by David Estes
“I know. I feel the same.”
“No,” Fire said. “I don’t think you do. I feel as if an arach is nipping at my heels and if I don’t keep moving it will eat me alive.”
“Well, considering what you did to the last arach you faced, I don’t think you have too much to worry about…” She had intended it as a joke, but Fire only shook her head. Raven approached her sister, whose arms were hanging limply at her sides. There was no fight in them—not now. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
Fire shook her head in frustration. “Last night felt too…happy. I couldn’t handle it. This world is broken. Our family, broken. Our kingdom, broken. We shouldn’t be laughing. We shouldn’t be dancing. We should be fighting.”
Raven shook her head. “No, you’re wrong. If we can’t laugh, if we can’t dance, if we can’t be happy, then what are we fighting for?”
“For the chance to be happy. For a people who’ve never been given that chance. For a future.”
“Whisper?”
“Not only her, but yes. Whisper is as soft as a flower petal. She wasn’t made for this world. She’s not like us.” Though Raven was surprised that Fire placed them in the same category, it made her feel warm inside. Fire continued: “She deserves a place where she can be safe, a life where she doesn’t have to be scared about losing the people she loves.”
“I know. I agree. That’s what we’re trying to do. But it’s not just her that deserves such a world.”
Fire frowned. “I know that. Our people deserve that. Faata’s slaves deserve that.”
“You deserve that.”
Fire looked away. “I am a weapon, nothing more, nothing less.”
“You’re wrong. You’re my sister. You’re caring, you’re kind, you’re strong. Yes, you’re a weapon. But you are so much more.”
“You think I’m kind?” Fire almost laughed.
“Well, not all the time. But sometimes. Now you are. The soldiers will trust you when you’re fierce, but they’ll follow you when you’re kind.”
“If you’re trying to soften me up so I’ll change my mind, it won’t work.”
Raven laughed. “I know. I’m not. We ride out first thing tomorrow. As you have commanded. I respect your decision.”
Fire placed a hand on Raven’s shoulder. “And I respect your advice. We shall stay in Kesh two days. It’s the best I can do.”
Raven blinked back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes as she grabbed her sister’s hand. “It is good enough.”
There was a murmur of excitement through the camp when Fire made the announcement that they were staying another day. Guta smiled even more, until Raven was certain his face had gotten stuck that way. Then again, she was smiling quite a lot, too. Not only had the wall around her sister seemed to have come down, but she’d finally listened to something Raven had said. The words her maata had taught them as children whispered in her mind:
Together we are the rock that cannot be broken.
She also remembered how sad her mother always seemed when someone mentioned her own sister, Viper. She wondered whether her mother had felt broken when Viper had left for Zune.
If so, the thought made Raven unbearably sad.
“I thought this was what you wanted?” Fire said, startling her.
“Oh. It is. I was just…”
“What? You looked on the verge of tears.”
“I was thinking of Maata.”
Fire said, “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes.”
“Fire, I don’t know what you’re—”
“I command you as your empress.”
“I believe that’s called frivolous use of power,” Raven said, but she closed her eyes.
“See her face. See her hair, like Surai’s golden ropes. That’s Whisper’s beauty. See her corded muscles, her stern jaw. That’s me. Can you see her?”
Raven could see her mother in her mind so clearly it was like she’d never left. “I see her.”
“Do you see yourself?”
Raven tried to. But she couldn’t. She shook her head.
“See her eyes, beaded obsidian. She is fearless. She is caring. She is intelligent.”
Raven saw her mother’s eyes. Yes, she was all of those things. “I see them.”
“Her eyes are yours,” Fire said. “She is in us,” Fire said. “All of us. And she is with us.”
Raven could see it now. When she opened her eyes, her sister had moved off to speak to Goggin and the guanero, her high laughter joining the sound of music playing.
That night, Raven was jarred from sleep by a scraping sound. She blinked quickly, trying to make sense of where she was and what she’d heard. The underside of a thatched roof stared down at her, visible only because of a painted swathe of green moonlight cascading through the entrance to the hut she slept in. Nearby, Fire breathed deeply, fast asleep. They were the only ones in the hut, the rest of the guanero choosing to pass the night under the stars and the watchful eyes of the moon god and goddess.
Except there was someone else—a shadow clinging to the wall, moving, creeping, sliding.
Something glinted in the moonlight, the edge of a blade.
Raven moved like a striking scorpion, yelling out as she lunged across the small space.
The knife came down, but she managed to grab the arm of the attacker, stopping the blade a mere fingerbreadth from Fire’s face. Her sister’s eyes flashed open, her mouth opening in horror at seeing a knife tip hovering overhead.
The attacker grunted, trying to force it down. Raven pushed back, but the blade dipped lower, wildly, just missing Fire as she twisted her head to the side. Raven strained against the force, which then toppled over, somersaulting away and crashing into the side of the hut.
Raven moved to throw herself at the would-be assassin once more, but Fire held her back. “Fire, we have to—”
“Shh. He’s gone, sister. You saved me.”
