Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  The baby was the key. Kill the baby, and his chains would be broken. Kill the baby and he would be free to rush across the face of the earth, feeding, feeding, feeding forevermore.

  He wiped the froth from his chin, scraping his cheek with his claws. The baby was the key. The baby must die.

  He slowed as he saw a shimmering light in the distance. His skin crawled as the swirling rainbow colors shifted across the cave wall. A foul breeze wafted down the passage, stinging his eyes.

  He grabbed the sword in both hands and crept forward, peering around a corner into a small chamber packed with stalactites and stalagmites.

  Raising his blackened arm, he shaded his eyes from the repulsive, multicolored light. He heard strange music that made him sick to his stomach. It was hideous, vile. It, too, must die.

  A misshapen gem the size of his head sat on a pedestal in the center of the room. It was lumpy and scarred as if dozens of pieces had been broken off it.

  The singing became louder and louder, roaring through his mind like a storm. He spun in a circle, hands pressed to his ears, trying to keep the noise out. He had to stop that sound.

  Raising his sword high overhead, Brophy charged into the room. He brought the blade down like a hammer on the gemstone. There was a blinding flash, and the clang of steel on stone echoed in the tiny room. His sword dropped from numb fingers, clattered to the ground, and he staggered back.

  He shook his head, hissed. The gemstone remained unharmed.

  With a howl, he leapt forward and seized the fiendish stone with both hands. He cried out, hands gripping the jewel as his body convulsed. It wouldn’t move. He couldn’t let go. The diamond held him fast.

  A howling wind flew out of it, blowing his hair back, squeezing the water from his eyes. He thrashed back and forth, desperate to get away.

  “Let me go!” he screamed. A sudden stabbing pain shot through his hand, and he flew backward.

  Brophy fell to the floor, and the rushing wind slowly abated. His mind cleared. The two voices warring in his head faded away.

  He looked at his hand. A long, thin shard of blazing diamond was embedded in his palm. The inky blackness around the wound receded. His claws shortened, thinning into normal fingernails. The skin around the shard became translucent, radiating light like the Heartstone.

  The rest of his skin was still covered with the net of inky tendrils. His teeth were still too sharp inside his lips, but the maddening hunger, the mindless rage slunk back into the shadows of his mind. It remained there, wounded, waiting.

  He rose to his feet. The glowing red shard throbbed. The top was multifaceted like the heartstone in Baelandra’s chest, and it tapered to a bloody needle point that jutted through the back of his hand.

  Brophy remembered touching his aunt’s heartstone as a tiny child, the singed flesh as Celidon lay on his bier, Shara’s shimmering pendant, taking the diamond from his father’s grave, Celinor’s gem as it fell from his chest.

  But this was his heartstone, the searing diamond he was supposed to thrust into his own heart. His Test had begun.

  “No…” he murmured. Not yet. He wasn’t ready.

  The melody that had been his constant companion for years turned ravenous. A rush of wind swept through the chamber.

  He couldn’t pass the Test, not now. He’d already failed. The black hunger lurked in the back of his mind. The Heartstone would kill him.

  Staring into the shifting colors, Brophy reached out for the Heartstone, his bleeding hand hovering inches from the surface. His heart beat so fast, so hard his chest ached. A red drop fell on the stone, and a jolt shot through his body. He placed his palm on the stone.

  Brophy’s whole body locked up, and he fell to his knees against the pedestal. The fire burned through him, and he cried out. Rainbow colors splashed across the rough-hewn walls of the cavern, dancing and shifting. Her voice roared, building to a chaotic crescendo. It spread through him, filled his arms, legs, and chest, moved up his body and into his head. Images flashed past like mist on a hurricane wind.

  “No!” he cried out, yanking back, but his hand remained on the huge gemstone. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t get away.

  His thoughts swirled and disappeared into her. The only images of his mother vanished. His memories of running into Baelandra’s outstretched arms were swept away upon the howling tempest. Shara, laughing and touching his hair on the Kherish sailing ship, sucked away. His deepest, most personal memories fled into the gem, leaving him empty. Alone.

