by Morgan Rice
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Alistair sat inside Erec’s chamber in the royal house of the sick, beside Dauphine and Erec’s mother, along with a half dozen guards, standing before the door, two feet thick, bolted with sliding iron bars. Alistair sat beside Erec, who still lay sleeping, and held his hand, closing her eyes. She tried to drown out the cheering of the crowd outside, muted behind the stone walls two feet thick, a crowd whipped into a frenzy. It was obvious from the noise that they had been routed, that Bowyer had succeeded in his coup, and that they were cut off, encircled. Bowyer, she knew, would never let them go until Erec was dead and he was King.
Alistair, luckily, had reached Erec’s chamber before the soldiers, barring the doors, insisting on being here by Erec’s side. She looked down at Erec now, and she felt fresh tears roll down her face as she kissed the back of his hand. He was sleeping sweetly, as she knew he would be—with the healing spell she had cast on him, he would not rise for quite some time. When he did, he would still be in a weakened state, in no state to fight these men. She was on her own now.
Given her own weakened state, having used all of her precious energy to heal him, Alistair, try as she did, could not summon any magical powers to help her. She wished now that she had Thor by her side, or any warriors of the Ring, any of the Silver, who she knew would lay down their lives to save Erec. She found it ironic that, now that Erec was here, home with his own people, he was most in danger.
Alistair closed her eyes and focused.
Mother, please help me.
She kept her eyes closed tight, recalling all the dreams she’d had of her mother, of her high up on the cliff, in that castle, feeling her with her. She prayed and prayed.
But nothing came but silence.
Outside, there came a sudden pounding on the door, insistent. It felt like a pounding on her heart.
Alistair rose, crossed the room, and stood by the door. She glanced at Erec’s mother, and Dauphine, who looked back at her in alarm.
“It’s over,” Dauphine said. “Now not only will my brother die, but we shall die with him. We should have taken flight when we had the chance.”
“Then Erec would be dead,” Alistair replied.
Dauphine shook her head.
“Erec will die anyway. Three women cannot stop an army. But if we had fled, we could have survived to assemble our own men for vengeance.”
Alistair shook her head.
“If Erec dies, vengeance does not mean a thing. If he dies, I die with him.”
“You might just get your wish,” his mother said.
The pounding on the door came again and again, until it finally stopped and one distinct voice rang out above all others.
“Alistair, we know you are in there,” boomed the voice.
Alistair recognized it immediately as Bowyer’s. He sounded so close, yet so far away, the door so thick, there was no way he could knock it down.
“Bring him out to us,” Bowyer continued, “and you shall all live. Keep him in there, and you will die with him. We cannot break down these doors, but we will trap you in. You will sit there, for days, and you will starve a painful death. There is no way out. Hand Erec to us and we shall grant you pardon and send you on the sea back to your homeland. I will not make this gracious offer twice.”
Alistair stared at the door, seething, burning with the indignity of it all. They had caught her at a vulnerable moment, and now, as they knew, she was helpless.
But she would not give up on Erec. Not now. Never.
“If it is a murder you want,” she boomed back, “if a life needs to be taken, then take mine!”
There came a murmur from the other side.
“Alistair, what are you saying?” his mother asked. But Alistair ignored her.
“By your own laws,” she continued, “without a Queen, a King cannot be King—so if you take my life, you shall render Erec powerless. Kill me, and become King yourself. My life for his. That is the only deal I shall offer.”
There came a long silence, and a murmur on the other side of the door, until finally, Bowyer’s voice boomed again: “Agreed!” he called out. “Your life for Erec’s!”
Alistair nodded, satisfied.
“Agreed!” she called out.
Alistair took a deep breath, braced herself, and stepped forward, reaching for the iron bolt—and as she did, she felt a hand on her wrist.
She turned to see Erec’s mother standing there, her eyes welling with tears.
“You don’t need to do this,” she said softly.
Alistair’s teared up, too.
“My life to me is not half as important as Erec’s,” she said. “I can think of no better way to die than to die for him.”
Erec’s mother wept as Alistair stepped forward and the guards gently pulled his mother back. She pulled back the heavy iron bolt, the sound reverberating in the stone room, and swung open the thick door.
Alistair found herself facing Bowyer, glaring back, standing but a few feet away. Behind him stood hundreds of soldiers holding weapons, a sea of hostile faces. They all grew quiet, shocked at Alistair’s presence.
Alistair stepped boldly through the open door, right for them, and they all parted ways and took a step back, as she walked right up to Bowyer. She stood there, a foot away from him, their eyes locked, each defiant.
There came the sound of the heavy doors slamming shut behind her, the bolt sliding back into place. She was now all alone out here, but she took comfort in the fact that Erec was safe inside.
“You are braver than I thought,” Bowyer finally said in the long, thick silence. “Your courage will lead to your death.”
Alistair stared back, calm and expressionless, unable to be shaken.
“Death is fleeting,” she replied. “Courage is eternal.”
They locked eyes and Alistair could see in Bowyer’s expression, hidden beneath the anger, a look of awe.
