by Alec Hutson
When he awoke again, Nel was there, sitting on the edge of his bed. She smiled at him, though it didn’t seem to touch her eyes. “Feeling better?”
Keilan rolled over and sat up. “Much.”
“Good, then. You seemed a bit overwhelmed before.”
Keilan shook his head. “And how could I not feel that way? One moment I’m summoning fire from my fingertips, slaying a monster, and the next I’m in a bed in a palace, the guest of a prince.”
“Slightly more exciting than being a fisherman’s son?”
Keilan snorted and tossed a pillow at her. She caught it and clutched it tight to her chest, resting her chin on the lacy edge. “In truth, you are handling everything that’s happened remarkably well. Spiders and wraiths and shape-changing demons. It’s been an interesting few weeks, even for me. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” he said, awkwardly, and she burst out laughing. He felt his face redden, and he buried himself beneath his heavy fur blanket.
“Don’t bother being shy, Keilan. You’re a good boy, but you’re still just a boy. How many winters have you seen? Fifteen? I know I look young, but I’m at least ten years older than you.”
“Sixteen, very soon,” he mumbled, emerging again from the blanket. “My birthday is a few months hence. If I was still in my village I would have to do my night-dive when the mid-summer solstice comes.”
“Night-dive?”
“It is tradition. You enter the waters of the bay a boy, and emerge a man. Then you are ready to fish for Elara’s Bounty with the others.”
“In the Warrens, you’re not considered a man until you kill someone. I like your village’s way better.”
“So in Lyr you must have been considered very manly?”
Nel stuck out her tongue at him and threw back the pillow. “More manly than many, I suppose.” Her voice softened, and she leaned in closer, enfolding his hand in her own. “Keilan, I’ve seen you watching me when you think I’m not looking. Set aside those thoughts. I am a woman, and you are still a boy.” Her eyes sparkled. “But don’t be sad, as I’m sure there’s a few pretty little sorceresses your age studying at the Scholia.” Nel held his gaze until he nodded. “Good, then,” she continued briskly, pulling away. “But I didn’t come here to break your heart. We need to go see Xin.”
Keilan swallowed away the sudden dryness in his throat. “We can do that? I thought he might still be recovering from the attack, and that only healers were allowed to minister to him.”
Nel chewed on her lip. “We can. His wounds are not of the body. But you are right – he is still recovering. I think . . . I think seeing you would help him.”
“What’s the matter?”
Nel pulled on the thick fur of the blanket. “I’m sure you know something of the Fists. Five infant boys, all sharing the same father, are born and raised together. Something happens to them, there in the red-sand pits of Gryx. Something almost magical, though Vhelan has told me that he could sense no sorcery when we were traveling with the caravan. An unbreakable thread binds their minds.” She paused. “Well, unbreakable unless one of them dies. And though the death of a single member of the Fists is traumatic for the survivors, usually together they can persevere. Xin has no such support. He has lost them all, in one fell stroke. One moment he was whole – the next, alone and helpless.”
“I want to see him,” Keilan said, sliding from the bed. He swooned when he found his feet, still a bit weak, and had to steady himself on one of the bed’s posts.
“Good,” Nel said. There was a tone to her voice Keilan hadn’t heard before – apprehension? Relief?
He followed her out of his chamber and into a hallway lit by gilded sconces, decorated by more of the same odd paintings that were in his own room.
“The prince does them,” Nel said when she saw him looking. “Strange, eh? I’ve never seen paintings that weren’t of something – portraits, a city, a mountain. I’m tempted to find one in a scarce-visited hallway, wrap it up, and take it with me back to Herath.”
“I’m sure the prince would give you one, if you asked. He seems to have enough.”
“Now where would the fun be in that?”
Keilan sighed and followed her down several corridors, until they came to an oak door patterned with whorls and banded with iron. Nel rapped on the door, and then opened it without waiting for a response from within.
