by Wren Handman
“Darren!” a voice cried.
Taya turned to see Princess Nicola burst from a shadowy recess at the side of the room. Her hair was disheveled, the remains of what appeared to be a manacle dangling from one wrist. There was a dusting of dirt just across her nose where freckles might have landed on a less smooth face, and vertical rips down her skirt that looked too straight to be real. At her appearance Peter sputtered, turning away from Darren as if he had forgotten entirely his nephew’s presence. Taya noticed that he seemed more nonplussed by this than the betrayal of the captain of his guard.
“How did you get out of your cell?” he demanded, his fist clenching by his side.
Taya shook her head, disgusted. He was clearly too angry, his fury too pat. He had shown less rage when an enemy stormed unexpected into his throne room—this was the worst mummer’s act she had ever seen.
“Nicola,” Darren murmured, and he too turned from his enemy to face the princess. There was an agony of betrayal on his features, the stamp plain for any to read, and behind it the anger that he had been expressing only moments before.
Despite herself, Taya felt a grin growing on her lips—now this upstart who had thought she could manipulate Darren would get what she deserved. Slowly, moving through the shadows, Taya made her way closer to Nicola. She seemed to have been largely forgotten, and that suited her just fine.
“Darren…” Nicola whispered, and the single word was a caress, hopeless love and pain.
Taya smirked. Nicola may have been a better actress than the king, but what kind of fool did she take Darren for?
“Oh, Darren…I am cursed, I know that, and I know you will hate me for always, but you must know the truth,” she cried, tears rising in her eyes. “I was frightened. Darren, I was so frightened! He found out about us. Said he would kill my father, Darren, and my sister! He said he would burn my home, burn everyone alive, if I didn’t help him.” She wept, each tear seeming summoned by a painful memory, and as she wept she tossed her head slightly so that the lamplight sparkled off the tears in her eyes.
She was good, Taya had to give her that.
“I know I betrayed you, Darren. I do not expect your forgiveness, I swear to you. I only want you to know the truth, to know…oh, Darren…how I loved you so. How I love you so.” She whimpered softly with the words, clutching her hands to her chest as if to contain the font of emotions there.
Darren seemed to waver, taking a step toward her and then stopping, unsure. The anger was gone, replaced by a desperate hope.
Taya frowned, crouching low behind the audience benches, now only inches away from the emotional duel. Idiot! Can’t you see it’s a trap? Oh, you little fool. But as soon as she saw him hesitate she realized he would believe this lie. He wanted so badly to think that someone like Nicola could love him. As if that alone could make him king.
“He hurt you,” Darren said, slowly, and Princess Nicola turned her face away, covering her eyes with one hand.
The nails, Taya noticed, were perfectly groomed.
“This isn’t about me…” she whispered, softly. “It is you, Darren, and only you.”
He snarled at Peter, half in anger and half in impotent fury, and raised his sword high into the air. “You bastard. Ya think I need another reason to kill ya? I’ll kill ya for what ya did to my father, and I’ll kill ya for what ya did to my family, and now too I’ll kill ya for what you did to Nicola, and all the people of this land,” he said, and with a mighty roar he charged at Peter.
Taya gritted her teeth, shaking her head. Asses on horses, she thought, he actually turned his back on her.
Outside, the sounds of fighting were growing louder, but inside there was nothing but the pounding of boots on marble and the rasp of steel on leather as King Octarion drew his blade. He barely maneuvered it out in time, and raised it to block Darren’s wild swing. Taya was watching them from the corner of her eye, but her real focus was on Nicola. Sure enough the wretched woman waited only a heartbeat for Darren to race past her before drawing a dagger from a sheath hidden on her thigh. She made a simpering noise of distress which didn’t even start to reach her eyes, and angled the blade to bury it in the back of Darren’s neck.
With a wordless roar Taya launched herself from the shadows, slamming her shoulder full-force against Nicola’s stomach. The princess went down with a cry, her head knocking against the floor, and the dagger skidded across the empty floor.
