Bloody Rose

by Nicholas Eames

  She’s my best friend. And yeah, I love her.

  Don’t tell her I said that.

  Speaking of love, Lady Jain and Daon Doshi were married that spring in the yard behind Slowhand’s inn. Roderick, of all people, stood witness for the captain, while Jain’s bridesmaids totalled no less than all seventeen of the Silk Arrows.

  I heard Rod say to Doshi as they filed down the aisle, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

  There was dancing, and drinking, and fireworks (courtesy of Arcandius Moog). At some point I stumbled off to pee and found Clay Cooper standing beneath the budding maple in his front yard. There was a newly installed headstone at his feet, and I could see crude letters etched in starlight across its face.

  A grave for Gabriel, I realized. I asked him what it said.

  He replied, “We were giants, once.”

  When Brune could walk without crutches, we made plans to go north. Cura and I were headed for the coast (I’d always wanted to visit Freeport, and she insisted I see an Aldean sunset), but I had a stop to make in Ardburg first.

  On the morning we left Slowhand’s, Tally begged her parents to let her come with us. She was almost fifteen, she insisted—practically a woman grown—and while it looked as if Clay might indulge her, Ginny was having none of it.

  We were almost to Coverdale by the time she caught up. Moog, who was accompanying us as far as Oddsford, made the girl swear up and down she hadn’t run away from home. As proof of her parents’ blessing, she pointed out the familiar blackwood shield strapped to her back: a parting gift from her father.

  I suspect Tally would have followed us regardless of whether or not she had permission to do so. I was her age, once. Hell, I’m practically her age now. And what can I say? The world is big, the young are restless, and girls just want to have fun.

  On the way to Ardburg, Brune and Roderick began discussing their next venture—one that reflected the change of heart they’d had over the past several months. Starting in Ardburg, they would buy out the contracts of so-called monsters being sold or enslaved for sport in the arena. Those willing to give coexistence a whirl would be found gainful employment as crafters or labourers, while those too feral or embittered would be set free far from any human settlement.

  There will be kinks, of course, but it’s a noble ambition. If our war against the Winter Queen taught us anything, it’s that evil thrives on division. It stokes the embers of pride and prejudice until they become an inferno that might one day devour us all.

  As we journeyed north it became increasingly clear that although we may have saved the world, we sure as hell hadn’t fixed it. Inspired by the successive victories of the Brumal Horde, creatures who hadn’t yet learned of its fate were in open rebellion all over Grandual—which didn’t do our hope of reconciliation any favours.

  To make matters worse, Death Cults had begun springing up in each of the five courts. Adherents of the Winter Queen were taking up necromancy like it was knitting, which inevitably led to whole towns being sacked and plagues of undead roaming unchecked through the countryside.

  Grandual needed heroes, but many of the bands it relied on for protection had been decimated by the Brumal Horde, and the rest were too busy touring arenas to lift a finger. You’ll never guess who it was that came to the realm’s aid. Go on, I’ll wait.

  Give up?

  It was Contha.

  As winter thawed, the Exarch’s golems marched in their thousands from Lamneth’s depths. He sent emissaries to every court in Grandual and agreed to send constructs to any town or city in need. The Sultana of Narmeer refused his aid, but others (Queen Lilith of Agria, for instance, whose standing army had been utterly destroyed by the Brumal Horde) accepted readily. By now, I’ll bet, every hamlet in Agria boasts a golem defender, and I’ve heard that duramantium knights patrol the roads into Fivecourt.

  What changed the Exarch’s mind? Beats me. It’s possible that meeting his granddaughter made him realize that druins and humans weren’t so different after all. More likely, he feels guilty for having withheld his help when we needed it most, and is trying to honour Freecloud’s sacrifice by serving those he died to protect.