It was another bedroom, very similar to his own but slightly smaller. The room was cold; the fireplace was filled with mounded gray ash, and the windows had been thrown open, letting in a chill breeze. The sounds of the city drifted in as well, the hum of many voices and the faint skirling of a fiddle. The blankets were drawn up, as if the bed had not been slept in recently, though Xin was there, sitting cross-legged on the furs and facing the window. He wore only a loose pair of gray breeches, and Keilan couldn’t help but marvel at the muscles etched into his dusky back. A naked sword lay across his knees. He did not turn when they entered the room.
“Xin,” Nel said, her voice strained, “How are you? I’ve brought a guest.”
The Fist warrior did not answer. There was no evidence that he had even heard.
Nel motioned for Keilan to follow her, and together they slipped around the bed, until they stood in front of Xin.
Keilan shivered as fingers of cool wind touched his legs and back. Xin didn’t seem to notice them or the coldness in the room; his jaw was tensed, and his gold-flecked green eyes stared past Nel and Keilan, as if they were not there.
“Xin!” Nel repeated, this time louder, waving her hand.
Slowly, the Fist warrior blinked, focusing on them. “Nel,” he said softly. His voice was raspy, and he cleared his throat. “Keilan.”
Nel turned to the windows. “May I close them? It’s freezing in here.”
Xin breathed in deep. “Yes. This one keeps them open because of the noise. It reminds me . . . it reminds me of what it was like before.”
“Are you all right?”
Xin’s eyes were empty, and the gaze the Fist warrior fixed him with chilled Keilan almost as much as the cold mountain breeze coming through the window.
“They are still out there, somewhere. This one can feel them. But when this one reaches for his brothers . . . nothing. It is like trying to grasp the air. Do you know what happens to many warriors when they lose a limb, an arm or a leg, on the field of battle or in the surgeon’s tent? It is gone, but for the rest of their years they can still feel it there, itching or aching, hanging by their side.”
“Xin,” Nel said firmly, crossing her arms. “You are a Fist warrior, one of the finest and most loyal soldiers in the world. You have a duty to Master Garmond that cannot be discharged until he is returned safely to Ver Anath. You must set aside your grief and finish your task.”
Xin ignored her. “This one can still hear them, too,” he said softly. “So faint, like through a great span of stone. They are calling to me, asking me to join them.”
“Your brothers would not wish you to die! That is your guilt speaking to you, not your brothers!” Keilan had never seen Nel truly angry before.
“Without me, they are not whole. We are of one soul, fractured into five parts. How can they pass into the Eternal City when this one is still here?”
Nel dismissed his words with a sharp cutting motion. “They can wait for you; time doesn’t matter much to them anymore.” She took a deep breath, controlling herself. “As you said, you’re still here; you haven’t used that sword to hasten your family reunion. I think you must know that there is unfinished work for you in this world still.”
Xin’s calm gaze shifted to Keilan. “This one has waited for you.”
“Me?”
The Fist warrior nodded slightly. “Yes. Keilan, this one must thank you. You saved my life, but more importantly, you took revenge when this one could not. M
y only solace now is that this one knows the monster that slew my brothers has been banished back to whatever abyss it first crawled from.”
Keilan swallowed. “You’re . . . you’re welcome, Xin.”
Xin closed his eyes, the tension leaking from his face. “Then there is nothing left for me here.”
Nel stepped forward and slapped his cheek hard. Redness bloomed, but the Fist warrior did not move or open his eyes.
“Nothing? What about the seeker? What about Keilan? What about me?” Her last words were wrenched by a sob.
She loves him, Keilan suddenly realized, watching Nel tremble in anger and sadness. Now it was clear, and he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. The way her eyes had followed him while he’d shown them the basic patterns of sword-fighting, how her fingers had lingered on his when he’d adjusted her grip on her hilt. He felt a little surge of something in his chest – jealousy? – but that was quickly washed away by sadness.
“Xin . . .” he said, “I know how you feel. My mother was murdered a year ago, drowned by people my father had always considered friends. Sometimes the anger and helplessness felt overwhelming, and I wanted to throw myself into the same waters that she died in, sink down and let the blackness wash over me. But that’s not what she would have wanted. And your brothers wouldn’t want you to kill yourself, either. You know this.”
