Crown of Crimson

by Rose Reid

  And who shouldn’t have had to dig him back up.

  I am covered in dirt when I am finished. I look down into the grave to see the tattered remains of Northam. I suck in a silent breath. He is unrecognizable. A tear from his jaw to his belly exposes blood and gore, as if a beast took its claw and drug it down the middle of him. I have seen some bloody things before but I nearly have to back away from this one.

  Gresham and I carry Northam’s ragged body to the others, laying him there. When I look up at Gresham I wonder if he is imagining what will become of his brother’s body. The beasts of the expanse will find it, tear at it, but because of Northam’s sacrifice, his brother will live.

  “Time to go.” Lyom calls.

  We all nod and move to the horses. Mine is still here, tied to a tree. We are missing one and I assume it either escaped or was killed by the beasts, though where the servicemen buried it I am not sure.

  I run my hand over my mare’s neck, patting her down. Dust kicks up from her coat as she shakes, sending a cloud of smut into the air. Some of it gets in my mouth and dries my throat instantly. I cough to get it out and drag her away from the increasing cloud of dust. When I look up I find Lyom untacking one of the horses.

  “What are you doing?” I ask curiously.

  Lyom takes the saddle off the stallion’s back and the horse shakes wildly. Lyom fans the dust away from his face before removing the bridle from behind the horses ears, dropping the bit into his hand.

  “Releasing him.” Lyom explains, looking back at me. “We don’t need him.” He nods to my horse. “Mount up.”

  “And Dominik?” I ask as I mount.

  “He’ll ride.” He nods to the hulking brute that hardly looks qualified to be considered a lithe swordsman. “Carnahan will handle him.”

  I give Lyom a look. “I still need to learn the location of Laderic.” It is an excuse, I know, but it is all that is keeping Dominik alive until I can be sure of what he is and what he has done.

  Lyom walks to his horse, untying him, and mounts up. Judging from the disenchanted expression on his face, I assume he still believes I will not kill him. He may be right.

  “If you refuse to kill him now then we must ride a ways from this location. When we stop you may get your information out of him. But, Aerietta —”

  “Understood, Swordmaster.” I say, turning my mare and cantering to Jamas where I wait until Lyom leads the company out.

  We take off at a quick speed and I am surprised Dominik and his horse manage to keep pace. At any moment I expect to see his horse, which appears malnourished and exhausted, to collapse beneath him and Dominik to be dragged after Carnahan by his chains. Still he manages to ride closely to Carnahan, who would not mind dragging him.

  Before my mind can wonder what is going through Dominik’s head, I remind myself that it is either him or me. I kick my mare faster as if I can escape the thoughts that lead me to spare Dominik’s life in the first place.

  XIX

  “I should have asked why any room in the house was better than home to me when she entered it, and barren as a desert when she went out again—why I always noticed and remembered the little changes in her dress that I had noticed and remembered in no other woman’s before—why I saw her, heard her, and touched her (when we shook hands at night and morning) as I had never seen, heard, and touched any other woman in my life?”

  — Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White

  Our horses move swiftly, the strong wind ripping and tearing at us as we attempt to cover ground before nightfall. Judging from our quick pace Lyom will want to continue through the night, meaning that Dominik has at least one more night to live. In the middle of the day no creatures or beasts of the night dare attack but come nightfall everything will change.

  As we ride I mentally concoct ways of luring the truth out of Dominik. I do want to know where Laderic is, but I also want to know what he had to do with my capture and betrayal. Despite all that I have seen and all that has happened I cannot bring myself to believe that Dominik betrayed me. Not anymore.

  Ugh. Why must this assignment be different than others I have completed in the past? Why must this be someone who already knows my tricks and ploys? It makes no difference, I suppose. I simply have to be craftier, wilier. I will have to be better at deception than the cunning Dominik, whose tricks and illusions have always been his strength.

