by David Estes
“Let go of me,” Gareth said. “We can’t—this is unnatural.” Oh. Oh. Was this why Gareth had rejected him before, because in his world men were with women and women with men? But there was no power behind Gareth’s words, all strength leaving him as he nestled further into Roan’s arms. He shook his head and bit his lip and wept, sobbing his eyes out until he ran out of tears.
When they finally rose, it was dark, the sky offering nothing more than a dead, moonless, starless stare.
“How are we going to escape?” Gareth said.
Roan slapped him on the back. “The way we always do,” he said. Gareth cocked his head to the side, confused. “With sheer dumb luck.”
Gareth laughed, and Roan joined him.
As they wandered the unnatural night, Roan swore he could feel his soul being stretched, pulled, pushed and prodded. He could tell Gareth was feeling something similar, because the prince continuously reached up to touch his chest, where he’d been stabbed by the Kings’ Bane, rubbing the skin through his shirt. But Roan knew it wasn’t Gareth’s injury that was bothering him, it was this place.
Felicity, the Queen of the Wood Nymphs, hadn’t spoken to them again, leaving a hollow, empty place in Roan’s chest. It was strange, even knowing what she was, what she’d done to them, he still longed for her voice, her touch.
I am weak, he thought. Just as Gwendolyn always believed.
They were walking toward the enormous mirror that stretched from barren ground to black sky, but despite the fact that they’d been marching for hours on end, it never seemed any nearer. The desolate place was full of tricks, too, cracks appearing suddenly beneath their feet, spouting fire; snakes appearing from thin air, striking at their heels; nasty flying creatures with leathery wings swarming from above, clawing their cheeks, and then disappearing into the sky.
“Felicity is madder than a six-legged donkey,” Roan commented.
“Aye. She killed her own mother and stole her sisters’ souls,” Gareth said.
“The lockets?”
“Aye. I’ve heard stories about the wood nymphs. Their souls are kept in their mirrored lockets. Over time, they break down, until they fade away into nothingness. Unless they feed them new souls. That’s where we come in.”
“Information that would’ve been useful before we looked into her locket.”
“I didn’t see you helping!”
“I didn’t know what was happening.”
“And I did? We were practically slobbering over her.”
Roan laughed. This was normal. The constant bickering, the finger-pointing.
“Nice shiner, by the way,” Gareth said.
“You got in a few good shots. Sorry about your neck.” Roan could still see the marks where he’d squeezed Gareth’s throat, the purple-blue shapes of his fingers and thumbs.
“For the Peacemaker, you’re awfully violent,” Gareth grumbled, but Roan could tell it was meant as a jape.
“I didn’t used to be like this. Must be your influence.”
Before Gareth could offer a retort, a snake burst from the ground, springing up and straight for Roan’s face. He flinched back, but Gareth’s hand snapped out, catching the viper by the throat. “Nasty creatures,” he said, tossing it aside like a bad piece of fruit.
Roan breathed again. “You saved my life,” he said.
Gareth shrugged it off. “Not necessarily, we don’t even know if they’re poisonous. Why would the nymph want to kill us right away when she went through so much trouble to capture us in the first place? From the stories I’ve heard of the woodland nymphs, she’ll want to torment us for an eternity before fully sucking our souls dry.”
“That makes me feel better. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“What else have you heard? Is there any escaping this mirror?”
“Well, someone must’ve escaped to tell these tales in the first place. But if they knew a way out, I’ve never heard it.”
“Fantastic.”
They continued on in silence, moving more for the sake of feeling like they were doing something than for any other real purpose. Eventually, Roan collapsed. Gareth joined him soon after. They lay their cheeks on the rough ground and looked at each other. Roan asked, “What do you think she did with Gwendolyn?”
Gareth shrugged in the dark. “Probably released her. Felicity won’t want to start a war with the Orians.”
The thought made Roan feel somewhat better. If it wasn’t for him, they never would’ve set foot in the confounded Tangle in the first place. “I’m bone-weary.”
“Aye. Me too.”
“I don’t want to wake up with a snake on my face.”
“We could take turns sleeping. Me first.”
“Bastard.”
“Speaking of bastards, tell me a bedtime story.”
Roan closed his eyes. Opened them. “What kind of story?”
“About your mother. About your father. About what really happened to you.”
Roan sighed, deeply. There was dust in his mouth, and he smacked his dry lips. “There’s not much to tell, and I only know what my Southron guardian told me.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Roan didn’t like to think about the past, not when most of it felt like someone else’s tale. “They discovered my mark when I was a suckling babe.”
“You were born in the west. How are you alive?”
Roan shook his head. “My parents saved me. They killed for me. My mother, she died for me, for my family. She killed herself to protect them from a truth that would destroy our house.”
“What truth?”
“Me,” Roan said simply.
“Why didn’t the west change its ways? Why didn’t your father change the laws? He was the king.”
Roan propped his head up on his hand. “It’s not that simple. Hundreds of years of history, of tradition, of fear, cannot be easily undone. And there were the furia to consider.”
“The furia.” Gareth wrinkled his nose. “The red warriors are strong, I admit. I have seen them in battle, along the Spear. They are fierce. But doesn’t the monarchy control them?”
