by Bo Burnette
Eamon’s knotted forearms guided the sword of Reinhold with powerful precision, slashing through each of Thane’s cuts and breaking against his guards. Arliss could see that the berserking rage of battle had filled Eamon. He spun the fight into a scintillating whirlwind.
Fatigue strung through her limbs, but she forced herself on. Her last arrow lay atop the arrow rest, its feathered nock brushing against her right hand.
The next few moments came too quickly for Arliss to comprehend, to react, to respond. Thane cut through Eamon’s sword, forcing Eamon’s sword arm wide. For a brief second Eamon’s torso opened, unguarded.
That was all Thane needed. He jerked his elbow back and thrust his sword through Eamon’s stomach.
Arliss choked on her own scream.
Eamon staggered backwards. Thane withdrew his sword, and Eamon fell back onto the snowy ground. The white powder began to stain with red.
Arliss forgot the battle. She forgot her weapon. She even forgot Thane. All she knew was that she stumbled across the uneven plain toward Eamon’s fallen body. She dropped her bow as she fell to her knees beside him.
He struggled for each breath. “Arliss…you’re here…you made it.”
She reached for his hand. Breath gasped through her lungs in sobbing intervals. “Yes. I did.”
She glanced at the wound. It was beyond saving—beyond healing. Even the vial in her satchel—if it could be opened—would do no good for such a deep wound. A lesser warrior would have passed on already. But Eamon kept holding on, kept tightening his grip on her hand. His skin paled, but his eyes sharpened into hers.
“I am sorry,” he said. “If I had acted before now, things may well have been different. But I cared too much for my own reputation.”
“Eamon, if it wasn’t for you, Reinhold would have been extinguished before the battle even began. You are our hero.”
He almost smiled. “It’s been a long time since anyone thought of me as a hero.” His eyes suddenly grew cold and grim. “Arliss, my time has ended. I need you to swear to me.”
“Anything.”
“Stand by my sons. Treat them as your own brothers.”
Arliss shivered. “I will.”
“Also, I want you to promise me you will never stop fighting. Never stop exploring. The evil of Anmór is greater than you imagine. They will try to corrupt all the lands. You must not let that happen.”
Arliss felt his grip loosening. “I promise you, I will not.”
Eamon relaxed and lay back against the snow. “There’s one more thing. Orlando…is not who he seems. You must find out the truth. And do not make my mistakes.” His eyes started to shut. “Forgive him.”
Then he was gone.
Arliss closed her eyes, but the world around her began to fade back in. The battle ignored her grief; it roused her from it. She pressed her lips to Eamon’s cold forehead. Then she turned and stumbled to her feet.
Thane stood five paces away, his sword pointed towards her, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile. “So it comes down to only us two.”
Arliss wrenched her expression tight to restrain her anguish. “How? How can you do this? How can you pour out death on everyone—and not even notice?”
“He stood in my way, so I removed him. Just as I am about to do with you. Then your father, your mother, your lords, your friends.” He rubbed his lips together. “Philip.”
Her frozen fingers shook around her last arrow. “Perhaps you will kill me. But I will kill you first—before you harm any one of them. You have taken both my uncles from me.” Noise, darkness, and pain blurred her mind. “I don’t like killing. But I revel in the thought of your death. You were a man once—capable of change, of repentance. I saw that man myself. But you’ve changed so utterly you can never turn back. Your conscience is seared. Your good is wickedness. And your death is justice.”
Thane raised his sword. “You cannot kill me. You are alone.”
“No,” a smooth voice behind her said. “She isn’t.”
Orlando stepped forth on her left, Philip on her right. Orlando held his knives out at his sides. Philip wielded the long sword Orlando had been carrying.
Arliss cast Orlando a bewildered glance. How had he come to their side?
It didn’t matter. He had. And now they had to kill Thane.
She had to kill Thane.
It had to be her. She was the only child of a king among them.