Xin opened his eyes. Was there a flicker of emotion now? “This one is sorry, Keilan. The evenings we spent sword-training together and reading in the scholar’s wagon were some of the happiest of my life. But you do not know what it means to be a Fist.”
“Make us your new brothers!” Nel cried, clutching at Xin’s arm.
“That is impossible,” the Fist warrior said sadly, shaking his head.
An idea came to Keilan, and he seized it. “You say I did you a great service, yes?” After Xin’s slight nod he continued, changing the tone of his voice from pleading to commanding. “Then you are in my debt.”
Xin watched him carefully.
“You must know that we are still in grave danger. Vhelan believes that creature was sent to kill us, but by what or whom we do not know. We need your sword if we are to get to Herath alive. Xin . . . you owe me. How could you go to meet your brothers when the one that avenged them still needed your help, and you could have given it? What would your brothers say to this?”
Xin was quiet for a long time. A tremor passed across his face, as if something had changed within him. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “Keilan, there is truth to what you say. This one has a debt to you that must be repaid before he passes beyond. This one will accompany you to Herath.”
Nel let out a small gasp and glanced at Keilan. Xin saw this, and the sadness returned to his voice. “And then, when this one knows you are safe, he will go to meet his brothers.”
Herath.
Jan’s first glimpse of the Crimson Queen’s city came as he crested a hilltop that had been scarred by fire, the trees that usually pressed close to the road and would have blocked his view reduced to blackened stumps. He reined to a halt, his horse whinnying in thanks at this unexpected reprieve. Jan patted the sweat-damp mane, rummaging in his saddlebags for some oats. They’d spent the past several days laboring up and down the hills that rippled out from where the Bones had sunk their roots deep in the world’s roof, and his horse had earned a well-deserved rest when they finally reached the city on the Derravin. Not so much longer now.
Herath was a distant smudge crusting the edge of a dark bay; it had outgrown its old walls, as buildings spread in almost organic-looking arms from the shore and pushed into the surrounding forest. To the north the stain of habitation crept up a steep slope until it brushed against the walls of a mighty fortress. That must be Saltstone, the ancient seat of power for House d’Kara. Jan’s gaze lingered on the jagged crenellations that soared stark and imposing against the cloudless sky. It was no wonder that the family that had built this keep centuries ago had managed to unite these notoriously fractious lands under their banner. He squinted, imagining he could see something. Was she standing on the battlements even now, slim white fingers resting on cold stone, a sea-breeze tangling her red curls as she watched these faraway hills?
His fascination with her had only grown during his long journey west. A young woman who had fashioned her small kingdom into an empire. A queen who had thrived without a king beside her, as once was common in his lost home, the doomed holdfast of Nes Vaneth. And perhaps most compelling – she was a sorceress that even ancient, immortal Alyanna feared to confront directly.
A black speck floated in the unblemished sky, some large bird. He remembered the old Min-Ceruthan superstitions – if that was an eagle riding the wind, good fortune would follow him into the city. A raven and he should hurriedly find some luck elsewhere, as disaster was threatening. And if it was a seagull, he might as well turn his horse around right now. Of course, seagulls couldn’t be as much of an ill-omen in coastal Herath as they were in the land-locked mountains of his homeland. Perhaps eagles were what was rare here, and glimpsing one of those majestic birds was considered unlucky instead.
Jan watched the speck for a long time, until it spiraled down to the distant ocean and vanished. Definitely a seagull.
Herath was a young city, and much of its growth had clearly come in the past few years. The walls looked stunted when compared to the soaring black iron that girdled Vis, the last major city he had passed through, and the roads were churned earth rather than cobblestones or tile. Nevertheless, there was a briskness to the city, an undercurrent of energy among the travelers that jostled him as he approached the small city gate. Strange how the character of a people could be glimpsed in the way they carried themselves. The Visani had seemed to drift, unhurried, through their ancient stone city, while the citizens of Menekar glided aloof and imperial between their vast edifices of basalt and marble. But the Dymorians here strode with confidence and purpose, staring straight ahead as they hurried along roads hemmed by buildings of timber and sod that would have been considered mean and provincial in the older, prouder cities to the east.
