by Chad Huskins
“Mother! Wait!”
“Run now, flower. They are coming for you. They are coming—”
A moment later, she was gone. Drea felt like she had only blinked, and all that was left was the sky and the wind and the whispering grass.
And the Charred Temple.
When Drea turned back towards it, she discovered that, despite the fact that she had been running away from it, the Charred Temple hadn’t moved or shrunk in size. It was still sitting there, just a hundred feet away, waiting. And so was the Man, only now he had one foot propped up on the railing of the balcony, and he was leaning forward, a smile of intrigue touching his lips.
The fear that had been living in Drea’s heart for so long came welling up now, turning to a molten rage.
“What is this?” she shouted. “What do you want?” Her voice sounded insignificant even to herself, even though it carried across the field and somehow echoed off the temple walls.
The wind suddenly stopped. The clouds covered the sun, casting the world in a haunting gloom. For a long moment, the world held its breath, until finally the Man in the Charred Temple opened his lips. He started to speak.
But Drea never heard him, for there came a strident whistle that assaulted her ears. She woke up, and rolled over on her horsehair mattress, panting heavily.
Slowly, the dreamworld faded and she remembered where she was.
The room was small. Smaller than she was used to. Once, she had lived in a great house, with a hall and an atrium that had been lined with the statues of her ancestors, and with murals on the walls depicting battles House Kalder had won in ages long past. She had grown up around servants, house slaves, wore the best garments, and had the finest teachers in all of Drith.
But that was part of an old life. That’s not who she was anymore.
It was still a shock waking up in this room every day. It was so small, so dusty, and the odor of emptied waste pans and dashed hopes came wafting in from the street at all hours.
Drea sat up straight, hands shaking, brow drenched in sweat. She swung her feet over the bed and onto the cold stone floor. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. She wiped those away without thought.
The dream had been so powerful, much more so than the last time she’d experienced it. Her mother’s presence…It felt so real.
She looked around at the room, which was barely bigger than a closet. The timekeeper on her wrist said it was the Hour of the Rabbit, still early in the morning. The wash basin across from her bed was full and surrounded by clothes that needed cleaning, and the silvered mirror above it reflected her own reddened, panicked face.
Drea could not shake the image of her mother. She saw her standing there, her face covered by a veil of brown hair blowing in the wind as she beseeched her daughter not to go to that dangerous Man.
She could still hear her mother’s last words, “Run now, flower. They are coming for you.”
The vision made her afraid, but she could not say why. Surely it had been an omen, for all the priests and priestesses spoke of the significance of dreams, how it was the tenda and vehl spirits trying to communicate with mortals through images and sounds that only augurs could decipher.
What does it mean? Drea thought.
The dream was already fading, but the fear in her would not retreat with it. And whenever she was afraid, she thought of Thryis.
Thryis was her life’s greatest friend. Stubborn but still wise, she had always been there for Drea. At least, until recently. Ever since Drea had become an in-waiting bride, she hadn’t been allowed many visitors.
Presently, Drea touched the bracelet on her hand, made of hempen rope and with stygian bluestones woven in. Thryis had given it to her years ago, long before Drea had been taken away to be an in-waiting bride for the Imperator.
Suddenly, Drea remembered the ear-piercing sound that had woken her. She paused, listening for it, but heard nothing. What had it been? It had sounded almost like a whistle, had it not?
Probably nothing, Drea thought. She wouldn’t bother herself with it. She walked over to her sketchbook, where a small, full-body portrait of Thryis was still half finished. Drea had been thinking about her friend a lot recently. She sat down and lifted her quill, closed her eyes to envision Thryis, then opened her eyes and let the quill do the work.
Among the feminine arts, drawing was the most prestigious. Drea was proficient, if a little basic. She had learned to lay down the basic slashes that represented the angles she would use later in the drawing, and use charcoal to flesh things out with shading.