Darren paused, turning to look toward the sound, still out of range of the king’s sword. He froze for a moment, uncomprehending, and then the king was upon him and his attention was caught up, and Taya was struggling for her own life and could not see the battle just beyond her.
Nicola had gone down easily, but she wrapped her arms around Taya’s throat and closed her fingers, a snarl on her pretty lips. Taya grabbed Nicola’s long blond hair and pulled it upward, then smashed her head back against the concrete as hard as she could. Her grip loosened for a moment only to tighten again, and Taya clawed at her face, at her eyes. Her vision started to darken, and then she remembered the dagger at her own waist. She drew it and slammed it home in a single motion. Nicola’s hands tightened and then released, shuddering, as she drew a last painful breath and then was still. Taya rolled off her, gasping and rubbing her neck, and tried not to smell the blood in the air.
She heard a roar of pain and looked up, her breath catching in her throat. Darren and Peter were circling each other, sword crashing against sword, and though they both boasted scrapes she thought Peter seemed the worse for wear. She had feared Darren would be no match for his uncle—a man more than twice his years was liable to be slow, but his training was far superior. After watching for a moment, however, she couldn’t help but laugh. The king was a terrible fighter. He had been relying on Nicola to save him; that was why he had shown no fear. The man fought in backroom deals, using treachery and intelligence to defeat his enemies. He was no soldier.
Darren forced him back against the wall, and as she watched he smashed away his uncle’s sword and plunged his own deep into Peter’s chest. The usurper drew in a sickly breath, his eyes widening in surprise, and for a long moment they were locked like that, their arms wrapped around each other, swords frozen. Blood bubbled on Peter’s lips, and he opened them once or twice as if he might speak, but the air had been stolen from him. Darren stepped backward, the sword sliding out with a sickening wet slurp, and the body collapsed in a pool of blood. Darren took a step back, stunned, and then he fell to his hands and knees, retching, one hand still clutching the bloody sword. Taya pulled herself up and raced to his side, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
“I can’t do this, Taya. Help me. I can’t do this.” He bowed his head and tears flowed from his eyes and down his cheeks, helpless sobs shaking his shoulders.
She rocked with him gently, silently. There was nothing to say.
They would speak of Ryan, later, in hushed tones. His actions that day would go down in legend, and unlike many stories that came before, this would need no embellishment to make it a worthy campfire tale. When he saw David fall across the square, there were many men between himself and his fallen companion. His roar of rage was spoken of in whispers; many would later claim they had heard demons fighting in the square. The stories varied in the telling, but all agreed there were piles of dead that fell beneath Ryan’s swirling blades. Many raced toward him, trying to intercept his headlong rush, and these fell quickest. Others were taken down with their backs turned, as he dispatched enemies that other men were fighting. None stood against him. None laid even a sliver of blade on his flesh.
David was lying face down on the paving stones, his shirt soaked in blood. The wound had been to his back, and Ryan turned him so he could see his face. His skin was pale, dirt hiding the vagaries of his features, but Ryan’s hand traced them from memory. The silent assassin, he who never showed his fear or pain, felt tears welling in his eyes.
“David,” he whispered in a voice so
low even he could not hear its tones, “David, you can’t leave me here. I need you.” He pressed a hand to David’s cheek, choking back the tears, a silent cry building in his chest. “You made me this. You turned my feet to this path, but I don’t know how to walk it alone; I can’t. You are my compass, David. How will I go without you?” He clutched a hand in David’s hair, a sob breaking out. He pressed his face against David’s bloody shirt, his body moving in his grief. But then…he froze. He was completely silent, completely still, his head pressed against David’s chest. He didn’t breathe, made no move at all, fearing to disrupt the spell. It didn’t break, though, not even as he sucked a deep breath in and raised his head, as he caught David’s wrist between his thumb and his finger and held it tight.
