by J. E. Klimov
After a prolonged silence, Isabel jumped in place. “Oh, pardon my manners. This is Raiden. He’s our royal advisor.” The term was still novel to her. A cold sweat built beneath her arms as a crowd formed.
Raiden swept his arm, addressing the baker from the left to the seamstress in the far right. “It’s a pleasure to meet some of the Deranian town folk. I will be working alongside Queen Isabel until King Dante has recovered.”
Releasing a nervous laugh, Isabel fidgeted with her fingers. Andre hopped past her and stared up at him.
“Are you nice?”
“Andre!” His father stomped his foot.
Chuckling, Raiden pointed at the tattoos running along his forearm. “Do my tattoos make me look scary?”
The boy nodded.
“That’s enough!” The father seized Andre by the shoulders and yanked him back.
Isabel waved her hand. “Sir, that will not be necessary. The boy may speak his mind.”
“That’s right.” Raiden’s voice rolled past her in a low purr. “The tattoos are just my family’s tradition. And I promise there will be no more yelling.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Isabel blushed as he winked at her. Andre squealed. Raiden’s words seemed to flip a switch with the villagers. Tension evaporated, and everyone continued their business. Some of the women curtsied at Raiden before scrambling away with hands against their cheeks. Even the plaza seemed to emit a warm glow.
“Wow, you’re quite the charmer.” Isabel unrolled her shoulders. “Or, is this some secret spell you cast?”
“Queen Isabel, you’ve shown significant knowledge about Healers, so you should know that ‘charm’ is not a power granted by bloodstones,” he replied, voice stern.
“You never know. I’ve already seen the impossible happen.” She snorted. “Anyway, I’m going to check in with the blacksmiths, then the masons. Do as you please until I return.”
She sped away from him, racking her brain for any other reasons to continue to withhold trust. At the other end of the plaza, she approached a shack with a metal roof. Peeking her head in, Isabel crinkled her nose at a cloud of soot. Two broad-shouldered men hammered away. Sparks flew when iron struck stone. One forged door handles and hinges, while the other attended to the flames.
When they noticed Isabel, they dropped everything and fell onto their knees.
“Er, thanks. You can stand.”
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” asked the closest blacksmith.
She scanned their workspace. Trinkets and house parts littered their uneven shelving. “I’m just checking in on your progress.”
“We’re finishing up various household supplies needed. Once that’s done, we can focus on the royal guard’s weaponry.”
“Good to hear. Although I admire your work, let’s hope the guards never need to use them!” She shuffled to the adjacent alley. It opened up into a circular dirt pit, filled to the brim with mined rock: limestone, granite, and marble.
A young man chipped away with a pickaxe, while an older man, presumably the father, etched on a checklist. When the older man noticed her, he tore off his cap and held it against his heart.
“Good day, sir.” Isabel combed her memory for a name, discouraged at the fact she couldn’t remember his name.
Smiling warmly, he snapped his fingers. The young lad stopped and lined up next to him. “My name is Martin, Your Majesty, and this is my son Leo.”
Relief washed over her. “It’s nice to see you again. I know I haven’t visited your family business as often as I should, but you’ve done fine work.”
“No worries, Queen Isabel. You’ve been through quite a lot in the last year,” Martin chuckled. “My family has been in this business since your great grandparents’ rule. We’ve built the foundations of homes for many years. We’re doing just fine, but we cherish your dedication to your people.” Creases multiplied on his forehead as he raised his brows. “How is the king?”
As Isabel’s lips parted, screams rang into the air. The checklist clattered onto the ground. Martin froze, but Leo grabbed his pickaxe. Isabel retreated to the central square, Leo trailing behind. Strain bubbled into knots in her muscles with each turn. The four stones in her armlet pulsed with heat, ready for action. A crowd had re-formed around the base of the fountain.
“Pull him here!” a man shouted.
“Splash some water on him!” a woman screeched.
Isabel collided into the wall of bodies. The pungent reek of sweat met her nose as she pushed forward. An elbow collided against the base of her skull, sending lights to erupt in her eyes. “Stop it!” she screamed.
