by Liam Reese
“I know what I said,” said Jelen softly. “And I did mean it.”
“And I forgot,” said Thorn, “everything I had ever been told about people being drawn to the Forged because of their power. Because of what they could get. I listened to the promise, and I looked at this girl, and I thought, Perhaps.” He closed his eyes briefly. “And so I said yes.”
“You.” She trembled, now, though whether from betrayal or anger he could not be sure. Perhaps it was both. “You lied to me?”
He spread his hands, empty. There was no way to make it sound softer or kinder.
“I lied to you. I let you believe a falsehood. I thought, perhaps I could figure out a way, or that I could get something out of it myself regardless. The reward you promised was a great incentive for trying. But the fact is that my powers are not what they once were. Maybe they are growing. Maybe they are disappearing, and soon will be gone entirely. I try,” he said, trying to explain as best as he could. He held out his hand and stared at it. “I try, I concentrate, just like I used to do. But it had been so long — I thought I was out of practice — but I almost never end up with what I expect. The power doesn’t respond, doesn’t obey. It’s broken.” He dropped his hand and looked at her. “There are times it doesn’t work at all.”
She looked away and would not meet his gaze even though he tried to make her.
“I wanted to tell you,” he said. “Well, no, honesty compels me to admit that I would have kept it from you as long as possible — well, here we are at the end of possible. It was not as long as I had hoped. But I didn’t want to lie to you. And I’m sorry that I did.” He was running out of words. “I just,” he said, and stopped. “I’m sorry.”
She still faced away from him. “It doesn’t always work,” she said.
“No.”
“But it does work sometimes.”
He shook his head, but of course she was not looking and could not see it. “Not like I want it to,” he said.
She turned halfway, so he could see her profile. She was looking at the ground, but without seeing it; she had her calculating look on.
“But it does work.”
He bit his lip. “Maybe,” he said. “Yes. It — it may work.”
“This is an awful big plan to hang on a maybe,” said Lully.
Irae held a hand up to her for her to hush and turned around at last to look at Thorn. She came quite close to him, in fact, and crouched down at his side, so that he slid down near to her and met her gaze.
“This changes nothing,” she said. “Not really. I will not forget that you lied to me, but — we have to try.”
“Jelen,” he said softly, “I could kill us all.”
“We have to try,” she repeated, bitterly, and the triumph that he had seen, hours ago when they had achieved the Anvil, was now a grey and twisted version. It wasn’t just triumph, now. It was determination. And her voice was so cold that turned him to ice far more than the snow surrounding them.
He had never been quite so reluctant to agree.
He took a deep breath.
“We will try,” he said, hopelessly, in the dark.
11
Out of the Woods
There was to be a great banquet at Castle Balfour. The sort of feast that had not been observed in years, the kind that bards would sing about and the attendees would dream about for decades afterward. An event that children and grandchildren would hear stories about till the tales spilled out their ears. Everything was gilded, golden, glorious. There were tables for miles and food for days. Music spilled like gemstones from every corner.
Serhiy went about with his hands over his ears. Music was not something he was fond of.
The king offered him a hat. “Pull it well down,” he advised.
Gratefully, Serhiy pulled the hat well down over his ears, masking the noise, though not blocking it entirely.
“I have always had sensitive hearing,” he explained.
“It must be both a gift and a curse,” said the king politely.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I suspect I inherited it from my parents. They both had ears as long and sharp as foxes.” He stopped and gulped the air, sniffing. “I think they must have burned something in the kitchens.”
“If they have burned the mince pies, I will burn the kitchens to the ground,” said the king, shaking his fist and growling in a menacing manner.
Serhiy noted the King’s mood and felt compelled to comment. “You’re in a fine mood, Your Majesty. Is it the festive atmosphere?”
The king laughed. “You needn’t sound so disgusted, Serhiy. After all, it’s only for two weeks, and then they will be gone again, and it will all be over. All the noise, the dirt, the dust. The people.” He looked a trifle wistful.
The banquet was in honor of visiting royals from the neighboring kingdom. Elgodon and Ainsea had a long history together, very little of it peaceful. It was only now that the two royal families were even meeting for the first time in person. Previously, their communication had been by way of terse missives with a great deal of punctuation, and the occasional beheading.
Or so Serhiy had heard.
A great entourage was even now wending its way through Ainsea from the south. Messengers arrived at the castle every so often to report on the travelers, who were journeying by horse and carriage and the occasional sedan chair. The king of Elgodon, his wife the queen, two of his advisors, and a handful of miscellaneous cousins were all coming to stay for a fortnight at Castle Balfour, while the two kings discussed the terms of ongoing peace.
“We will, of course, try to arrange it in a way that is most to our advantage,” the king explained to Serhiy, who was listening intently but found his attention wandering regardless. Politics were not his forte; he was not in the slightest bit interested in who ran things and why, and whether they got along or not. All he really cared about was what he was doing at any given moment; Serhiy had often been called selfish and callow, and he wore the descriptions like badges of honor. “And they will, of course, try to arrange it in a way that is most to their advantage. That is what peace means, Serhiy: trying to get the upper hand without actively killing each other.”