There, beneath the skin, the faintest of pressures moved against his fingers—a heartbeat.
Taya heard a hammering against the doors, and a familiar voice raised in command. Quickly she rose to her feet, leaving Darren for a moment as she ran toward the entrance.
“Jeremy?” she asked. She pressed her ear to the door, listening for sounds of battle, but all seemed quiet. She hesitated a moment, doubting her own senses, but then she heard him again, and though the words were unintelligible the voice was unmistakable.
She strained to lift the bar from the door, and managed to get it up far enough that she could push it out of the way, and then she swung the doors open just wide enough to launch herself into Jeremy’s arms.
“He killed him, Jeremy. He did it,” she cried triumphantly, and she heard a roar of joy from the men assembled behind him.
He spun her around, laughing, and then kissed her once, quick and fierce and private, and when he set her down it was with a grin on his face. He moved past her, into the antechamber, and hailed Darren jubilantly. Darren made no response, still sitting with tears on his face in the corner of the room. Quietly, Taya closed the doors behind Jeremy, giving the men outside a quick smile before she did. It would not do, Taya thought bitterly, to have the men see their king weeping.
“We are victorious, Darren. We have taken the castle. The guards have surrendered. Men are running through the streets, crying the news. Your grandfather is on his way, to declare on his seal of office that you are the rightful heir. It is a time for joy,” Jeremy reminded his friend gently.
Darren nodded, wordlessly, and drew himself to his feet. He rubbed his bloody palm almost absently against the thigh of his pants, slick sword still clutched in his other hand. He would do his duty, that much was clear, though it ripped his soul apart.
“Wait,” Taya said, moving past Jeremy to stand before her once-love. “Please, Darren, wait a moment.”
Darren looked up at her, his face tired and pale. He said nothing, and he watched her with a weariness that she had never before seen in him.
“Do you want to be king?” she asked him, knowing the answer, needing to hear it now.
“I got a duty,” he whispered, the words barely carrying through the air. He seemed empty, drawn and used, and she took a step closer to him.
“Never mind duty for a moment. Is it something that you want?”
“What I want doesn’t mean nothing,” he told her brusquely.
She knew him. He was angry that she was asking pointless questions, knowing that he hated the prospect of his imminent imprisonment in this waterless place.
“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you want to be king?” she said again, each word spoken slowly and distinctly, with pauses between them to punctuate the point.
He snarled at her, throwing the sword to the ground between them in a clatter of steel, his face contorting in his anger and his grief.
“Oblivion take you, no! I don’t wanna be king! I don’t want blood on my hands, lives balanced by my say-so! I don’t want five dinner forks and castle walls and my water a thousand miles away! Oblivion, Taya, ya know that! Ya know I want my sea! I want wind on my face and salt in the air, something you c’n breathe! I want my Ashua-thrice-cursed freedom!” he screamed, tears sparkling in his deep gray eyes, pain such as she had never seen in him aching from every pore.
She kissed him lightly, one soothing hand against his cheek.
“There’s a reason for my asking, Darren; I don’t do it to bait you.” She turned to Jeremy then. “David told me that when you began this revolution you intended to set him up as king—that he comes from a noble family, that his parents had trained him in the possibility that he might marry one of Peter’s daughters.”
Jeremy eyed her, doubtful that this would lead anywhere fruitful but curious despite himself.
“I do not understand where you lead this, Taya. We could not get the support we needed to crown David. He was not the rightful king.”
“What if he was?” she asked, and there were sparkles in her eyes.
“But he ain’t,” Darren complained.
“Let her talk,” Jeremy soothed. “I’m sure she has some clever, terrible plan.”
“Did you not think how strange it was that the steward took Darren and dropped him off with a peasant, taught him nothing but how to be a sailor?”
“He tried,” Darren objected. “It ain’t Gramps fault. I just saw no use for it. We used to row something fierce.”
“But think about it,” Taya insisted. “It does seem strange. No?”
