Torsten’s cane clattered along the ridges of a carved stone frame until he stopped, inhaled through his teeth, then rapped on a thick, wooden door.
“Is that you again, Kaviel?” Queen Oleander snapped.
“It’s me, Torsten,” he said. “I came to inquire if you might consider joining us in the Throne Room, my Queen.” He heard the bed frame squeak, then feet dragging along the stone floor.
“So, they can see what’s become of me?” Her voice was closer now, just on the other side of the door.
“So they can see what evil we faced, and yet face, my Queen.”
“My son does not need a monster by his side.”
“Then show them how far from one you are.”
Oleander swung open the door. Torsten’s cane, still resting against the door, slid into the hinged side. As the heavy door came around, it tore the cane from his hands. He staggered forward into her arms. Even as large as he was, her tall, Drav Cra frame allowed her to support his weight, especially now that he no longer had need to wear his armor.
“I’m so sorry, Torsten, I…” Oleander helped him upright and leaned him against the wall. She slid his cane back into his grasp, her long fingers stopping, wrapping around his. If he’d still had sight, he’d have seen her stark white digits intertwining with his dark flesh in perfect contrast. Even the thought was a not-so-gentle reminder of how different they truly were.
She tightened her grip. Her skin was cold, but he welcomed it and covered her hand with his.
“You need never apologize to me, my Queen,” he said.
“Then you’re the only one,” she said.
“You’re King Pi’s mother and the wife of his great father. You should be at the boy’s side, just like you should have been when we cleansed Yarrington of Redstar’s stain once and for all.”
“That’s not what I hear. I hear Freydis…” Oleander spat the word from her mouth like foul-tasting milk. “…vanished into thin air. That witch who helped my brother attempt to destroy us, gone into the world. What were they thinking giving her a chance to escape like that?”
“It was handled per my instructions, my Qu—”
“Then you should have known what she was capable of!”
“You’re right, but let her run home to her tundra,” Torsten said. “The time of warlocks in Yarrington is finished. The time of Pi is now. He’s coming into his own with your brother’s influence broken. Like a sponge, he absorbs every bit of history he reads.”
“Good. Then he doesn’t need me there.”
“You’re his mother. Every child needs his mother. Even a king. He needs to grow in confidence after everything he’s been through.”
“If you could see me, you’d understand,” Oleander said. Her voice quavered ever so slightly. “I’m a walking reminder of the horrors we suffered at the hands of my brother…”
She pulled away. Torsten felt her turn, but he drew her back. Finding her arm, he used it to reach up further and locate her face. He lay his hand over the mottled, burned skin now covering half of her body from her chest up to her forehead. Even her once luscious, silvery hair grew bountifully from only one side, the rest consisting of patches of thin wisps and cracked skin.
Oleander had locked herself away in her quarters ever since Redstar’s magic nearly killed her. She wasn’t driven mad as her son had been when the Drav Cra Arch Warlock had forced him into solitude, but her door remained closed for all but King Pi, and Torsten… and apparently, Lord Kaviel.
Torsten heard a quick movement and imagined she turned her face away.
“At least now my appearance mirrors that which they’ve always seen in me,” she said, voice quaking. She covered her head with a shawl when around the others, but not for Torsten. He was the only one. Why bother hiding what he couldn’t see?
“That isn’t true, my Queen,” Torsten said.
“Now that we’re being honest with each other, Torsten, I would prefer it if you did not lie. And for the last time, please stop calling me that when we’re here alone.”
“Oleander,” he said softly.
“I’ve told you many times that I am keenly aware of how the people have talked about me for years. ‘Monstrous shrew,’ the ‘Whore Queen,’ and my personal favorite “Liam’s Leftovers.” Even the Dockside brothel wouldn’t take me now.”
“We all made mistakes in the face of their evils, Oleander, but life is long. Iam is forgiving. There is still time to do some good with these lives we cling to.”
