by Chris Howard
One guard kicked off the wall at a steep angle, fleeing the fight.
The female guard cursed him and brought her sword up in front, hilt above her head, point down, her left hand braced against the back of the blade near the tip. She brought her knees up, did a weird shrugging motion that propelled her backward in the water, and planted her feet against the gate's glowing bars.
A blade caught the fleeing guard through the ankles, and then arced into the back of his neck.
Blood clouded the water and armored guards glided limply to the platform running the length of the sixth tier.
The pale woman turned back to the last guard crouched in her strange stance, perpendicular to the wall, sword point down, the sharp edge facing out.
A night blade shot at her, hit the sword, and spun off in two pieces, turning to smoke before hitting the stone wall.
The pale woman's arms shook with the effort of keeping the gap of night open. “Who are you?"
"Phaidra.” She said it proudly, as if releasing some of the pressure of hiding her identity for months.
"You are lucky only once, Phaidra,” said the pale woman in Corina's gloating voice. She twisted her fingers in an arcane motion and four pure-black sickle shapes spun through the water.
Phaidra kicked off the gate, her legs wheeling over her head. She caught one of Aleximor's blades, but missed the other three. One clipped her helmet, tearing it from her head with a spurt of blood from her scalp. Another sliced deep through the scales armoring her thigh. The last missed her, taking a wedge of stone out of the wall.
Phaidra dropped her sword and fell into a curl of supplication, weeping. One hand opened to the pale witch.
"Please."
Her right hand, hidden from the white-haired woman's view, snapped and flexed. A cable as thin as a strand of hair whipped across the space between them, towed by a tiny metal weight, and dragging a bulb the size of a balled up fist. The cable coiled up the pale woman's legs, spiraling and tightening them together. The bulb popped, expanded with gas, and threw her bound ankles straight up.
The pale woman lost her grip on the bar of darkness between her fingers and it vanished.
Phaidra kicked off the wall, grabbed the woman's white braids as she shot past, and tugged her head and neck into a wrestling hold, a knife against her throat.
"Do not move.” Phaidra breathed the words an inch from the pale woman's ear. “Or I will. Say nothing, until I ask. Keep your hands free, away from your body. If you remain still and silent, I will take that as assent. Otherwise, I will take your head and let the rest of you fly to the apex of the King's Protection, where you can bounce around headless, spewing your blood until the guards cut the float from your legs. My blade will be into your spine before you can call on whatever power you possess. I am not some stupid Dosianax. I am a Rexenor. I have fought the Olethren. Twice."
Phaidra tightened her grip, chasing the twitch that ran through Aleximor's body.
"So, you know where we swim, Miss Pale Hair. You know I am no friend of Tharsaleos, and must also believe you are not. I have told you who I am, and in this city, that knowledge will get me a stone box in the king's prison—if I am not slain before that. If you cannot gain my trust, I will kill you. Now, turn your hand so that I may see your bracelet. Slowly."
Aleximor twisted his wrist, keeping his fingers together, until the gold plate of the name bracelet faced Phaidra.
"Klonassa,” said Phaidra in an almost friendly whisper, “of Dosianax. One of the king's near-border scouts. I must hear your tale, Klonassa. How is it possible to ride off for duty in the mountains with black hair and return with white?” Her tone thinned to a knife's edge. “I smell sourness on you. Bitter blood. You are warm, but not with your own life. Someone else's you have taken."
Aleximor shivered again, and Phaidra took this for a spasm of fear.
"Do not fret, Pale One. I will allow you to speak. I hated Klonassa and bear you no grudge for killing her. Now. Very slowly. Very quietly. Speak to me. Tell me your story. Begin with your real name."
"Corina,” Aleximor managed to whisper. “I am a daughter of the ostologos."
"You lie. You ... look like one, so I am willing to give you another moment of life. There is no ostologos, for all of that work has been taken up by the king himself."
"So I have heard."
"My ancestor put yours into a prison on the far side of the world, never to touch the sea's warmth on his skin again."
