by David Estes
How is this possible? she’d wondered to herself on numerous occasions. How is he possible? He was her best friend from childhood, a boy who she’d been told was dead from a horrible bone disease, now reborn as a man. Though Tarin Sheary considered the witch’s dark magic that had saved his life a curse—the source of his unusual appearance, superhuman size and strength—Annise would only ever think of it as a blessing, a second chance.
“You know, Sir Dietrich might never be able to have children because of your boot,” he said. She could feel the rumble of his voice as it rose from his chest, which was pressed tightly against hers.
“Pity,” she said, cupping his cheek in her palm.
“He saved your life. Perhaps he deserves a little patience.”
“I appreciate what he did, and have thanked him for his courage numerous times. But until he tells the truth, I will not see him.”
A look of amusement crossed Tarin’s broad face. “I think I’ve come up with your royal nickname,” he said.
Annise didn’t think she was going to like it, but she said, “Go on.”
“The Stubborn Queen.”
She tried to hit him, but he grabbed her hand and held it back and then kissed her again, softer this time, exploring her lips, her tongue. She explored back.
This time, when they broke apart, his eyes bore into hers, and she detected a question in that look. “What?” she asked.
“How?” he said.
“How what?”
“Just…how?” he repeated.
She thought she understood what he meant. “I’ve asked myself the same question a million times. Remember, I’m not the one who returned from the dead.”
“To me you did.” His voice had grown gravellier, more serious, sending electricity to every part of her.
“Why, Tarin,” she said, “I would’ve never taken you for a romantic.”
His eyes never leaving hers, he carried her backwards, setting her on the edge of her cot, his giant hands roaming down her sides and around her hips. He kissed her once more, quick, stabbing kisses broken up by words. “The reason”—kiss—“Sir Dietrich”—kiss—“came to see”—kiss—“you…”
“Stop talking,” she said, clutching the back of his helmet, ripping it off, pulling him closer. “Keep kissing.”
He did, and for the next few minutes they fought the urge to do more, an urge they’d been fighting for the last fortnight due to the lack of privacy that came with staying in a busy tavern. Oh, and the fact that her brother was sleeping in the bed next to them and could awaken at any moment.
“There’s someone to see you,” Tarin finally managed to get out. He was breathing heavily, and so was Annise.
“Lady Zelda?” Annise said, gulping down air.
“No. A stranger. An unusual fellow. Calls himself Sir Christoff Metz.”
Annise frowned. “And why should I talk to this Sir Metz fellow?”
“He claims he has information on your uncle’s army,” Tarin said.
Six
The Southern Empire, Phanes
Jai Jiroux
When they finally reached the mine, the sun had long since fallen below the horizon. The temperature had dropped by half, the cold infused in each gust of wind, which sent shivers up Jai’s spine.
He stepped from the chariot and said, “You can stay here for the night. You will be given bed and nourishment.”
“Yes, Master,” the slave said. This man wasn’t a Garadia slave, or Jai might’ve acted very differently. He belonged to the emperor’s palace, and thus, Jai couldn’t risk treating him the way he longed to: like a person.
He left the man to tend to the horses, striding toward the entrance to the mine, which was as dark and foreboding as a red pyzon’s maw. Above the opening stood a towering rock, but the outcropping itself held little value. No, it was what was beneath the ground that mattered.
The diamonds.
Though many of the emperor’s mines contained an abundance of beautiful jewels, it was the diamonds that Hoza craved the most. They were like an addiction to him, and he was rumored to have entire pools filled with them, in which he would bathe, running the gems over every inch of his body, letting their sharp edges cut his skin.
Which was exactly why every master wanted to be Jai Jiroux, Master of Garadia. Controlling Garadia meant you always had the emperor’s ear, so long as you were producing up to his standards. Which Jai was, giving him plenty of leeway as to the treatment of his “slaves.”
