by Giles Carwyn
He blinked, touched his gummy eyes tenderly.
“Ossamyr?” he asked.
“No,” said a dark voice with a Kherish accent.
“Scythe.”
“Yes, and keep your voice down. I am not an invited guest.”
“A moment,” Brophy said. “I’ll light a lamp.” He shifted to the edge of the bed. Scythe put a hand on his arm, and Brophy winced again. His skin was as tender as a baby’s.
“No. You’re still sleeping, and I’m not here.”
Brophy nodded. The pain was making everything distant and fuzzy. He fought to clear his head. “Scythe?”
“Yes.”
“I forgot to thank you. For the archers. The training.”
“You are welcome.” Scythe’s shadowy figure made a small bow. “It was what I was sent to do.”
“I never would have made it up that tower yesterday without you.”
“It was three days ago.”
“Oh…”
“Yes. Many think you are immortal. They are still guessing how you survived the flames.”
“My training as a Child of the Seasons.”
“I know that. They do not. Some whisper that you actually have the blood of the Phoenix. Braver souls whisper that you’ve come to reclaim the throne.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
Scythe was silent for a moment. “You did well, Brophy. I thought you dead when you disappeared into that smoke. Phandir won’t underestimate you again.”
“It would be hard to underestimate me right now.”
Scythe chuckled. “You are practically untouched.”
“Tell that to my leg, my arm.” But Brophy smiled. Scythe was right. Brophy’s wounds didn’t hurt nearly as much knowing that he had succeeded.
“So that leaves me with one question,” Scythe said.
“Yes?”
“What do you plan to do at the ceremony when they find out you have awoken? Your victory celebration will be combined with a call to war.”
The celebration to honor a new champion was held in the Nine Squares arena with all of Physendria looking on. There the king would present nine solid gold statues of the Physendrian animal gods to Brophy. Afterward, he would be allowed to make a request of the king.
“I considered smuggling a blade into the ceremony,” Brophy said, “and killing the king where he stands.”
Scythe’s dark eyes glittered as he shifted. “You might succeed, right before you die. Phandir was never much of a swordsman, but his Ape guards are deadly.”
“But I realized you would already have assassinated him if it could save Ohndarien. That’s what you used to do, isn’t it?”
Scythe stayed silent for a moment, then said, “According to Physendrian law, Krellis would become king after Phandir’s death. Ohndarien would fall without a fight.”
“Exactly, which is why I hadn’t planned on attending the celebration,” Brophy said. “I’ve had enough of screaming crowds, but I’m going to miss those nine statues. Did you keep yours?”
Scythe snorted. “Gold statues do little more than attract thieves. I thought you planned on becoming governor of Ohndarien.”
It was Brophy’s turn to snort. “I’ve learned a little something of Physendria by now.”
“I’m glad you see that. I was starting to wonder. Are you ready to take your Test?”
Brophy watched Scythe in the pale light for a moment. “Yes. I’ve accomplished all I can here. It’s time to return to Ohndarien and face Krellis.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Take the Test, sever his connection to the Heartstone, and I will do the rest,” Scythe said.
“You’ll have to get in line. You aren’t the only man who wants his head.”
Brophy could barely see Scythe’s smile. “We’ll fight that battle when we come to it,” the little man said quietly.
“My escape plan’s a bit thin at this point,” Brophy admitted.
“You can leave with me. Tonight.” Scythe said, “I have a ship waiting on the river. You could be in Ohndarien in three days.”
Brophy saw the passion in the man’s eyes. He set his lips in a firm line. “I was hoping you would say something like that, but I can’t leave yet. Not without…”
A long silence stretched between them. When Scythe spoke, his voice was thick with disdain. “Do you actually think the Queen of Physendria would run away with you?”
“Yes. You think you know her,” Brophy said, “but you don’t.”
Scythe growled. “You thanked me for saving your life. I am calling in the debt. Leave with me tonight. That is all I ask.”
