bitch bit me!”
“You threatened her home,” Bear said, but he could feel the emptiness in his words. The hollowness. He knew what would come next.
The prince scrambled to his feet, gripping his bleeding arm with his other hand. “Father will hear of this,” he said. “I could’ve been maimed, like my fool of a brother, Helmuth.”
Bear said nothing. There was nothing to say. The deed was already done, the consequences etched in stone. You didn’t injure an heir to a kingdom and walk away unscathed.
He watched the prince go, and then stepped inside, beckoning Naia to follow.
He closed the door.
Zelda had left a while ago, telling him she would speak to her father. She would be a witness to what had happened. She would fix things.
Bear had learned long ago, when his mother was in prison, that you couldn’t fix the unfixable. And this was unfixable.
He considered running, leaving the cabin behind and fleeing into the wilderness. He could return in the future, once everything had blown over. Naia would be safe.
Something stayed him, however. Something more important than his life, or his wolfhound’s. The same something that had guided him for the last century and a half of his extraordinarily long life.
So instead he cradled Naia’s head in his arms and scratched her behind her left ear. She groaned appreciatively, not understanding why she was getting so much affection.
A while later, a knock came at the door, echoing through the cabin with a finality that made Bear’s heart sink into his abdomen. Naia was already on the floor, growling. Back on guard duty, like the faithful pup that she was.
Bear walked over and opened the door a crack. The king looked back at him, his face weary and sad. Wolfric was behind him, wearing a sneer on his face and a thick bandage on his arm. Zelda was notably absent, though there were several soldiers in full armor. “Bear Blackboots,” the king said. “You are a faithful servant to the crown, and this doesn’t change that. If you will stay on in your position, we will gladly have you.”
“I will,” Bear said.
The king nodded thoughtfully. The sadness in his eyes, however, remained. “But we must take your dog. I’m sorry.”
Bear pursed his lips, breathing deeply through his nose. “I understand,” he said. “I hate it. But I understand the position she’s put you in.” He didn’t look at the prince, whose eyes were surely gleaming with victory.
“Zelda argued well for the hound,” the king said. “It’s the first time she’s seemed to…care about anything in a long time. Other than antagonizing her brothers, that is.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her,” Bear said.
“It’s time.”
Bear opened the door wider and stepped back into the warmth. Naia’s head was cocked to the side, her teeth no longer bared.
Bear picked her up.
Carried her outside.
Instead of growling, she whined when she saw Wolfric. “Not so tough now, are you, bitch?” he said.
“Son!” the king said. “That will be enough of that.”
Chastened, the prince clamped his mouth shut, though the sneer remained.
The king turned back to Bear. “It’s your dog, you can choose the manner of death.”
“Father, I want to do—” The prince’s words fell off a cliff as the king shot him a sharp look.
“I will do it,” Bear said.
“You are a man of honor,” the king said.
Bear didn’t know about that. All he knew was that it didn’t feel right for anyone else to be involved. He knelt down in the snow, holding Naia close to his chest. Just like with his mother, he felt helpless. Alone. But he wasn’t that boy anymore. No, he’d grown up years ago.
He drew his sharpest knife from its scabbard, simultaneously stroking his dog’s back.
When it was over, Bear sat in the snow for a long time, until the king, his son, and the soldiers had departed. Just holding her. Kissing the top of her head.
His tears froze on his cheeks and in his beard, but he didn’t feel their chill.
He would never forget what the prince had done.
Never.
Eighteen years later
A knock on his door woke him from a deep slumber. It was winter, after all, and Bear tended to be groggier this time of year.
He stretched and yawned, shaking away the cobwebs. His cabin was cold and empty. After Naia’s death, he’d decided not to get another dog. It was safer that way.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Coming,” he grumbled. It was still dark outside, enormous snowflakes falling in sheets, piling up around the windows. Who would be calling at such a time?
Just before he reached the door, he stopped, as if he’d been frozen in place by the Ice Lord himself. A tremor ran through him from scalp to toes, though he wasn’t cold. The voice came a moment later.
Your time begins, his mother said.
“I—I—” he stuttered, but she was already gone.
He flung open the door just as a fist tried to pound on it once more, catching him in the jaw. “Oops,” Zelda said. “Sorry.” She was a lady now, and though her visits had become less frequent since her father’s death and her brother’s coronation, Bear still looked forward to them.
But tonight something was different, he could tell that much from her expression, which was unusually harried and flustered, even for her. And she carried something in the crook of her arm, wrapped in a black blanket. It looked to be about the size and shape of—
A baby.