He entered the mine, pausing just inside the threshold to allow his eyes to adjust to the flickering orangey darkness. Torches were lit along the tunnel, which almost immediately branched off in three different directions. One went toward the masters’ quarters, one toward the shafts leading below, to the mines, and one toward the slaves’ quarters.
After a long, hard ride, any other master would’ve gone straight to the lavish quarters they’d been provided with. Jai had a plush, feathered mattress he’d never slept on, a large golden tub he’d never filled with warm water, a broad hearth he’d never lit, and a full larder of foodstuffs he’d never eaten. He allowed his mine masters to use all of his amenities in exchange for their cooperation and silence.
Instead, Jai headed to the left toward the slaves’ quarters, where he slept, bathed, and broke bread with his workers. His people. He paused only momentarily to use a small wash basin to clean the white powder from his face. While in the city he was forced to wear it, but never in Garadia, not amongst his people.
Many of the workers were already asleep when he entered the broad cavern where they lived when they weren’t toiling in the mines. That was typical. The back-breaking work they did wore on a person, no matter how young or old, how thin or broad, how strong or weak. Slowly, over days or weeks or months, or sometimes years, they were broken, until they had nothing left to give.
Garadia had the lowest death rate of any of the mines, and yet Jai lost at least one soul each and every day, either from accident or fatigue. Some were replaced by new slaves; some were not.
Like the slaves in the capital city of Phanea, Garadia was primarily made up of Terans, though he also had about two dozen Dreadnoughters. The gray-skinned people tended to be taller and broader than the other workers, their hands and feet half again as large. The islanders spoke infrequently, and when they did their voices seemed to rumble up from their bellies. He spotted one of them sleeping off to the side, both his eyes open. Though Jai knew the sleeping giant couldn’t see him, it still creeped him out the way the Dreadnoughters slept with their eyes open.
Jai blinked and moved on. The cavern smelled of stale bread and sweat and damp earth. Thousands of workers occupied the cavern at this time of day, most of them sleeping side by side or milling about the washing area—a natural underground stream—or breaking bread in small circles.
Several of the workers who were still awake noticed his entrance and offered him a welcome—three fingers in the air: one for the master, one for the slave, and one for what they’d become, something other. It was a sign Jai had come up with, a sign that identified them as one of his. He hated to think of them like that—as his—but at the same time, he felt like their lives were his responsibility. When one of them died, he mourned. When one of them cried, he cried with them. When they enjoyed fleeting moments of happiness, he smiled too.
Though their eyes were black and they wore the slavemark like all others ensnared by the emperor’s tattooya, Jai had relieved them of their burden of obedience when he’d first been assigned head of the mine. All it had taken was a simple command to be free.
For now, they toiled by choice alone, working for the promise of a better future Jai had offered them. If they wanted to leave, to escape, they could. Jai wouldn’t stop them. The other masters would, however, and the runaway slave would likely be killed.
Some chose to leave and paid the price.
Most chose to stay. For now at least.
Although Jai had been tempt
ed on many occasions to teach his people phen lu, he had yet to do so. Training in the defense arts would take many years, and he hoped to escape with them long before that. It is my destiny, he thought now. It has to be. So instead, he conditioned them for whatever was to come next. Before mining in the morning, the people would run laps around the cavern. After mining they would do more laps. None were exempted, save for those who were with child, too young, or too old to walk.
My people are strong, he thought. One day that strength will save them.
His thoughts were chased away when a small boy, as thin as a reed, ran up to him. Though he was full Teran, his skin red and his hair coppery, he’d never seen Teragon, the continent south of the Four Kingdoms across the Burning Sea. No, he was a second-generation slave, his parents captured and forced into bondage years earlier. The boy moved with a limp, the result of being hit by a falling rock weeks ago. The injury lingered, refusing to heal. “Jai!” the boy said. “You’re here.”
