by David Estes
Here, a long, silky red dress that would sweep the ground behind a woman’s step. There, a desert fruit called himsu, with its crimson flesh, as bright as a lit coal.
Red had been her favorite color, though most wouldn’t have known it. Like all the other women of Knight’s End, Queen Cecilia Thorne Loren had worn white, the color of purity, when in public. But in private…
That’s when she’d always taken his breath away.
Leaving Cecilia in Knight’s End had been the hardest thing Markin Swansea had ever had to do. And yet, it was for the best. He’d loved her, a woman he could never have had, never have touched, not the way he wanted to. When she was a child, his love for her was brotherly, but as she grew into a woman flowered…everything changed.
So when she had dragged him aside, into her private quarters, and asked him her desperate question—Will you save my son?—what choice did he have but to agree?
He’d taken the prince—Roan, the true heir to the western throne—to Calypso, a place he’d fled from as a child, a place that had recently become friendly to Dreadnoughters due to the southern civil war.
That was eight years ago, a lifetime. An eternity, when spent away from Cecilia.
Worse, five years ago he’d received the most awful news of his life:
Cecilia was dead, having taken her own life in public, shoving a knife through her own skin.
And five long years later he was still seeing red everywhere he went, her words eternally painted in blood on the edge of his vision.
Protect him with your life. Do whatever it takes to keep his secrets. Do not let him use the power of his mark. Not ever. Promise me.
I promise, Markin thought now, for the thousandth time, tossing provisions into his satchel, barely glancing at the merchant as he handed over the required number of silver dragons. The merchant, a balding dark-skinned man with a tendency to overcharge, gave him a strange look and shook his head. Though the Calypsians in this part of the city were used to seeing his Dreadnoughter features—grizzled, gray skin, and broad, flat forehead—they were never friendly to him, especially because he refused to haggle with them. And yet, they took his money at the markets, and paid top coin for the boots he made, which were considered the finest in the city. In the end, coin made up for all differences amongst people.
Markin hustled to the next stall, feeling anxious all of a sudden, and not just because of his thoughts of Cecilia. He’d left Roan home alone, something he was loath to do, despite the boy having reached his tenth name day. The lad seemed responsible enough, but from experience, Markin knew that bad things happened every day.
Protect him…keep his secrets…
He didn’t yet have everything he’d come to the markets for, but he didn’t care. Sweat ran down his back, beneath his thick, sun-protecting cloak. Too many people were blocking his way, their dark skin shining with noonday light. He stood taller and broader of shoulder than most of them, as did most who originated from the string of ancient islands known as the Dreadnoughts.
Using a meaty fist like a battering ram, he pushed through the crowds, ignoring the hissed protests from those shoved aside like children. Why did I come to the markets at the busiest time of day? he chided himself, skirting a cart pulled by a three-legged guanik, its reptilian scales reflecting sunlight. It snapped at him, its long pink tongue flicking between sharp teeth, but he barely noticed, such was his focus on escaping the throng.
More curses, more dark glances from the surrounding crowd…
And then he was free, launching himself into a run, his strides long and thumping. Dreadnoughters weren’t exactly known for their speed and agility, but Markin was determined to arrive back at his dwelling in as little time as possible. People stared at him as he pounded down the dusty streets, cutting a corner so sharply he scraped sandstone from a building with his thick shoulder.
The whole time he ran he told himself he was being a paranoid fool.
Until he emerged into the broad dustbowl that neighbored his residence and saw a scene that scared him more than anything, the fear of which would keep him up for countless nights after.
He slammed to a stop…so shocked he couldn’t move for several moments.
Roan was in the yard with the other children, his sun-kissed skin glowing, actually resonating white light, vapors streaming off of him. The young boy was kneeling beside one of the neighborhood girls, a dark-skinned beauty who was known to regularly best the Calypsian boys in sport, despite being somewhat smaller. There was something wrong with her leg, which was bent the wrong way, the apparent result of an accident while playing.
As Markin stood, dumbfounded, the white vapors streamed from Roan’s chest into the girl’s leg, and her bones snapped back into place with an audible crunch. She and another boy stared at Roan with a look of awe.
No.
Protect him…Keep his secrets…Do not let him use his mark. Not ever.
Life flowed back into Markin’s limbs and he finally moved, hurrying toward the trio, scanning the rest of the field for witnesses. None of the other kids seemed to have noticed what had transpired, chasing the leather sack that was the subject of their game. Around the perimeter there were few adults, and none showed any interest in the game, immersed in quiet conversation as was their way.
Perhaps we got lucky, Markin thought.
Roan reached forward to touch the girl’s face, perhaps to wipe her hair away from her eyes, but Markin was quicker, grabbing his arm and holding him back. The boy’s eyes widened when he saw his guardian—he knew he was in trouble. For years Markin had counselled the boy on the dangers of using his healing powers, both for him and for those he tried to help.
In the end, the boy couldn’t help himself, something Markin secretly respected, though he couldn’t show it now, not if he was to keep his promise to Cecilia.