The truth was revealed when she peeled back the corner of the blanket. A pale face stared out at him, his lips sealed tight. Bear didn’t have much experience with babies, but weren’t they supposed to cry? The way the boy was staring at him seemed…unusual. And why would Zelda have a baby anyway? She wasn’t even preg—
Wait. Frozen hell, can it be? It was the queen, Sabria Loren Gäric, who was pregnant. She was supposed to be due any day now…
“The prince,” he murmured, in awe. “What have you done?”
“The queen has a favor,” Zelda said.
“What favor?” He glanced at the baby once more. Those
eyes…something’s not right about them.
“Travel to the Mournful Mountains. There is a cave there, the directions are in a scroll I will provide. This child will be waiting for you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Protect him. Raise him. And, eventually, unleash him on the world. On his father.”
Bear shook his head. After all these years…everything was moving so fast. “Why would the queen do this? And why this child and not the other two?” The queen had already provided two heirs. Annise, now four, and Archer, who had recently reached his second name day.
“She believes in a prophecy. And this child is marked, while the other two were not.”
Marked? Oh Wrath, it’s happening at last. “The Western Oracle,” he whispered.
Zelda’s eyes narrowed. “You know of her? Most have forgotten. And those that haven’t believe her to be fiction.”
“Yes, I know of her.”
“How?”
“She was my mother.”
A sharp intake of breath whistled between Zelda’s lips. She didn’t even question how old that would make Bear. She instantly believed him. “This is no coincidence,” she said instead.
“No,” Bear agreed. He gestured to the child, who was now sleeping. “Do you know his name?”
Zelda nodded, her eyes alight with fire. “He is Bane. And, one day, he shall kill the king.”
Suddenly, like lightning flashing in the dark of his mind, Bear knew what role he had to play in the fate of the Four Kingdoms.
It shall be done, he thought. May I burn in the first heaven if I have chosen wrongly.
2: The Beggar
The Southern Kingdom, Calypso- Circa 522
“Mama!” the boy screamed, thrashing about in his bed. The darkness seemed to swirl around him like a dust storm, forcing its way into his eyes, his mouth, his nose, choking him, stealing his air. The images he saw—memories, but not real memories—sent shockwaves of fear through him:
A woman, her eyes dark, her sweaty hair darker, like a waterfall of wet silk, touching her baby for the first time. The beautiful smile on her brown-skinned face, the unconditional love in her expression…and the horror that flashed as blood-red boils began bursting from her flesh. She collapsed back, scratching at her cheeks, her arms, her neck.
In the boy’s mind, the woman died, as she did every night. Over and over and over again, only to be reborn a night later to the same fate.
The boy thrashed, trying to escape the nest of tangled sheets that suddenly felt like a prison.
Thump! He hit the floor in a convoluted mess of blankets and thick clothing.
The impact helped vanquish the memories—he thought he’d hit his head, though he wasn’t sure exactly. Slowly, slowly, his breathing returned to normal, his heartbeat slowing.
Sweat trickled down his spine. In fact, it trickled everywhere. His body was sheathed in sweat, as it always was. Living under the hot Calypsian sun was part of his curse, the eight-year-old boy felt. Right now, he felt like he was being cooked alive, and he longed to peel off his thick gloves, his long socks, the mask he wore. Every bit of his body was covered, save for his eyes and mouth. It was a necessary precaution, he knew, given his condition.
He squinted as a bright light approached, bobbing in the darkness.
“Get off the floor, boy,” a stern woman’s voice said. “Get back in bed.” The lantern stopped, illuminating the dark, crinkled face and graying hair of his guardian, a fiery woman who used words like weapons.
“I can’t sleep,” the boy said. Back then he was known as Chavos, though the stern woman usually referred to him simply as “boy.” “I had a nightmare.”
“You are the nightmare,” the woman growled. Her words stung, because they were the truth.
Chavos was the baby in his darkest dreams. A killer. Dangerous.
I killed my own mother.
Sometimes he wished it were he who had died instead.
“Why don’t you leave me then?” Chavos said, each word quivering like a lonely leaf blasted by a stiff wind. His bottom lip trembled. Tears pricked at his eyes.
“Because you’re family,” she said. “And family doesn’t leave. I loved my sister very much. I’m doing this for her, not you. It’s what she would’ve wanted.” Somehow, this knowledge only made the tears fall faster. He was glad they were hidden beneath his mask, though they made the cloth cling to his cheeks. His aunt hated him, there was no doubt about that, and yet she was all he had.
“Why am I like this?” he asked. “Why me?”