Raven searched her sister’s face in the moonlight. Past her, the shadowy figure let out a final groan and then went still. Fire released her and she pushed past, crouching down warily. A blade protruded from the attacker’s chest, right over the heart. Fire’s sword. She must have been sleeping with it on hand.
Raven grabbed the attacker’s feet and dragged the body into the moonlight. When she saw who it was, she inhaled sharply.
It wasn’t a man.
One of Guta’s dark-eyed beauties. The one Goggin had danced with on the first night, cradling her head as they slept.
Twenty-Nine
The Southern Empire, Phanes, warcity of Sousa
The Beggar
Bane touched the Beggar’s gloved hand and their dark world vanished, only to be replaced by another world, full of leather plate and steel sword, roasting meat, and platoons of marching soldiers.
“Where are we?” the Beggar asked. They were nestled in a dark alleyway, out of sight for the moment.
“Sousa,” Bane said, stepping into the light, his bald head gleaming in the sun. Like this, amongst so many people, the boy looked utterly small and powerless. Having slept for almost four days and nights in a row, Bane now looked wide-eyed and ready for whatever was to come.
Phanes? The Beggar remembered what Bane had said to him a few nights ago. How they were going to infect an army near the Southron Gates. Were these marching soldiers the army he meant?
The Beggar had never been outside of Calypso before, though Sousa didn’t seem that different at first glance. Soldiers had often marched through his home city, too, although they wore different armor and often rode guanik. The buildings here were constructed of a different kind of stone—gray granite rather than beige sandstone—but that was a minor difference. The largest difference, however, was the noise.
Calypso had sometimes been called the Silent City for a reason. The people spoke in hushed tones, rarely raising their voices to a shout, except in the grand arena or fighting pits of Z
une. In fact, the only other times he’d heard anyone shout were when he’d accidentally infected someone with the plague. He could still hear those sharp voices in his head, cutting deep inside his brain like knives.
Slashing. Always slashing.
Here in the Phanecian warcity of Sousa, everything seemed to make more noise. The horses stamped their feet as they marched. The soldiers’ footsteps were like cannon blasts. The merchants selling roasted meat and tubs of freshly caught fish from the Spear shouted their prices and haggled with customers. Even little girls squealed with delight as they played some sort of jumping game.
The only ones who were silent were those bearing an identical mark around their necks, a black chain.
The slaves, the Beggar realized.
People in Calypso often talked about the plight of the red-skinned Teran slaves, but until seeing them in the flesh, he’d never really thought about it. They moved silently throughout the city, performing various tasks, rarely speaking unless they were issued a command, in which case they would respond Yes, Master.
“They’re like me,” he said aloud. A slave to their marks. Half-dead already.
“No,” Bane said, shaking his head. “You have power, they have nothing.”
The Beggar had never thought of his tattooya as a mark of power. Only as a curse.
Bane led him through the heart of the bustling warcity, ignoring the vendors as they shouted offers at them. Twice the Beggar was bumped into by passersby in the crowd, but both times he was careful not to let any of his skin make direct contact with their skin. Still, he felt a jolt of fear each time.
After the second time, Bane squinted at him and said, “You fear your power? Truly?”
There was only one answer, although giving it to his only friend made him feel ashamed. “Yes.” Heat rose to his cheeks.
“You need not be embarrassed. I fear mine, too.” And then Bane turned away and continued through the crowd, cutting a zigzagging course.
The Beggar was surprised. Ever since he’d come into contact with the boy, Bane had acted so decisively. Without fear. If he really feared his own power, he hid it well.
Tripping over his own feet, he stumbled to catch up to his friend before he lost him in the crowd. However, when the Beggar emerged from a thick patch of people, he found Bane standing alone, without a small gate set in a tall, curving wall that surrounded the city.
The Beggar reached his side and followed his gaze to a wall ten times larger than the one protecting Sousa, so vast that it might have been a mountain had it not been constructed of enormous stone blocks.
The Southron Gates. Everyone in Calypso knew of them, but few had seen them. Unless you were Phanecian, going anywhere near the famed Gates would generally get you killed. And yet here they were, a northerner and a Calypsian, standing within marching distance of the gateway to the west.
The Beggar turned back to look through the entrance into the city, watching the soldiers marching hither and thither. “Is that the army you want me to infect?” he asked.
Bane didn’t answer for a long time, peering at the wall under the shade provided by his cupped hand. “Stay here,” he said. “Consider what you want to do. You are no slave and I am not your master. I am your brother, your friend. Yes, this is Vin Hoza’s army, and they reap death everywhere they go.”
“But if I infect them, won’t everyone in the city die? The plague spreads like wildfire, and the Phanecians are ill-equipped to quarantine those who fall ill.”
“Many must die before we can have peace,” was Bane’s only response. And then he vanished.
Bane didn’t return for three long days. The Beggar spent them staring at the people in Sousa, studying them. He watched horrors being committed—a slave beaten to within an inch of his life simply because he didn’t complete a task fast enough. And yet he also saw great love exhibited—a little girl, the daughter of one of the soldiers, giving her father a flower. He swung her around and around as she laughed.
Many must die before we can have peace.