Alistair held her hands out before her, and several soldiers rushed forward and bound them with ropes. There came a cheer from the crowd, as she felt herself pushed from behind, led past the cheering crowd, following the torchlit street into the cold black night, on her way to her execution.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Romulus stood at the bow of his ship, hands on hips, and stared out at the looming shores of the Empire, and felt mixed feelings. On the one hand, he had been, in a sense, victorious, having done what Andronicus and no other Empire commander had ever been able to do—conquer and occupy the Ring. It was a feat that none of his predecessors could accomplish, and for that, he felt he should be celebrated, a returning hero. After all, now there was not a dot left on earth that did not belong to the Empire.
On the other hand, his wars had cost him dearly—too dearly. He had embarked from the Empire with a hundred thousand ships, and now he returned with a fleet of but three. He felt rage and humiliation at the thought of it. He knew he had Thorgrin to blame, whatever mysterious power he held, and of course that rebellious girl, Gwendolyn. Romulus vowed to one day capture and flay them both alive. He would make them pay for forcing him to return in humiliation to his homeland.
Romulus knew that, any way he tried to spin it, his returning with only three ships was a show of weakness. It left him vulnerable to revolt, and he knew that his first order of business would be to restore his fleet immediately. Which was why he had sailed here, first, to this northern city, to Volusia, before making his grand return to the Southern capital. He would replenish his fleet, and then return with all the pageantry he could muster. He would need it to consolidate the Empire. He looked about and saw the hundreds of gleaming ships in the harbor and knew that for the right price, any of them were for sale.
Volusia. Romulus looked out and studied this city by the sea as the tides pulled his meager three ships into the harbor, and he felt a fresh wave of resentment. The northern provinces of the Empire had always felt superior, had always reluctantly followed the commands of the Southern capital.
It was an uneasy alliance, subject to flare ups every dozen years. Volusia, in Romulus’s mind, should have been complacent and quick to obey, like all other Empire provinces; instead, it was filled with the overly rich and indulgent leaders of the northern hemisphere, and ruled by that awful old Queen, with whom he had clashed more than once. Romulus could think of nothing he could despise more than having to see her ugly face while he haggled with her over buying a fleet of ships. He knew of her greed, and he had come prepared, his holds filled with gold. He hated being in this position of weakness.
Even worse, Romulus glanced up at the sky, saw no trace of the moon, and worried for the millionth time about that sorcerer’s spell. His moon cycle was over, his period of invincibility had ended, and that, more than anything, terrified Romulus, left him feeling weak and vulnerable. He opened and closed his fists, flexed his muscles, and as he did, he felt no less weak, still felt the strength rippling through his muscles. He had no dragons left to do his bidding, but that did not matter now. The dragons were dead, and while he did not have them, no one else did, either. He had been a great warrior all his life, he reminded himself, even without the spell, and he saw no reason why, being back to his old self, he would be vulnerable.
Romulus tried not to think of the sorcerer’s words, of his agreeing to that grand bargain, of giving up his soul to a dark devil in return for the moon cycle of strength he had been granted. Perhaps if he returned to that sorcerer’s cave, he would grant him another cycle of power. And if not, perhaps if Romulus killed the man, that would end his bargain. Romulus warmed up at the thought—yes, perhaps killing the man would be the best route after all.
Romulus, feeling optimistic again, shaking off his fears, looked out at the approaching city, and he smiled for the first time. The Queen might have the advantage now, might take all his gold, but he would get his ships. And once he had them, he would return to this place, this city on the sea, when they least expected it, and set it to fire. First he would murder every last one of them. He would take back all of his gold and use it to create an immense, golden statue of himself, standing at the shore, and pointing at the sea.
Romulus smiled wide, happy at the thought. This would shape up to be a great morning after all.
Trumpets sounded all up and down the harbor, and Romulus saw Volusia’s troops lining up on all sides, dressed in their finest, standing at attention, waiting to greet him. This was the sort of welcome he deserved. He knew they feared and respected the Southern capital, and yet Romulus couldn’t recall Volusia welcoming him so warmly in the past. Perhaps these people had changed their tune, and had decided to step in line; perhaps they feared him more than he realized. Maybe, he thought, he would not burn down the city after all. Maybe he would just rape their women and steal their gold.
Romulus grinned as he imagined it in great detail, as their ship pulled up to the harbor, dozens of troops casting out gold-plated plank to his ship, as his men anchored their ship.
Romulus marched across it, strutting proudly, pleased at the welcome he was receiving, realizing that it would be easier than he thought to get the ships he needed. Perhaps they had heard of his conquest of the Ring, and had realized he was supreme leader after all.
Romulus stepped onto the docks, and dozens of soldiers parted ways, bowing their heads in respect. Romulus looked up and saw in the center of the crowd, hoisted up on a carriage of shining gold, the leader of Volusia. Her carriage was lowered, and Romulus expected to see the wrinkled old woman he had last seen years ago.