  Foreign images flew in to replace them. He saw her intentions in vivid detail. His childhood vision flashed across his thoughts, charging up the steep steps, black clouds rushing past the city walls. But this time he knew where that path led, he knew where it ended.

  “No…” he murmured. “Not that…”

  The wind swirled around the room, voices and images clashed in his head.

  “I can’t…” He clenched the searing diamond shard in his fist. “I won’t…”

  The visions flew through him again. Over and over. Insistent. Undeniable. He saw them, so many of them. All with the same ending, all save one. Brophy sagged against the stone, pressing his burning face against the cool gemstone. Her voice bored into the center of his chest and his heart slowed, thumping in great, desperate beats. Those images, the many paths into his future began to fade, one by one.

  His head fell forward as his strength ebbed. “I can’t do it…I won’t.”

  The fire swirled tighter and tighter, constricting his heart. It stopped beating.

  His limp body draped down the pedestal. Only his hand remained fastened to the Heartstone, reaching above his head.

  For an eternal moment, he fought her, knowing he could not win. He let out a long, hissing breath and surrendered, gave his life to her, accepted her visions, accepted his fate.

  His hand slipped away, and he slumped to the floor. Her voice turned soft again, lifting him up, filling him with energy like Shara’s Zelani magic. Rolling over, he pushed himself to his knees, breathing hard.

  With a cry, Brophy grabbed his heartstone and yanked it from his hand. Blood gushed from the wound and splattered on the floor.

  Even now, surrounded by the soft song of the Heartstone, he had a choice. He could still flee with Shara, build that hut with the goats grazing outside and a child at her breast.

  Clenching his trembling jaw, he pressed the deadly shard against his chest, covered it with one hand, then the other.

  He took a shuddering breath and fell forward, thrusting the red diamond through flesh and bone into the very center of his heart.

  22

  KRELLIS CLOSED the back door of the Blue Lily and took a long breath. The marble theater was famous for the four pure blue marble columns of its façade. Ohndariens once congregated on her balcony during intermissions, sipping drinks and looking out over the bay. Nothing but water congregated there now.

  Krellis shrugged his cloak up on his shoulders and stepped into the rain. The Zelani were useful, but they made his skin crawl. They were like rats that had suddenly multiplied, all of them little pieces of Victeris. The Zelani master had never been able to get his hooks into Krellis, but a crowd of rogue Zelani was certainly a double-edged blade to have in one’s sheath. If they ever turned on him, it would be an ugly day.

  The young magicians had taken over the theater and made it their home. Their leader, a handsome young man named Caleb, claimed that it appealed to their sense of the dramatic. Krellis hadn’t been sure if it was a joke or not, so he didn’t laugh.

  The beautiful young people began preparing themselves for Krellis’s plan before he even left the building, slowly slipping out of their clothes. They invited him to join them, but he had no stomach for the oversexed witches. Baelandra came immediately to mind, and he left them to their rituals. In truth, he didn’t care if they flayed the skin from their bodies in preparation, so long as they were there when he needed them.

  Krellis strode into the stree
t. The alley between the theater and the restaurant next door was being resurfaced, leaving a smattering of muddy puddles between piles of new cobblestones.

  The storm had not let up. Rain pelted him as his boots sloshed through the muck. His cowl sagged with the weight of the water. He stopped for a moment and stood in the middle of the alley, considering a return to Baelandra. He could tell her of his plans.

  No. She had made her decision. She would rather die than be with him. She had been very clear on that point.

  Krellis wiped the moisture from his beard, crossed the alley, and took refuge under a staircase. Let Baelandra hear from someone else how he had saved the city. When he ruled all of Ohndarien and Physendria, he would exile her. Let her live as a foreign oddity on the floating courts of the Summer Seas, passed from noble to noble until they tired of her, until they cast her aside like so much flotsam.

  Krellis took a deep breath, and thoughts of Baelandra drifted away. The battle neared. He longed to cut a swath through his enemy. He longed for the divine joy of it, the fleeting feeling of immortality as other men died around him.

