by David Estes
“Whisper, I—”
“Don’t apologize. Don’t you dare apologize.”
Raven closed her mouth, standing. She parted her lips once more. “I won’t apologize. I have a duty to protect our people, our lands.”
“What about me?”
“Yes. You too.”
“Then don’t leave me.”
“It is tradition that—”
“The empress rides to war with the Calypsian army,” Whisper finished, wiping the tear tracks from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I know. I was tutored by the same scholars as you, sister.” She spat the last word. Raven had never seen such ferocity in her youngest sibling. Then again, she was a Sandes, an heir to the dragon throne, so it was inevitable it would eventually come out.
“What would you have me do?”
“Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Then call off the war. Then no one has to go. We can wait and see what happens. Let the other kingdoms destroy each other. That was what Fire wanted, wasn’t it? That was her big plan?”
“Only partly,” Raven said. “Once our enemies were weak, Fire wanted to march on them. She wanted to go to war. Before the battle in which she…she called herself a weapon. She said that was her only purpose in life.”
“But you’re different. You’re not like Fire.”
Once Raven would have agreed with her sister. But now…she wasn’t as certain. Sometimes she felt like she could summon fire at will, as if flames lived in her veins the same way they had in Fire’s. “No, I’m not Fire. But I am the empress now. And I will not sit on the dragon throne while the guanero ride to war.”
“Then I challenge you for the throne,” Whisper said, defiantly.
“Whisper, it’s too late for that.”
Whisper backed up a step, the curtains swirling around her, the Calypsian sigil shifting over her head. “I hate you,” she said, her mouth a snarl. And then she slipped between the curtains, vanishing like a stone dropped in a dark pool.
Raven sighed and slumped back into the throne. She banged her head on one of the dragon’s teeth that roared from the back of the royal seat, but she didn’t have the energy to rub the spot, which was now throbbing fiercely.
You can hate me, she thought. But I will protect you until death, just as Fire did.
Forty-Seven
The Southern Empire, Phanes, Phanea
Bane Gäric
One month later
As he watched Emperor Hoza sleep, Bane considered whether to kill him.
Vin Hoza seemed so peaceful, his diamond-studded skin sparkling in the candlelight, as if violence was a cloak he pulled on when he awoke each day, not a part of the man himself. Bane almost laughed at the absurd thought, but managed to stop himself.
In the end, the Beggar had been wrong. Taking one’s own life was never the answer—Bane now knew that better than anyone. Though the hooded man hadn’t spoken much, at least he was a companion. A friend. Unfortunately, however, the one marked with the plague had tried to take his own life before carrying out the mission Bane had given him.
Though he hadn’t been tired, Bane had rested with his friend for a long month, nursing him back to health. A month wasted, although it didn’t seem that way. Another month without peace. His mark had left him alone, and for a while he’d wondered whether the prophecy was done with him.
He’d wondered whether he’d failed his creator, the one Bear Blackboots called the Western Oracle.
During this time, Bane, like his friend, had once contemplated suicide, but that was a distant memory now, as fuzzy as the snowfields of the north. No, he was once more determined to fight for peace to the very end.
I should kill Hoza in the name of peace, Bane thought. Now that Empress Fire Sandes was dead—he could feel her death in the very marrow of his bones—three more true monarchs had to die, one way or another. It was the only way there would be peace.
And yet two had already died in the south. Only two rulers in each of the Four Kingdoms were supposed to die. The south was finished. He should be going elsewhere, targeting a ruler in one of the other realms.
But he wanted this so badly…
Needed it like water on the lips of a man dying of thirst in the desert.
Bane raised his knife over the slumbering man’s head, the blade hanging in the air like a trembling icicle. Why am I hesitating?
He knew the reason. The Beggar hadn’t killed. Well, he had killed, in the past, but after meeting Bane he tried only to take his own life. Why? Bane wondered. If someone born with a mark meant to kill, like his, was able to resist his very nature, should he do the same?
The answer came in the form of a growl in the dark, from his own throat. “No. I am Death.”
Hoza’s eyes flew open at the sound, his lips opening to utter his command, to make Bane his slave.
But he never got the words out, never uttered a single syllable, his windpipe severed in half by Bane’s knife. Bane wrenched the blade out, cleaned it on Hoza’s bare stomach, and then slipped it back in its sheath.
Six, he thought. His father, the Dread King of the North, King Wolfric Gäric. King Gill Loren, his uncle. King Oren Ironclad, Juggernaut of the east. Empress Sun Sandes, the dragoness. Empress Fire Sandes, the firemarked. And Emperor Vin Hoza, the Slave King. Six steps closer to peace in the Four Kingdoms. Two to go.
He felt a fire on his scalp as another section was filled in. Strange. He hadn’t expected it to do that when he’d killed three southern rulers. The fire continued, growing, different than usual.
Surprised, he moved quickly over to where a tall, thin, looking glass rested against one wall. He dipped his head so he could see his own scalp.
How? he wondered. For there, on his skin, his mark had changed, grown. The circle was larger now, and split by five arrows rather than four, creating ten sections. Two more than before. Six were filled in. Four remained. Four.