  I don’t even know exactly what information I wish to extract from him. I suppose I want to know about the Afterlight world … if he knows anything about it. I want to know if he knows what a Riser is or why there are whisperers in my head. I don’t know what makes me believe he will have any of these answers but … in truth I think I just want to prolong his life a few days more, give myself time to consider what this means.

  Back when I first had the assignment to kill him, I imagined myself walking up to him and slitting his throat without a second thought. I might have been horrified later, might have wept and cried myself to sleep, but then I would have remembered all the families that were lost to the Evrallonic raid. I would have remembered my own father, King Cress, dying before me while Dominik, Cicero, Sebastien, and Laderic watched, knowing they were the cause of his death. My father may not have been active in my life or cared at all about me, but there is something that will always connect a father to his daughter, no matter how cruel one — or both — of them might be.

  Ahead I watch as Lyom’s horse begins to slow. I pull back lightly on my mare’s reins, catching a glimpse of a sparkling pool of water. Lyom’s stallion slows to a trot as Lyom glances around the area, making sure we are alone. I do the same, watching the burnt trees, the dried shrubs, even the flat landscape, as it is not unheard of for creatures of the Menca Denu to have camouflage.

  In the distance, my gaze catches on greenery. A forest, then. Not the Forest, or even an entrance to the Afterlight realm for certain, but one can never be too sure when int the Menca Denu.

  The sounds of the expanse are cicadas, the wind now rushing, and the distant twit of a bird flying overhead. The cicadas, however, are the most prominent sound to be heard. I’m surprised such a creature can survive here with such little green substance for them to eat.

  My gaze scans the horizon, watching for any sign of movement apart from the wind whispering beneath the low-hanging branches of briers and undergrowth. A horse beside me stomps its foot in either impatience or an attempt to shoo a pesky fly away.

  I am the first to dismount, leading my horse to the cool pool of water. It is smaller than I would have liked for it to be; all the horses will not be able to drink to their fill. I stand aside and let my horse guzzle the water, nearly shoving her whole head into the pool. Dominik is forced to stay on his horse while Carnahan wanders off to relieve himself — fortunately a great distance away.

  Dominik’s horse is just as sweaty as the rest of them, nostrils flaring as he takes in deep breaths. When my horse moves aside, Dominik’s thrusts his whole muzzle into the water, taking in large gulps.

  “Your leg?” prods Dominik.

  I have the urge to check the bandage I wrapped around it but think better of it, knowing Lyom will want Carnahan to “take a look at it” and I would likely strangle the life out of him — or perhaps break his other arm — before he could and Lyom would be disgruntled by it.

  “Fine.” I answer.

  Dominik sighs. “Infection will set in if you are not careful.”

  I laugh quietly. How did Dominik ever survive as an assassin? How did I manage to keep him alive on assignments? He is too kindhearted for his own good. Even now he fears for my health, warning me of the infection that may or may not set in without proper care, despite knowing that I plan to kill him.

  “Thank you, I’m aware.” I shake my head as if dismayed in hopes that Dominik can read my thoughts, know that I’m more than curious as to how he has managed to survive thus far. “How did you do it? You aren’t like me, yet you managed to make it from Lydovier’s shores to
sweep through Evrallon like a storm, then make it through the Menca Denu and into Adaai …” I can hear the incredulity in my voice. “How?”

  Dominik shakes his head. “Etta, you don’t have to be cruel to survive.”

  I huff a half laugh. “What a naïve sentiment.” Yet I wish it were true.

  Dominik looks despondent and leans down closer to me and takes one of my hands, which shocks me enough that I take a step back.

  “Let me prove it to you.” Dominik urges. “You needn’t serve the Cruel King. This is not what Quay would have wanted.”

  I quickly snatch my hand back, sneering at him. “You lost the ability to tell me of Quay’s wishes when you left me in Lydovier.”

  “I tried to wait for you,” Dominik insists. “Laderic was afraid you had already been taken in the tunnels.”

  Drawing my shoulders back I begin to turn away, giving Dominik a cold glare over my shoulder. “I’ve never been one for unnecessary drama, Dominik. Save your excuses for a fool.”