  Krellis decided that he would produce no more heirs. Even if his plan went perfectly and he held the crown of Physendria, his line would die with him. He would rule long and well and let his family be remembered for that, not for the failings of his brothers and father. Yes, that was what—

  Krellis winced at a sudden pain in the center of his chest. He massaged it, rubbing the hard point of his heartstone. The pain spread throughout his body as if the little diamond was on fire. He hissed, clutching his shirt. His muscles twitched, and he gritted his teeth. By the Nine, what was it?

  Slowly the pain faded. Krellis looked up and saw a fully cloaked man standing in the center of the alley with a hand over his heart, mimicking him. Squinting, he watched the figure raise his fist higher, touch his forehead. The hand dropped suddenly to his side, fingers splayed open.

  That was not a mocking gesture. It was a Kherish battle salute.

  Scythe pushed his cowl back, and a curved sword slipped up between the folds of his cloak until the tip pointed at Krellis’s chest.

  “Is your conscience bothering you?” the Kherish assassin asked.

  The pain had almost gone, but Krellis felt a strange hollowness inside.

  “I told Baelandra that you escaped,” Krellis said. “She didn’t believe me.”

  “Then she is gaining wisdom at last.”

  “How did you do it?” Krellis asked, drawing his sword. The last time he’d seen the man, Scythe had been shackled to the back of a barred cell. “I told them to take no chances with you.”

  “Unlike Baelandra, I know what kind of man you are. I did not wait for an order I knew would come.”

  “So how did you do it?”

  “Also unlike Baelandra, I do not consort with my enemies. I kill them.”

  Krellis laughed.

  Scythe nodded. “That will be your last laugh.” His voice was dead and even. “I’ve broken an oath for the second time in my life by coming here.”

  “Don’t tell me you let a woman hold you back all these years.” Krellis sneered, stepping out from under the staircase into the rain. He pushed back his own cowl, his fingers twitching against the cool metal of his sword’s grip.

  Scythe showed his teeth. “You need not worry about that anymore.”

  They slowly circled each other. Krellis’s heavy boots pushed into the mud with each step while Scythe danced lightly around the puddles.

  “You are undone,” Scythe broke the silence.

  “Not by you.”

  “No,” he said. “I will take your life, but Brophy has already taken your heart.”

  Krellis’s brow furrowed. “Brophy?”

  “He returned to Ohndarien tonight, just as he promised he would. He entered the city through the water lift. I made certain the way was smooth for him, all the way to the Heart.”

  Krellis’s free hand wanted to go to his chest, but he wouldn’t give Scythe the satisfaction.

  “The Heartstone has forsaken you, ‘Brother,’” the assassin said. “Now, let’s see what kind of man you are.”

  Krellis growled. “The fool boy is taking the Test alone?”

  “Not such a fool,” Scythe said. “Not such a boy. Not anymore.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What has been lost can be retaken.”

  “Not this time.”

  Lightning flashed. Krellis roared and charged.

  They met with a crash of blades.

  23

  WE LOST the city when we lost the wall,” the soldier in the hallway said. The Silver Islander’s thick accent was muffled by the distance and the door. From the number of boots that came up the stairs, Baelandra guessed there were at least four newcomers outside her door, possibly six. “Staying in a lost fight don’t make you brave, it makes you dumb. An’ after that, it makes you dead.”

  Baelandra kept her breathing even and steady, drawing on the exercises she had been practicing during her incarceration. If she stilled her body and her mind, she could make out the heated conversation going on right outside her door.

  Krellis had left, and his soldiers were talking about deserting. Perhaps the coward had already fled into Faradan. Her breathing faltered, and the muffled voices disappeared. It didn’t matter. Krellis was beyond her power now, but Ohndarien was not.

  She calmed herself again and listened to the islander.

