by David Estes
Forty
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
As she stood on her balcony gripping the railing, Rhea realized that the city of her childhood, the Holy City, the city to end all cities, Knight’s End, had become her own personal prison. She hated its endless walls, its cobblestoned streets, its purity dresses and temples and righteous warriors garbed in red.
For here, in this place, in this castle, lived only ghosts, each and every one seeming to haunt her every waking step and the hollows of her dreamless sleep.
Everyone she had ever loved. Her father. Her mother. Grey Arris. Ennis Loren. And, yes, even Bea. She’d loved her once, a long time ago. The memories of her youngest sister were like pins in her skull. When did I grow to hate her? Why did we push each other away at every turn?
Even her unborn child felt like a ghost inside her, a lost soul.
In some ways, the losses humbled her, made her want to change, to finally listen to Ennis’s advice and seek peace with their eastern and southern neighbors.
I can heal you. Roan’s words before he left; words that she now clung to like the only thread keeping her from tumbling off a precipice and into the void. Though she’d been no saint before the furia had marred her beauty, her worst sins had come after. It was no excuse, but perhaps it was an opportunity to start over. If Roan healed her, maybe she could use it as an excuse to rescind her previous proclamations.
The child growing in her belly stirred. Wrath, what would you have me do? It was the first time in years she’d directly addressed the god of the west. Are you there?
Nothing answered her but silence and the rush of a cool wind through her hair.
I am empty. I am lost. I am broken.
Ennis. Oh, Ennis. Come back to me.
Come back.
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She’d cast him away with her words, her truth.
Could she change? Would it make a difference?
No, the course she’d set herself on was a leap from a cliff into a dark sea, and nothing could arrest her fall now. She would leave this city, ride with Darkspell east. She would see this done personally. The Orians would die and the east would fall. After that, the Four Kingdoms would be hers for the taking. This vision, this goal, was the only thing she had left.
It was a week later, and for the first time in her life, Rhea looked upon the east. Though it was still far off in the distance, obscured by the clouds of smoke that cast a haze over everything—the Tangle continued to burn out of control—she could see the green countryside, emerald grass and tall trees and farmsteads dotting the plains. Only the great silver line of the Spear separated the kingdoms. Such a small barrier, she thought.
Thus far, Rhea, Darkspell, and her retinue of furia had traveled primarily along the Western Road, but in the last day had shifted southeast. The purpose was to avoid Hyro Lake and the recently rebuilt Bridge of Triumph. This wouldn’t be a mission of force, but of stealth.
Now, as they approached the end of their journey, Rhea had to swallow away the second thoughts that continued to plague her.
Why do I care what happens to the Orians? she wondered. For years they’d killed her people without compassion, using their Wrath-damn ore magic against the west.
She knew the reason: Ennis. She could almost feel him looking at her in that judging, serious way of his. Yes, he was far too old for her—he’d been more of an uncle figure than a cousin growing up—and yet something about how he treated her made Rhea feel…good, wanted. Like she was beautiful, despite her scars, despite her sins.
The way he’d looked at her always made her want to be better, even if she’d fought the feeling at every turn.
“Your Highness?”
Rhea shook her head, the past fading like ink from an inkreed, pulled from the waters of her mind.
The old potionmaster, Darkspell, was staring at her, his wrinkled head cocked to the side.
“Yes,” she said. “It is time.”
He licked his chapped lips eagerly, as if the thought of the deaths of thousands of Orians gave him pleasure without measure. “There are two potions that, when mixed, will create something beautiful.”
She grimaced. This man had a strange definition of beauty. Rhea wondered if that was why he was drawn to her in the first place.
He held up two small vials. It was odd to think that something so small and seemingly insignificant could cause unimaginable destruction.
The moment was yet another threshold in her life. Thus far, she hadn’t hesitated to cross any of those that came before. But this time she paused, seeing her sister’s death pass before her eyes, the dark, disappointed look in Ennis’s expression as he rode away, the bright, blue eyes she imagined her child would wear, so observant, watching her every move, learning from her. And, finally, the maw of the oceanic monster she’d twice summoned.
And, once again, she allowed the world to be crushed by it.
“Do it,” she said.
Forty-One
The Eastern Kingdom, the Rot
Gwendolyn Storm
Though she’d spent the last fortnight hiding in the Rot, the festering swamplands on the southeastern edge of Hyro Lake, Gwendolyn had not grown used to any of it. Not the swarms of insects biting day and night; not the smell, a sweet, moldy odor that reminded her of rotting meat; and, especially, not the dead stares of the corpses resting at the bottom of the dark waters.
It was unnerving, those stares. Even when Gwen forced her chin to remain raised, her eyes fixed above eye level, she could feel their wide, empty gazes.
Per legend, the Rot was not always a swampland, but simply one of Hyro Lake’s numerous inlets, teeming with plant life and the wildlife that flocked to it. A hundred years after the Crimean expansion into the Four Kingdoms, however, a great battle was said to have been fought on the banks of what would later become the Rot. Thousands were killed on both sides—Orians and humans alike—and the survivors were so few that digging graves would be impossible. Instead, the corpses were tossed haphazardly into the waters of the lake. Rather than decomposing, the bodies remained intact, preserved by some strange magic no one understood, not even the natives. The nature of the inlet changed, the plants shriveling and dying, the waters unmoving, the animals steering clear. A swamp, the Rot, was born.