How is this possible? Bane wasn’t certain how to feel, but the overwhelming emotion that coursed through him was, to his horror, excitement. He’d thought he was getting close to fulfilling the prophecy, but he wasn’t. There was still much work to do. He was still needed.
And there were so many monarchs left to choose from, warmongering rulers who deserved to die. Who is the most deserving? Bane wondered. Queen Rhea Loren had wiped out the northern army using a sea monster. But was she really the queen? Her brother, the Peacemaker, Roan Loren, was older than she, the lawful heir to the western throne. And what of the north? The Dread King’s brother had fallen, but now there was word that his niece—my sister, Bane reminded himself—Queen Annise Gäric was traveling to the Hinterlands to regroup. I should’ve killed her when I had the chance… And then there was the heir to the east, Gareth Ironclad. He may have handed the ore-throne to his brother, but he was still a threat. In the south another Sandes might have to die; there was talk that Empress Raven Sandes was considering an attack on the east. Or, Bane thought, I could just stay here, in Phanes, and kill the Slave King’s heir, Falcon Hoza, who will soon learn that he’s the new emperor.
Would his mark grow even larger with more sections if he did that? The thought excited him. No, thrilled him.
Decisions. Options. There’s no hurry. I have time. And I must rest after my latest kill.
After all, the Four Kingdoms had waited more than a hundred years for peace. They could wait a little longer.
Suddenly exhausted, satisfied that his work there was done, Bane reached down and picked up the dead brown pyzon, which he’d killed when he first arrived in Hoza’s bedroom. Gently, quietly, he placed it on the bed next to the dead emperor, letting the snake’s blood mix with Hoza’s.
All across Phanes, slaves startled awake, rubbing their eyes.
Though they’d only been sleeping a few hours, it felt as if they were waking up from a decades-long sleep.
One by one they realized:
I am free.
Some wept.
Some screamed at the top of their lungs.
Some laughed, like it had all been a bad dream.
But Jai Jiroux did none of those things. When he awoke in Garadia, chained to the wall next to the hordes of rejoicing slaves, he felt only horror at having led most of his people to their deaths just before they would’ve been free.
Forty-Eight
Unknown location
Chavos (previously known as the Beggar)
Unknown time later
I am Chavos.
He sat up quickly, half-blind, his mind spinning. Where had those words come from? Who had spoken? No, no, no.
Instinctively, his hands probed his stomach, exploring the rough stitches where he’d plunged the knife into his abdomen. He winced at the pain—the wound was still tender.
I am Chavos. That voice again. It is my own, he realized, but from the past.
“I am the Beggar,” he said, but that wasn’t right either. The fact that he could speak wasn’t right. The fact that he could feel his heart beating in his chest, hear his ragged breaths slipping between his lips, wasn’t right. He was supposed to be dead.
“Hello Chavos,” a voice said from nearby.
He twisted his head to the side too fast, his head pounding. “Who’s there?”
“Your friend. Your brother.” That familiar voice.
“Bane.” Though he spoke the word like a curse, he felt relieved. He wasn’t dead, but maybe there was a reason for that.
Maybe this was a second chance.
“You made a mistake,” Bane said.
Chavos knew he needed to lie. “Perhaps I did.”
“There’s work to be done still.”
“Yes. There is.”
Chavos lay back down, his pulse racing. One of them was going to die, that much was certain. And it wouldn’t be him.
Forty-Nine
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Roan Loren
One month after Gareth Ironclad’s suicide attempt
Roan was finally leaving Knight’s End. The delay was a strategic one, as Rhea had received word of some unrest in the south. Something about a slave revolt and an attack on the Southron Gates by the Calypsians. It was better to be patient, she had counselled.
Not that Roan had any say in the matter. He’d been locked in a room since Gareth’s suicide attempt. It was a nice room, but that didn’t change the fact that it was a prison. He hadn’t been allowed to see Gareth, Gwen, or even his younger siblings, Bea and Leo, though he’d requested visits on multiple occasions. Rhea sometimes came to see him, but only to remind him that if he didn’t obey her that Gwen would be hurt, killed if necessary. She never threatened Gareth; no, he was far too valuable.
Roan had given up on trying to understand his sister. Obviously bad things had happened to her, but he didn’t know which tragedy had turned her into this cruel creature she’d become. The death of her father perhaps. Or maybe it was seeing the palace littered with bodies after Bane’s murderous rampage. Or it could’ve been the murder of her eldest cousin, Jove, just after he’d become king. One of the guards had told him that Rhea had witnessed it. A trail of blood seemed to follow his sister. Roan wished there was something he could say to bring her back, to convince her this path she was on was wrong. Unless, of course, she was always this girl. That was a possibility, too, though he hoped not.
Roan blinked away his thoughts, refocusing on his one opportunity to see a friend before he departed the west. The dungeons were dark and moist. Trailing Rhea’s long white purity dress, Roan’s footsteps echoed in the stone corridor. They passed several cells on the left. In each was a prisoner; although, hunched and cowering in the corners, they hardly looked human anymore. In one cell there were two curled up forms, so small they might’ve been children.