Aleximor held his jaw tight to keep the smile pushing at his lips in. “I take you to be some distant relative of old Kassander?"
"He was my great-great-grandfather."
Aleximor's body jumped again, and he felt the knife push into his soft throat. “Then you are a lady of Rexenor?"
"I am. Tell me why you are here, why one of the old line of the ostologoi would find herself in the king's fortress—and six gates in?"
"We are here—six gates in—for the same reasons, lady."
"I have not given you my reasons."
"Our causes may differ, Phaidra of Rexenor, but our hatred of kings runs a parallel current. Rexenor was betrayed by them. My family was as well. We fight them from different sides, but we are bound by our hatred."
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Chapter Twenty-Nine
Phaidra
The lure of fire magic, the combining of the liquid elements of the sea with the solid earth, was strong among the Telkhines, and there is universal consensus among the Seaborn that the study and practice of fire magic led to House Telkhines’ downfall. It was forbidden among all the other houses, and all books on the uses of fire—as well as any Telkhines teachers—were destroyed during the overthrow.
—Seaborn history, Michael Henderson
* * * *
"Lady Kassandra is my niece,” Phaidra admitted quietly, running her fingers over the healed wound in her scalp. The pale witch, Corina, had fixed the deep rip in her leg as well, then led Phaidra back to Theudas’ former residence.
Aleximor stared with Corina's eyes, shark-like, ravenous, his lips parting for words, more of his teeth showing.
"How young is she?"
"Twenty.” Phaidra didn't add that age didn't really matter to the Wreath-wearers once they came into their power—not when they had thousand-year-old royalty in their heads telling them what to say and what to do.
The pale woman's smiled even more like a shark.
Phaidra could only let her guard down so far before every internal signal blared warnings and told her to keep it up. It's just information among enemies with a greater common enemy. Sharing information. That is all.
She had to be careful, but even with the warnings, Phaidra found herself wanting to trust Corina, tiring of the months of secrecy, of wearing an agreeable mask when others talked of ridding the world of Rexenor or the Wreath-wearer, singing their songs, clasping their hands, and chaining some piece of her soul to their side. She had struggled in her new life of twisted mirror loyalties. So much easier to hate your enemies.
The pale woman kicked closer, her expression softening, hunger still in her words. “Are there others like you in the City?"
Phaidra closed her mouth into a tight cautious line. Do not answer the question she is asking, she told herself, but the sense of the question. “There are many discontented."
"Of House Rexenor?” The pale woman gave her an incredulous stare.
"No."
Corina tilted her head back, understanding. “Yes, this King Tharsaleos is not that stupid."
Phaidra stopped herself from grinning back, but allowed a wary smile onto her lips. “Even for a Dosianax, yes."
Both of them laughed, cruel and happy and bitterly sad laughter that died as soon as each heard the identical feeling of loss, a deep welling sorrow each of them had in their souls.
Phaidra was the first to relax her shoulders. “There is something...” She was about to say that there was something about Corina that reminded her
of Kassandra.
"Something? What is it?"
"I think you are right, Corina. We are alike."
* * * *
The two of them shared Theudas’ old room, went on night forays into the king's fortress, and nodded, unsurprised by the spread of rumors about the Wreath-wearer's agents penetrating the Nine-cities. First, the Roll Seep Gate attack and now another unusual attack six gates in toward King Tharsaleos. There was a guard from the Sixth Cold Gate who had vanished, and—strangest of all—one of the attackers in the king's fortress had been a missing young man from the Roll Seep.
As fond as Aleximor had become of his Rexenor accomplice, he knew it was time to change his strategy. He decided to return home to the old stronghold of the bone-gatherers north of the city.
"I want to meet the Wreath-wearer, Phaidra."
The Lady Rexenor gave her a hard look, tilted her head forward in assent. She pulled off her earrings. “I must remain here, in her service. Will you give her a message for me?"
"How do you speak to each other or pass messages now?"
"Twice she has spoken to me ... in my thoughts."
Corina moved closer. “Commands? Questions? And do you answer her?"