  Whatever Contha’s reasons, the world is a safer place because of him. And yet I can’t help but recall his unwillingness to acknowledge Wren in any meaningful way, or to look anyone but his trueborn son in the eye. I should cut him some slack, I suppose. As Freecloud once pointed out: His father spent centuries alone in the dark, so it makes sense he’d end up a reclusive weirdo.

  We reached Ardburg late one evening and took rooms at the Cornerstone. Tera and Tiamax marvelled over how “grown up” I looked, while Edwick insisted on hearing the song I’d written for Brune. The next day I took Cura on a tour of the city. We visited the king’s bathhouse and took a stroll through the Monster Market. I introduced her to Willow, who flashed me a conspiratorial wink as we went our way.

  I ducked into a tailor’s shop shortly after. Cura gave me one of her looks when I came out, but said nothing.

  Eventually we arrived at the house I’d once called home. My father was away at the mill, but I figured he’d be back soon. I peered through the kitchen window, and was relieved to see the place wasn’t covered in dust or littered with empty bottles. I’m not sure why, but it surprised me to see he’d left my chair at the table along with my mother’s.

  I ached to go inside, to show Cura my old room and introduce her to Tuck. When she asked why I couldn’t, I told her about the promise I’d made to my father on the morning I left: to never return, and so never break his heart if one day I failed to show up.

  I didn’t like it, of course, but I could understand it. And yet …

  I was sure he’d have heard about Conthas by now. He would know that Fable went toe-to-toe with the Winter Queen, and he would know how it ended. If he never saw me again, my father would almost certainly assume I was dead. He would blame Rose for having lured me away. And himself, of course, for letting me go.

  I heard a meow, and looked down to find Threnody purring at my feet. I picked her up and gave her a snuggle before Cura and I hurried off. Thren followed us for half a block before doubling back.

  In the days and nights since then I have often imagined my father arriving home that afternoon to find Thren waiting on the step. It’s possible he unlocked the door and let the cat in without bothering to acknowledge her, but I think he probably picked her up to say hello.

  At which point he would have noticed the slim yellow ribbon I’d tied around her neck.

  I hope, in time, he’ll forgive me for breaking my promise.

  Occasionally, someone—usually a child—will ask me if Bloody Rose is dead.

  She is, and she isn’t.

  The stories generally agree that Rose and the Winter Queen killed one another, but the truth (as is often the case) is more complicated than that.

  To begin with, the woman we knew as Bloody Rose was a fiction all along. She was a guise assumed by Golden Gabe’s rebellious teenage daughter, who was so desperate to ascend the pedestal upon which the world had placed her father that she sacrificed her whole identity to do so. Rose wasn’t only a mercenary—she was an actress as well, and had inhabited her role so thoroughly even she had forgotten it wasn’t real.

  I would argue that Bloody Rose died in a forest south of Coverdale shortly after her father passed away. I can still hear her scream echoing in the trees, and when she’d emerged a short while later, there was something different about her. If you’ll permit me a none-too-subtle analogy: When you clip a rose at its stem, nothing about it changes immediately. Its thorns remain sharp. Its petals are beautiful, still. But little by little its majesty fades, and I believe that when Gabriel died, Bloody Rose was doomed as well.

  In any event, she did not survive the battle at Conthas. She died a hero, fighting on behalf of people she’d never met for a future she wouldn’t be a part of. And because of that, I suspect, she will have finally attained the immortal
ity she’d been after all her life.

  The bards tell us that we live so long as there are those alive who remember us. In that case, I think it’s safe to say that Bloody Rose will live forever.

  It was growing dark by the time she spied the ruins through the trees ahead. She skirted the battlements until she found the breach where Clay Cooper was said to have stood against a hundred bloodthirsty cannibals. Clay used to joke that he’d only counted ninety-nine, but she guessed both numbers were largely inflated. Saga’s bard hadn’t survived the battle, so the band themselves were left to tell their tale.