“Actively killing each other sounds very interesting,” said Serhiy, perking up a bit.
“Ah, yes, but Serhiy,” said the king, shaking his head, “the last thing I want is for someone to get the idea that the December King of Ainsea advocates war with our neighbors to alleviate boredom. Please do try to focus.”
Serhiy expressed regret and promised to try.
“Very well,” said the king, “that’s all well and good, because we have now reached the point at which I tell you what I want you to do.”
This was always Serhiy’s favorite part, except for when he actually got to do what was requested. He expressed all of this to the king, who smiled benevolently on him.
“This is why you are one of my most trusted and relied upon executioners,” he said, “your wonderful, wonderful attitude.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Serhiy, who couldn’t care less what the king thought about his attitude, but who absolutely adored it when the king paid him attention.
“Serhiy, I need you to uncover a plot against my life.”
Serhiy frowned. “A plot, Sire? That seems unlikely, as you are quite well known among the people.”
“Well known as not the same thing as well loved. There may very well be those out there that wish me ill.”
“I suppose so. There are those out there who would wish ill to anybody.” Serhiy licked his lips thoughtfully. “I find myself sympathizing with them greatly.”
“Yes, even so. Well, what I would like you to do is to find some of them, rile them up a bit, and get them to attack me.”
“Aha.” Serhiy coughed. “So, when you said you would like me to uncover a plot against your life, you would actually like me to plant a plot against your life —”
“And then uncover it.”
“I see. W
ell, Your Majesty, I am the furthest thing from a politician and do not claim to understand the way that your mind works. But excuse me if I comment that this seems rather complicated. If you would like someone to kill you, just tell me and I will arrange it.”
“I would like a person to try to kill me,” said the king. “And I know you’re going to find this difficult to follow, Serhiy, because your mind is so wonderfully focused, but here is the essence. There are all these nobles coming to stay here. They may not all want the same things that I want — some of them may in fact be here only for their own advantage, and peace may not suit their ends at all. With a plot to murder me discovered, and perhaps even attempted, I can winkle these ones out, and dispose of them with a minimum of fuss.”
Serhiy licked his lips again. He liked it when the king talked about disposing of problems with a minimum of fuss. It usually meant that he was going to be occupied for some time, and if there was one thing Serhiy liked, it was keeping busy.
“I see,” he said. “With this plot, you intend to cause these ones to expose their true feelings, is that it?”
“Indeed it is,” said the king gravely. “You’re very smart, Serhiy.”
“And if they are not so obliging as to expose themselves,” Serhiy went on, “I suppose a little judicious planting of evidence would help you along in that aim?”
The king patted him on the shoulder.
Serhiy stood up straighter. “Fear not, Your Majesty,” he said, “I will do everything required. One point occurs to me, however,” he added after a moment’s thought. “Some of those out there who might wish you ill are very adept at what they do.”
“Yes. It would be almost shaming for me if they weren’t. It gives my reputation a bit of added luster.”
“Just so. But suppose, Sire, that they actually succeeded. Suppose the plot wasn’t
uncovered quite in time, and their evil plans actually came to fruition. What then?”
The king smiled. “I do trust you, Serhiy,” he said. “I trust you to do your job thoroughly, and to do it well. And if it happens as you say, and the assassins manage to strike home, well, it will do no one any harm to be reminded of who and what I am.”
Serhiy thought about this and smiled. “As you say, Sire,” he said. “Who and what you are.”
He gave a last sweeping bow to His Majesty the king and scampered off in a swirl of enthusiasm. If there was one thing Serhiy liked, it was keeping busy.
They rode for the entirety of the next day. It was dark when the still subdued group stopped to make camp. It was strange to Thorn, after the odd elation he’d experienced upon escaping the monks. No, even before that — the feeling that it had given him, as he outlined the plan, them all looking at him, waiting on his every word —
Now, no one wanted to talk to him. Thorn felt as though a good sulk was his only current option. He sank into a sort of mute stupor, only vaguely observing that the fire had been lit, the camp had been set, and that the others were going about their business, as though things were more or less normal.
He roused slightly as Lisca came to sit near him, between Thorn and Ruben. The bard had the Anvil out, and was running his fingertips over the flat stone, around the edges, and the few axe grooves.
“Quite the bloody history, this Anvil,” he remarked. “Not as bloody as the Castle Balfour Anvil, but still. The monks did their best by it. Did I say best? I meant worst.”
Lisca reached over and touched it, gently, almost in awe.
“So strange to see something like that,” she murmured. “I always thought of it as so legendary that it seemed impossible that it really existed. Even the Anvil at Castle Balfour was like that — it was always so heavily guarded, it isn’t as though I ever got to see it. It might as well have been imaginary.” She snuck a glance at Thorn, quickly; he only caught it by the flutter of her eyelashes and the flash of the whites of her eyes. “So strange to be keeping company with legendary things.”
