Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  Scythe’s clothes were stained red, and he frowned in concentration as he waited. Baelandra stood beside him, teetering on the edge of the stairs. The bare-breasted Sister held a six-foot-tall bronze shield, protecting Scythe from the archers below. Her heartstone splashed crimson light over the battle.

  “Loose!” a voice shouted from below.

  A wave of arrows flew at them. They clacked against the side of the plateau or clanged against her immense shield. Baelandra held her hands strangely, as if they had been cut or broken.

  “Forward, you shivering maggots! Stay together! I want his liver on a plate!” a Physendrian officer roared.

  Four Scorpion spearmen ringed by tall shields marched to the front of the crammed stairway, pushing all others aside. A Rat fell off the staircase, screaming. Two Crocs and a Serpent fell back, pushing themselves against the side of the plateau as the heavily armored spearmen moved forward. Scythe danced toward them. Spinning, he hacked through the shaft of a spear and caught the lip of one shield, flipping it open.

  Before the Scorpion could close the gap, Scythe slipped under two spears and cut the man down. The soldier screamed and collapsed on the stairs.

  Scythe danced back just as a flight of arrows whistled past him. Baelandra jumped forward and blocked the missiles.

  Panting, Scythe beckoned the rest with a nod of his head, but no one wanted to fight the man.

  A Serpent was thrust to the forefront by his fellows. His blade rang against Scythe’s once, twice, but not a third time. The Serpent missed his parry and Scythe slashed him through the stomach. Three more swordsmen scrambled over the bodies, trying to take Scythe in a rush. The Kher backed up a step, parrying furiously. One of them made a desperate lunge. Scythe stepped back, kicked the man’s knee out. The Serpent screamed and crumpled to the stairs. Sweat and blood dripped from Scythe’s face as he parried the other two. He backed up another step, and the throng pressed forward again. He only had twenty steps left to go. Once he reached the top, he would never be able to hold them all back.

  Shara moved among the rock-tossing Ohndariens, whispering to them one after the other.

  “Your aim is deadly,” she said to a teenage boy. The boy squinted and hurled his stone. It cracked off the head of a Croc, who disappeared into the swarming mass.

  “You kill with every throw,” Shara said to the boy’s mother, who fought next to him. The woman raised a huge stone over her head and brained an officer fifteen feet below.

  Shara spent another few precious moments bolstering the abilities of the defenders, then ran to the Heart. The Physendrians were endless. Ohndarien’s defenders would run out of rocks long before the Physendrians ran out of heads to crush. They needed every advantage they could get. They needed Brophy. She needed Brophy.

  And he needed her.

  Shara raced down the marble path, sprinting for the Hall of Windows.

  25

  BROPHY’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED.

  He drew a sharp breath and rolled over on his back. The stalactites of the natural cavern glowed with a dim, shifting light, and the Heartstone’s song filled his mind. She did not speak in words, did not think in words. Each note was an image, a vision portrayed in bright colors.

  The walls of Ohndarien rose brick by brick, built by the labor of hundreds of people in love with a dream. Brophy’s mother strained, her face beaded with sweat as she gave birth to a squalling baby boy. A teenage Baelandra screamed, holding a hand in front of herself as she took the Test of the Stone. Brophy’s father turned and looked back at the Windmill Wall as he sailed away, the sea shimmering behind him and sunlight catching his red hair. Shara and Brophy slept arm in arm on a tiny cot in a torchlit room. Krellis snarled, in the rain, clutching a fist to his chest.

  Brophy blinked again. He sat up, looked down at his arms. The infection was gone, the inky tendrils had vanished. He was free of it, free and whole once again. He craned his neck down to look down at his chest. The red diamond blazed within his flesh, lighting the darkness. He was the Brother of Autumn. For the first time since Trent died, he knew exactly what he must do.

  His father’s sword lay beside him, the pommel pulsing in time with the gem on his chest. Not his father’s sword anymore. His sword. The Sword of Autumn belonged to the Brother. He picked it up, and the red diamond flashed.