Jai hugged him and tousled his straw-like hair, painted orange in the torchlight. His hair was long, well past his shoulders. As soon as Jai had given the people their freedom of choice, they reverted back to their country’s customs of long hair for males and short for females. The boy was wearing the typical garb of slaves: a thin shirt and pants cut from sackcloth. Unfortunately, it was all they had.
“I’m back,” Jai said. “How is Emperor Jig, the mightiest miner in all of Phanes?”
Jig giggled, and Jai could almost imagine this was a normal boy, if not for his shadowy eyes and the chain marking circling the red skin of his neck. “Mother says I can’t work the mines until my leg heals.”
“Your mother is a wise woman.”
“I guess,” Jig said, sounding unconvinced. “What news from Phanea?”
Jai grinned. He knew the boy was trying to sound like a man, mimicking a standard question he’d heard one of the adults ask. “I saw a pyzon,” Jai said.
“You did?” Jig bounced on his toes. He was always eager to hear stories of the outside world; the boy was born in Garadia and had never seen true sunlight, other than a few errant beams that wafted through cracks in the rocks above. “What did it do?”
“Slept, mostly. And stuck out its tongue.”
“Oh.” Jig sounded disappointed.
“Would you rather it had bitten me?” Jai raised his eyebrows.
“No!” the boy said. “But maybe if you fought it and chopped of its head, that would make a good story!”
“Next time,” Jai promised with a wink. “Have you had supper?”
Jig went quiet, staring at his feet, which were bare and dirty.
“Jig,” Jai said sternly.
“The bread tastes funny,” the boy said.
He was never going to heal if he didn’t eat, Jai knew. “We’ll eat together,” he said.
The boy kicked a stone. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a command?”
Jai hated that this innocent boy’s entire life boiled down to that one question. It seemed all of Phanes was built upon a foundation formed of that one word: COMMAND.
Just like his own life, his own birthright. His father’s words echoed through his memory. I never commanded her. Not like that.
Jai shook his head, letting the words vanish. “No,” he said. “I will not tell you what to do. But you should listen to your mother. She knows best.”
Jig grabbed Jai’s hand and pulled him off to the side, to an area somewhat enclosed by a series of large boulders. There, what was left of Jig’s family sat cross-legged, huddled around a flat rock set with food. His mother, Marella. His elder sister, Viola. There were two empty spots. One for Jig, and one for his father, who had died in a cave-in a year earlier.
“Jai Jiroux,” Marella said. Though Jai refused to let any of them call him “Master,” Jig’s mother found it difficult to refer to him by first name only. “Please. Sit. Join us.”
“Thank you,” Jai said.
“You can have Father’s seat,” Jig said.
“No!” Marella snapped. Her tone softened. “I mean, please, we will squeeze in another place for you.”
“Yes. Beside me,” Viola said, offering a wide smile. Though she was only eleven, the girl was always trying to hold Jai’s hand, or hug him. There was no doubt in his mind that she was smitten. The thought made him feel awful inside.
“Of course,” Jai said. He wouldn’t have felt comfortable sitting in the place of her husband anyway. He slid to the ground between Jig and Viola. The latter immediately latched onto him, holding his arm.
“Jig won’t eat his bread,” Marella said.
“So I heard,” Jai said, breaking off a piece. It was too hard, and beginning to smell of mold. Hence, the funny taste the boy had complained about. Still, it was all they had, the leftovers from the city. He took a large bite, chewing with his mouth open, smacking his lips. “Mmm. It tastes of almond butter and sifted flour.” In truth, it tasted sour and earthy.
“Almonds?” the boy said, raising his eyebrows. “I’ve never tasted those.” He took his own piece of bread and bit in.
As Jig munched on the bread, wrinkling his nose and commenting on all the strange tastes he was experiencing, his mother offered a nod of thanks in Jai’s direction.
Jai returned her nod, his thoughts drifting to the situation at hand. In the morn, he would be forced to announce the emperor’s decree about increasing diamond output. The morale of his people already sat on a knife’s edge, and he was afraid this news would push them into despair.