“From what my guardian explained to me about western politics, no. Neither the crown nor the Faith control one another. They are separate bodies, unified only in maintaining peace and righteousness over the realm. If the monarchy was thought to have fallen into sin, the furia would have the power and numbers to overthrow the crown and replace the ruler with another, more benevolent, leader.”
“Benevolent meaning someone who would kill those bearing skinmarks?”
“Aye. The sinmarked. That’s how they think of people like me. The spawn of demons, enemies to Wrath.”
“So to save you they had to send you away. It was the only choice.”
“Aye.”
“I’m—I’m sorry.”
Roan’s eyes met Gareth’s, which were full of sincerity. “What about you? You can’t leave the east forever. It’s your home.”
“Not anymore. Now I have no home. And anyway, last I checked we were stuck in a nymph’s enchanted soul locket, so…”
“Good point. For a moment I had forgotten.”
“You can sleep first,” Gareth said.
“You sure?”
“Aye. I’ll keep the creepy crawlies away.”
“Thank you.”
The moment Roan’s eyes closed, weariness sucked him under like a black tide, and he slept.
His dreams were full of darkness and pain.
Twenty
The Northern Kingdom, north of Gearhärt
Annise Gäric
The ragtag group of soldiers formed a twisting, turning brown line in the snowfields. Though a makeshift road had been packed down by the lead riders, the going was slow, the surface too slippery for anyone to move with haste.
Arch hadn’t woken up during the additional week Annise had given him, so they had departed Gearhärt as planned, with a force that was now well over a thousand. She�
��d refused to leave Archer behind, and so her brother lay, still sleeping, in the back of a cart drawn by two horses. Packed around him were bags of dry provisions, as well as several barrels of mamoothen stew, a parting gift from Netta.
Hardly a chariot fit for a king, Annise thought. Or even a prince, for that matter. But it was the best they could do at this point, and he seemed comfortable enough. Perhaps one of the many bumps in the road would finally wake him.
And yet, in the back of Annise’s mind, she wondered whether it was better if he slept for a while longer, at least until they’d taken back Castle Hill. That way he wouldn’t have to fight. That way she wouldn’t have to explain that she was the ruler of the north now.
Zelda walked beside Arch’s cart, refusing to ride a horse. Something about the packed snow being “softer.” Her husband, Sir Craig, rode a brown mare beside her, his stout form at odds with his beautiful steed.
A voice drew Annise away from her brother’s cart. “May I ask what is on a queen’s mind?” Tarin asked, riding beside her. He was mounted on the largest stallion Annise had ever seen, as large as she suspected the giant horses of Phanes might be. Still, the massive beast was breathing hard under its burden. Though it seemed impossible, Annise almost thought Tarin looked even bigger than he had a week before. Must be all of Netta’s mamoothen stew. I’ve probably gained a quarter-stone, too.
“You may ask,” Annise said.
“But you won’t answer.”
Annise offered him a wry smile.
Tarin said, “I thought we were past all of our secrets.”
“We are, but I still have a right to my own thoughts. What if I asked you of the bloodlust you feel in battle?”
Tarin grimaced. She’d struck a chord, as she knew she would, though it made her feel a little bad. “Fair enough.” He rode away, and Annise wished she hadn’t broached the topic of what he referred to as “the monster inside.” Unfortunately, it was that very monster that had saved them on multiple occasions, and was why he would be such a valuable soldier in the battle to come.
Still, it saddened Annise to think that there was a part of Tarin that scared her, a part of him that scared himself. I want to love all of you. I want to understand… The unspoken words whispered through her mind as she watched him ride away.
His presence was quickly replaced by Sir Dietrich, whose mount was a white mare with a chestnut mane. He was once again wearing his full platemail. Though he’d had the chance to obtain a brand new set, he was still in his old armor, with its dents and scrapes and dull sheen. “You’re wearing your boots,” he said, grinning.
“I can unlace them quickly,” Annise shot back.
His smile faded. “You want to know the truth?”
“That’s all I ever ask for.”
“I bear a skinmark.”
Though Annise had suspected it for a while, the revelation still sent an icy zing of energy racing through her. The only other skinmarked person she’d ever known was the Ice Lord, and he was about as personable as an icicle. Of course, she’d seen three other marked during the battle at Raider’s Pass—Beorn Stonesledge, the ironmarked; some kind of a healer, though she didn’t know his name; and her brother, Bane, bearing the deathmark.
“Let me guess: you bear the swordmark,” Annise said.
“That’s as good a name for it as any. I was practically born with a sword in my hand, besting youth twice my age and winning competitions across the realm.”
“And saving the lives of queens?” Annise smirked, glad things were back to normal with the knight. A little truth went a long way.
He smiled back. “No, that was a first.”
“I would’ve had you knighted, but you’ve already achieved that status.”
“A kiss on the cheek will do.”
“It’ll earn you a punch on the other cheek from Tarin.”
“It’ll be worth it. Plus, I heard he hits like a girl.”
Annise shook her head. Dietrich was a notorious flirt, even with her. “I’m a girl, and I hit pretty hard.” She raised a gloved fist.