In the drawing, Thryis’s blonde hair was pulled up, she wore only a simple stola, and her clockwork leg was in full view. Drea’s quill found its way down to that false leg, working over its sharp mechanical angles—
Suddenly, Drea heard it again. That high-pitched whistle that had woken her, followed by someone shouting, “Fedarus is dead!”
The voice jolted her. It was followed by another shrill whistle. Drea dropped her quill and spun around. Behind her, the shutters to her window were fully open. One of the house servants, probably Halorax, had been in to open it, to allow fresh air inside. The voice had come from there.
“Fedarus,” the voice called again, closer this time, “is deeeeeaaad!” It was followed by another alarming whistle.
Drea blinked, considering the words. As they sunk in, she felt confusion, as well as an approaching dread. She knew what the words meant but she could not make herself believe them. But another part of her, some instinctive part, knew that it was true.
Imperator Fedarus…was dead?
She started towards the window, but stopped once she realized she was only in her nightgown. She pulled on a robe and tied it tight around her belly, then hurried over to the window.
Down below, in the streets sodden from a night’s rain, there was a man running from house to house, splashing through puddles and blowing his whistle. He was pounding his fists against doors and repeating his message to the top of his lungs. “Fedarus is dead! The tyrant is gone! You are free, Dritheans! You are freeeeeeeee!”
The man looked positively exultant, like his ears had never heard such sweet news. He had the golden cape of a messenger, probably sent by a nobleman of some sort. He announced his dire message with supreme glee, even dancing at times, or hopping on one leg. “The tyrant is dead! A-ha! He is dead!”
For a moment, for just one breath, Drea felt almost happy. If this was true—if she wasn’t still dreaming—then this meant she wouldn’t have to marry. She almost allowed herself joy.
Almost.
But Drea felt a sinking in her gut, and it told her that something was wrong. As the man ran down the street, disappearing around a corner and shouting his message, people started peeking out of their homes. Drea saw the fear etched on their faces. None were so happy as the messenger, for they knew what this meant.
Fedarus, Drea thought, feeling the air ripping from her lungs. The shock was almost as great as seeing her mother in the dream. Gods above and below, please let this not be a dream, too.
If this was real—if it was anything but a dream—then Drea was free. Free to remain with Thryis and what few friends she had left.
However, Drea felt shame rushing in. For even though Fedarus’s death meant she was free, it also meant that the Empire of Drith had lost its ruler. And Fedarus had been beloved by the people—at least, more beloved than other politicians.
Drea’s emotions were in terrible conflict. She turned from the window at once, but she got no more than two steps before the door to her room was flung open and in rushed Halorax. The old man looked frightened, his face sweating great beads. He pulled the hem of his robes up to his chest as he ran over and grabbed her hand.
“Sia! Have you heard the news?” he asked, using the honorific title for a female master, even though he had been manumitted—that is, set free from slavery—five years ago by her father.
“I’ve heard,” Drea said. “Gods above and below, tell m
e what’s happened, Uncle!”
“I cannot be sure, Sia, but it is being shouted all over the city. We must go.”
“The Imperator is dead?”
“We must go!” he repeated, and took her by the elbow and led her out of the room.
Panic rose in Drea’s heart as she followed. “He’s dead? Fedarus? He’s truly dead?”
“That is what they are saying.”
“How? Why?”
“The details are not known to me, Sia,” Halorax said, hurrying. “But it would appear House Syphen has made its move. We must go.”
“What do you mean? What about the Syphenus? What have they done?”
Halorax made a circle in the air with his hands, a ward against any evil vehl that might be listening. “Phaedos Syphen has finally gone mad. He and a few conspirators have done this, a bunch of desperate senators eager to please him.”
“Phaedos?” Drea said, breathless. Just saying the name brought chills to her. Phaedos Syphen, the lead patriarch of the Syphenus, was a member of the Drithean Senate, and one of the Imperator’s greatest adversaries. Some people claimed he was a fell-sorcerer, as well as the rest of the Syphenus. The family was said to be in league with vehl, the dark spirits of Underrealm.