Roan tried to utter an apology, but Markin had already hauled him to his feet and pushed him toward their dwelling, ordering the two Calypsian children to follow. So shocked were the children by the entire sequence of events that they didn’t argue, trailing behind obediently.
Inside, Markin dragged Roan up the stairs to his room on the second floor, locking him inside, ignoring his shouted protests.
Down below, the girl found her tongue. “My leg was broken, I felt it,” she said.
“You were mistaken,” Markin said.
She shook her head. “It was bent the wrong way,” she said insistently. “He did something. He was glowing.” The boy beside her was silent, but he nodded in agreement.
“Your fall wasn’t as bad as you thought,” Markin said.
She started to protest again, but Markin strode toward her, his hands curling into fists. This near, he towered over her, his shadow covering both children in darkness. She closed her mouth, but didn’t retreat, while the boy took a step backward.
“You were mistaken,” Markin said again.
The girl chewed her lip, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes that were either fearless or disguised her fear well. She was a bold one, this girl. “What’s my mistake worth?” she asked.
Ahh, the language of the Calypsians, Markin mused. Negotiation. The dark-skinned people seemed to live for it. Paying a copper dragon less for a bowl of mushki seemed a greater reward to them than the meal itself. Markin had never understood this mentality. In the Dreadnoughts, the value of something was the value. Everyone paid the same. Prices changed, yes, but uniformly. There was no arguing the price set by a merchant. Here, in Calyp, the price one haggler paid could be different from the next. Markin hated this, refusing to take part, which usually meant he overpaid by almost double in many cases.
But now he had no choice but to bargain with this girl.
“One golden dragon,” he said.
Though the girl tried to hide it, her eyes widened slightly before narrowing once again. I’ve started too high, Markin realized. A foolish mistake by a novice negotiator. “Six golden dragons,” the girl counter
ed, hands on hips. It was an astronomical price, one that could almost purchase a guanik.
Markin laughed like she’d just said the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. And yet, if it came down to it, he would pay double that for her silence. Triple even, all that he had.
“One golden and one silver,” he said.
Now it was her turn to laugh, although he knew her stomach must’ve been doing backflips. There was no way this girl had ever even touched a golden dragon, much less owned one. To her credit, however, she covered her excitement like a professional. Her parents had trained her well. “Three goldens. Not a copper less.”
“You are a shrewd haggler,” Markin said, attempting to play to her childish bravado.
“Give me the dragons and prove it,” she said.
The boy finally found his confidence, taking a half-step forward. “What about me?”
“You will share the price with your friend.”
“No deal,” the girl said. The boy nodded in agreement. “Whatever we agree for me, you will pay him too.”
Markin thought on it for a moment. The agreed price would remove a good deal of the coin he had saved over the last year, but there was nothing for it. He nodded. “Agreed. But you will never speak of what you saw today. You will take your winnings to your family, and you will tell them to move to another city, as far away from Calypso as possible. You will tell them that if you don’t move, you will have to give the dragons back. That is the deal.”
“Three dragons each?” the girl confirmed. She was absently rubbing her palms together, as if she could already feel the heat of the coins against her skin.
I have her. “Three golden dragons each.”
“What if our parents won’t leave the city?”
“Then I come for you all.” He rose to his full height, drawing a knife from his hip scabbard. It was a leather knife, used for cutting the raw materials used to make boots, not particularly dangerous, but they didn’t know that. Violence was not in Markin’s nature, but he forced as much venom into his voice as possible, shaping the threat one word at a time. “I will kill you.”
It was not what the girl had expected, her mouth falling open slightly. The boy was already halfway out the door, willing to abandon the dragons. The girl, however, was as tough as they came. She stuck out her hand. “I will convince my family to leave Calypso forever.” She gestured to the boy. “He is my brother. We will both leave.”
Markin moved to a chest in the corner, using a small key to unlock it. He counted out their dragons, letting each coin drop into his palm with a clink. Then he shoved them into the girl’s hand and growled at her. All courage gone, she screamed and raced through the door, tight on the boy’s heels.
Markin’s legs felt like rubber as he sank into a crouch. Too close. If more people had seen what Roan had done, there would’ve been no covering it up. Word would spread like wildfire. The empress would come for the boy eventually. From there, the news would reach all corners of the Four Kingdoms, including Knight’s End, and everyone would know the long-lost prince of the west had been found in the south. And then the western king’s honor and righteousness would be questioned.
The Loren line would fall, after hundreds of years of rule.
“Cecilia,” Markin whispered. “I won’t fail you.”
Markin pushed back to his feet, lighting a fire in the center pit, feeding it with kindling and then larger logs. He wanted the blaze to be as hot as possible for what he needed to do.
Next he went to the cold chest and extracted the two lambs he’d been saving for a special occasion. He hated to waste the meat, but this was an emergency. He gently placed both small lambs into the fire. Smoke roiled around the meat, escaping through a long chute built into the roof. Soon the meat was charred, bubbling and melting away. The bones cracked, blackened around the edges. Slowly, slowly, the fire burned itself out; Markin watched it the entire time, his eyes stinging.
Step by step, he climbed to the second floor. Before opening the door, he forced anger onto his face, when in reality all he felt was utter exhaustion.