Brophy was glad Scythe could not see his face. “I can’t,” he whispered.
“Everything will have been for naught. Your sacrifices. Your victories. Don’t throw your life away for a woman who doesn’t love you.” His voice trailed off.
Brophy took a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t know if she will go with me. I don’t even know how she truly feels about me.” He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “But I have to ask her. I have to know.”
“The gods are cruel, Brophy,” Scythe murmured. He seemed to be talking to himself. “Go then. Ask her and see what she says. If she refuses you, you will never be able to escape. Even I could not save you from the Wet Cells.”
“I know, but I must try.”
“I know,” Scythe echoed. “I would do the same.”
“You would?”
“If I were in love,” he clarified, clearing his throat. His voice was short and clipped again. “You may be the finest warrior in Physendria, but there is no defense against a woman who owns your heart.”
Brophy looked up at the faint light coming through the chimney. “Can you take me to her?”
Scythe sighed. “I suppose I must.”
Brophy lit a candle, and Scythe quickly found the mechanism that had confounded Brophy for months. The hidden door swung open.
“How did you do that?” Brophy asked.
“I have been in this room before, years ago. The queen used this same door to visit me.”
“Did you…” Brophy forced himself to ask the rest of the question. “Sleep with her?”
“Sleep with her, yes. Fuck her, no. I told you before, I refused her.”
For the first time, Brophy believed him. “Why?”
“Because I chose to.”
Brophy knew better than to press the matter any further.
He nodded and motioned the candle toward the door. The two slipped through the opening and crept into the darkness. The tiny flame barely lit the passageway. The tunnel soon came to an end. Scythe paused. His nose seemed twice as long in the harsh shadows.
“We could still leave,” he murmured. “Will you risk all of Ohndarien for this woman?”
“Yes.”
Scythe let out a long breath. After a moment, he held out his hand. Surprised, Brophy took it. Scythe clasped him on the forearm, his grip like steel. “I will be here when you are ready. I pray to the Seasons that she will be with you. If she betrays you, yell ‘For Ohndarien’ and charge back to this space in the wall. I will have it open, and we will get a fair head start, at least.”
“Thank you…my friend.”
“You are welcome.”
“Scythe…”
“Yes?”
“I’m not wrong.”
“So you say.”
“Here. The candle.” Brophy held it out to him, but the assassin shook his head. “No. I am the dark. Let the fool who stumbles across me hold the candle.”
Scythe touched something in the shadows and the passage opened to reveal Ossamyr’s bedroom. Her bed was round and three times the size of his, suspended from the middle of the room. Luxurious silks and oversized pillows were draped across the platform. Mirrors reflected the moonlight to glorious effect. It seemed like a ghostly daylight. Three tall wardrobes stood next to each other. Across the room was a dressing table with an oval mirror almost as large as the bed.
Colorful tapestries covered the walls.
At first, Brophy thought his luck had failed him, that Ossamyr was not in her room, but just as the stone door slid silently into place, she appeared from a side passage.
Her face was drawn and her deep tan seemed pale in the ghostly moonlight. She wore a simple white shift, but even in such common clothing she was radiant. She noticed him and started.
“Brophy…” Her brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t be here,” she breathed.
“I had to come.”
Her brow smoothed as she understood. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
“But—”
“I want you to come with me.”
The queen froze. For an instant, she seemed younger, Brophy’s age. She closed her eyes and swallowed with difficulty. Her hand trembled at her hip. “You shouldn’t have come here…Just for me,” she whispered, almost to herself.
Tears welled from her closed eyes, one slowly slipped down her cheek. “They will kill you if they catch you here.”
He crossed the room and knelt in front of her. “I love you,” he murmured, taking her hands.
“Oh Brophy…” she paused. Her beautiful face tightened as though she was in pain, then something released inside her. She let out a little whimper, and her features smoothed out. Her dark hair swished against her cheek as she hung her head. He could barely hear her when she spoke. “The Nine help me, but I love you, too.”