The woman’s voice softened for a rare moment. “Only the gods know. Now back to bed. And don’t let me hear you making a ruckus again.” She made a shooing motion, but didn’t actually touch him. She never touched him, despite the thick folds of cloth that protected her from his skin.
My skin, he thought as he scrambled back into bed, leaving the sweat-damp sheets on the floor. My curse. My weapon.
The lantern bobbed away, and darkness returned. Chavos longed to feel a hand on his face, arms around him, holding him, protecting him. I’m not the one who needs protecting, he reminded himself. Everyone else needs protection from me.
Chavos was born with a strange marking, a tattooya as they were called in the south. Though his aunt had only let him see it once before, illuminated by torchlight, the image was burned into his memory: three broken circles, joined together in the center. A fourth broken circle spinning between them.
The plaguemark.
I am death. I am poison. I am a murderer.
He blinked away more tears and tried to sleep. Eventually, he drifted off, and even his dreams were afraid of him, keeping their distance as he slumbered.
Two years later (Circa 524)
Chavos peered through a crack between the shutters. It was the best he could do. The wooden shutters covered all but a tiny strip of the dirt-streaked glass window, nailed firmly around the frame. Children laughed, playing in a dusty field. He watched them often as they ran, kicking a worn leather sack back and forth. It was some sort of a team game, though Chavos had never been able to participate in such a thing. His games were all solitary ones.
Now, he longed to join these children. Most of them were dark-skinned, like his mother had been, like his aunt was. They looked like Calypsians. He, on the other hand, was eerily pale, which should’ve been impossible given his mother’s brown skin and his father’s even darker skin. Or so his aunt told him. He’d never actually seen either of them. His father had left before he was born, apparently, and never returned.
A smart move, all things considered.
Chavos stuck his eye further into the crack, trying to see more of the sand field, more of the children. He watched them often, and though he didn’t know their names, he knew them by the way they ran. Wind, he called the girl who was about his own age, a fleet-footed player who often scored for her team. Her long, dark hair trailed behind her like shadowy tendrils as she raced for the sack.
Chavos’s breath caught in his lungs as he watched another player cutting in from the side. Rockhead, he’d named this one, an older boy with a big ol’ head who liked to throw his weight around. Wind didn’t see him coming, her focus entirely on the leather sack. Chavos wanted to warn her, to shout something, but his voice stuck in his throat and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because he was too far away for her to hear him.
The collision was violent, and Wind, who was in an awkward position, got the worst of it, flying through the air and crumpling to the hard ground, her leg bent awkwardly behind her. Chavos watched as she writhed in pain, and he knew her bones were broken.
She might never run, or even walk, again.
He backed away from the shuttered window, the thought of the injured girl making him unbearably sad.
She needs help, he thought, suddenly feeling full of energy. He charged for the door, which was locked and barred from the outside, a precaution his aunt never failed to forget when she left their house. I
can break through it, he thought, determination coursing through him. He picked up a wooden chair awkwardly, trying to raise it over his head so he could crash it into the door. His thin arms wobbled and the chair tilted and his legs gave out.
“Oof!” he grunted as the chair landed atop him, cracking his jaw through his face mask. He lay there for a while, his face throbbing. The pain, however, wasn’t nearly as bad as the realization that he was useless. Purposeless. Stuck inside all day every day, he had no real reason for living.
He pushed the chair off, cringing as two of the legs went in opposite directions, having shattered in half when he fell. His aunt wasn’t going to be pleased.
Who cares? he thought. A broken chair is nothing compared to that poor girl’s broken bones…the girl! Wind! Remembering her, he rushed back to the crack in the shutters to see what was happening.
He gasped.
The girl was walking away, toward one of the neighboring houses, flanked by two boys and a man. The man was large, a gray-skinned Dreadnoughter who Chavos had seen many times through the window. One of the boys was another player that he also recognized, dark-skinned in the typical Calypsian manner. The second boy, however, had wavy blond hair and light skin. Wisps of bright light seemed to rise from his chest, but were quickly fading.
And then the light blinked out and they were gone, disappearing inside another house.
As expected, Chavos’s aunt was not happy about the chair.
“This will cost me a week’s worth of Dragons to repair!” she shouted, each hand holding one of the shattered chair legs.
“It’s just a chair,” Chavos said, thinking of the girl’s broken leg. It’s not broken anymore, he thought. Somehow she was healed. Regardless, it was the wrong thing to say to his aunt, because the chair legs were still very much broken.
With a snap of her wrist, she threw one at him. It hit him square in the chest, bouncing off and rattling across the floor. “Just a chair? This was your mother’s favorite chair, crafted by one of the best woodworkers in the city! Is it still just a chair?”