“It does,” Jeremy replied. “And?”
“And imagine this. You are the steward of the king. You hear of a plot. So, you take the baby child to a family loyal to the old king. A family who happens to have a baby child of their own. You switch the babies. That family raises the prince in comfort, in class, close to the politics of the kingdom, but safe under his assumed name. While that family gives their child away, secreted with a peasant woman. That way, if the usurper ever tracks down the child the prince will not die, but some other in his place.”
“David is of an age with Darren,” Jeremy breathed. “They could easily have been switched at birth.”
“And their coloring is similar,” Taya insisted. “We could do it. Don’t you think? We could do it.”
“Say that I’m David?” Darren asked, confused.
“Yes. Say that you are the son of House Night and he is the son of House Goldfinch. Switched at birth, so that if ever the usurper got too close, it would be the duke’s son who would die, and not the king’s.”
“Will your grandfather support the story?” Jeremy demanded.
“I…I think…yes. I think he would,” Darren admitted.
Taya grinned. “And that’s not the only machination I have in store…”
Chapter Eighteen
HE WAS STANDING ON THE BALCONY, dressed in a white silk suit that seemed to ill-fit him. She walked out beside him and placed a hand upon his shoulder, and he turned to her with a smile.
“How did ya find me here?”
“I told you once that you are me; or maybe I only told myself. I had a lot of thoughts I never shared that I should have. But never mind. I know you, and I know how badly you hate these walls. Here at least you can see the sky.”
“Aye, it is beautiful here, though I sorely miss my lady.”
“I know. You’re leaving, aren’t you. After the ceremony.”
“Aye. I can’t wait to get back to her.”
“Speaking of her, and of thoughts never shared…there’s something that I wanted to give you,” she told him. She reached down to her skirts and pulled out a small velvet bag, which she placed in his hand. He opened it, confused, and turned it upside down. A small golden ring fell into his palm.
“I don’t understand…” he admitted.
“It’s the engagement ring that I bought. For you and I. There was a time, once—it seems a lifetime ago—when I thought that someday I might use it for real.”
“But you will, someday! You should keep it.”
She laughed softly, and shook her head. “No. I meant, I thought that I would use it for you and me. That someday our marriage might be real. It to
ok me a long time to understand that you were married already. The sea has her claws in you, and you will never leave her.”
“Taya, if I ever hurt ya—”
“I caused myself a lot of hurt, with a lot of silliness. But I think we’re better for it. I’m glad we met, glad we’re friends now. I want you to do something for me, all right?”
“What’s that?”
“Throw this ring into the sea.”
“But, Taya, it’s worth a fortune!”
She tsked and waved a hand, dismissing it. “If I sold it, it would be like selling our past. I don’t want to do that. We’ll always be friends, won’t we? You’ll never be too busy to stop off on shore leave and visit a poor seamstress.” She smiled softly, and he grinned.
“Never. I owe you my life, Taya, a thousand times and again. And my freedom, too.”
“Never mind that. Who’s keeping score?”
“You are,” he said with a laugh, wrapping an arm around her waist.
“Am I? I’d forgotten,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder.
They stayed there like that, silent and comfortable, and watched the sun set.
It was a month since the usurping king had fallen, and King David had taken his place as the rightful ruler of Sephria. He had been acknowledged under oath by the king’s steward, and the whole kingdom had arrived to witness the coronation. But that was only the beginning of Taya’s plan. She had also arranged a marriage.
That had been a more delicate exercise. She had gone to visit David in the large bedroom that was part sickroom and part war room. The revolution, though swift in the capital, was hardly over. There were still a few barons who were fighting, and another few who had decided to use the chaos as an excuse to take up arms against dukes who had wronged them over the last twenty years. David was a busy man, and Taya was a nobody, and a foreign nobody to boot. But Jeremy got her an audience, and she asked Elise to be there. The woman was doubly confused since she had never really met Taya, but reluctantly agreed.