Tuuli’s Opal glowed in her armlet, releasing a gale in every direction. People gasped as the force mowed over them. Isabel stumbled a few steps until she regained her balance. A small body lying on the ground fell into her line of vision. A man shoved past her and hovered over the boy, caressing his hair.
Her hand flew to her mouth. Andre. Collapsing onto her knees, she searched for signs of injury. “What happened?”
“I… don’t… know…” Andre’s father fought to speak between sobs. “My… son.”
When she faced the crowd, everyone glanced at one another. Their expressions were panicked, but they only shrugged. One woman with freckles that decorated her cheekbones raised her hand.
“Andre skipped off toward the north end of town after you left. We headed in that direction too, back to our house. Next thing we know, I see his body crumpled onto the ground like a piece of discarded parchment. My husband is the one who brought him back here.” she shrilled as she pointed a shaky finger at Andre. “He has some kind of… burn. So we thought water from the fountain would help.”
“He’s already dead!” the father snapped.
“Enough!” Isabel shouted. Tuuli’s Opal flashed again, and tendrils of concentrated wind whipped in a circle around her. She forced deep, controlled breaths to prevent Foti’s Ruby from activating. Flames already scorched within. She had spoken with Andre less than fifteen minutes ago. It was lunacy. “Let me see him.”
Beneath her commanding tone, her vocal cords tensed in fear. Tilting her head high, she brushed the father aside. She forced her hands to cease trembling as she examined Andre. He looked as if he were asleep, but a stench hit her like a punch to the nose. Studying him from the feet up, Isabel didn’t detect any signs of injury. His trousers were intact, and his arms had one lone scab. Her soaring relief plummeted into the depths of her bowels when she tilted his head to the other side. Melted skin clung to her fingertips.
She yanked her hand away and shook it. The entire layer of Andre’s skin was reduced to blood-soaked flesh and sinew. After the initial sting of shock passed, Isabel focused on a peculiar mark: four vertical lines, with a fifth line striking through them were burnt into his cheek.
Horror extinguished her anger. It stripped her confidence until her soul felt naked, exposing her to the wrath of winter. Her eyes remained fixated on the mark as people gasped and pointed. “It can’t be,” she whispered.
“The Aeonian mark!”
Isabel’s head snapped up at those words. Staring at Andre’s father, she shook her head. “That’s impossible,” she croaked.
“My son has been killed by an Aeonian?” His face flushed as red as the blood on her hands. “I thought you took care of them. All of them!”
Isabel shrunk back. Andre’s father’s eyes flared with an inhuman fury. Words took flight from her mouth. All she could do was take uneven breaths. Images of the last few months pieced together in her mind, each one more nightmarish than before. She recalled heaps of dead bodies, the collapse of Cehennem, and the charred body of Damian.
“Answer me!” Spit flew from his lips.
“The Aeonians are dead! I killed Damian and Echidna myself.” Isabel froze under the whites of hundreds of eyes.
Leo stepped forward. Pointing his pickaxe at Isabel, he said, “You may have killed the head of the snake, but how can you guarantee the
re aren’t any underlings in hiding, waiting to exact revenge?”
Gripping Andre’s body, Isabel swallowed the temptation to cry. She had to be strong. Strong for Andre. “That doesn’t even make sense. Even if one were to escape, why would he be so dumb to take down the entire kingdom alone?”
“So, it’s a he?” Malice flashed in Leo’s eyes.
“You are taking words from my mouth. Everyone, please!” She regarded the crowd once more, but frowns sealed everyone’s mouths.
“Silence!”
Raiden approached Isabel, hands folded behind his back. He squared his shoulders and rewarded every stare with a frosty scowl. When he knelt beside her, he examined Andre’s cheek.
Desperation clawed at her. “Tell me there’s something you can do.”
Shaking his head, Raiden placed a hand over her knee. “I assume my talents are out of the question.”
Isabel pursed her lips at his touch. Raiden already forgot his boundaries, but she didn’t have the strength to scold him. The stares from her people, especially Andre’s father, were like daggers digging into her back.