“What has Lord Syphen done?” Drea asked.
“Please just follow, Sia!”
“Where are we going?”
“I feared this day might come. So I made arrangements.”
Halorax wasted no time. He led Drea out of the room where she had been in-waiting for the last month, hiding until the day of her wedding, as was custom for a bride-to-be.
He led her down the spiral stone steps, through the foyer and into the library. There, waiting in front of a crackling fireplace, stood a man with long, raven-black hair, dressed in a black doublet and cape. He had the bearing of a rogue, with a sword sheathed at his side and a dagger in his belt. At his feet were two bags, which appeared to be packed full of Drea’s clothes.
“Is this her?” the man in black said.
“Yes,” Halorax panted.
“She looks like a plain whore.”
Without hesitation, Halorax hauled off and backhanded the man, who bit out a curse and drew his sword at once, putting the blade against the old man’s neck. Drea gasped.
“We may be friends, Halorax, but I took enough beatings as a slave, and I’ll cut your throat if you ever again—”
“This is Drea Kalder, last of the Kalderus,” her servant said, his eyes blazing with fury but his voice calm as winter. “Her family was one of the Four Patron Families that built this city, and though her House may have fallen you will show the respect due her name!”
The man in black looked between them, then quickly sheathed his sword. He snorted derisively, “Her father was Kalderus. Her mother was Kalderus. This one? As good as an orphan now. Her good name is besmirched. Her husband-to-be is dead, and now any enemy he had in life will seek to sever what’s left of those that were loyal to him.”
Drea put a hand on Halorax’s back. “Uncle, what is he talking about?” She had always thought of the man as an uncle, even before he had been made a freedman, back when she was but a child and he was a slave that attended her every need.
Halorax turned back to her, his face one of sorrow and apology. “Sia…little Sia, they are calling for the heads of all allies of Fedarus.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Including his in-waiting wife.”
“What?” she gasped. “Who? Who has called for my head?”
“The senators who killed the Imperator,” Halorax said.
Her eyes went wide with shock. “Fedarus was assassinated by the senators themselves?”
“That is what the criers are saying.”
“All of them? All the senators set themselves against him?”
“I truly don’t know, Sia—”
“Thirteen,” said the man in black. They both looked at him. “That’s what I heard on the way over. Thirteen senators surrounded him. Led by Phaedos Syphen, they waylaid the Imperator on his way into the Senate, some ruse to get him to step away from his guards and into the atrium.”
“And what happened next?” Drea asked.
“Once the Imperator was away from his Rain Guards, the trap was set. The senators drew their blades and stabbed him to death.” Fritt snorted. “The senators that did this are already calling themselves the Thirteen Heroes, and they’ve called for the capture of all of Fedarus’s allies—and that includes House Kalder.”
“By why?”
“They claim that House Kalder, among others, were conspiring with Fedarus to overthrow the Senate, which would make him a ruler without any checks or balances. A tyrant. And your family was involved in this conspiracy with Fedarus, they say.” The man looked at her seriously. “And, as you know, all conspirators against Drith must die.”
Drea felt flames in her stomach. “Their names!” she hissed. “I want their names!”
The man in black sneered. “Why? Is this lioness I see before me going to go over to the Senate and rip their throats out with her little claws?” He laughed at her.
Scared though she was, the Kalderus were known for their tempers, and Drea’s flared in that moment. She moved to strike the man, but Halorax stepped between them and said, “Sia, this helps nothing. We have to move you. Now!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she fumed. “I have to find what’s left of our family’s friends. House Dustrang has long been loyal, they should vouch for me. And I should find Thryis, for House Ardenk has always been loyal to us.”
Halorax sighed. “You cannot see Thryis, Sia. You have to run—”
“I will not be made to run! This is my family’s house!”
The man in black laughed darkly. “Some house,” he said, looking with disdain at the drooped ceiling, the busted walls, and the moldy floors.