  He sheathed it and turned to the Heartstone. The lumpy, misshapen crystal contained a storm of chaotic hues rolling and twisting around each other. She still sat atop the stalagmite that had been cut and polished to create a pedestal. Brophy had expected a monolith of diamond as tall as a man, exquisitely proportioned, the precious gem at the center of Ohndarien, the jewel of the known world. But the Heartstone was in her natural state, unshaped and unpolished. Her surface was covered with long chips and scars where she had given up pieces of herself to her family. The Heartstone wasn’t a piece of jewelry to reflect light and twinkle with an imagined perfection. She was like a person, rough, scarred, imperfect, and achingly beautiful.

  Brophy placed his hand on the stone and felt a rush of love flow through him. The colors swirled brighter near his hand. He traced the gouges and scrapes on the Heartstone’s surface, and she glowed in response. She had seen him at his very worst. He remembered every moment of his nightmare journey to her chamber. Thank the Seasons that Medew had been so swift, so nimble in the twisting passages. If he had caught her and the child, he could never have stopped himself. His face burned with shame, but the emotion fled quickly, flowing down his arm and disappearing into the stone.

  The Heartstone knew him better than he knew himself. Every petty and spiteful thing he had ever done was laid bare, just as every moment of love, tenderness, and joy had been relived in heartbreaking detail. Her song flowed into his mind, incessant and determined.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “I know.” He could rest no longer. He must go. A lump caught in his throat, and he swallowed it down. Every joy had its price. He just hadn’t expected it to be so high.

  A sad smile came to his lips. But he could not complain. The path she had shown him was better than he thought possible. Putting both hands on the stone, he held on to her as though he would be swept away. Gently, he lifted the Heartstone from the place she had rested for three hundred years and tucked her under his arm.

  Brophy left the chamber and ran down the tunnels, the Heartstone lighting his way with an array of colors. He felt the twists and turns like the veins in his own body. Even without the light, he would know which way to go.

  As he neared the exit, he saw a lantern bobbing in the passage ahead.

  “Brophy? Is that you?” Shara called.

  “Shara!”

  They rushed together, embracing, kissing. She clung to him, burying her face in his neck for one sweet instant. He closed his eyes. Surely he could spend one second, just one more blessed moment with her. Her lips felt like velvet against his neck. He took a deep breath of her hair. She smelled of salt spray and sweat, and that little bit of sweet fragrance that was Shara’s alone. Far too soon, he let her go.

  I’m going to miss you, he thought. You more than anything else.

  Shara backed up and touched the Heartstone. “Is that—?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What must be done.”

  Her brow furrowed. She searched his eyes in the strange light. “Brophy, what’s wrong—?”

  “Not now,” he said, shaking his head. “We don’t have time.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” She put a light hand on his arm.

  “The Test was…hard,” he said, his heart twisting with the lie. But he couldn’t risk the truth, not until the final moments. They must trust him as he trusted the Heartstone.

  “You’re the Brother of Autumn?”

  He nodded. “Perhaps I will warrant a Zelani now,” he said, smirking, trying to steer away from deeper emotions. He had a brief vision of Shara ducking under the low lintel of a simple hut, cradling a squalli
ng baby, their baby. The Heartstone had shown him that, too. There was no deception in her, only possibilities and choices. They could still flee the city, live their lives together in the Vastness, but Brophy had made his choice.

  “The corruption. Did you—?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “So you can remove it!” The joy in her voice almost made him cry.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ve got to get you to the baby. Come on.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him down the tunnel. “Medew is this way.”

  “What about Baelandra. Did Medew find her?”

  Shara shook her head. “The city is falling,” she said. “Baelandra is somewhere up there in the middle of it. I believe the Ohohhim will counterattack soon. Lewlem doesn’t have time to wait. If the city falls, the Emperor might never be cured. We have to hold the Physendrians back until they arrive.”

  Or we could run away, Brophy thought again, seeing that fading future for one more moment, that little hut and Shara’s smile as she held their black-haired, green-eyed child.

  “I know,” he said.

  “You…” she looked at him again, placed her palm on his cheek. “What’s wrong? What’s different?”

