by Morgan Rice
“So far your excellences have done a wonderful job in using Ceres to promote and strengthen the Empire. And I see an opportunity to do it again,” Stephania said.
“Well then, why don’t you enlighten us,” the queen said in a stiff tone.
“Don’t throw Ceres out of our midst,” Stephania said. “And don’t execute her. Instead…use her to make the Empire wealthier than it has ever been.”
The room grew silent, a few whispers throughout, and Stephania could just feel favor descending upon her again.
“And how do you propose we do that?” the king asked.
“Make her a permanent contender in the Killings,” Stephania said.
Now the room had become so silent, Stephania could hear air moving in and out of her nostrils.
“She’s a girl,” someone yelled.
“No one would come see a commoner being butchered,” another said.
Stephania was becoming impatient with these narrow-minded, short-sighted old-timers.
“Ceres is a soon-to-be royal female, a novelty, a fierce fighter in her own right,” she said. “I have watched her fight, and she beat Lucious. I dare say people would travel from afar just to see her.”
The king squinted, bringing a hand to his bearded chin.
“Make the spectators pay a premium to see the princess combatlord,” Stephania added.
The king glanced at the queen, and the queen lifted an eyebrow.
“The princess combatlord,” the king said. “I will think on it, but I do believe the idea to be excellent. Well done, Stephania. Well done.”
Stephania curtsied again and walked back to her seat, extremely proud of herself for having thought of such a genius plan. Not only would her idea bring in money for the Empire, it would serve a very personal purpose, too.
Vengeance.
Finally, Thanos would be hers.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
What a waste of my time, Sartes thought as he sat below the willow tree in their yard, peeling potatoes for his mother, the wind pulling at his burgundy tunic in a steady stream. Sartes was too young to fight in the rebellion, Rexus had told him, and had sent him back home to sit and wait to mature, to feel useless, to ponder on Nesos’s death, to sit and think of how Ceres was trapped within the walls of the palace, being abused, used, and tortured.
He tossed the potato into the pot and started to peel another one.
How was it Rexus expected him to sit here and do nothing, to suffer the consequences of the war, but to not help in any way? He wasn’t too young, he knew, but the revolutionaries didn’t see that. Just because he was small of build didn’t mean he didn’t have skills and abilities that were useful in the war against the Empire.
But no matter how much he insisted to Rexus on staying, Sartes was sent home to be with his mother to peel vegetables and wait on her hand and foot.
When he heard wheels crunching against the gravel road, Sartes looked up. The Empire’s blue and gold banner waved above an enclosed wagon, dozens of Empire soldiers marching behind it in two perfectly straight rows.
The front door to the house creaked open, and Sartes’s mother stepped out onto the front porch, squinting toward the cart, a hand shading her eyes, a generous frown on her face.
“Get inside the house, Sartes,” she said.
“Mother—”
“Get inside the house now!” she screamed.
Sartes huffed and threw the knife into the bucket of water and potatoes. Heading toward the house, he fumed about how unfair it was that everyone treated him like a helpless child.
“And don’t come out until I tell you to, do you hear?” his mother snapped.
Sartes slammed the door shut behind him and sat by the kitchen table, peering out through the partially opened shutter, seeing the Empire wagon slow to a halt right in front of their yard.
An Empire soldier hopped down from the driver’s seat and approached, a scroll carrying the Empire seal in his hand.
“We are here to recruit your firstborn son for the royal army,” the Empire soldier said, holding the scroll toward Sartes’s mother.
Sartes saw that his mother glanced down at the scroll, but did not accept it.
“Ceres is my daughter, and as you know, she is to be wed to Prince Thanos,” she said.
Sartes stood up and tiptoed to the shutter, listening intently.
“It has been ruled by the king that we recruit all firstborn males,” the Empire soldier said.
“My eldest son is dead,” she said, a tremble in her voice.
“And what of your other sons?” the Empire soldier asked.
“How dare you ask that of me?” Sartes’s mother said.
“The king has not excused you or your family from serving him or the Empire. So I ask of you again, have you any other sons?” the Empire soldier continued.
“Even if I did have other sons, which I do not, he would soon be the prince’s brother-in-law, and the royal army would not have claim upon him.”
The Empire soldier took a threatening step toward her, and Sartes thought that he might strike his mother. He almost stormed outside, but he knew if he did, he would have to deal with his mother later, or he would be recruited to the royal army, and neither one of those options sounded tempting in the least.
“Might I assume you are with the rebellion then?” the Empire soldier growled.
“Why in heaven’s name would you assume such a thing?” Sartes’s mother asked.
“Because you are resisting the king’s commands.”
“I am not with the rebellion,” she said.
“Will you obey the king’s orders, then?”
“I will and I do.”
“Then step aside so I can search your house.”
“You have no right to search my home,” she snapped.
“I have orders to kill anyone who resists!” the soldier roared. “Now stand out of my way, wench!”
Sartes gasped, realizing if he didn’t get away, the soldiers would seize him and he would be forced to fight for the royal army. He started toward the back room, but as he did, he bumped into a chair, causing it to tip over with a crash. Stumbling forward, he just made it into the back room when he heard the Empire soldier kicking the front door in.