Gwen peered over the edge. A dozen sets of eyes stared back.
“Ore,” she muttered.
Gareth chuckled. “What? You haven’t made friends with our neighbors yet?”
“You shouldn’t jape about the dead. It’s irreverent.”
Gareth pulled his oar around, turning them toward the west. “Since when have you known me to be reverent? Anyway, the dead don’t seem to mind. Whether I jape or not, they will continue to stare.”
Gwen couldn’t argue with that. After stealing a cheap fisherman’s boat that he didn’t seem to be using—it leaked in several places—they’d been patrolling the edges of Hyro Lake for over a week, and, to Gwen’s knowledge, none of the corpses had so much as blinked. Generally, they set out in the morning, early, heading northward against the gentle current, crossing the lake well before reaching the Bridge of Triumph, and then drifting south until they reached the mouth of the Spear.
As each day passed, Gwen felt more and more like their endeavor was pointless, like searching for a diamond amongst chips of ice. If Rhea Loren and Darkspell were going to unleash an Orian-killing plague on the east, there were plenty of other ways to do it.
At the same time, she knew they couldn’t give up. If there was any chance she could stop this atrocity from being carried out, she had to try.
They emerged from the swamplands, the broad expanse of Hyro Lake spreading out like a sparkling ocean, so wide it was difficult to see the far side. Gareth handed her the oars. “Your turn,” he said.
She grabbed the oars, settled into position, and began pulling, using her breaths and the beat of her heart to establish a rhythm. It felt good, d
oing something, the consistency of the work calming her nerves, which seemed to fray a little more each time the sun set. Now that they were out of the Rot, she felt calmer, more like herself.
The current that fought her every stroke wasn’t particularly strong, and she made swift progress northward. Gareth used a spyglass they’d “acquired” to scan the bank for anything suspicious. They didn’t expect Rhea Loren to show up with a platoon of red-garbed furia surrounding her, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t spot a small group of out-of-place westerners sneaking about.
By lunchtime, Gwen’s muscles were burning and she handed the oars back over to Gareth, who turned their path westward, crossing the lake with long pulls while she ate an unsatisfying meal comprised of edible leaves fit for rabbits, and crunchy bark. “Mmm,” she murmured, in jest.
“Good, eh?” Gareth said. “I was tempted to eat your portion, too, but I didn’t want to deprive you of life’s simple pleasures.”
“Thank you. The bark is to die for.”
“Now who’s making jokes about death?”
She snorted. Though Gareth and she fought like close siblings at times, he wasn’t the worst traveling companion she could have. After all, they had Roan in common, which, for some reason, had brought them closer together rather than put them at odds.
Strange, she thought, the way the world works.
Gareth was as capable an oarsman as she, and he made short work of the lake’s width, steering them close to the western shore. Here, the air was thicker, filled with the drifting smog of the burning forest to the north. She wondered whether the forest would burn forever, regrowing and burning and repeating for eternity. The thought didn’t seem so impossible, not when the Four Kingdoms had done the same for five centuries.
Gwen’s gaze coasted along the shore, seeing nothing but specks of white and gray—birds come to drink.
“See anything?” Gareth asked. He rowed backwards to stop their progress, and then slowly turned them so the craft would slide into the current.
“Birds,” Gwen said.
“I hate birds,” Gareth said. “Especially when they shite on my head.”
“I like them. Especially when they shite on your head.”
Gareth feigned like he would hit her with an oar, but she didn’t flinch. “Sometimes I think your nerves are forged of the same steel armor you wear across your loins.”
Gwen raised the spyglass to her eye, pushing her scope further south, past where the lake gave way to a narrow strip of silver, shooting away perfectly straight, like a gossamer thread. The Spear. “One, it’s just you I’m not scared of; and two, don’t speak of my ‘loins’ ever again.”
Gareth opened his mouth to respond, probably with another pointless quip, but Gwen quickly shushed him. “Wait.”
“What is it?”
She squinted, trying to magnify her vision further. It worked, and suddenly the smudges she’d thought were moving across the land took shape:
People. Lots of them. They were on the eastern riverbank, not quite to its edge, but swiftly approaching.
“Gwen?” Gareth said.
There was no time to explain—she snatched the oars from him, shoving him off the bench.
“What are you—”
“They’re here!” she hissed, splashing the tips of the oars back into the water, pulling as hard as she could to quickly gain momentum, the current lending additional speed as they funneled toward the entrance to the Spear.
Gareth rose to a kneeling position, grabbing the spyglass from the boat’s bed, where Gwen had dropped it. Gwen pulled harder. The fatemark on her cheek flared, sending additional strength to her arms, her abdomen, her legs. The boat sprang forward with a lurch, cutting through the water, sending waves from its bow.
“What do you see?” Gwen asked. “Tell me.”
“Holy Ore!” Gareth said. “It’s her.”