Phaidra stiffened and looked away, either unable or unwilling to explain.
Corina smiled, soft and a little hurt—then answered in a carefree voice, kicking to the ceiling and waving a hand that dismissed any of the barriers between them. “Why wouldn't I pass along your message?"
And for the first time since the kissing and killing at the Roll Seep Gate, the Corina inside the pale woman spoke, pleading with Aleximor, just four words: Do not hurt her.
Phaidra kicked off one wall and took Corina's hands, pushing her earrings into her palm and folding her white fingers over them. “Give these to Lady Kassandra as a token of my confidence in you and tell her exactly this: Tharsaleos will marshal all house forces except Alkimides. He does not trust Alkimides, and will keep them in the Nine-cities, fearing they will betray him by taking the Wreath-wearer's side in the battle."
There was a flash of anger on the pale woman's face before she pushed away. “Why did you not tell me this? Who will lead the king's army into the north, the king himself?"
Phaidra tensed, her knees coming up and hands curling into fists. “Because Lady Kassandra is to lead Rexenor in battle. I do not know who will lead the Seaborn army. I suspect the king, but then he would take House Alkimides with him to remain under his eye. And there is one Alkimides in the oktoloi, the first of the king's Eight, Sameramis. Does the king go without one of his most trusted? Does he bring some of the Alkimides but not the bulk of the army?” Phaidra kicked away from the pale woman, sensing the threat behind her words. “I do not understand your reaction, Corina.” A sudden shocking conclusion tumbled into place in Phaidra's mind, and she leaned forward without meaning to, her eyes going wide. “You are of the ostologoi. Do you have an army?"
The pale woman smiled and closed her eyes to regain her self-control. “Rexenor,” she whispered, and Phaidra couldn't tell if she was talking to her or some imagined historical Rexenor. “Most clever beside the Telkhines. Only you could have devised a way to imprison ... one of us. Why are you not the royal house?"
Phaidra returned a musing smile. “In a way, it was Rexenor who defeated the Telkhines two thousand years ago."
Corina returned a doubtful look. “How?"
"The first Alkimides king, Polemachos, was a bastard of a lesser Rexenor nobleman and the Alkimides princess—and King Polemachos had the bleed off his father."
Corina nodded. “Now you have an heir to the throne from a Rexenor Lord and an Alkimides royal."
"And she is the Wreath-wearer."
"Whose bleed does she have? What are her strengths?"
The pale woman's eagerness sparked Phaidra's suspicion, and she brought her fists up again. “My brother's. I cannot pin down her direction. Ask her when you meet her."
Corina didn't notice Phaidra's uneasiness. She had a faraway look in her eyes as she grasped the earrings firmly in her hand.
"That I will, my dear Phaidra Lady Rexenor. I will ask her when I see her."
* * * *
Phaidra opened her eyes, startled by a heavy thud behind her. Someone was banging on the door, trying to break it down.
She tried to lift her head and then her hands, but her body would not respond. Her arms and legs felt heavy; a hollow burning itch crawled around inside her stomach, something alive injecting a boiling fluid into her muscles.
"Corina?” Her voice sounded muffled and too slow, her tongue dropping to one side in her mouth, garbling the words. Had she been poisoned?
A slow prickling started at the base of her spine and roamed hot up her back. She knew Corina wasn't there.
She blinked and tried to hold her thoughts steady. Corina, smiling after their talk, agreeable, too agreeable, taking her earrings. Phaidra remembered a line of fire and a woman's demanding voice, and Corina bargaining with her—and the woman behind the line of fire gave her something ... something wrong, something that slithered into her head, a segmented thing without a face, just rings of teeth.
Phaidra? There was a voice in her head, a woman's concerned voice—not the woman from behind the fire.
Phaidra, close your eyes. Let me show you something.
"Lady Kassandra?” Her voice sounded clearer, the burning in her muscles easing.
Yes, it's me. Close your eyes. Just watch. This is the hard part.
"Watch?"