“She does,” Zelda cut in. “She’s my niece.”
Dietrich ignored her and said to Annise, “No, you’re a woman. There’s a difference.”
“But I was once a girl. And even then I hit hard enough to make the boys cry.”
“I would’ve liked to see that.”
“What does this swordmark look like?”
“Like a burn scar,” Dietrich said, winking.
“He burned himself to hide the mark,” Zelda said. “Now that would hurt.”
“Is it true?” Annise asked.
He nodded. Annise couldn’t imagine doing such a thing, how painful it must’ve been.
“What did it look like before you scarred your skin?”
“A sword with an ornate handle. The design was quite intricate.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because I’ve never told anyone.”
“Why not? It would’ve brought you fame, and a place at my father’s side.”
“Despite this smile…”—he flashed his white teeth—“…I was never interested in fame. And it was because of your father that I hid my mark.”
“Smart man,” Zelda said. “My brother was a greedy king. He coveted those with skinmarks.”
Annise frowned. She’d hated her father as much as anyone, but there was clearly more to the story. “What did he do to you?”
Dietrich’s smile faded. “Nothing. He did nothing to me.”
Annise suddenly felt wrong probing into this man’s past. She’d gotten the information she was looking for, the information she needed to utilize the knight to the best of his abilities. Any other information was his to offer.
“Fine. And thank you again for saving my life.”
The smile was back. “Now how about that kiss?”
Zelda laughed. “Hit him, Your Highness.”
She didn’t need to be told twice.
Twice Annise had seen the strange knight, Christoff Metz, ride pass, and twice he’d offered her a “Your Highness” and ridden onward. It was like he was pacing the line of soldiers, back and forth, back and forth, back to front, front to back. The only one she’d seen him speak to was her aunt and Sir Craig. The three of them seemed to get on surprisingly well. Or perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, given their individual eccentricities.
Now, as Sir Metz passed the third time, she beckoned him over. Tarin hadn’t returned since he’d left, and neither had Sir Dietrich, especially after she’d given him the kiss he’d requested—a snowball to the face. The rest of the soldiers treated her with deference, and were always awkward around her, even if she tried to make conversation. Archer had always been so good with the people, his admirers, but such skill had been lost on Annise.
“Yes, Your Highness, how may I serve?” Sir Metz said as his horse trotted up.
Just like the first time she’d met the stiff-looking knight, his silver armor was so well-polished she could see her wobbly reflection in it. His straw-like hair was perfectly combed to the side. His back was straight and his hands in perfect position on his horse’s reins.
“Tell me about yourself,” Annise said, trying to make conversation.
“Your Highness?”
Annise sighed, remembering how specific she’d had to be with her questions before. She rephrased. “Where are you from?”
“The north,” Metz said.
Annise shook her head. Either the knight had a sense of humor as dry as the Scarra Desert or he was as literal as an ice bear. “Which city?”
“Darrin,” he said.
She nodded. Darrin was the Northern Kingdom’s easternmost city, protecting the jagged cliffs known as the Razor from attack by the eastern stronghold called Crow’s Nest.
“And your family?”
“Yes, they were there, too.” Annise noticed he had a strange way of not looking her in the eyes when he spoke to her. It was a little disconcerting,
and she found herself bobbing her head to try to meet his gaze. But each time he just darted his eyes away from her.
Once more, she rephrased. “Where is your family now?”
“In Darrin,” he said.
“So you left, but they never did?”
“Obviously. I have just stated that they are in Darrin, whilst I am here, riding next to you, suggesting that, yes, I left.” The words having left his mouth, he snapped his lips shut, before opening them to say, “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”
Annise didn’t know what to say. She’d never been spoken to in such a way in her life. “Done what?”
“Been rude,” Metz explained. “I have a tendency to do that. Mother used to say that I couldn’t read between the lines. I read the lines and nothing more.”
“It’s fine,” Annise said. “I don’t mind. Brutal honesty is a quality I happen to admire.”
“Really? But you’re the queen.”
She changed the subject. “How did you achieve knighthood?”
A smile seemed to want to form on his lips, but it didn’t quite make it. “My father is a soldier. As a boy, he taught me how to use weapons. When I held a sword for the first time, I never wanted to put it down again. I even slept with it at night. I have a tendency to…get obsessed with things.”
“Like polishing your armor?” Annise had intended it as a joke, but the knight nodded vehemently.
“How did you know?”
“It shines like a crystal goblet.”
“Oh.” He looked down, as if only just noticing how well-polished it was. “Yes. I guess it does. I shine it thrice a day, more if it gets smudged or if it snows.”
“Which never happens in the north,” Annise said.
“What? Yes, it does. All the time. Almost every day, in fact.” He paused, scrunching his forehead. “Wait. Sorry. That was a jape, wasn’t it? Sarcasm? Mother said japes were wasted on my ears, and that I was born without a mind for sarcasm.”
“I am the one who should apologize. I will try to refrain from japing, though I must admit it will be hard for me. I wear sarcasm as well as armor.”
“I wish I could appreciate humor,” the knight said. “I always saw other soldiers laughing, but never understood why.”