  The keep’s gate was barred. That was good. This was the Heartwyld, after all. Fell things lurked in the forest, especially at night. She climbed the pitted stone wall and hauled herself between two mouldering crenellations, wincing as the stitches in her side threatened to tear. She took a running leap over a gap in the ramparts, then came to the crumbling stair that led into the fortress itself. It was dark inside, so she withdrew the spiny shell from her bag and blew into it until its pale pink glow was sufficient to light her way.

  It had been years since she’d walked these halls, but she knew them well. Saga wasn’t the only band that had withstood a siege in this place. While not exactly sure of her destination, she had some idea as to where to find what she was looking for. Or whom, rather.

  She heard a sound—a voice—and straightaway her hands began to shake. Her mouth went dry, and her heart hammered like a sinner seeking refuge behind a chapel door. She saw light ahead, and when she turned the next corner she found two figures seated before a crackling fire. One of them was huge—a burnished bronze construct whose teakettle head was tilted as he listened intently to the excited chatter of his companion. The other was …

  “Wren,” she said.

  The sylf turned. The fire’s light silvered her hair and threw her face into shadow. For a breathless moment, she wondered if the girl would even recognize her.

  “Mommy?”

  She’d forgotten how to breathe—or speak, for that matter—so instead she went to her knees and spread her arms as her daughter hurtled toward her.

  For so many years she had borne the burden of a name not quite her own. She’d been looking forward to living without it—to being Rose again, after all this time. But now, it seemed, she was destined to live by yet another alias.

  Mommy. She smiled, breathing in the freshwater scent of her daughter’s hair. I like the sound of that.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book as an aspiring author and writing as a published one are, I’ve recently come to learn, two very different journeys. You think you’ve got the lay of the land, but in fact the map has changed and you’re wandering blind into a territory you thought you’d conquered.

  Thankfully, there were a few guiding stars I used to keep myself on course, none more constant than my dear friend Eugene, who was endlessly supportive, helpfully critical, and always willing to talk me through a scene, a character, or the whole bloody book if necessary. I’d be hopelessly lost without him.

  Heather Adams (my agent) and Lindsey Hall (my former editor) were both invaluable sources of wisdom. Lindsey pulled double duty as my therapist on several occasions, and I will be forever grateful for our relationship, both as professionals and friends.

  Which brings me to Bradley (my new editor) and Emily (my UK editor). Working with them this time around was an absolute joy. Whether I was fanboying over video game references with Bradley or debating the true meaning of “smirk” with Emily, this book was made so much better because of them. They are both amazing at what they do, and I’m honoured to walk this road alongside them.

  I’m thankful as well to everyone at Orbit who acts as champions for books they so clearly love, and to the artists—Richard Anderson and Tim Paul—whose cover art and maps (respectively) inspire me daily.

  Speaking of champions, I find myself indebted to literally thousands of readers, writers, bloggers, and book reviewers who read Kings of the Wyld and said nice things about it online, or to friends, or in their local bookstores. Special thanks to the members of the Fantasy Faction and Grimdark Fiction Readers and Writers groups on Facebook, and to the communities at r/fantasy and Goodreads. I am so deeply grateful to you all. Also, both Scott McCauley and Felix Ortiz have created some truly beautiful art based on my books, and I am humbled by them both.

  If I listed by name every new friend I’ve made since getting published I’d have the highest daily word count of my life. Instead, I’ll thank Mike, Petros, Petrik, Melanie, Ed, and RJ here, and promise to buy a beer for everyone else when I see them next.

  A great many authors have been tremendously supportive as well (here’s looking at you, Sykes), but Sebastien de Castell and Christian Cameron have each gone above and beyond to offer valuable advice and even-more-treasured friendship over the past year.

  I owe the most, however, to my family, which includes Bryan Cheyne, Natasha McLeod, and the infinitely patient Hilary Cosgrove. My parents continue to be endlessly encouraging and have hand-sold my books like they were Bibles on the eve of Judgement Day. I will never be able to thank them enough for all they’ve done. Also deserving of gratitude are the newest members of my family: my stepsister Angela, my niece Morley, and my nephew Maclean. I love you all, and my life is so much richer for having you in it.

