by David Estes
Her back was to him, and she was on her knees, pinning someone to the ground. There was something familiar about his boots, which were fine-looking leather and marked with some kind of a sigil—
Roan froze, his breath catching. It couldn’t be—could it?
Gwen rolled off of the person, who sat up. “Ho! Peacemaker! What say you?” Gareth Ironclad said.
Roan stuttered and stammered and then finally settled for “What are you doing here?”
“A pleasure to see you, as well,” the prince said. No, Roan reminded himself. Not prince. King. Gareth is the king now.
The oddest thing was: they had that in common—being kings, or at least heirs to kingdoms—though only a handful of people knew it.
Even bedraggled and travel-worn, he looked unbearably handsome.
“I—you’re here. How is that possible?” Roan asked. And you’re alive. Thank the gods. Gareth was wearing light linens—apparently he’d been carrying his armor, which was now cast aside on the ground.
“All who grow up in Ironwood learn the great art of tracking,” Gareth said. “Though you haven’t made it easy, I must admit. Walking in circles for the last three days? It was a confounding strategy. But it was quite effective. I only realized this morning that going backward was the best way to go forward, if you get my meaning.”
Roan didn’t. Roan didn’t get anything at this point. “But why are you here?”
Gareth clambered to his feet and strode forward, until he was eye to eye with Roan.
And then he hugged him, picking him up off his feet before slamming him back down, slapping his back emphatically. Roan’s heart skipped a beat.
Gareth stepped back and said, “To thank you. You know, for saving my life.” He patted his chest, over his heart, which was wrapped with a thick dressing pulled tight diagonally from shoulder to hip.
“You followed us for half a fortnight to…thank me?”
“Not only. I’m coming with you, of course. Wherever it is you’re going. To Knight’s End, I’m guessing. My brother was adamant in his belief that you’re a Loren and the rightful heir to the western throne, though I’m still skeptical on both of those points. I told him you’re a Southron bastard with a rude mouth and a tendency to get himself in trouble.”
Gwen cut in. “You’re not coming. You’re going back immediately. You are the king now. You can’t just run off and follow us halfway across the Tangle and expect—”
“Halfway? By my estimation you’re naught but a fraction of the way through. Not with all the walking in circles. I’m not going back, and I’m not the king. I relinquished that honor to my brother, Grian.” Roan started to object, but Gareth spoke over him. “It was never supposed to be me. You understand that, aye? I don’t want it.”
Roan finally got a few words through. “This is our chance at peace, don’t you see? At least between the east and west. If I can get to Knight’s End and speak to my sister…we’ll have a chance. You and I can change things.”
Gareth put a hand on Roan’s shoulder and, once again, his touch felt electric. Roan forced himself to remember the prince’s reaction when they’d kissed. “You’re the Peacemaker, whatever that means. Not me. I am the Shield who failed to shield my own brother. My people will shun me.”
Roan shook his head, unwilling to believe it. “They won’t. The easterners are reasonable, unlike everyone else in this mad land. You can explain what happened. They’ll listen.”
Gwen said, “He’s right,” and at first Roan thought she was agreeing with him, but then he realized she was talking to him. “You didn’t grow up in the east, Roan. Neither the Orians nor the humans will respect a failed Shield. He cannot be king.”
“So you would have him go west, toward his enemies?” Roan felt like shouting at the insanity of it all. He hadn’t saved Gareth only to deliver him to the rival kingdom.
“No one will know it is me,” Gareth said. “I mean, my handsomeness will certainly draw attention, but we can concoct a disguise to make me ugly if we must…”
Roan wasn’t in the mood for japes. He turned away, a mix of emotions flooding him. Relief that his friend was alive. Anger and frustration that he had chosen this path. A flutter in his chest at being reunited so unexpectedly.
“You’re a Loren,” Gareth said. “You can protect me.”