Roan felt sick. Would he find Gwen in a similar condition? He wished he’d never come to Knight’s End, wished he’d never left Calypso. If this is my fate, if this is what it means to be the Peacemaker, I don’t want it.
Rhea stopped at the next cell. A voice said, “What in Orion’s name do you want?” and Roan’s heart leapt in his chest. He rushed the last few steps and looked between the bars. “Roan?”
Her silver hair was knotted and greasy, hanging in limp vines. Her face was smudged and dirty, her form-fitting armor dull and in need of a good polish. But, unlike the other prisoners, she was still standing, still strong, her golden eyes alight with a mixture of anger and surprise.
“Gwen,” Roan breathed. “I’m so sorry.” He’d been wanting—no, needing—to say that to her for weeks.
“No one forced me to come with you,” she said. “I wanted answers, too.”
“But I trusted my sister. I fell into her trap.”
Rhea laughed, but they both ignored her.
Gwen said, “It’s not your fault. We didn’t stick to the plan either. Yes, we came to the meeting place at dusk, but when you didn’t appear, we caused a scene. We banged on the doors. We shouted.”
Roan didn’t know that. He’d wondered how they’d been caught so quickly. He’d always just assumed it was his fault. Regardless, none of them would’ve been there if not for him. But there were worse things still to talk about. “Did you hear about Gareth?”
Gwen nodded. “She told me.”
Roan glanced at Rhea, who smiled cruelly. “As Gareth’s friend, I thought she should know.”
“She came to hurt me with her words,” Gwen said. “She said you saved him though.”
Roan shook his head. “It wasn’t me. It was my mark.”
“Same thing.”
He shook his head harder.
Gwen said, “Don’t start doing this again, feeling sorry for yourself. You don’t get to do that, not while I’m stuck in here.”
“I’m getting you out.”
“I don’t want you to get me out. I don’t want you to save me.”
Her words shocked him. He moved forward, gripping the bars. “Don’t say that.”
She took a step forward, but remained far enough away that he couldn’t touch her. Her voice softened, and yet took on a stinging quality. “Roan, I will never love you like that. So you should stop loving me. Gareth, too. He only loves what he can’t have, it has always been his way.”
Roan blinked rapidly. “I won’t.” He wasn’t certain who he meant, Gareth or Gwen.
“Then you’re a fool.”
He knew what she was doing—trying to push him away so he wouldn’t do what Rhea wanted. So he would escape the first chance he had, disappear and never return to Knight’s End. Right? Or was there truth to what she said? He’d seen her demons; he knew they haunted her. Perhaps they wouldn’t let her love, not ever again. Or maybe she could just never love him as more than a friend. Perhaps Alastair had taken her heart when he died, all those years ago.
Sadness washed over him as he realized: I never even got to kiss her the way I wanted to.
“Enough,” Rhea snapped. “Reunion over. Time to leave.”
“Wait,” Gwen said.
“No one tells me to—”
“Just let her speak!” Roan said. Rhea flinched, surprised by the outburst. Despite everything she’d done to him, Roan had never let his anger take control around her.
Rhea said, “Very well. Say what you have to. It’s the last thing you’ll say to him for a very long time.”
Gwen took another step forward, but was still out of reach. “Leave the west and never return,” she said.
When Roan finally looked back, Knight’s End was a smudge of gold on the horizon. They’d ridden hard for a long time, and he’d trained his gaze forward until now. He didn’t want to think about who he was leaving behind.
He was surrounded by red-clad furia, who would escort him as far as the Snake River. He wasn’t certain whether they were there to protect him or guard him. He didn’t care either way.
Gwen’s words kept coming back to him, how she would never love him the way he loved her. That G
areth didn’t really love him either.
He didn’t think of her words because they hurt. No. Quite the opposite. The more he listened to them playing over and over in his mind, the more he could hear the truth written in them. Or, more correctly, the opposite of the truth. Gwen was lying. Though she’d tried to mask it with harshness, it was there, as obvious as sunlight reflecting on a pool of water.
She already loves me. I know it. Gareth too.
At least that’s what he kept telling himself, over and over. It’s what he needed to hear. He spurred his horse on faster, determination coursing through his blood. He would travel to Calyp, to Citadel. And if the Western Oracle or her son, Bear Blackboots, were there, he would find them. And yes, he would bring them back to Knight’s End. But not in chains. No, they would come with sword and spear and marks of power.
He would save Gareth. He would save Gwen.
Nothing will stop me, because it’s my destiny.
Fifty
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
Rhea tugged her purity dress over her head. For the first time in her life, she was glad to wear it. The dress’s bagginess was coming in handy for her current situation.
She tossed the dress on her bed, her hands automatically coming down to rest on her belly, which was a lot rounder than it had been even a few weeks ago. Her small breasts had grown, too, ample bulges on her chest that reminded her of her old nursemaid, Selma. The nausea came and went, and was usually the worst in the morning. Food helped a little, when she found time to eat.
Rhea rubbed her fingers against her smooth, pale skin, as if trying to feel the life growing inside her. My child, she thought, her mind going back to that night with Grey Arris. A night that had changed everything, in more ways than she’d realized at the time.