Roan pushed his long blond locks away from his eyes when the door opened.
“This is what your disobedience has done,” Markin said, snapping each word. Spitting them out like a bad taste. He needed it to be believable. He needed to scare the boy into never using his mark again.
The boy sniffed. He could smell the burned meat now. He pushed past Markin and ran down the steps, skidding to a stop just before the fire pit, which was all ash and smoke now. And two sets of bones. Small bones.
It broke Markin’s heart when he heard the despair in the boy’s voice. “No.” He backed away rapidly, too horrified to inspect the bones closer, something Markin had counted on. Roan’s stomach heaved and he threw up, collapsing to the ground. “You killed them,” he breathed.
Markin wanted to comfort the lad, to tell him the truth, to show him he wasn’t a murderer. But that would only encourage the boy to use his powers again, and then all would be lost. He needed to think the consequences of his actions were deadly.
“Death is but a change in existence, like rain turning to ice in the north or evaporating to mist in the south.”
“You’re a monster.”
The words were stabs in his chest. Let him think me a monster, he thought. It will save him in the end. It is worth it. He knelt next to Roan, pushing his lips close to the boy’s ear. “Maybe so. But I will do what I must to protect you. Using your power is dangerous for everyone. You are too important to risk.”
As the boy wept, Markin scooped him up in his strong arms and carried him back upstairs. Not too gently, he rolled him onto his bed. Then he left, closing the door but not locking it. The boy wouldn’t leave his room, not tonight.
For a moment, he stood outside the room, his hands shaking. His back against the door, he slid to the floor, sobbing. Too hard. This is too hard.
“I hate you,” he heard Roan whisper through the door.
At some point, Markin finally drifted to sleep, but only a few hours passed before something awoke him. A feeling, like the one he’d had in the markets. A pit in his stomach, filled with icy dread.
They told someone, he thought. I’ve been backstabbed by a couple of children.
But when he peeked outside, there was no crowd gathered, no commotion. In fact, everything was utterly still and silent. He frowned and ducked back inside.
Check on Roan—that was the first thing. He had to make certain the boy kept up his strength, continuing to eat. He mounted the steps, each feeling like an individual mountain to climb. After what seemed an eternity, he made it to the top and quietly pushed open the door.
His heart skipped a beat, and then began pounding twice as fast. The bed was empty, the boy’s things gone. By the gods, no, Markin thought as he rushed down the steps and back outside, scanning the streets for movement.
Nothing.
Nothing.
The boy was gone.
Four years later
He never stopped searching for Roan. Though it made sense that the boy would leave Calypso, hiding somewhere else, Markin had a feeling he hadn’t.
And so, day by day, he searched the city, one block at a time. Asking questions, paying far too much coin for information that usually turned out to be false or old, following leads that always seemed to come to a dead end…
He was old and tired and frustrated. But still he searched, because of the promise he’d made to Cecilia.
The good news was that if he couldn’t find Roan, it was unlikely anyone else had discovered his presence either. Apparently, the boy—he’s fourteen now, Markin reminded himself, almost a man grown—was exceptionally adept at hiding and surviving. And no information about a tattooya-bearing westerner had surfaced in the city gossip circles, so that was something. The children he’d paid the six dragons to had disappeared, along with their families. No one seemed to know where they’d gone, though some speculated they’d gone furth
er south to live with relatives.
Now, it was dark, the brazen southern sun long having sunk beneath the burnt horizon. One more street, Markin thought, choosing a narrow alley known as a resting place for many of the street dwellers. He tiptoed along, earning grunts and muttered curses as he peeked under threadbare blankets and inside tattered canvas tents.
He reached the end of the alley, where a sandstone wall blocked further progress. He sighed. Another lost day. Another failure. Another broken promise.
He tried not to dwell on it—the hot sun would rise again on the morrow.
Shadows fell over him, long and narrow like spears. He whirled around, but was too slow, a hammer crashing into the side of his head, sending stars spinning and flashing across his vision. Still, his sheer size allowed him to maintain his balance as he clutched his skull. The next attack came a moment later, but this time he managed to duck, flipping the foe over his back. The man landed with a thud and a grunt. Markin had the presence of mind to draw his leather knife, the very same blade he’d once threatened those children with, what seemed like an eternity ago.
But Markin was no fighter, and the next attacker easily disarmed him, turning his own knife against him.
Markin was weary. Not just from the fight, but from life, from his endless search for Roan, from the weight of Cecilia’s death, from the sheer effort of trying to keep his promise to her.
“Here,” he said, rummaging through the pockets of his cloak and tossing out their contents—dozens of silver, bronze, and copper dragons tinkled to the ground, rolling and spinning. “Take everything I have.”
That’s when he realized the thieves’ faces were uncovered by scarf or mask. Though it was dark, he could identify all three of them to the shiva, the city peacekeeper, in a pinch. He nodded, resignation setting in. This was the end.
Roan was on his own now—he had been for a while. “Protect yourself, son,” he whispered. “Live the life you were meant to live.”
He fell to his knees and stopped fighting.