  “Ohndarien’s been a sweet whore t’me,” the man said. “Don’t mistake me. But I’m not chucking my life into th’ gutter for a bunch a’ Flowers. They’re done. We won’t last an hour when th’ Snakes decide to attack. Now listen, Piggy. We all leave or we all stay. Can’t leave a body behind to raise th’ alarm. Everyone else is in. You’re th’ last one.”

  “We can’t,” Relf said. “Krellis will be back soon.”

  “The Brother’s gone for good. He slapped his ass into a catapult and flew over th’ walls. Or his Ohndarien witch-whores made him invisible, and they scurried away like a pack a’ rats.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Relf said. “The Brother will kill us if we leave our posts.”

  “Why are you afraid a’ one man when ten thousand are waiting in line ta kill you?”

  “We can’t go,” Relf said. “Everyone hates a deserter.”

  “How you get so stupid, Piggy?” the Silver Islander spat. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “I know, but…Everyone hates a deserter,” Relf said again.

  There was a quick scuffle and a man’s cry was cut off in a wet gurgle. Baelandra closed her eyes.

  “What did you do that for?” another soldier demanded. “You said you were just going to scare him.”

  “Shut up, Finn. It’s not my fault he’s too dumb ta scare,” the Silver Islander growled. “I won’t see ten men gutted for one moron.”

  “You didn’t have to kill him.”

  “That Piggy was gonna squeal. You want ta die ’fore we get out?”

  Finn was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What do we do about the Sister?”

  The islander chuckled. “Go kiss her if you like. She’s already chained ta the wall.”

  “She’s a Sister,” Finn said.

  “What are you, afraid a’ royalty? Queens lie down as easy as whores, after you push their face into th’ pillow. Do what you will, but I’m getting out of this city before dawn.”

  “I should at least unchain her,” Finn said. “It’s only right.”

  “You as dumb as Piggy? She’ll sound th’ alarm in a second.” The Silver Islander snarled. “Now are you coming, or you want ta stay with your friend?”

  “I’m coming.”

  The guards tromped down the steps. Baelandra listened until she was sure they were gone.

  Flipping backward, she planted her feet against the headboard. She couldn’t let the Physendrian soldiers find her like this, alone and chained to a wall.

  Baelandra leaned back a
nd pushed against the headboard with all her might, groaning as the metal dug into her wrists. The chains trembled as she strained against them, trying to rip her hands free. She soon became light-headed with the strain.

  With a whimper, she fell back to the bed, breathing hard.

  She cast about the room, and her gaze fell on the bowl of soup that Krellis left behind. Scuttling to the edge of her chains, she balanced on the edge of the bed and reached for the soup with her feet. Her toes fumbled against the table, an inch short. Taking a breath, she tried again, stretching her body out completely. The chains creaked tight, and she steadied her legs. Her toes touched the rim of the bowl. Carefully, she coaxed it to the edge of the table and cupped her feet underneath it.

  Her stomach muscles trembled as she slowly brought the bowl closer. She set it on the bed and repositioned herself. She picked it up again and slowly leaned backward. Gripped between shaking toes, the bowl hovered over the manacles. She dumped the last of its contents, and the little bit of remaining stew dripped down her hands and forearms.

  She dropped the bowl, and it tumbled off the bed. Baelandra worked her wrists back and forth, slicking them down with the greasy soup. Taking several deep breaths, she calmed herself. Then, with another quick flip, she spun around and slammed her feet against the headboard once more, yanking against the chains.

  She wriggled her hands, trying to slip through the cuffs. Pain shot up her arms, but she ignored it, working her hands back and forth, back and forth. The chains shook.

  Growling in frustration, Baelandra fell panting to the bed again. She thrashed, kicking and cursing Krellis’s name. It was no use. The cuffs were barely wider than her wrists. She would have to break her hands to get them through.

  Baelandra felt like she wanted to throw up. She wasn’t sure if she could do this, but she had to try. Concentrating on her breathing, she slowed her chaotic thoughts. She thought again of her childhood, of the exercises they encouraged her to practice over and over. Meditation. It had been Baelandra’s worst subject. She would need to separate herself from her body’s needs and concerns. She must shut everything out except her one purpose.