Thane easily fought with both of the young men at once, his face and sword twisting in anger. Arliss stepped back, trying to find a place to stick her arrow. Not only could she not miss, but she could not be off by a finger’s breadth. The shot had to kill.
Their weapons moved too quickly. She didn’t trust her own skills to shoot without shooting one of her allies.
Thane roared and swept a wide cut through his opponents. The blow ripped Orlando’s knives from his hands, and the end of the slice gashed into Philip’s side. Philip lurched back. Thane threw a punch into Orlando’s head, then toppled him completely with a boot in his stomach.
Orlando collapsed by Eamon’s body. Not far away, Philip held his wounded side, blood seeping through his fingers.
And Arliss faced Thane alone.
She raised her bow.
He thrust his sword.
She pulled the arrow back.
His sword plunged through her bow and towards her heart.
She ducked and started to released the arrow.
The bow gave a hideous snap as Thane’s sword severed the string. It fell from Arliss’s hands, upright and useless. She gasped. She had no weapon—no help—nothing.
Thane laughed, a gravelly sound that grated in her ears. “As I said. I kill you first, then Philip, then Orlando.” Thane glared towards his former apprentice. “Then the rest.”
She clenched her empty fists at her sides. “Tell me the truth about him.”
He stalked closer. “About whom?”
“About Orlando. Eamon said he was not who he seems to be.”
Orlando’s eyelids fluttered open as he watched the exchange from behind Thane’s back. Arliss caught his eye, then fixed her gaze on Thane.
He smirked. “You want to know? I may as well tell you all, since you’re about to die.”
Her frozen lips trembled. “Tell me.”
“Merna entrusted me with a secret when she entrusted me with Orlando. She has always been very concerned about him having good training, but also about him remaining a secret. She has a personal interest in the matter, as does her husband.”
“What is it?”
“King Merwin, many years ago, did some foolish things. The result of one of those was a son, born by a simple prostitute of Anmór. Merna despised him for it, and she despised the child, but for her own posterity she ensured the child’s safety and training, as long as he never came to light.”
Arliss felt like she was sinking.
“And there he is: Orlando, illegitimate son of King Merwin of Anmór, half-brother of Prince Ríon, and half-heir to the throne.”
Orlando lay flat against the snow. “Why…why? Could you never tell me that?”
Thane refused to look at him. “Because you are mine! You are not Merwin’s, you are not Merna’s—you are mine! And if you knew, you would try to be free of me.”
“He is already free of you,” Arliss said.
“He will never be free! He has never been free!”
Orlando’s eyes flicked. He reached silently towards Eamon’s body.
Thane pointed the sword at Arliss’s chest. “Do you have any last words, princess?”
She tried to keep her gaze on Thane, to not glance in Orlando’s direction. She summoned up her full height. “Do you, Thane?”
Orlando stabbed the sword of Reinhold into Thane’s back. It plunged deep, finally piercing through the front of Thane’s breastplate. Blood spurted onto the metal surface. The sword stabbed to its hilt.
Thane’s breath disappeared in a puff of smoke. His eyes b
ulged wide as he fell forward upon the snow. Orlando pulled the blade from his back.
Orlando’s hands trembled as he gazed at Arliss. “It’s done. The evil of Thane is over.”
She shuddered, managing a nod. “You are free.”
The bliss of liberty washed over his mind, setting his heart on fire. A surge of joy spread through his chilled limbs. “Yes. I am free.”
Arliss breathed a sigh. Then her face tensed. She turned and dropped to where Philip lay on the snow.
Chapter Forty-eight: Into Legend
THE BATTLE WAS OVER.
THAT FACT SLOWLY REGISTERED in Arliss’s subconscious, the truth of it spreading throughout her being. Thane was dead. His leaderless troops cowered like animals beneath Kenton’s onslaught. All around the plains, Ríon, Clare, Erik, Ilayda, and the rest crushed remaining troops and toppled enemy chariots.