  He must be careful. If he let her, she would read everything in his eyes. His heartstone would block her powers, but only if he was careful. He forced a smile and closed his heart to her. “We have to hurry,” he said.

  “Yes.” She grabbed his hand, and they ran down the tunnel. “Hazel let me in. She’s wounded.”

  They ran through a torchlit cavern full of empty crates and discarded bedrolls. Shara headed straight for a cramped staircase, and he followed her up. Moments later he saw natural light up ahead, just beyond the doorway to the antechamber beneath the Hall of Windows.

  Hazel lay crumpled at the bottom of the ladder as though she had fallen there. Mother Lewlem knelt beside the Sister, comforting her with her free hand while the other constantly turned the handle of the music box.

  Brophy met Medew’s eyes, wanting to apologize, but knowing there was no time. She gave him a curt nod and looked back down at Hazel.

  The sister’s belly had been sliced open. Blood soaked her yellow dress all the way to her knees. Brophy looked back at Medew.

  She shook her head. “This woman will not live.”

  “Brophy…” Hazel said weakly, her blue eyes flickering open. “You came back to us.” He knelt next to her, took her pudgy hand.

  “Sister.”

  “The Wheel is lost,” she croaked. “They have broken through everywhere.”

  “No!” Shara cried.

  Brophy nodded. “Where is Bae? Where are the other Sisters? I need their help.”

  Hazel opened her mouth to speak, but blood came up instead. Weakly, she pointed up to the square of light at the top of the ladder. She slumped back, her breathing ragged.

  “May the Seasons take you to the land where the sky is beautiful and bright, where winter does not freeze and summer does not burn,” Brophy murmured, touching Hazel’s golden hair.

  Brophy’s gaze locked on the baby. Her eyes moved madly underneath their lids. Her face was completely black and scaly, lost to the corruption. Little yellow fangs poked out from her lips.

  “I’ll go find Bae,” Shara said quickly.

  “No,” Brophy said. “We stay together. I need you close.”

  Shara stopped, her eyes wide at his deep voice. “All right.”

  “Will you follow us, Mother?” he asked of Medew. “There is something we must do before I can heal the baby.” She nodded, laying her free hand on the Sword of Winter at her hip.

  Brophy tucked the Heartstone under his arm and clambered up the ladder. Shara and Medew followed.

  They emerged into the Hall of Windows. It was filled with Ohndariens. They huddled in the aisles, between the columns, by the stained-glass walls, each of them clenching a dagger, a sword, a spear or pitchfork. He heard the clang and crash of battle outside. A single scream split the air.

  At the Summer Gate, three spearmen held the Physendrians back, using tall shields to protect themselves. At the Autumn Gate, Master Gorlym and another man swung their swords like madmen.

  Physendrians swarmed the Spring Gate. They rushed through the gap and were met by a rain of arrows from the dais in the center of the Hall. The invaders toppled over, and Ohndarien defenders leapt to fill the gap.

  Baelandra stood beside Scythe, who held the Winter Gate on his own. Unlike the attackers at the other three gates, the Physendrians at the Winter Gate were reluctant to engage the Kherish swordsman. Brophy’s plan solidified in his mind. He would need them both.

  “Scythe! Bae!” Brophy pushed his way through the crowd.

  Baelandra turned to see him, though Scythe remained focused on his grisly task.

  “Brophy!” his aunt shouted.

  A Scorpion lunged bravely, trying to bowl into Scythe using his body. The Kher spun, his sword a blur. His attacker grunted and crumpled to the ground. Brophy could not see where Scythe had cut him, but the soldier did not get up again. Two Serpents shouted and rushed forward to take Scythe while he was off-balance.

  Except Scythe was not off-balance. One of the soldiers screamed as Scythe’s sword slashed through his arm and neck. The other fell back, gagging on an Ohndarien arrow that suddenly quivered in his throat.

  Baelandra and Scythe fell back. Four Ohndarien soldiers rushed forward and took Scythe’s place, pushing back the tide.

  Brophy ran to meet them halfway up the stairs. Bae was flecked with blood, and Scythe looked like he had bathed in it. Bae’s hands were twisted and swollen and Scythe limped, one arm tucked at his side.