Removing his hand, Raiden continued. “Even if you are considering it, I’m not sure if my powers are that strong, like my infamous ancestors.” He lowered his voice. “Keep a strong face. As a figure of power, you cannot display weakness in the face of adversity.”
She stood, hands balled into fists by her side and faced the crowd. "Raiden and I will investigate the boy's death and bring justice for him and his family. In the meantime, people are not to jump to conclusions, and if you learn of anything that might further our investigation, I suggest you alert the palace guards." She forced a neutral expression and addressed Andre's father, ignoring his sobs. "I will use my own funds to ensure he receives a proper burial."
She stormed off, blocking out the gasps and chatter. Raiden rushed to her side. When they reached their horses, Isabel fiddled with the saddle.
“To satisfy their fears, why don’t we go to Cehennem?”
When he uttered the last word, Isabel gritted her teeth. She hadn’t visited the desolation since the final showdown. A little voice inside her begged not to go, but Raiden’s logic coaxed her from her shell of uncertainty.
“Cehennem it is. Immediately.”
CHAPTER
16
Bence wrapped his arms around the bucket. He thought he had already emptied the contents of his breakfast, but he couldn’t stop retching. The seas were rougher than his previous journeys; he had even been hurled from his bunk the previous night. He had been traveling for a little over a week, praying that today was the day he would step foot on land again. Bence spent most of his time hiding in his living quarters and only resurfaced when dragged out to help with menial chores.
“Hey, pretty boy!” Each clunk of Shamus’ boots were like a hammer to his skull.
Scratching his nails against the uneven surface of the bucket, Bence suppressed the urge to throw it at the first-mate. He replayed the images of a hut by a pond, him stoking a bonfire, and exchanging stories with newfound friends. He was going to have a home any day now. Every bruise, every sleepless night was worth it.
“Geez, I’ve never met a sicker dog in my life!”
Bence grunted. “Leave me be.” The ship always smelled musty, but he could always tell when the first-mate was around because he reeked of rotten fish.
“If you insist. I was going to tell ya that we’re about to reach port, but you can stay down here to your heart’s content.”
“Land?” Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Bence scrambled to his feet. He wobbled in place as Shamus waddled up the staircase.
As he clamored after Shamus, blood rushed to his muscles. He fought the nausea sloshing around his stomach and pulled himself up the railing. His fantasy was one step closer─no more running, no more hiding. When he swung the door open, he shielded his eyes from the sun. Men shouted. Trampling feet pounded against the floorboard. The salty air brushed past him like a cat.
The ship had squeezed between two other vessels in the crowded port. Men cast the anchor and prepared the ramp. An open-air market stretched from east to west. People swarmed in and out of each tent like insects, shaking their hands and shouting. Beyond the cluster of life, a vast copper colored land met the horizon. Bence grasped his hair and pulled. He couldn’t believe he made it. The vibrant colors of spices added to the enticing smell of roast meat that drew him to the edge of the boat.
“You’re definitely not a man of the sea, that’s for sure.” Shamus appeared by his side. He stood on his toes to pat Bence on the shoulder. “Listen, I know you had a rough ride, but take this.”
Stretching out his pudgy hand, he opened his fingers to reveal ten copper coins and one silver coin.
“What’s the catch?” Bence said, pocketing his hands.
Shamus snorted. “You’re not a trusting man. But I knew that from the start. Consider it pay for the work you did on the ship.”
“Like scrubbing bird droppings from the deck?” Bence smirked.
“Take the money or not. I don’t care either way. I’m not a charity.” Shamus shoved his hand at Bence. A few coins clattered onto the ground.
The bronze coins shimmered in the sunlight. He silently snatched the few coins remaining in Shamus’ hand but hesitated at the ones on the floor. Bence wasn’t sure if it was intentional, but he hated getting on his knees. Not for anyone. To pick up coins off the floor was just as offensive to Bence as Shamus’ body odor. With a stiff lip, he slowly bent down. He kept eye contact with Shamus and he scooped the coins into his palm. When he stood, Bence gave a curt nod.
“Thanks.”