But before Sartes could escape through the window, the Empire soldier was upon him. The brute clutched Sartes’s arm, pulling him out into the main room again, but Sartes grabbed a chair and swung it at the soldier, hitting him in the head so blood oozed from his brow.
The soldier cried out and fell to the floor, releasing Sartes’s arm, and Sartes dashed into the back room again.
He tore open the shutters and hopped out the window, his heart pounding like a wild beast against his sternum, nothing on his mind other than getting to the field. He passed the shack, the meadow so close, but then he heard his mother screaming.
Unable to continue on, he turned around, and to his horror, he saw the Empire soldier holding a dagger up to his mother’s throat.
“Mother!” he yelled, horrified.
“Please don’t kill me,” his mother croaked. “Sartes, you wouldn’t let your mother die, would you?”
For a split second Sartes was conflicted. If he went back, he would be forced to fight against his friends, against all he believed in, freedom, prosperity, fairness. He would kill those he loved. He would be compelled to destroy all he knew in his bones and blood was the truth. But if he kept running, the Empire soldiers might catch up with him still, and his mother would be dead.
He couldn’t live with himself knowing he was the reason his mother’s throat had been slit by the enemy.
As three Empire soldiers ran toward him, he lifted his hands in surrender, his gaze on his mother, the relief in her eyes as the dagger was removed from her throat somewhat comforting. But also bitter.
The soldiers forced Sartes to the ground, jerking his arms behind his back, binding his wrists with rope. They pulled him up and dragged him past his mothe
r, her eyes filled with tears.
“Sartes,” she cried. “My baby.”
She started after him toward the wagon, her arms longingly reaching for him, fingers straining at his shirt.
A soldier hit her across the face and she fell to the parched grass with a yelp.
The soldiers threw Sartes into the cart with three other young men and locked the door.
“I will never forgive myself for this,” his mother cried. “Never!”
The driver whipped the horses and the wagon moved forward with a sudden jerk. Sartes’s mother staggered to her feet and clamped her hands around the bars, eyes filled with desperation.
“Come back to me, Sartes, promise me this!”
But Sartes looked away and would not promise his mother anything. Because of her, he knew, his life was over. Because of her, he would have to fight on the side of the war that killed Nesos, on the side that stole Ceres from him, and on the side that had torn his family apart.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
The wind tugged at Rexus’s hair as he feverishly galloped toward the palace beneath a blanket of stars, Anka sitting behind him holding on for dear life. August and Crates rode after them, their horses heavily loaded with weapons and gear hidden beneath wool throws.
Rexus hadn’t been able to sleep a wink since he found out Ceres was engaged to Prince Thanos, the thoughts of them together an inescapable torment. He had judged Ceres a liar and a traitor, and had never wanted to see her again. He had never even wanted to think of her again either, but every thought that had occupied his mind these past days and nights had only been of her.
However, after Anka had approached Rexus in Harbor Cave earlier, everything had changed. When she had informed him that Ceres was shackled in the tower and had nearly been raped the night before last, and that Ceres had refused to marry Prince Thanos, he had felt sick to his stomach. But when Anka had told him Ceres loved him—Rexus—and that Ceres spoke of no one other than him, Rexus’s heart had stopped, and he had realized with great remorse that Ceres had been nothing but loyal to the rebellion. And to him. And he had been a fool.
He swore, the pain too much to contain on the inside. He had been so hard on Ceres, had turned her away when she had begged to join the rebellion. And here she was doing nothing but supporting the revolution, fulfilling her job. He vowed that as soon as he saw Ceres again, he would beg for her forgiveness. This was entirely his fault, that she had been imprisoned. His pride had gotten in the way. He should have listened to her when she came to Harbor Cave, but like always, he was too quick to judge and was too much of a hothead.
He glanced back, seeing his friends were still right behind him. He had considered bringing twice as many men, but he figured if he brought more than two strapping young revolutionaries, the group might cause suspicion amongst the Empire soldiers who patrolled the streets of Delos at night. If he brought fewer, they wouldn’t be able to ward off any potential Empire soldiers guarding Ceres’s tower and the rescue mission would be a failure.
August was a new friend, young, happy, and built like a combatlord. He had joined the rebellion a mere month ago, and had told Rexus that he left his father—an advisor to the king—because of the way his father mistreated their slaves. Crates was one of August’s father’s slaves, and the night August left, August took him with him, making Crates a free man.
Crates was tall and lanky, but exceptional with the bow and arrow, and having lived in lack his entire life, he had a fire about him that Rexus loved, the young man embodying the spirit of the revolution.
Clouds had started to roll in when they reached the city, and as the night darkened, Rexus led them through the back streets in silence, passing crowded houses, some intact, others demolished by the Empire.
By the time they paused in an alleyway across from the palace, the heavens had cleared again, the moon and stars bringing welcome light.
Anka descended from the horse, and peeking out from behind the wall, she pointed out the tower Ceres was imprisoned in.