“Then come with me.”
Her dark eyes caught his. “Now?”
“It is the only time we might succeed.”
She drew a deep breath, looked at the hidden door. “Scythe?”
Brophy nodded. “He is ready. He has a ship waiting.”
She closed her eyes, and Brophy’s heart sank. Scythe’s warnings leapt to mind.
“And so Ohndarien will fall?” she asked.
Brophy clenched his teeth. “We can go to Ohndarien. We can defend her walls.”
“And what if we did? Could we stop the entire army?” She squeezed his hands. “Oh Brophy. Watching you, your determination, the light of your soul…It has made me dare to believe. But if we leave together and Phandir takes his prize, what will become of us? What will you become if Ohndarien falls and your loved ones are slain?”
She stroked his cheek, brushed the hair from his face. “The attack is poised. One extra sword will not save the city.”
“You said it yourself, a Nine Squares Champion wins the love of the Physendrian people. I’ve already done that. Scythe says that many of them think I am immortal. Surely facing a divine champion on the opposing battlements will make a difference. Phandir has painted Ohndarien as a city full of brigands. I have made her a city full of heroes.”
Her dark eyes glistened. “It will not be enough.”
Brophy shook his head. “If the city falls, she falls. But I will be there, sword in hand defending her. I would like you to be by my side.”
The queen blinked, opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. Finally, she said, “We have two choices that I can see. We can leave, take our chances or…” She paused
“Or?”
“Or we can kill him.”
Brophy opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She stared somberly into his eyes. He had never seen her like this, ravaged by sorrow, so earnestly determined. He could read every emotion on her face.
“But only a man can rule in Physendria. Krellis would take the throne.”
Her lips curved in disdain. “Let him try. A quarter of the royal guard answers to me. I could snare another quarter easily if Phandir were dead. The other half would be leaderless. Let Krellis come south and claim his birthright. He would find himself in the Wet Cells before he entered the city. No, Brophy. I could seize the kingdom if we were quick. And I could hold it. Phandir is certainly not loved in this city. Many would flock to me.”
Brophy’s heart beat faster.
“Would it work?” he whispered.
“I could manage it,” she said. “With your help. You must swing the sword, but I could take the kingdom.”
For a glorious moment, Ohndarien was freed from the specter of war. It dangled before Brophy’s eyes like a gift.
“I have thought on it since…” She swallowed. “Since my last night in your room. I have thought on it day and night up to this very moment. But I never believed…I never thought you would come back for me. I thought you and Scythe would be long gone.”
Ossamyr struggled to draw a breath, and Brophy squeezed her hands. “It is risky,” she continued. “A hundred things could go wrong, but it might work.” Her voice trembled when she spoke. “The man deserves to die. I would take this throne and make Physendria a kingdom to rival all others. We could both have everything we wanted with one quick thrust of the sword.”
“What about Scythe?”
“Do you think he would help us?” the queen asked.
Brophy hesitated a moment, then said, “If it will save Ohndarien, he would.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across the queen’s face. She pulled on Brophy’s hands and drew him to his feet. “Listen closely,” she whispered. “We will only get one chance.”
23
THE WALL closed seamlessly behind Brophy, and Ossamyr crossed to her bed. She put her palms on the silken covers and spread her fingers, barely able to catch her breath. Could the Nine be so generous? She knew she was being reckless. They could so easily die for this. All her childish daydreams of spending the rest of her nights in Brophy’s arms were suddenly real. Real enough to bleed, real enough to die in her arms.
She felt the soft slickness of the sheet under her fingers, felt the old scars on her heart. She had thought such wild, tender feelings were lost to her forever.
For the first time since she understood power in Physendria, for the first time since she offered her lips to a man she despised—for the first time since she spread her legs to take a step up, Ossamyr didn’t care about consequences. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she couldn’t find that calm control she’d maintained for so many years. It fled from her, left her spinning and giddy and happier than she had felt since she was a little girl.