“Forgiving?” Torsten heard her long nails scratch at her burns. The sound made him cringe, then reach for his own burns to satisfy an imagined itch. “He is just,” she said. “My face was all that I had. It was what my Liam fell in love with. It was—”
Torsten grabbed her hand and placed it back at her side. “It was your ferocity he fell for, trust me,” he said. “You are so much more, Oleander. More than a pretty face. Opening the halls to common folk as the kings of old once had… that was your idea. Your recommendation for Lord Jolly as Master of Ships proved crucial in expediting our fleet’s support of Sir Nikserof. It may very well be the reason we win this war.”
“Those of us from the North are hearty aren’t we?” she said, a hint of playfulness entering her tone just for a moment. “Even if he’s only from Crowfall.”
“Truly,” Torsten said. “And one day, Pi will be a great king. For now, he needs all our help, his mother’s most of all. The people will forgive you if you open up to them. You only need to forgive yourself first.”
“Sweet, loyal Torsten. If only you could see me, you’d know how foolish you sound. Now, go and help my boy fix the mess we left him after I allowed my wretched brother to steal his mind, and wasted all our riches on festivities so our people might think of me as more than a ‘whore.’”
Torsten wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d never consider that as a reason for why she had been so loose with autlas after Liam fell gravely ill, each month throwing masquerades and feasts that put royal weddings to shame.
He felt her hand on his side, applying enough pressure to shift his position. The door slowly closed, and before he knew it, he stood alone in the hallway once more. Rubbing his temples between his thumb and forefinger, he bowed his head. He’d tried. Every day, he tried to get her to leave, and he wouldn’t stop.
Things changed on Mount Lister. Finally, he’d seen the woman she could have been if not for her brother’s games or her insecurity over Liam’s many infidelities. He’d seen her cast herself at wickedness without a thought for her own safety—a den mother protecting her cub.
Liam may not have treated her like the flower he claimed her to be. He may not have known how. Liam was a man of war, not romance. But he’d always had an eye for talent. Always, Torsten hoped there was more to him picking her as his wife than beauty, and on Mount Lister, Torsten saw what that was.
Pi needed her as more than a voice locked away in a castle chamber, and as much as Torsten never expected to admit it, so did he.
VI
THE MYSTIC
A naked woman wrestled against Sora’s body, shoving her, slapping at her. Her odor was pungent, like she’d spent years in a dungeon. Rotten food, blood and worse coated every crease of her.
Sora couldn’t recall how she’d gotten here, wherever here was, or who the woman was. She imagined the sudden struggle and smell had yanked her out of the darkness within her own mind. Nesilia grew stronger every day, and Sora found herself increasingly unable to exact her own will. She refused, however, to sit idly by while someone—even a goddess—possessed her body.
Sora released the strange woman and attempted to scream. The sound never escaped her lips in the real world, but she could tell her effort bothered Nesilia.
“Quiet!” Nesilia spat with Sora’s tongue. Sora wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the stranger or to her. “Be still.”
Freydis stopped moving, and her eyes went wide. Freydis? Sora knew this woman’s name. She didn�
��t know how, but she knew her. She was Freydis, a Drav Cra Warlock of the Ruuhar clan; Redstar’s clan.
Then, Sora realized where they were. They stood between two buildings just off of Port Street in Yarrington. Freydis’ stench apparently wasn’t all that stirred her. They were in Dockside, and the air was unlike anything Sora had ever smelled—rotten fish, salty air, and refuse.
“Daughter of the earth,” Nesilia said. “I am here to help you.”
Freydis’ features darkened, then she hissed and leaped at Sora’s body. They collapsed to the cobblestone, blood pouring out of Freydis’ mouth. Flakes of dry, white paint filled the creases of her fingers which she wrapped around Sora’s neck. Fire burned at her fingertips, searing Sora’s flesh. She could feel the intense burning, wanted to scream, but couldn’t.
A vine wrapped around one of Freydis’ wrists and wrenched it backward, then the other. In seconds, Freydis was thrown back against a wall, held in place by the vines which had grown through the stone as if it were soil. The warlock hissed again and sent a burst of flame down her forearms, but the mystical plants didn’t burn.