Their dress, too, was different. Most wore brightly colored clothes, bordering on garish, vivid shades of blue and red and green. A few of the men on the road with him clashed so much it looked like they were wearing motley – Jan had heard of an affliction where you could not distinguish one color from another, and maybe that disease was epidemic here in Dymoria. He certainly stood out, in his drab brown doublet and gray traveler’s cloak.
And perhaps that was why the guardsman at the gate stopped him, using his long spear to bar his way.
“Halt, friend. What business do you have in Herath?”
Jan reached up to touch the lute strapped across his back. “A wandering minstrel, sir. From the Shattered Kingdoms by way of Vis.”
Another guardsman, leaning on a white kite shield emblazoned with the red dragon of Dymoria, looked him up and down. “A minstrel, eh? From Vis? Competition a little much in the Poet’s City?”
Jan inclined his head, as if in agreement. “Many fine singers there, certainly. I was hoping the mead halls of Herath would prove more fortunate for me.”
The guardsman’s eyes lingered on the sword at his side. “Looks like you’ve seen plenty of fortune. The jewel in that there hilt could buy a tavern for yerself, I’d wager.”
Jan allowed himself an easy smile. “A wager you’d lose, good sir. Just a bit of colored glass to impress the townsfolk.”
The first guardsman snorted. “I bet it’d impress the townsfolk enough that they’d slit your throat for it. Damn foolish, swaggering around with that at your side. But it’s your own neck, I s’pose.” He waved for Jan to continue and lifted his spear. “Go on, then.”
Jan nodded thanks and spurred his horse forward. He hadn’t gone two dozen paces when he heard someone hurriedly following.
“Wait.”
It was the second guardsman, panting from running after him in his heavy armor. “Minstrel, hold. I near forgot. My uncle, Fendrin, owns an inn and eating house. He’s been looking for someone to sing in the commons for board and a few coppers a night. Do you have other business, or would you be interested?”
“It sounds like fate to me.”
The guardsman’s plump face broke into a smile. “Aye, good news. Fendrin will be pleased, and if you’ve any talent I might get a few free rounds out of this. His inn is the Cormorant, just off the docks. Follow the main road here and then bear left when you see the farriers. Take your second right, another two hundred paces more and you’re there. If you get lost, ask anyone. They’ll point you true. And remember to tell him it was Benosh who sent you.”
It was not as easy to find as the guardsman had made it seem. Jan had come to the farriers quick enough, a cluster of forges set at the confluence of two streets, one dedicated to blacksmithing, and the other to horses and their tack. He had stopped and had one of the apprentices check his horse’s shoes to make sure the metal had not weakened, or any small stone become wedged during their journey where it could cause harm. Then he’d paid a silver to stable his horse for a month, patting her affectionately on the flank before the boy led her off into a low wide building. He hadn’t asked about the Cormorant, as what the guard had said had still seemed clear enough, but after taking the road’s left branching he had soon discovered that he was well and truly lost. His enquiry about the inn to a pair of fruit sellers had been met with blank stares, so since the guard had mentioned it was near the docks he had instead asked to be pointed in that direction.
And thus he found himself sitting on a broken wooden crate beside a rotted pier, eating the speckled white flesh of some ridged purple fruit he had never seen before and watching the sun slowly sink into the mauve sea. A dozen ships lay at anchor in the bay, their profiles shadowed against the fading light of day. They seemed larger and grander than he remembered. Most were caravels, crescent hulls sweeping up into high forecastles where trebuchets and ballistae bristled. One still had its sails unfurled, showing the red dragon of Dymoria in all its sinuous glory. These must be the breed of ship that had crossed the Derravin decades ago and found the Sunset Lands. It was a good reminder, actually, that the progress of man was not merely measured in the mastery of sorcery. Boat-building, architecture, mathematics, art – some called this age the Twilight, but in many disciplines it could very well be considered a dawning. Jan sucked the last bit of sweetness from the fruit’s rind and tossed it into the water.