Wait. There's something inside you. I think this was meant for me. Did my grandfather do this to you? Panic filled Kassandra's voice. Where are you? Has he caught you?
"No. Cor...” Phaidra couldn't say her name. “Pale woman."
It's here. It has come across my link to you. It's inside me, searching for something ... something it wants from me. I have taken it from you. I'll deal with it later. You should be free of it. Now listen to me, Phaidra. Not much time. I'm going to show you something that will happen in the future. You have to trust me. You have to hold on ... Oh, gods. It hurts now. What did this pale woman give you? Phaidra, trust me. Watch. I will come for you. I promise.
Kassandra's voice faded and Phaidra saw a flicker of blue light in her imagination, a high stone judge's seat, and the king's guards were holding her arms. One of them hit her in the face. Teeth loosening. The king was there shouting at her. The scene slipped away, replaced by a bright ball that filled the heavens over the Nine-cities, Helios’ Twin, and a woman in armor like nothing Phaidra had ever seen, flexible, shimmering gold, with vivid blue at the seams. It was the Wreath-wearer and she was marching into the Nine-cities with her army behind her. It was Kassandra, but she had cut off her braids, and there were streaks of color in her hair. And there was the demon, Ochleros, monstrous teeth and claws and fluid body oozing over buildings—and Kassandra looked up. She commanded him, “Go, Ochleros, release Phaidra from her prison. Rexenor is ready to come home."
Phaidra opened her eyes. The thing Corina had put inside her was gone, transferred to Kassandra. She kicked into the water of Theudas’ room—then everything in the world went wrong.
She looked at her wrist, at an unfamiliar name bracelet.
"Klonassa."
The door shattered and a beam of light hit her. The king's guard flooded the tunnels and tiny room, swords out. A silky braided wire whipped over her head and tightened around her throat, a noose at the end of a long pole. Two more grabbed her arms. One of the guards shot forward and jammed something in her mouth that hooked her tongue and teeth and held them in place.
They dragged her through the narrow tunnel, into the square in front of Theudas’ house, and loaded her onto a float barge that sped off toward the brooding walls surrounding the assembly, the justice seats, and the holding prison for the accused.
* * * *
Lord Gypselos, king's judge, leaned over the justice stone, tapping a finger against his bony jutting chin. He looked
over at King Tharsaleos for the final decision.
"Let her speak."
The king's guard, ten of them, drifted at different depths around the woman accused of murdering twenty-two gate guards and a border guard, treason against all Seaborn, and for being a Rexenor within the walls of the Nine-cities.
As soon as they removed the gag, Phaidra stretched her mouth open wide to get feeling into her mouth and jaws.
"Speak, Rexenor, why have you come to the Nine-cities where you do not belong?"
Phaidra glared up at the judge. “Ram your fist up your ass, Gypselos.” She fought against the noose bindings, twisting her head as far around as they allowed. The king floated blurry in her peripheral vision.
"Lady Kassandra has a message for you, Tharsaleos.” She paused when the king lifted a finger to one of the guards. A big bearded man in blue armor kicked up to her and threw one of his fists into the side of her face.
"You will use his title. King Tharsaleos."
Phaidra shook the blood away from her eyes. There was a sour taste in her mouth, and a wobbly motion in her head. “King Tharsaleos, these are Lady Kassandra's words: You make your own enemies. You put me on the surface and from there you will always find defeat."
King Tharsaleos smiled calmly and tugged at his short white beard. His granddaughter had obviously chosen her terrain and would wait for him to attack her, but he had no intention of sending his army above the waves—not when it had proven fatal the first time.
Phaidra gave him a knowing sneer. “Lady Kassandra said you would smile at this point. Now I am to tell you that—her exact words—you are a fool to think the surface is only above you. Look below your feet, old man, and tell me what you see.” She shrieked the last few words through the repeated battering fists of the guard.
King Tharsaleos kicked up with his Eight, waving for Gypselos to continue, making a strange cupped hand gesture, and saying aloud, “She may be of use."
The judge pointed through an arch cut through the north wall. “Lithotombs. Till death."