A shockwave shivered through Gwen and she nearly dropped the oars. She quickly recovered, sending the boat shooting forward once more. “Queen Loren is here?”
“Yes. I can see her. And him, too. Darkspell. They’ve got several furia with them as protection.”
The nerve of that woman, Gwen thought. “How much time do we have?”
“Not long,” Gareth said. “You’ll have to go faster.”
To anyone else, it might sound like an impossible request, but not to Gwen. She redoubled her efforts, her cheek burning, the light nearly blinding her left eye. As the oars cut through the water again and again and again, the boat seemed to lift from the water, sliding over it rather than through it.
“You’re a force of nature, you know that?” Gareth said.
“So I’ve been told,” she said, grunting from the strain.
“Assuming Roan picks you—and let’s face it, he probably will—please be careful with him. He might have a fatemark, but he’s fragile.”
Gwen ignored the comment, using every ounce of her breath to pull, pull, pull—
The rickety boat swept into the Spear, which seemed to grab it from the front, drawing it along faster and faster and faster still.
And then she saw them: A dozen travelers on horseback. Rhea, her white purity dress swirling around her feet as she rode; Darkspell, his dark cloak covering his hunched form. The furia just ahead and just behind. The group was trotting along at a reasonable pace, unsuspecting that they were being hunted by their own escaped prisoners.
Even if we make it in time…the furia are worthy foes. Gwen had fought them several times before, and though she’d managed to kill them, the battles were long and drawn out. If they distracted her long enough for Darkspell to empty his potion into the Spear…
It’s over.
I can’t let that happen.
A shout—they’d been spotted. The horses were spurred on, sprinting across the plains now, angling further south to add distance between them and their pursuers.
“Dammit!” Gwen growled. Her entire body was rocking back and forth as she strained against water and distance and time, the old boat rattling as if it might break apart at any moment.
“We’re not going to make it,” Gareth said.
“We. Are.” Gwen hated being defied, hated losing, hated seeing innocent people die. She wouldn’t give in until the act was complete.
Gareth grabbed her shoulder. “Gwen, this potion will kill you. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
She shrugged him off. “The waters are connected! Nowhere is safe!” Anyway, she didn’t care about herself, but about her people. The young, the old, the unborn. All of them deserved life and she refused to let Rhea Loren take it from them.
Ahead, the riders had dismounted near the river and were running toward it. Rhea Loren was at their head, while Darkspell and his shorter legs fell behind. She was flanked by her furia, their blades drawn, flashing in the afternoon light as their arms pumped at their sides.
“No,” Gwen gasped. Their foe was so close she could see their eyes, and yet too far away to be stopped. Gareth was right, this she knew, but still she rowed.
Rhea looked at her, and Gwen was surprised to see she wasn’t smiling, wasn’t wearing her victory like a mask, but simply staring in her direction, motionless, patiently waiting for the potionmaster to reach her side.
And then the old man was there, his chest heaving, his hands fumbling at two small vials, prying the corks from their mouths, tipping them forward—
Rhea Loren
Rhea’s heart was in her throat as she launched herself at Darkspell, backhanding both vials from his grasp. They flew back, colliding with his chest and splashing their dark, tar-like contents onto his face, his lips, entering his mouth.
The man tumbled backwards, his face awash with horror, his hands scrubbing at his skin.
Something clarified in Rhea’s mind, a seed of an idea, a truth, quickly growing a stem and leaves, flowering into reality.
The potion was never meant to kill just Orians. He was going to destroy us all.
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As if to prove her point, the potionmaster’s back arched and he gasped, his pink tongue flopping from the side of his mouth. He writhed from side to side like a fish out of water, struggling for breath, clutching at his throat.
With a final jerk, he went still.
Rhea stared in horror, not at the speedy and violent death of the man who’d tried to stab her in the back, but at the fact that she’d foiled his plans with her sudden change of heart.
Why did I do that? Why did I stop him?
She thought of Ennis, of how his declaration and departure had felt, the final look of disappointment searing through her with the force of a lightning strike. She thought of the gaping hole that had opened when Bea was murdered by Wrathos—no, by me, she thought. I did it. I did it all. She thought of Grey Arris, how she’d longed for him to hold her before he’d left—how she longed for him to hold her now. Missing his touch for so long was like a throat deprived of water, lungs denied air.
And she thought of the child growing inside her, a future prince or princess of the west. And she knew:
I did it for him. Or for her. I want to be better for my child. I must be better.
On the edge of her vision, movement caught her attention. She turned. The small boat skated past on the current. Gareth Ironclad knelt while the Orian, Gwendolyn Storm, stood. Both were staring at her in shock, their eyes dancing between her and Darkspell’s corpse.
And then the most surprising thing happened:
Gareth tapped his chest, right over where his heart was.
Gwen offered a single nod.
That was all, the boat disappearing downstream faster than it had appeared.
Warmth flooded Rhea’s chest as she watched them go, her vision blurring. Wrath, she thought. What am I doing? Who am I? These are the enemy and I’m wishing they would return, that I could break bread with them, that I could speak to them like friends.
But then they were gone, and Rhea, tear-streaked and windblown, felt more alone than ever.
“Your Highness?” one of her furia said from behind.