“I suppose that the king will be pleased,” said the bard. “Since he’s lost his own Anvil. Highwaymen.” He thought for a moment, and then spat on the ground. “Highwaymen!”
“So generous, to send it to him,” murmured Lisca. She withdrew her hands and sat with them folded quietly in her lap. She turned slightly to Thorn. “It’s a gift? A free gift from you to the king?”
Thorn hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “It is a gift,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “What he will make of it, I do not know.”
Lisca smiled and put a small hand on his for a brief moment. Her hand was warm, and she patted him kindly.
“He will be very pleased,” she said softly. “I imagine he will want to reward you greatly. In fact,” she said, looking around at all of them, “I think he will be very happy to see all of you. He is very generous, the king. If he doesn’t treat you all like royalty yourself, I’ll eat my hat.”
“I should think that was very likely,” said the bard, chuckling, “seeing as we are traveling with the queen herself.”
Time in the clearing seemed to slow; everyone went very still.
The bard was still talking. “If he doesn’t treat her like royalty — well, I suppose he hasn’t really been doing that, has he? But there’s always room for a reconciliation. And seeing as she is bringing the Anvil of the Soul to him, and Thorn as well, he couldn’t help but be downright pleased, could he? If he’s as kind and generous as you say he is.” The atmosphere in the clearing seemed to suddenly be something he was aware of, and he looked up, then from one to the next, all around the circle of companions, all of them now frozen in the firelight.
He frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “was that still supposed to be a secret from someone? I thought we had given up on that little charade.”
“You’re her,” said Lisca. She stared at Irae, her eyes cold. She took her hand away from Thorn’s and withdrew it into her lap. “You’re Irae. You’re his niece.”
“I am the December Queen,” said Irae. She stood up, arms hanging loose by her side, one hand twitching slightly. Thorn breath came more quickly. “And you will speak to me with respect.”
“You’re no queen,” said Lisca. “Not mine, and not anyone else’s. You’re a pretender to your own throne.” She got to her feet so hastily that she almost pitched over sideways and stood with her arms akimbo. “And you — you have no intention of offering him your help.” Her gaze flitted wildly to Thorn, eyes full with the fringes of oncoming tears. He thought he might begin to cry himself at the heartbreak on her face. He could see the realization break over her like a wave. “The Forged — the Anvil of the Soul — you’re going to change him.”
Time caught up with itself and moved quickly again. As if to make up for what it had lost, it moved even faster. Thorn leapt to his feet, arms wide, completely without any idea of how to fix things and make them better. What he wanted more than anything was to make the bard eat his words, take them back, keep it from ever happening in the first place — but the damage was done. Blindly, without any space for thought, Lisca turned and began to run. In the blink of an eye, Irae was after her, but it was Karyl who reached out and caught Lisca in both arms, lifting her off the ground. Though his eyes were still glazed with pain, he held her struggling, squirming weight in the air without wincing.
“Put her down!” said Thorn. Karyl did not respond. “Karyl, put her down!” The big man swayed a little, but there seemed to be no hope that he would lose his strength and therefore his grip, and the young noblewoman was turning blue from the force of his grasp. “Karyl, you’re going to make her faint!” Still nothing, and so finally Thorn plunged his fist as deeply into the former guard’s side as he could, aiming for the arrow wound. He struck true, and the big man let out a sharp gasp and partially released her, sinking to the ground with her still clutched by the arm. Lisca went down with him, pulled by his strong grasp, and he tucked her in near to him as though in a warm embrace, still gasping in pain like a landed fish, while the young w
oman struggled to get free to no avail.
Irae pounced and took her by the arms.
“Stay still, won’t you!” she cried, but Lisca would not. She bent to bite at Irae’s hands with small sharp teeth, kicked Karyl in the kneecap, and wriggled free. She had almost succeeded in extricating herself entirely when Graic, seated on the ground near her, reached out and tripped her with her cane.
Lisca crashed to the ground, and in a trice, Irae stood over her.
The princess was wild-eyed, her tightly-bound hair half undone, her sword naked and unsheathed in her hand.
Thorn stretched out his hands. “No!”
Irae stood, breathing hard, catching up with herself and with time. She looked down at her sword as though she did not know what it was doing there. He could see the start of tears in her eyes.
“I don’t want to do this,” she said. “This is not who I am.”
“Then don’t,” said Thorn. His mouth was so dry he almost couldn’t speak.
She shook her head tightly, looking down at Lisca, who breathed in short sharp pants.
“I don’t want to. Don’t make me, Thorn.”
She looked up at him again, and her eyes gleaming with tears. She was just as overwhelmed as he was. She had made promises she didn’t know if she could keep. When he looked at her, he looked at something so familiar that it might as well have been himself.
On the ground, Lisca caught her breath, and squeezed her eyes shut tightly.
“Me?” said Thorn. He kept his hand out, placating her as best as he could, and advanced on them both. Every other member of the group was stock still, as though frozen. He moved past them, through them, and understood that for all intents and purposes, it might as well have only been the three of them present: the Forged, the rebel queen, and the loyal young noble. “What could I make you do? I can’t make you do anything.”