  Lastly, Tyler.

  There aren’t enough words in the world to convey how proud I am of the man you’ve become, and how grateful I am to have been born your brother. I dedicated Bloody Rose to you, but in truth every word of every book, every triumph big and small, is ours to share. I love you, Ty.

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Kristine Cofsky

  NICHOLAS EAMES was born to parents of infinite patience and unstinting support in Wingham, Ontario. Though he attended college for theatre arts, he gave up acting to pursue the much more attainable profession of “epic fantasy novelist.” Kings of the Wyld was his first novel. Nicholas loves black coffee, neat whiskey, the month of October, and video games. He currently lives in Ontario, Canada, and is very probably writing at this moment.

  if you enjoyed

  BLOODY ROSE

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  EMPIRE OF SAND

  by

  Tasha Suri

  A nobleman’s daughter with magic in her blood. An empire built on the dreams of enslaved gods.

  The Amrithi are outcasts; nomads descended of desert spirits, they are coveted and persecuted throughout the Empire for the power in their blood. Mehr is the illegitimate daughter of an imperial governor and an exiled Amrithi mother she can barely remember, but whose face and magic she has inherited. Unbeknownst to her, she can manipulate the dreams of the gods to alter the face of the world.

  When Mehr’s power comes to the attention of the Emperor’s most feared mystics, she is coerced into their service, as they are determined to harness her magic for the glory of the Empire. She must use every ounce of will, subtlety, and power she possesses to resist the mystics’ cruel agenda—and should she fail, the gods themselves may awaken seeking vengeance …

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mehr woke up to a soft voice calling her name. Without thought, she reached a hand beneath her pillow and closed her fingers carefully around the hilt of her dagger. She could feel the smoothness of the large opal embedded in the hilt, and its familiar weight beneath her fingertips calmed her. She sat up and pushed back the layer of gauze surrounding her divan.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  The room was dark apart from one wavering light. As the light approached, Mehr realised it was an oil lantern, held aloft by a maidservant who Mehr knew by sight but not by name. Through the glare of the lit flame, the maidservant’s features looked distorted, her eyes wide with nervousness.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady,” the maid said. “But your sister is asking for you.”

  Mehr paused for a moment. Then she slid off the divan
and wound the sash of her sleep robe tight around her waist.

  “You work in the nursery?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then you should know Lady Maryam won’t be pleased that you’ve come to me,” she said, tucking the dagger into her sash. “If she finds out, you may be punished.”

  The maidservant swallowed.

  “Lady Arwa is asking for you,” she repeated. “She won’t sleep. She’s very distressed, my lady.”

  “Arwa is a child,” Mehr replied. “And children are often distressed. Why risk your position and come to me?”

  The light wavered again as the maidservant adjusted her grip on the lantern.

  “She says there is a daiva watching her,” the maidservant said, voice trembling. “Who else could I come to?”

  Mehr strode over to the maidservant, who flinched back.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sara, my lady,” said the maidservant.

  “Give me the lantern, Sara,” said Mehr. “I don’t need you to light the way.”

  Mehr found Arwa curled up in her nurse Nahira’s lap outside of the nursery, surrounded by a gaggle of frightened maidservants. There was a Haran guardswoman standing by, looking on helplessly with her hand tight on the hilt of her blade. Mehr had some sympathy for her. Steel was no good against daiva, and equally useless in the comforting of distressed women.

  “Mehr!” Arwa cried out, coming to life in the woman’s arms. “You came!”

  The nurse holding on to her had to tighten her grip to keep Arwa in place, now that she was squirming like a landed fish. Mehr kneeled down to meet Arwa at eye level.

  “Of course I’ve come,” said Mehr. “Sara says you saw a daiva?”