“I have to go back inside,” Anka said. “If anyone finds out I have been gone…”
“Yes, go,” Rexus said. “And Anka…”
Anka turned around and looked at him.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded, and he watched as Anka vanished into the night down the street, around the stone wall toward the back entrance of the palace.
Rexus took a moment to study the Empire soldiers who marched around the wall, noting that they passed by approximately every five minutes. It should give them ample time to climb the wall and not get caught.
Hurriedly, they tied up the horses, took the weapons and rope, and just as the next Empire soldier marched by, seeing the coast was clear, Rexus led August and Crates toward the outer wall.
The wall was slick, but with ropes tossed over the wall, anchored in the trees on the other side, the climb took no time at all.
After they had descended the wall, making no sound as they hopped down onto the soft, green lawn, they stole toward the palace, hiding behind trees and bushes.
Once at the bottom of the tower, Rexus peered up the side of the rounded wall. The structure was higher than what he had initially thought, but he was confident he would be able to climb it and bring Ceres down with him once he had freed her. Any thought of slipping and falling he forced away, knowing uncertainty could cause him to fall.
“Wait behind the bushes while I get her,” Rexus said to August and Crates. “If any Empire soldiers approach, warn me with a quail call.”
He removed his cloak and handed it to August.
“Be safe,” August whispered, vanishing into the shadows with Crates.
Rexus attached a rope to the end of his arrow and shot it through the partially opened shutter. He paused, looking up, hoping Ceres would come to the window, but he saw no movement.
He tugged on the rope, and seeing it was secure, he wedged his foot between two rocks and started the climb. One foot after another, pulling on the cord, he inched his way upward, his hands clamping, the muscles in his arms flexing, his feet digging into the niches of the stone wall.
Halfway up the tower there was a generous ledge, and Rexus paused to rest, panting heavily. He looked down and saw nothing but bushes and trees and shadows. August and Crates were certainly hiding well, he noted.
Once he had caught his breath, he continued to climb, and soon his heart was again pounding from exertion. Or was it from the thought of seeing Ceres?
He strained, climbing faster, just trying to reach her, to see her smile again, her beautiful eyes, feeling her soft skin.
A few inches from the top, he stopped, thinking he heard something below, but when he looked, he saw nothing.
Finally, he reached the ledge of her window and peered into the room.
“Ceres,” he whispered.
“Rexus?” he heard Ceres speak, amazement in her voice.
Then he saw her face—a desperate expression—and that she wore a royal gown that was torn and filthy. When she gripped his hands, he felt how cold she was, but how strong she was, too. She pulled him inside.
“You came for me,” she said, throwing her arms around him.
“I’m sorry for what I said,” he said, gripping her tightly, never wanting to let go. “I love you, with all that I am.”
“I love you, too,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He pulled back and stroked her hair, gazing into her eyes. She rose up onto the balls of her feet and pulled at the back of his head so their lips met. He kissed her passionately, pouring all of himself, all the longing and regret, into that kiss. Her lips were soft, and he knew they were destined to be together.
They parted.
“We have to hurry,” he said. “There will be time later.”
She nodded.
He drew the dagger from its sheath around his waist so he could free her from the shackles.
Suddenly Rexus felt an excruciating pain in his back. He couldn
’t breathe.
He looked down and, to his horror, saw an arrow tip protruding from his chest, running all the way through his body.
Then, before he could register what was happening, there came another.
He was being attacked from behind, he realized. The guards below must have spotted him. He had been shot from behind.
Rexus reached out for Ceres, but his world was already darkening. Before he could sever her bonds, he found himself instead losing balance, falling backwards.
And then he tumbled out the window.
Rexus fell as if in slow motion, the wind in his ears, the sound of Ceres’s scream following him, the air so thin and warm. There was no resistance. It seemed a long way down, as if he were sinking into the earth and the earth swallowed him whole. Would not the ground soon come?
The last thing he saw before he hit the ground was Ceres’s contorted face, looking down, wishing, as he, that everything had turned out differently.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Thanos, standing at the bow of his ship, the scent of the ocean filling his nostrils, spotted Haylon in the distance, and immediately regret brewed in his chest. With every breath he had taken on this trip, every inch he had sailed, the regret had only grown stronger. Now, with the destination in plain sight, it suddenly became crystal clear: he knew he had made the wrong decision not to take Ceres from the castle and run from his uncle, from everything he knew.
And in this moment, his regret turned to shame. Yes, he felt ashamed for letting the king play him again, this time pitting Ceres and him against each other.
Waves crashed against the ship below, drops of salt water splashing onto his overheated face. A steady stream of brisk sea breeze ran through his hair as he watched the gulls dive into the sea only to rise from the ocean with fish in their beaks.
If only I were that free, he thought.
He still felt seasick, and had since the day the ship left the shores of Delos one week earlier to sail south. Now, seeing Haylon, it made him want to jump into the ocean, swim to shore, and worship the white sandy beaches surrounding the isle. Land, solid earth, he thought. He never realized he would miss it so much.