Arliss fell to her knees in the snow beside Philip. Thane’s sword had cut through the side of Philip’s jerkin and chain mail shirt. Blood now seeped quickly from the wound.
She panicked, but only for a moment. She tore off one of the sections of her slit skirt and wedged it against his side. His blood stained the fabric darker.
Philip drifted in and out of consciousness. He had lost much blood. She stared at his face—pale and lean as he lay there, his eyebrows twisting in subconscious pain. He couldn’t speak to her, or even look back, but that was somehow refreshing to her. She could gaze at him the way she once had, without qualm or quarrel.
He was handsome. A year ago, she hadn’t cared. More recently, she had tried to ignore it. Now, she let herself admit the simple fact. Smooth chestnut hair framed a face with angular cheekbones and a strong jaw. His cheeks dimpled subtly, even without his usual grin.
Not many days ago, he had told her that he couldn’t live without her—that he was incomplete without her. She had ignored him. She had thought herself sufficient. How could she have been so foolish?
What was this feeling—this longing for him to stay, for him not to die? If his wound didn’t stop bleeding…if help didn’t come… And even if it did, what if it didn’t come soon enough?
She realized she hadn’t breathed for some time, so she inhaled. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I am going to say this anyway. I’m sorry for how I’ve been. I know I haven’t been the only pig between the two of us, but I have been one. And I am not afraid to say that you were right. But you were also wrong. I’m incomplete without you.”
His face relaxed.
“You said that we couldn’t keep going on as we always have. You told me we had to change and grow. And now I have changed—I have grown, and—” Arliss tried to hold onto her breath. “Now you’re leaving me.”
Orlando knelt beside her. She had almost forgotten he was there. His dark eyebrows pressed together as he offered her the sword of Reinhold. He had cleaned it of Thane’s blood, and now he handed it to her pommel-first. “You know what this does?”
She shook her head.
Orlando ran his finger around the pommel’s circling strands. “It’s a key, made for only one lock. Where is the vial?”
Arliss drew it from her satchel. It had no lid or stopper, only a spherical indentation with circling grooves. They matched perfectly the ones on the sword’s pommel.
She fit the vial onto the sword and twisted it tight. A metallic click resounded through the air, and a luscious, reddish scent spread through the cold air around them. Another smell underlaid it—the thick, sweet aroma of Lasairbláth.
Arliss bent over Philip, peeling back the bloodstained silk. She let a few drops from the vial trickle out onto the wound.
The bleeding stopped—quickly, but not all at once, rather like a glass window slowly frosting over. Clots of tissue webbed their way across the gash and stemmed the tide.
Philip coughed and opened his eyes. Their multicolored centers blurred before focusing on Arliss. “You’ve changed,” he said. “But somehow you’re still the same. You’re complete.”
The first rim of sunrise matched the flame that flicked at the tip of Arliss’s arrow. She took a heavy breath of clean, cool air and raised her bow until the flame touched the red on the horizon.
Not far from where she stood, a mound of fresh dirt lay packed over Eamon’s grave. The mound shone in the first reaching fingers of the sun. Beyond it, an unlit brazier towered, casting a long shadow back in the direction of Arliss and the crowd gathered behind her.
This was the tradition of the clan of Reinhold. When a great warrior died, the closest woman from among his kin would fire an arrow and light a torch over his resting place. Then the funeral party would linger around the grave until the flame died out.
Cold seared every inch of Arliss’s body, but the flame warmed her grip hand. She started to release her arrow. Something held her back—a song which suddenly leapt to her lips.
“Of all the comrades that e’er I had
They’re sorry for my going away
And all the family that e’er I had
They’d wish me one more day to stay.”
She forced herself to take a breath, to hold back her tears. The arrow had to be shot soon, or it would burn itself out. The crowd behind her hushed, listening to the princess’s song. She altered the last words slightly.