Roan shook his head. He wasn’t anyone. It wasn’t like he could just show up and expect to sit on the throne. It would take time, explanations. Wounds would need to be healed. And anyway, he didn’t know if he wanted to be king. More than anything, he wanted to get to the Western Archives and search for information on the fatemarks. I want to know who I am. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
“Please. I have nowhere else to go.”
Roan turned to find that Gareth’s mask had fallen away for the second time since he’d known the prince. The first time was on the eve of the battle, when Gareth knew he would die. The night I kissed him. And now…now he looked lost and uncertain, a castaway from a ship in a sea of turbulent waters. He wanted to embrace him, to comfort him.
Still, the prince had put him through a lot in the short time since they’d met. Roan waited five long seconds, counting them off in his head, before responding. “Fine. You can come with us,” he said.
The prince rushed forward and hugged Roan again, and then turned to hug Gwen, but she used the speed provided by her mark to dodge him easily.
“C’mon,” Roan said. “We need your help to figure out how to get out of the Tangle.”
“Excellent,” Gareth said, his mood quickly changing back to normal. “Where are we going again?”
Twelve
The Northern Kingdom, Gearhärt
Annise Gäric
“What information could a knight possibly have about my uncle?” Annise asked.
Tarin said, “I love when you act all queenly.”
Annise hid her amusement. “Just answer the question.”
“Sir Metz said he wouldn’t tell anyone but the king. We told him there is no king at present. But there is a queen. That’s when he requested to see you.”
“So you sent Sir Dietrich to deliver the message?” Annise almost felt bad for hitting him with the boot. Almost. “Send him in. Not Sir Dietrich; this Sir Metz fellow.”
“As you wish.” He untangled his body from hers, and she instantly missed his warmth. A flood of memories from their time spent camping in the snow rushed back. It felt like a lifetime ago, not a month.
Tarin donned his helmet, pulled his mesh face cover back up, and clamped down his eye mask before departing.
When he left, Annise attempted to make herself look more queen-like, smoothing her unruly dark hair and blotting the sweat from her face with a dry cloth. Her long blue dress was full of wrinkles from her activities with Tarin, but she did her best to press them out with her palms.
While she worked, she heard Tarin’s heavy footsteps descending the stairs, and then the sound of them returning, along with other footsteps. Tarin entered first, followed by Sir Dietrich, who, to Annise’s delight, was still walking slightly hunched over. The third to enter was a tall fellow with straw-like hair and rosy cheeks. His gait was stiff, almost as if he was marching. He was dressed in pristinely polished silver armor, and carrying a helmet under his arm. Presumably, the scabbard at his hip had once held a sword, but either Tarin or Dietrich had likely confiscated it before allowing him to enter the tavern. Netta is making a lot of exceptions to her women-only policy these days, Annise mused.
Bringing up the rear was Lady Zelda, her short pear-shaped stature out of place amongst the tall knights that preceded her. She was holding a bowl and spooning brown liquid and chunks of meat into her mouth. The aroma of the soup instantly made Annise’s mouth water. Zelda winked at Annise before taking another bite.
“I am Queen Annise Gäric, rightful heir to the northern throne,” Annise said to the newcomer. “My men tell me you have information on the Imposter King’s army?�
� ‘The Imposter King’ had been Zelda’s idea, a way of twisting public opinion in their favor. They’d paid three-score runners to disseminate the nickname for her uncle across the north, from Darrin to Castle Hill to Blackstone, and everywhere in between. They’d also sent a hundred streams with the nickname to the most populated towns in the realm. Annise wished she could’ve seen her uncle’s face when he first caught wind of what the people were calling him.
“Yes,” Sir Metz said, his voice a monotone. He stared at Annise, blinking occasionally.
Annise frowned, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t.
“And?” she said.
“And what?” Sir Metz replied.
Perhaps this was what Tarin had meant when he referred to the knight as unusual. “And what information do you have?”