  I begin to walk to my horse when I notice Lyom’s unattended, his saddlebags in plain sight. Curiosity immediately bubbles up as I remember what he keeps in his saddlebags — that infernal sketchbook he continues to draw in daily. I notice him taking it out, sketching in it or plotting courses, whatever he is doing.

  My gaze lands on Lyom who is going through the gathered weapons with Jamas, since we had little time to do it this morning. Occupied and away from his saddlebag, the journal is unattended. Unable to hold myself back, I stealthily dart across the expanse between his horse and me, slipping to the other side of the bronze stallion, who is not particularly thrilled with my presence. Forgetting Dominik entirely, I unlatch the leather saddlebag and look at the contents inside.

  Within the saddlebag is a rolled up parchment, a loaf of bread I procured from the bazaar this morning, dark powder in a glass bottle, and a strange-looking silver stick. Shoving it all aside I search for the journal, waiting for my fingers to stumble across the leather cover and binding of it. When the first saddlebag proves unprofitable, I move to the one on the other side of his sorrel stallion, careful not to be kicked.

  This time when I open the saddlebag the first item I see is the journal, a charcoal pencil resting atop it. Before I take the sketchbook from its resting place I shoot a quick look over my shoulder to be sure Lyom is still preoccupied. I greedily reach in and take out the sketchbook, slipping to the other side of the stallion again before flipping it open to the most recent etching.

  Immediately I frown. It is nothing but markings, scribblings, really. I suppose one could call them designs. Letters, perhaps? They are symbols, several drawn across the page, and beside them are letters forming strange words in a language I’ve never even seen before. I make a face of annoyance and reach to touch the drawings but a strange electricity runs through my fingertips. I instantly retract my hand and stare in confusion at the page. What shocked me?

  I carefully turn the page over, fearful that the shock will return. When it doesn’t I flip the page back and find more of the same strange symbols. What in the world is Lyom doing sketching peculiar characters?

  I flip through the pages, finding that they are all similar, though different characters and marks line each page. There are no sketches of valleys and rivers as I would have expected, no routes charted on the thick pages of the sketchpad, no records of our assignment kept. I am about to return the journal to its place in the saddlebag, frustrated with my fruitless efforts, when I make it to the beginning. My hand stills.

  On the first page of the sketchbook lies the depiction of a woman standing on a balcony, her dress pale in comparison to the dark charcoal used to color in the night sky behind her. She stands to the side, head down as if she is either in deep thought and contemplation or she is fixing the hem of her dress around her bare ankles. The dress itself is nothing more than a nightgown, a foot longer than the woman’s knees, but beautiful designs embroider it in lighter swirls and marks.

  The woman’s hair is dark, flowing around the other side of her head so that her face can be clearly seen. Though the woman is standing far off on the balcony and her face is nothing more than a sketch, I recognize her instantly.

  The Princess Haraya has one hand holding her dress to the side of her petite feet, the other up by her face, keeping her hair back. It’s drawn in such a way that I almost believe she is real and moving on the page, as if she will look up and smile at the viewer — or at the artist.

  I close the book quickly, feeling an annoying twist in my chest. I’d not even thought about the Swordmaster having a love interest — after all, he is so very withdrawn and hostile. I suppose I just didn’t think about it. Now that I consider it, though, I realize he could have had any young girl in all of Evrallon, even if he were a lowly peasant living on the streets of Solvitoft. Lyom has the sort of look the sappy-hearted girls in Lydovier would die to wed. With midnight, tousled hair, cerulean eyes like crashing waves, and a tall, lean build, Lyom is every woman’s dream. He could have chosen any woman in Evrallon … yet he chose Princess Haraya.

  I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked. She’s beautiful, in her own snooty way, and she is close to Lyom. From the looks of her reactions back at the Keep she is quite smitten with him. So why, then, did Lyom pretend her affections had gone unnoticed? If he harbored feelings for her, he certainly would have told her. The Swordmaster is nothing if not brave. And his sketch would seem to indicate that he has already traveled down this path once before. But why keep a sketchbook with a damning depiction of her in the forefront? What sort of relationship did these two have? There’s a twinge in the pit of my stomach when I consider that Lyom must know Haraya well enough to know what she looks like in a nightgown. Maybe she even stood there for him while he sketched.