“But since it falls into my lot
That you should rise and I should not
I’ll gently rise and softly call,
‘Good-night, and joy be to you all!’”
Arliss wept for Eamon: the explorer, the brother, the uncle, the hero. And she released her arrow.
The brazier caught flame. Firelight illuminated and warmed the area around the grave. Snow still blanketed the ground, and it showed no sign of relenting, but somehow in the sunrise it looked more beautiful than it had in the death of midnight.
Arliss hooked her bow in its usual place around her torso. She stared westward: first at Eamon’s grave, then the blazing torch, then the crimson horizon. Her mind traveled even further beyond that: to the Isle of Light, the tossing sea, and the grand realm of Anmór. She had seen the realms beyond. She had seen their beauty, their hate, their history, their judgment.
Kenton threw a thick blanket around her from behind and stepped beside her. “So passes a hero into legend.”
Arliss nodded. “I’m sorry you did not have more time with him.”
He closed his eyes, smiling. “I gave my brother up for dead years ago. To see him even one more time—to grasp him to me, to hear his voice—is a gift enough. It was as if he was resurrected at the last for my own joy.”
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. For the first time in hours, she finally could truly feel again. She could feel how tired and hungry she had become. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she’d slept at all.
The funeral party had dispersed—some walking around the grave, some pacing across the snow. Arliss saw a mane of brown hair swishing in the snowfall some distance from the grave. Ilayda stood alone, without cloak or hood. She refused every comfort, even that of Arliss’s company. Arliss guessed well enough what had broken between her and Brallaghan.
Arliss blinked slowly. “Where are Ríon and Clare?”
“They left with Fiach and Finín at first light, rowing back down the river on your ship,” Kenton said. “I offered it to them in exchange for the aid they gave us.”
Arliss sighed. “I wish they would have all stayed. But I know that this land is now a place of grief for Eamon’s sons.”
Kenton nodded. “And Ríon said he had to return to his own country before his people became suspicious.”
“Queen Merna will suspect something anyway. She was allied with Thane. She provided him with supplies, troops. Once she finds out…”
Kenton was grim. “Reinhold would do well to mind its own business.”
Arliss tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “We can’t do that anymore, though. I walked through Anmór. I met their people. And I saw the
other clan as well, through one man of Ikarra, Sir Harrison.”
“It is as I knew you would. You found the truth. You saw the past.”
“I wasn’t seeing the past, though. I was seeing the future.”
“The future?”
“Our futures are all connected: Reinhold, Anmór, Ikarra. I do not know how. But I do know they will be, perhaps even in my lifetime.” She turned her gaze north. “Harrison gave me a promise that the friendship between our clans would be renewed. I sent greetings to their princess. She had a beautiful name, though I can’t remember it anymore. Perhaps something will come of that.”
“Perhaps.” Kenton stared into the blaze.
Behind them, Philip approached and cleared his throat. His side was swathed in bandages beneath his jerkin, but he looked well enough. She beamed in his direction.
He grinned back, but there was something hesitant beneath it. He seemed to be struggling to speak.
She waited, her eyes trying to ask questions of his.
“We’ve had quite the adventure, haven’t we?” Philip finally managed.
“Yes,” she said. “Beyond anything either of us would have dreamed up.”
He stepped closer, his boots crunching down snow. “Would you like to have another adventure, Arliss, my dear princess?”
Her heart palpitated within her chest. “What sort of adventure?”
“The adventure of a lifetime. Of my lifetime. Of your lifetime. Of our lifetime.” Philip knelt before her, tilting his head to look her in the eyes. “Would you allow the simple carpenter to have the princess as his own?”
She gazed down at him, hardly sure whether to laugh or to cry. She thought of every adventure they had experienced together, every hardship they had endured, every battle they had won. She thought of the friendships they had built together: Orlando with his newfound freedom, Erik with his unswerving loyalty, Ilayda with her crushed spirit. She thought of the city and the lives which would have to be rebuilt.