“The majority of Lord Griswold’s army has been relocated to Blackstone, and will soon attack Knight’s End.”
“If that is all you know, then you have come a long way for nothing,” Annise said. “That information reached us here a week ago via message stream.”
“That is not all I know.”
Again, Annise waited for him to continue, but he remained silent. She prodded once more. “What other information do you have?”
“About what?”
Annise almost screamed, her patience stretching to its limits. “About the Imposter King’s army,” Annise growled.
“I know the exact number of soldiers guarding Castle Hill. One hundred. Well, now there are only ninety-nine, because I escaped.”
“Wait. You are a soldier in my uncle’s army?”
“Was a soldier. I escaped, like I said.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not the king.”
“And you thought my brother was?”
“Yes.”
“And now that you know he’s not, and that the north is ruled by me, a queen, what will you do?”
“Serve you for the rest of my life or until you die, whichever comes sooner. It is the oath I took as a knight.”
Annise almost laughed at his declaration. Luckily, she was able to hold back her amusement because his face was dead serious. “Then I shall consider it fortunate to have a loyal knight such as you in my service. What else do you know?”
“About what?”
Frozen hellfire and brimstone. She took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. “About the army at Castle Hill.”
“Lord Griswold’s potionmaster—”
“Darkspell,” Annise said, crinkling her nose. The wrinkled old potionmaster had originally been appointed by her grandfather, King Wilhelm Gäric, the Undefeated King. Annise had always found the hunching bald man creepy, especially because of how he lurked in the shadows when he wasn’t in his underground laboratory concocting elixirs and potions to treat anything from a headache to infertility.
“Yes. Darkspell,” Sir Metz said, looking annoyed at being interrupted. “At the request of Lord Griswold, Darkspell has formulated a potion for the remaining soldiers at Castle Hill.”
This time Annise was ready for a long pause, and quickly cut into it. “What does this potion do?”
“Creates monsters,” Sir Metz said.
It was most definitely not the answer Annise was expecting. She opened her mouth, but had no idea how to respond. Thankfully, Sir Dietrich did for her. “You’ve seen this?” Was it just her imagination, or was his voice slightly higher pitched than before?
“I’ve not only seen it, but experienced it,” Sir Metz said.
Something occurred to Annise. “The soldiers turn into monsters? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of monsters?”
“It depends on the soldier. All different kinds. They grow fangs, claws. They grow larger, bigger, faster.”
She looked him up and down, searching for any evidence of such changes. “You don’t look like a monster.”
“The change is temporary.”
Annise had no idea whether this man was to be trusted, or whether he might have been sent by her uncle to scare them away from a front-on assault to retake Castle Hill. She glanced at Zelda to see if she was just as skeptical. Her aunt, however, seemed to be ignoring the conversation entirely, throwing back the last dregs of her stew with voracious enthusiasm.
Sir Dietrich chimed in again. “How long does the change last?”
“It depends. Sometimes a day. Sometimes less. Sometimes more.”
Tarin’s question rumbled out, and it happened to be the very same one Annise was about to ask. “Why wouldn’t he give the potion to his entire army at Blackstone? If it’s as effective as you claim, they would be unstoppable. He could take Knight’s End, and then nothing would be able to stop him from marching all the way to the Southron Gates.”
“Lord Griswold is an arrogant man. He believes victory in the Bay of Bounty is a foregone conclusion. And he only has a limited supply of the potion. Darkspell had to travel deep into the Hinterlands to obtain a key ingredient, some kind of brittle stone that must be ground up into a powder and mixed with underground water that has never been touched by sunlight. He only tested the potion once, on ten of us, to conserve the supply. Supposedly he has just enough remaining for a single use for all ninety-nine of his soldiers at Castle Hill.”
“Can Darkspell make more?” Annise asked.
“Yes, given sufficient time. And assuming he can locate more of the stone.”
Annise considered all of the information, and what it might mean if it was true. “Is there anything else?”