  I can’t help but frown at my findings, though I don’t know why. I feel cheated, I imagine. For the past month now I have tried to learn what was hidden within those pages and now that I know I only wish I could forget. The odd characters in the later pages are easy to ignore and push aside in my mind but the depiction of the princess?

  Is King Dryden aware of this? Is he the reason they are not together today? Good riddance, I should say. Princess Haraya does not deserve Lyom. From what I have seen of her she is haughty and rude and believes herself to be above everyone else, her beauty transcending others. My arrogance knows its bounds and never would I hold myself at a higher regard than others.

  No, I realize suddenly. I don’t feel cheated … I am jealous. I am jealous and I have no right to be!

  Dismayed, I pat the sorrel stallion on the neck before slipping away, back to my horse. I pull her reins up from the ground and glance over her saddle to see Lyom still standing with Jamas but they are no longer going through the collected weapons, rather just conversing. A strange time for such a leisurely action.

  The calm of the afternoon explodes when a single arrow flies through the air, hitting Ulric in the shoulder. I watch as he flies from his horse, smacking the ground. My mare spooks, rearing up and spinning around. I catch her by the reins and quickly tie her off.

  “Lyom!” I shout, though he is clearly already keenly aware of the situation.

  Lyom and Jamas get low to the ground, both drawing their swords. I roll away from my mare as more arrows fly and get to Dominik, snatching him off his horse. Dominik sits up and grabs me before I leave.

  “Unchain me,” he says. “You know I can help you where these men cannot.”

  I shove him back to the ground. “Stay where you are.” I grab the knife from my belt and shout, “Carnahan! Watch Dominik!”

  I hear a grunt as a reply and I dive into the nearby undergrowth, using it as cover. I look up into the air above me to see which way the arrows are coming from. Only bandits and marauders strike during the day, but I already knew that due to the flying arrows.

  Where are they hiding? It isn’t as if there are plenty of places for them to take shelter. I roll through the briers, ignoring
the sting in my shoulder and leg as my skin snags on thorns and prickers. My wound from the wytrian throbs irritatingly but I manage to ignore it as I roll to a crouch, barely pushing high enough into the air to get a glimpse of my surroundings.

  An arrow whooshes by my face, catching the corner of my eyebrow. I duck back down, feeling a warm trickle of blood spill down my cheek. They’re not very good aims but they are also very close, lying in the underbrush only a few yards from me. I squint through the dead branches and catch a glimmer of movement.

  Clever of them. They have sticks and dry leaves adhered to their clothes, giving them a sort of camouflage. I knew to be watchful for this sort of thing, just did not imagine they would hide within the dead bushes, where I would have assumed they would have been easily sighted.

  I jump up, quickly rolling down into them. The first to cry out is the woman I land on. I start to run the knife into her chest but hesitate, throwing it at one of the nearby men instead, though I keep pressure on her chest.

  “Stay down.” I hiss, grabbing the bow from her. I take an arrow and nock it, drawing it back against my cheek, touching the corner of my mouth with my fingertips.

  The bow has been my weapon of choice for as long as I can remember, I was just taught to work with knives as well. Quay enjoyed my skill with the bow greatly when I had to go on stealth assignments but after I became excellent at escapes he stopped sending me on those.

  Breathing down the bowstring, I release the arrow and the tip plunges into the chest of a nearby man that has his bow taut, arrow aimed at one of our swordsmen. Grabbing another arrow from the woman’s quiver, I nock it and ready myself for the next man to show himself. One leaps up from the underbrush, my knife in his hand, and begins to fall towards me, knife poised to strike. I let the arrow fly into his neck and he falls to the side. I snatch out another arrow, spinning to take on the next assailant, but find Lyom standing behind me, sword through another archer with his arrow pointed at me.