Shamus slapped his back. “We’re ready to disembark. Where ya gonna go?”
“I’m going to find a new home.” The words felt so liberating to say out loud. Bence clutched the strap of his satchel, pocketed the coins, and bounded off the ship.
The plank wobbled with each step. Shouts grew louder as he descended. His first step on land filled him with child-like awe. An unfamiliar tickle took hold of him. Red dust swirled around his boots as he approached the crowd. A gray banner danced between two tall poles, reading “The Dunyan Territory Trading Post.” Cocking his head, Bence wondered if the people in this continent knew that the Deranian Dunya had ceased to exist. Despite the sweltering heat, he clutched his arms together in an involuntary shiver. Bence busied himself with papers nailed along the spine of the left pole. Norlend needed workers to restore a collapsed bridge. The Foti were implementing a charge for those passing through their territory, the Bridge. No exceptions. Another Fotian poster bashed Irellian-made weapons and highlighted a satisfaction guarantee for their own swords, spears, bows, and shields.
A poorly sketched portrait of a man stopped Bence in his tracks. The charcoal lines smeared everywhere, but he still could make out the writing. “WANTED: BENCE BRECHENHAD OF DERAN. DESCRIPTION: MALE, BLOOD-RED HAIR, GREEN EYES. PROMINENT SCAR ON NECK.” It read on and on, but Bence’s eyes bounced back up to the sketch. It was pretty accurate. Accurate enough. “REWARD NEGOTIABLE BY THE DERANIAN KING.”
Bence’s blood ran cold. He re-read the last sentence, ink glistening in mockery. He ripped the parchment from the nail and ripped it into shreds. The… king? As bits of paper fell like snow, he kicked the ground. The remnants of the wanted poster disappeared in his personal sand storm. On the verge of hyperventilation, he fought to tame the panic pacing in the cages of his mind. He had spent so much time spying on Isabel, then partnering with her when he changed sides during the war: there was no man in the world worthy of marrying her, and that quickly. Unless…
“That’s impossible.” Bence hung his head; he couldn’t feel his face. That Tuuli brat, Dante, had fallen into the abyss. He was there. He saw it. An invisible knife pierced his heart. There were so many scenarios he imagined, it made him dizzy. Was Isabel a part of this bounty order? No, or else it would’ve said king and queen. But then, does this mean something horrible h
appened to her? His instincts urged him to turn around and sail straight back to Deran. But what twisted the imaginary knife was the fact that as soon as he stepped foot on that island, he would be captured. Imprisoned. Sentenced.
The squawking of the crowd dispersed his thoughts, jarring his ears as if people were shouting right next to him.
“I should’ve never left her side…” he whispered.
When someone shoved past, Bence drew his dagger, but the person already disappeared into the sea of bodies. Vendors in yellow fabric draped over their shoulders shouted in all directions. Baskets of red, orange, and purple spices surrounded a woman with white lines painted on her face. People entered and exited the trading post in a constant stream; Bence couldn’t begin to imagine how many eyes had already seen the poster. A woman in a cotton dress emerged and stopped next to him. She stared intently at a sign about colorful shawls, but she quickly startled when the sun reflected from his blade. He sheathed it and slapped his hand on his scar, scratching an invisible itch.
He cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”
“Why were you holding your weapon out like that?” Her waif-like figure shrunk back.
“I, uh, saw this sign about the Fotian weapon guarantee. I feel their work is sub-par. So, er, when I saw their advertisement, I wanted to examine it again before I demand a refund.”
“Oh,” she said. Her eyes flickered to the plethora of signs. “Well, be careful waving that around. There’s a dangerous man on the loose from some island.”
Bence wavered in silence as she scurried off. Jamming his hands into his pockets to hide his trembling, he wasted no more time and entered the trading post, hoping to leave his devastation behind. He ducked his head in a poor attempt to conceal his features. His scar seemed to scream for attention, but by some miracle, or curse, the change in his hair color will likely throw people off.
A sizzle of fish and squid roasting on splits caught his attention. Dodging a hurried mother and child on her back, Bence greeted the vendor. “How much?”