“Like what?” Sir Metz asked. He raised an eyebrow.
“Thank you, Sir. You may go. Sir Dietrich will help you locate the knights’ quarters and equip you as needed.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Sir Metz said. He bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and left, closing the door behind him.
“Go with him,” Annise said to Sir Dietrich.
“Annise, if I may—”
“Though ‘Annise’ is a far cry better than ‘Woman’, it’s still Queen or Your Highness to you, and no you may not. Now go.” When Sir Dietrich didn’t move, Annise said, “I have another boot, you know.” Sir Dietrich scurried away.
Annise could see the amusement in Tarin’s eyes. “You are a dangerous woman,” he said.
“Of course she is,” Zelda said. She finished licking the bowl clean. “She’s related to me.”
“What do you make of the knight?” Tarin asked.
Annise considered the question. “Like you said, he’s unusual. But that doesn’t make him a liar.”
“Darkspell is a powerful potionmaster,” Zelda said. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility that he could have developed such a formula.”
“Then what do we do?” Annise said. “We can’t stay in Gearhärt forever, hoping my uncle will fall down the steps like my father did.”
“True,” Zelda said. “How many soldiers do we have at last count?”
“Over eight-hundred, but more arrive every day,” Tarin answered. Word of the true queen’s claim on the crown had been flying around the kingdom by news bearers and messengers and streams, and hundreds were descending on Gearhärt to offer their support. Then again, she knew she needed to discount the number by half. Many of the newcomers were too young or too old, but Annise was in no position to deny them their right to fight for something they believed in. And yet, even if they were battle-hardened warriors, eight-hundred was a pitifully small number compared to the ten-thousand soldiers gathered at Blackstone.
“My uncle’s army is focused on the west. When will we ever have another opportunity to lay siege to Castle Hill?”
“It could be years,” Tarin admitted.
“But can a group of eight-hundred ragtag fighters defeat ninety-nine monsters?” Annise asked.
“You are the queen. You decide.” Zelda’s eyes glittered. Annise knew she’d been backed into the very corner she’d been avoiding ever since she declared herself quee
n.
She wished Archer were conscious. He’d always had a mind for strategy. She, on the other hand, had more of a mind for pummeling things until they could no longer get up.
“Tarin?” she said, hoping her paramour would bail her out.
“It is your choice, Your Highness.”
She closed her eyes. Archer might never wake up. The moment she thought it, she knew what they had to do. “Begin making preparations. In a week’s time, we ride for Castle Hill, monsters or not.”
Thirteen
The Southern Empire, Phanes
Jai Jiroux
The chariot driver had been bound to Emperor Hoza. While it was possible the man had ridden back to Phanea and kept the secret of the Black Tear’s attack on Garadia Mine, it was far likelier he was under strict instructions to report any unusual behavior directly to the emperor. And a rebel uprising was definitely in the category of unusual activity.
As Jai had explained all of this to Sonika Vaid, the Black Tear’s leader, her frown had grown deeper and deeper. “We have little time to waste,” she said.
Jai couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen firsthand the merciless speed with which Hoza meted out his version of punishment. “We won’t get far.” His heart was in his gut. Without the element of stealth, their trek north would be impossible. His people were doomed.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t go far,” Shanti interjected. The Teran rebel was standing by a cart hitched to her horse, a speckled white mare. The cart was laden with barrels that Jai assumed were not filled with food or water. Fireroot powder. Enough to blow a hole in a wall, if necessary.
“Explain,” Sonika said.
Shanti squinted out from the cover of her long, coppery lashes. Already the sun was bright and hot, and it would only get worse as it rose toward its apex. Shanti said, “He will expect us to head toward the sea, as that’s the closest avenue of escape. However, when his men don’t find us, they’ll circle back and cut us off to the north.”
“We can’t exactly stay here either,” Jai said. “If that’s what you’re suggesting.”