Taking a long breath, she let it out slowly. A weary but satisfied smile came to her lips. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment. He came back for her. He risked everything he holds dear…for her.
The queen’s door swung wide, smacking heartily into the wall. Ossamyr started, then held herself perfectly still. She didn’t turn. Her fingers curled into claws on the bed. She relaxed them, smoothed the covers. Phandir stepped into the room, grinning.
“My beautiful queen.” He chuckled.
Oh, the Nine were cruel. They were bitter and vengeful, and always had been.
She swallowed down a tight throat and swiveled around, her face suddenly a cold mask. He crossed the room and took her chin in his huge hand, tipped it up. He looked into her eyes.
“You rival the gods. What a performance! Who would have thought you would become this amazing when I plucked you from your mother’s house a decade and a half ago? You are exquisite. I have always been amused by your dalliances over the years. I thought your idea of turning a Child of the Seasons into a puppet ruler in Ohndarien was clever, if a long shot, but avoiding my recent embarrassment by goading this boy into assassination is brilliant. I couldn’t have thought up a better plan myself. Truly, we were made for one another.” He let go of her chin, tossing her head to the side. She remained that way for a moment, staring at the edge of the bed, her short hair flung across her cheek, then raised her head again to look at him.
The king paced across the room. “Tell me, my love, when were you going to spill this glorious plan to me?” His smile froze in all its overflowing charisma. “Tonight?” he asked, measured and even. “Tomorrow, just before the ceremony?”
Ossamyr stared at him for a brief moment, a sardonic smile curved the side of her mouth.
“Tonight, my love. Of course.”
“Of course. I love surprises. Do you think Brophy will enjoy the surprise we will plan for him?”
Ossamyr licked her tight lips. She said nothing.
“Or should I prepare a surprise for you?” Phandir asked, grinning like a skull.
“I live to serve, as you know.”
“Yes,” he said, drawing the word out. “I know it all too well.” He strode casually to the door, put his toe at the edge and kicked it shut. It slammed against the doorjamb. His fingers traced the wood for a moment before he shot the bolt.
“Now, my love,” He walked slowly toward her. “Let us consummate our blessed union and justify the love of the gods that has brought me such a brilliant wife.”
Ossamyr slowly held out her arms. “Come. I’ve grown tired of boys.”
He picked her up under the arms and tossed her on the bed. She bounced once, and the platform rocked. He grabbed her ankles and slowly pulled her toward him. Twisting his hands into the sides of her shift, he ripped the dress from her body. She drew a quick breath, forcing her mouth into a smile as he pushed her legs apart. Her hips twisted away, resisting as if they had a mind of their own. But he turned her back, pressing hard on each side of her hips.
“Tell me more.” The king smiled. “Some of the details were difficult to hear. Tell me the entire plan from beginning to end.”
Ossamyr laid her head back as he climbed on top of her.
“Yes…my love,” she said to the ceiling. “Yes, my king.”
24
WHEN BROPHY returned to his rooms that night, he thought the morning would never come. He lay on his bed, staring up at the starry glow from the opening overhead. The cut in his thigh and the gouge in his arm throbbed, and his tender burned skin kept him from moving, but the pain, the doubt, everything he had suffered in Physendria seemed worth it.
He slipped into a daydream and saw Ossamyr in the Hall of Windows, wearing wedding white in the Ohndarien fashion. No red-feathered capes or gold jewelry. No Physendrian colors of blood and money.
Brophy waited for her under the dome, with his father standing next to him. All of Ohndarien had packed into the Hall of Windows. Aunt Bae and Shara sat in the first row, smiling. Even Trent was there, a little bit drunk and winking at a fetching maiden in the row behind him. Ossamyr walked toward him, followed by a train of attendants that extended all the way outside.