Sora’s body stood, and she bent her neck, the burns instantly healing. Freydis pulled at the vines, attempting all manner of magic—more fire, then ice to freeze them. She summoned vines of her own to attempt to tear them off of her; then she turned them on Sora’s feet. The thorns dug into Sora’s angles until she looked down at them and they turned to ash.
“You are strong, daughter, but you have a lot to learn,” Nesilia said.
Sora’s arm extended toward Freydis’ face, but Sora finally gained enough control to stop it half-way. The arm trembled, the muscles tensing.
“What are you doing?” Sora asked Nesilia.
“Saving the damned and the forgotten,” Nesilia replied. “Stop fighting.” The arm edged closer to Freydis.
“No!” Sora yelled. She willed the arm to reel back so hard she crashed onto her rear. She realized at the same time that her scream had come out of her physical mouth and echoed. “Get out… Get out!”
“Hey, what’s going on?” a man asked. “City’s on lockdown with that witch mis—”
“Quiet!” This time, Sora knew it wasn’t her yelling. Nesilia’s voice thundered, and Sora’s arm shot out in the direction of a guard standing outside the alley they were in. The man didn’t have a chance to answer. His helmet squeezed so tight it drew a line of blood, then he was hurled against a wall. His neck cracked and he was dead before he hit the street.
“No,” Sora whimpered. “Why would you do that?”
“You are strong,” Nesilia replied within Sora’s head. “Both the blood of kings and powerful mystics runs through your veins, but I am beyond your world. Stop resisting, or more will die who don’t need to. Embrace the quiet of darkness, and I will make you all powerful.”
“I don’t want—”
“You don’t know what you want, child.”
A shadow moved nearby, and Sora once again lost control of her body. She turned to find Freydis watching her. Vines no longer held her in place, but she neither ran nor attacked. Her head remained cocked as if she could hear the conversation between Sora and Nesilia within their shared head.
“Ah, so there is more to you than pet hound,” Nesilia said. “Do you recognize me?”
The wild-haired warlock opened her mouth, and blood poured out as she flicked a stub of her tongue which had apparently been cut out.
Then, Sora’s own hand reached toward the warlock. Her fingertips slithered into the warlock’s mouth like serpents. Power left her body. Intense, inexpressible power. It made how Sora had healed Torsten in the Webbed Woods seem like a parlor trick.
After a few seconds, the warlock lurched in pain. She dropped back into a fighting stance. Garbled words came out, half in Drav Crava, half in common. Freydis grasped at her jaw, then flexed it. She stared down over the ridge of her nose, awestruck, as a fully-formed tongue filled her mouth.
Sora was equally awestricken, even though she could do nothing but watch. She’d seen many miracles in the Red Tower, read or been told about others while under Wetzel’s tutelage. She knew wounds could be healed, but not that body parts could be regrown like a lizard whose lost its tail.
Sora sauntered toward Freydis. The warlock didn’t retreat but remained in shock as Sora’s hand lay upon her cheek.
“We cannot have you handicapped, Freydis of the Ruuhar clan,” Nesilia said. “We have work to do.”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Freydis said, her voice distorted as she still got accustomed to her reformed tongue.
“Shhh,” Nesilia whispered. “You needn’t say aloud what you already know.”
“So Drad Redstar didn’t fail?”
“He failed at everything!” Nesilia snapped. “But there were others who didn’t forget me. Other vessels more powerful than that fool.” Sora stroked her own arm, down toward the crease of her elbow, marveling at how smooth the skin was.
Freydis leaned in close and sniffed like a wolf sniffs its prey. She glared straight into Sora’s eyes. All Sora wanted to do was cringe. Warlocks were terrifying, but this woman didn’t need her face painted to appear like a nightmare. It was in her very expression, radiating hate and anger.
“You aren’t alone?” Freydis said.
“Another forgotten soul needs my help,” Nesilia answered. “Together, we can do great things.”