“It is not much to look at,” Drea said, “and it is but a shadow of what our House once was, but it is ours! I will not leave it while I still have breath to fight—”
“You will if you want to live long enough to find a new husband,” the man in black reasoned. “Perhaps some sheep farmer a hundred miles from here will take you in. You will, of course, have to change your name—”
“I will not run,” Drea said stubbornly, looking at Halorax. “Uncle, I will stay here and face these killers. Whatever fool assassins these thirteen senators send, I will be here to greet them with my father’s sword!”
“It will be like a lamb facing a pack of wolves,” said the man in black.
“There are no lambs among the Kalderus!” she shouted.
Suddenly, Halorax cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her forehead. It had the effect of calming her, it always had. He looked deeply into her brown eyes, and whispered, “Please, Sia! Please, for me. Go with this man. Go with him and be saved.”
Drea searched his face, tears suddenly welling up as she gazed at her oldest friend, her last vestige of family. “Uncle…”
“I know,” Halorax whispered. “I know, just go. For me. For your father and mother. Go. Please. They left me in charge of you, and I have to see you to safety.”
“What about you?” she said.
“I have things to do here before I go.”
“What things?”
“Some tidying up, that’s all.”
“But you’re my family. My only family—”
“Listen to me! Once you’re away, you will make new friends, new acquaintances. You must learn to discern which can be trusted and which cannot. And you must use those loyal to you to ensure your survival. You have good instincts. Use them.”
Drea just stared at him, trying to make sense of the words.
Halorax glanced over his shoulder. “This man’s name is Fritt. He is…an old friend. He is hard and sometimes evil, but he will protect you.” He gave her another kiss on the forehead, and for just a moment Drea felt like she was a little girl again, when Halorax had told her it was all right to hide from t
he thunder of fellstorms, but not forever. Because a Kalder does not bend to anything, not even thunder, he’d told her.
“Go with Fritt. For me. For me,” he emphasized. “All right?”
If it had been anyone else—anyone else in the whole world—she would have refused outright. But it was not just anyone. It was Halorax, the man that had done what no one else would do when House Kalder had fallen. He had taken care of the last of the Kalderus.
Finally, reluctantly, Drea nodded.
Halorax let out a sigh of relief, and turned to Fritt. “You will protect her with your life, or I will find you in Underrealm, and drown your soul forever in the River of Tears.”
Fritt gave a lopsided smile, then hefted both of the bags at his feet and stood by the door. “If you want to live, little girl, you will not dawdle. Say your goodbyes, for bad men will soon be on their way to cut your throat.”
Halorax turned to her. “There are three horses outside, Sia, dear. Now go and don’t look back.”
“When will I see you again?”
“Old Halorax is never far behind his Sia,” he said, touching her cheek as if it were a work of art made of the most delicate porcelain. Then he walked quickly over to a chest of drawers, opened the top drawer, and withdrew a plain brown cloak. He threw it over her, and pulled the hood over her head.
“When will I see you, Uncle?” she asked again. “Tell me.”
“You will have food and supplies where you are going,” Halorax said, tucking her long auburn hair behind her head, hiding it within the hood. “And Fritt knows a few back alleys.”
“Are we leaving the city?”
“You will not be able to leave the city right away, for there are patrols already out and they will surely be closing all main gates. I hear the Gods Way and the Favored Way have all been barred, and the Rain Guards are letting no one in or out, not even traders.”
“Then where will we go?” Drea asked.
“Fritt will show you the way,” was all Halorax would say on the matter.
Then he reached into the folds of his dingy robe—once, he had had a grand robe, one made of white silk, dyed red and purple, for he had been a favored slave of House Kalder, and then a freedman. But that had been before the hard times, before the man of House Kalder, her father, had died. Having left no will, her father’s wealth had been taken by the state. Women were not allowed to control land that was not directly bequeathed to them, so what was left of her father’s properties and fortunes were frozen until such time as she could find a husband.