Was Bane right? Would infecting this slave city offer peace to the Four Kingdoms? Is that my true purpose, the reason I was given this cursed tattooya by the gods or whomever?
The more the Beggar watched the Sousians, the more confused he became, the more torn in half.
When Bane finally returned, looking troubled and weary, the Beggar said, “I have made no decision.”
“You will,” Bane said. “You will.”
Thirty
The Southern Empire, the Red Rocks east of the Bloody Canyons
Jai Jiroux
The day was garbed in sunshine, a seamless cape of light pulled tight across the harsh barren landscape of shattered earth and broken rocks that dotted the terrain behind them. Off in the distance, Jai could just make out the enormous rotting carcass of what remained of the red pyzon—mostly its head, the only part that was unable to slither back underground. Vulzures were already circling, diving and ripping off hunks of its flesh.
We made it, Jai thought, shifting forward to gaze at the red rock spires ahead.
He was reclining on a makeshift gurney constructed from the wood of a gnarled old thatchwhistle, which was known to be a strong and sturdy desert tree, despite its small stature. It was tied at the corners with rope harvested from the skin of the red pyzon, which upon the snake’s death had lost its potency. Support branches ran along the bottom, also tied with the knotted ribbons of skin. For comfort, the skin beneath the pyzon’s armor-like scales had been cut and layered. It was on this bed of drying skin that Jai now lounged.
Of all people it was Axa who carried him, gripping the front of the hammock with two hands. For the moment his dusty old mirror was tucked somewhere in the folds of his sackcloth skirt. When it was time to depart, he’d stepped forward silently and picked up the gurney before anyone else could. Shanti had offered her horse to two people injured in the battle with the red pyzon, and now carried the opposite end, watching Jai upside down.
Everything hurt. Jai was bruised and scratched, like he’d been in a Phanecian street fight with a couple of thugs and a cat. His muscles screamed with each jostle of the gurney, his bones seeming to rattle in their joints. But that wasn’t the worst of it, not by a desert league. No, the worst was the inferno smoldering just beneath his skin, a result of the copious amounts of pyzon slime he’d come into contact with.
The first moments after the pyzon had exploded were still a blur, like a waking nightmare. The stars and moons above. Dozens of his people hovering over him, anxious to help but not knowing how. Sonika taking charge, as usual, ordering fresh water to be pooled together. Shanti, dipping scraps of cloth in the water and washing him. Her touch so gentle, and yet the equivalent of knives piercing every pore in his skin. He’d screamed and had to be held down, but she never faltered, going about the work until it was complete.
For a few blessed moments, he’d felt relief as a light desert breeze cooled his skin.
And then the fires began again.
Still, he was alive, and that was more than scores of his people could say. The final count was determined to be ninety-six souls lost, including two of the Black Tears, and over two-hundred injured. Jai wasn’t the only one seriously hurt; a number of other gurneys were being carried by the others, and all of the surviving Tears had given up their steeds for those in greater need.
“You owe me a story,” Shanti said, her head bobbing over him with each stride she took. Her bare shoulders and arms were sweaty with exertion, her muscles taut against the inside of her skin. In the daylight, he could clearly see the bands of silver ringing her otherwise blue eyes.
“I’ve got a good one,” he said. “It’s about how an ordinary man slew a red pyzon a hundred times his size.” He grimaced as the gurney bounced, his entire body screaming at him.
“I’ve heard that one,” Shanti said. “But I did have one question: How did you know the fireroot would ignite inside the snake’s belly?”
“I didn’t,” Jai admitted. “But once in Phanea I saw a group of a hundred hunters who had slain a red. They carried it into the city, parading it through the streets. They cut it open in front of everyone. And when they did, smoke poured out. The inside of the snake’s belly was ringed in fire.”
Shanti frowned. “I’ve never heard that before, and I’m usually an expert on anything to do with fire and smoke.”
“I’m just glad it worked.”
“You risked your life on a theory.”
“You make it sound so brave.”
“It was brave. The bravest thing I ever saw.”
Jai shook his head, although he immediately wished he hadn’t as pain ripped through him at the movement. “It was a foolish thing to do.”
“Perhaps,” Shanti agreed. “But it still took courage.”
“I have a long way to go before I slay any dragons.”
“The red was close enough,” Shanti said, smiling.
“Will it regrow?” There were legends about the giant snakes’ ability to survive even when chopped in two pieces.
“No one really knows,” Shanti said. “But I suspect it will. It is said they must be burned to ash before they are truly dead. In any case, it won’t bother us for a while. Though it was a shame we had to leave all that fresh meat. I’ve heard the flesh of the red is as sweet as crabmeat.”
Jai didn’t want to admit that it was, because he’d tasted it once, at a feast thrown by Emperor Hoza. “We didn’t have time to linger.”
Shanti nodded. Tall spires of red rock appeared on either side of her as they entered the elevated lands to the east of the Bloody Canyons. She gritted her teeth under the strain of the first incline. Jai knew it was only going to get steeper.
“You’re not planning to carry me all the way to the Gates, are you?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I’ll go as far as I can.” For some reason her statement felt like an oath.