That last phrase seemed directed inward at Sora rather than at Freydis. She’d heard the vile creature Kazimir say it to her once and remembered how fear gripped her. But he was small, focused only on himself. The power now coursing through her body was capable of things she couldn’t imagine. Fear of what Nesilia might consider great made the bile within her rise up and burn her throat.
“Please… let me go,” Sora begged into the darkness.
“That’s all up to you,” Nesilia replied.
Freydis seemed satisfied with the answer. She fell to her knees and turned up her palms in worship. At the same time, Sora felt an internal force pushing at her, driving her back into the recesses of her own mind.
She saw black, then white, then nothing at all.
VII
THE THIEF
Thunder cracked outside, and flashes of lightning kept illuminating the little room that served as the fellowship hall for the Grambling Inn. Townsfolk stood shoulder to shoulder inside like rats in a cage. What’s more, people kept packing in, trying to stay dry. It was clear the reason the place was called the Grambling Inn was that it was the inn in Grambling. As in, only one.
It hadn’t taken much to persuade the innkeeper to give Whitney and Gentry a room in exchange for entertainment for the evening. Leof Balleybeck had no way to predict the night’s events would lead to his tavern being filled to capacity, and thus, hadn’t prepared any talent or enough food. Getting people drunk was the answer, and drunkards did so love to be entertained. Whitney had traveled enough to know a good storm meant good business for these types of establishments. Distracted drunks made the best targets—but Whitney wasn’t a thief anymore. No sir, he was a stand-up citizen content to entertain the masses.
Presently, however, it was Gentry doing the entertaining, performing the trick he was known for: swallowing a sword. There was no illusion. No trick. It was a dangerous act, and Gentry did it masterfully. The sword was hilt deep into the boy, and his arms were stretched wide, showing the crowd he wasn’t hiding anything. The trick was met with a round of applause, and Gentry carefully pulled the blade out. He coughed twice, but that was to be expected.
Whitney felt bad sipping the sour ale while the kid did all the work, but Gentry was adamant about repaying Whitney for the coin purse he’d used to bail Gentry out with the Pompares. Although Whitney didn’t feel it necessary, he knew what it was like to feel indebted.
As if to further push guilt upon him, Aquira rubbed up against his leg after having snuck in through a window. Having such a rare and expensive creature at his side may h
ave been a problem had he been alone, but with the Pompare Troupe, it added to his act. She’d pop up and light the torches, earning oohs and ahs. Sometimes, she’d even dart through the air between them and really got crowds going.
But at night, when she nestled up next to him, all she did was remind him of Sora. Whitney didn’t think there’d be enough time in his life to pay Sora back for everything she’d done for him. He’d probably have gotten himself killed by Redstar and his Drav Cra buddies back near Oxgate if Sora hadn’t shown up. Beyond that, she’d practically saved him from himself. She’d taught him what it meant to care about something other than Whitney Fierstown.
He took another sip. Then a gulp. He didn’t want to think about her or his feelings any more this evening.
Gentry continued the show until the moons, Celeste and Loutis, rose so high they had to begin their inevitable nightly descents. Whitney was proud of him, performing so many things beyond his typical tumbling act—things Whitney had been working with him on since they’d departed from Yarrington. He was a fast learner; would make a fine thief.
Whitney shook the thought from his head. There was no way he was going to drag that poor boy through the same puddle of shog he’d been trudging through his whole life. Gentry had real talents, usable talents. He could perform for kings one day.
Gods that sounds boring, Whitney thought.
When Whitney was Gentry’s age, he was skipping stones down at the Shellnak River with Sora. “River” might have been a bit of an exaggeration. By the time the arm of the Shellnak reached Troborough, it was little more than a dried out creek.
Stop thinking about Sora!
He peered up at Gentry. The kid was young. It made Whitney wonder how he’d ended up in Yarrington with these other Glintish folk. He’d spent enough time with the boy to know he wasn’t related to any of them. At least not in any other way than heritage, no more than Torsten was related to Gentry, or Whitney was related to King Pi.
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