  “Brophy!” Bae breathed, falling into him. She held a huge shield on one arm, but she wrapped her other arm around his neck. “It is so good to see you, even at the last—” She stopped, looked down at the Heartstone he carried.

  “What have you done?” she asked, bewildered. She saw Mother Lewlem slowly turning the music box, the sling around her neck. Baelandra paled and stepped away from her. The music box sang its child’s tune.

  “Brophy no!” she shouted. “You didn’t bring her here!”

  “Yes,” he said, looking directly in Baelandra’s eyes. He grasped her shoulder with his free hand. The gem on his chest flashed red. “I need you to follow me, Bae. I need you to follow and not ask questions.”

  “Brophy—” she began, glancing again at the stone on his chest.

  He gave her a tight smile. “Ohndarien is not finished yet,” he said. “Come on. Stay close.”

  Brophy turned and ran for the edge of the hall. Shara and Lewlem’s wife jumped to follow. Baelandra hesitated, then jogged after as fast as she could. Scythe limped behind without a word. Brophy took the amphitheater steps two at a time as the others struggled to keep up.

  He broke into a sprint as he neared the stained-glass wall, put his shoulder down, and slammed into it. Glass shattered all around him. Brophy stumbled outside, ripping away the lattice of copper and colored glass that clung to him like a fishing net.

  Physendrian soldiers were everywhere, hacking down stragglers, killing the wounded. A group of Rats ripped the shirt from a screaming Ohndarien woman and forced her to the ground.

  Brophy leapt onto the steps carved into the support arch, and Shara stayed right behind him.

  “Brophy!” she yelled. “What are you doing?”

  He could feel her presence questing at his thoughts, lightly, lovingly. He shut her out. “Trust me, Shara,” he murmured, knowing she would hear him over the din of the battle below. “Stay close. I need you close.”

  Brophy ran up the curving slope of the dome. Shara and Lewlem’s wife stayed right behind him. Baelandra and Scythe labored up the steps, falling steadily behind. Brophy neared the top and turned. He let some of his fervor flow to them through his heartstone. He would need them. They must be strong.

  He looked out over Ohndarien. She was in flames. Buildings burned throu
ghout the Night Market. Smoke coiled up into the sky, becoming one with the dark clouds. Physendrians crawled through his beloved city like ants. Bodies, Physendrian and Ohndarien, littered the plateau of the Wheel. The wails of the wounded and dying had become a horrific chorus. Brophy tore his gaze away.

  “Shara, Medew,” he said, setting the Heartstone on the ground between his feet. “Hang on to me. No matter what happens, do not let go.” Lewlem’s wife pinched his ragged sleeve. Shara touched his shoulder.

  “Brophy—”

  He gave one terse shake of his head. She fell silent. Baelandra and Scythe caught up with them.

  Baelandra panted. “Brophy, you must tell me what you are—”

  “Not now!”

  She sucked in a breath. Brophy turned his hip toward Scythe. “Take my sword,” he said.

  Scythe hesitated, glancing at the pulsing red stone on the sword’s pommel.

  Brophy nodded. “You will need it,” he continued. “I’ll be with you. I’ll help you if I can.”

  The Kherish assassin met Brophy’s eyes. He reached out and unsheathed the sword. The red diamond flared, and the fleeting vision from Brophy’s childhood flashed through his mind. All the pieces were in place, just not as he had expected them to be. But the moment had come, and Brophy felt the hand of fate all around him.

  “Bae,” he said, “grab on to Scythe. Don’t let go, no matter what happens.”

  Brophy turned away from them. He must trust them now, as they trusted him.

  I love you, he thought. His mouth formed the words, but he felt cold. He thought he felt Shara squeeze his shoulder. Had he said it aloud?

  Ohndarien stretched out before him, quickly disappearing beneath the billowing smoke. He remembered the city as she should be, as he had fallen in love with her, with her lights gleaming like jewels. With her sultry Night Market and lively Long Market. With the Citadel rising like a dark protector on the horizon, with life and prosperity flowing through her locks. With the Heartstone at the center of it all, beating steadily.