He was shocked to see a young, strikingly gorgeous girl, looking to be hardly eighteen years of age, staring back at him. She looked strikingly like the former Queen.
Romulus was completely caught off guard, something which rarely happened to him, as he stared back at this girl who stepped down off her carriage and walked proudly up to him, flanked by dozens of her soldiers. She stood but a few feet away, and stared at him without speaking. As he studied her features carefully, Romulus realized that she could be no other than the former Queen’s daughter.
He suddenly flared up with anger, realizing he was being slighted by the Queen, sending out her daughter to greet him.
“Where is your mother?” Romulus demanded, indignant.
The girl remained poised, though, and stared back calmly.
“My mother of whom you speak is long dead,” she replied. “I have killed her.”
Romulus was shocked at her words, and even more so, by how deep, dark, and forceful her voice was. He studied her, caught off guard by her strong tongue, by her confident manner, by her deep, dark voice, by her sinister black eyes, and by her beauty. She wielded it like a weapon. He’d never encountered such strength before, male or female, in any commander, citizen, sorcerer—anyone. She was like an ancient warrior trapped in a young girl’s body.
As Romulus studied her, slowly, he smiled wide, recognizing a kindred soul. She had killed her mother, no doubt had ruthlessly seized power for herself, and he admired that greatly. He made a mental note to find some pretext to stay the night here in this capital. He would feast with her. And when she least expected it, he would attack her, and have his fill of her.
“And what is your name, my dear princess?” he asked, taking a step forward, standing straighter, flexing his chest muscles, glistening in the sun, getting uncomfortably close to her so that she could understand the power and might of the Great Romulus.
She smiled back, and she surprised him: instead of backing away, as most people would, she stepped up closer to him.
“It is one you shall never forget,” she said, whispering in his ear.
Romulus felt his skin tingling as she came closer, and he gawked at her beauty, his entire body flushing at the sight of her. Already, he realized, she was throwing herself at him—it would make tonight even easier.
“And why is that?” he asked.
She leaned in even closer, her soft, sensual lips brushing his ear.
“Because it is the last word you shall hear in your life.”
Romulus looked down at her, blinking, confused, trying to process what she was saying—and a second too late, he noticed something in her hand, gleaming the sun. It was a dagger, shining gold, the thinnest, sharpest dagger he’d ever seen, and with lightning speed, Volusia drew it from her belt, spun around completely, and sliced his throat so fast, so sharply, he barely felt it happen.
Romulus, in shock, looked down and watched his own blood splatter down his chest, steaming hot, across the stone, collecting in a pool at his feet. He looked up and saw Volusia standing there, facing him calmly, emotionless, as if nothing had just happened. Her dark, evil eyes burned into his soul, as he raised his hand to his throat to try to stop the blood.
But it was too little, too late. It flowed across his hands, across his body, and he felt himself growing weak, dropping to his knees, staring up at her helplessly. He saw her black eyes staring down at him, knowing his life was ending, and he could not believe, of all things, that he had died here, in this place, that he had been killed at the hands of a girl, a young brazen girl, whose name, she was right, he would never forget. As his skull smashed down into the stone, it was her name, ringing in his ears, that was his final thought, a death knell, escorting him to hell.
Volusia.
Volusia.
Volusia.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Darius walked with a smile on his face, a buoyancy to his step as he hurried through the winding streets of his village, greeting the day, preparing for another day of labor.
“What are you so happy about?” asked Raj, walking beside him with a dozen other boys as they prepared for another day of backbreaking labor.
“Yeah, what’s gotten into you?” asked Desmond.
Darius tried to hide his smile as he looked down and did not say anything. These boys would not understand. He did not want to tell them about his date with Loti, did not want to say that he had found the love of his life, the girl he intended to mar
ry, a girl who affected him like no other. He did not want to share with them that he felt he now had something to look forward to, that the blow of the Empire no longer bothered him as much. Because Darius knew that when he got the day off, she would be there, waiting for him; they had planned to rendezvous again that night, and he could think of nothing else.
Last night had been magical; Loti had blown him away with her pride and dignity—and most of all, her love for life. She had a way about her of rising above it all: it was as if she were not a slave, as if she did not lead a life of hardship. It inspired Darius, had made him realize he could change his life, could change his surroundings, just by perceiving it differently.
But Darius held his tongue; his friends would not understand.
“Nothing,” Darius said. “It’s nothing at all.”
The group of them were about to turn down the road for the hills, when there came a sudden wail, a cry of grief, coming from the village center; he and the other boys turned and looked. There was something about that wail that caught Darius’s attention, something that compelled him to turn and investigate.
“Where are you going?” Raj asked him. “We will be late.”
Darius ignored him, following his instinct, and saw all the members of his village filtering toward the town center, and he joined them.
Darius made his way to the open clearing and saw sitting before the well, a woman whom he was shocked to recognize.
It was Loti’s mother. She knelt there, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, weeping, alternately holding her palms up to the sky and laying them on her thighs as she bowed her head low, a woman in agony. A woman in grief.