More and more, Jai felt like his life was a fast-moving river, carrying him along at its will and whim, occasionally dashing him against rocks and fallen timber. Every move forward seemed to bring him closer to a precipice, where an eternal waterfall would drop him down, down, down—
No. No. He wouldn’t think that way. There had to be a solution, a way to save all of them. Or at least give them a chance.
Yes. It was known that the range of the emperor’s control over his slaves only extended to a limited distance. That was one of the many reasons why his slave army hadn’t yet invaded Calypso and won the civil war. Doing so would mean the emperor would have to travel with the army, and he wasn’t willing to expose himself to the risk. Not yet anyway, though it was only a matter of time.
If I can only get them out of range…, Jai thought. Maybe we’ll have a chance.
But how far would they have to go? And how would he ensure that the emperor didn’t catch wind of their plot until they were far enough away?
These were the questions Jai was trying to answer as he finished his humble meal and lay down to sleep in the midst of his people, Jig’s arm across his chest on one side, and Viola’s on the other.
He still hadn’t come up with a solution, when he heard the first cries rise up, echoing down the tunnels from the mine’s entrance.
They were cries of battle.
Seven
The Southern Empire, Calyp
The Beggar
After countless hours spent in darkness, the light was as bright as staring directly into the sun.
The Beggar raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the light had already been lowered, casting a yawning yellow sheen across the sandstone floor. He couldn’t see who was there, his vision dancing with spots. A shadow person.
I’m still alive, the Beggar tried to say. Why? But nothing came out but a groan, his mouth as dry as dust, his lips as cracked as a sunburnt desert floor.
“You are the bearer of the plague?” a voice said. “The one they call Demon Child?”
No, please. I am the Beggar. Not a demon. Not a not a not a not a…
“Water,” was all he managed to croak out.
“An answer first. Then water.” The bearer of the lantern angled the light backwards, and he saw who it was.
The empress. Sun Sandes. This close up she was even more spectacular than from afar, her eyes like grey silk, her blond locks waves of cr
ashing sunlight. She wore a light green dress, crisscrossing strands of material that exposed slits of diagonal skin, night-dark in the manner typical of Calypsians.
An answer, the Beggar repeated in his head. What was the question again? His mind was fuzzy, shriveled, like a piece of fruit left too long in the sun. Yes, that is it. The plague.
“Yes. I am the plague. The plague is me.” His voice was scratchy, but at least it was working again. He moved to throw back his hood and reveal himself, but his hand caught only empty air. His fingers searched his body for his cloak, but found only skin as pale as moonlight, dancing with orange light from the lantern. At some point they’d stripped him, left him lying naked in the dark. “My skin,” he said, clambering back, away from the empress. “Stay away from my skin.” He didn’t want to hurt anyone else. Especially not a woman as beautiful and strong as the empress.
Despite his warnings, the empress approached. She handed him a cup of water. “Please. Place it on the ground,” he said.
“As you wish.” She did, and as soon as she’d drawn back, his hand darted out like a striking cobra and yanked it back, spilling half of it in his haste to drink.
“Ahh,” he moaned, the flames in his throat dowsed. He licked his lips. “Thank you. Now, you have to kill me.”
“The tattooya on your neck, the three broken circles…it gives you your power?”
Why is she asking me such things? he wondered. Why is she delaying my fate?
“I have no power. Only a curse.”
“And it turns your eyes as red as hot metal. Curious. Does your skin burn in the sun?”
“Yes,” he blurted out, without thinking.
“Can you control whom you infect with the plague?”
What? “Please, just—”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“Why not?”
“You’re like my daughter, Fire. Special. Our people believe that all those…like you…have a purpose. I would not waste someone like you, not when you could be the key to the civil war plaguing the south.” She laughed lightly at her own wit.
