Hero of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  With every step she took, her power grew. She could feel the ripples of her return spreading, like a brick thrown into a pond, the silvered web in her mind spreading as each flickering flame ignited others. Many were still small, still distant, still a sputtering torch held up against Elizabeth’s towering bonfire of devotion.

  But they kept growing.

  And out there somewhere was Adrienne, blazing bright with faith. Somewhere out there was Louie, the inventor and reluctant nobleman she’d befriended in Arcadia, lending her his strength. Somewhere out there was Compte Aubry, Louie’s ward, a man who had once hated her and now sent her the lion’s share of his fading vitality. There was Mayor Bertram and the people of Estori, most of whom she’d only met once. Faces and disjointed identities floated through the void, the survivors of the final Siege of Arcadia, or people from the mainland who she’d never laid eyes on nor heard of.

  Adie believed in her. They all believed in her. Her friends were alive, and they were with her, almost as surely as if they walked these abandoned halls at her side.

  It was more than enough to lift a too-large greatsword. More than enough to remind her what she was fighting for.

  “So...do you think we’ll win, then?” The familiar, honeyed voice, looking to her for reassurance.

  Yes.

  “Why?”

  Because I have to. Jone paused. Because we have to. We will not fail again, either of us.

  Rote’s resurgence of confidence washed over her, lending her yet more strength. Jone smiled. She and Rote finally felt united in purpose, fully on the same page with one another. And she meant what she’d said; if she died in battle today, then Rote and her people were doomed as well, and it was more than the Arcadian could conscience. Not for the creature who had entrusted her with its very existence. Not for what was probably her oldest and closest companion—for good or ill—in this whole world.

  “Stop it. You’re gonna make me blush or something.”

  The Elizabethian palace was, to Jone, almost shamefully decadent. The floors, walls, and ceilings were crafted of pure, smooth, pearly marble like clouds. Insanely expensive, only to be covered over by rich, draping silks and plush carpeting. Countless, priceless art pieces covered the walls, paintings and pictures of scenes and historical figures, placed alongside ceremonial shields, torn war banners from forgotten wars, and trophy weapons from long past conquests.

  More upsetting were the softly glowing, blue-white lights along the ceiling that shone steadily down, soft, steady lighting powered by the life force of what must have been hundreds of Rote’s kindred. And that was without accounting for the metal vents belching hot, steamy air from the ceiling, or the generators and water heaters no doubt hidden away behind the walls, spirits slowly dying by the boatful for the Queen’s vanity and comfort.

  Most of the royal furnishings were unsurprisingly cast in shades of red and gilt in pure gold, the royal colors. Another excuse to be ostentatious, I suppose. There was enough gold lining the walls, statues, and banners in this one hallway to feed a fishing village for a year, she figured, but Jone simply didn’t see the point. She did, however, regret that Esmeralda wasn’t here; she knew the pirate captain would have loved to plunder even just a small fraction of the treasures laid out before her, or even just to see it in person.

  She still hadn’t felt Sam or Esme out there in her growing network of loyal believers, not yet. But Jone had faith as well, in her friends and lovers.

  They wouldn’t die this easily. And after this was over, they’d meet again. She was sure of it.

  Assuming she survived the next hour or so, anyway.

  Though her feet tried to linger of their own accord, the long, extravagant hallways came to an end all too soon. Jone stopped, facing a massive set of intricately carved goldwood doors leading into the inner sanctum of the palace. She’d expected to get lost; she hadn’t known the way to the Queen’s inner sanctum, after all. But it hadn’t mattered; all roads lead to here, to the center of Elizabeth’s power.

  Inexorable. Inevitable. Inescapable.

  No. She took a deep breath. Destiny.

  Jone moved to push the doors open wide and stalled, choking on smoke.

  She stepped back from the door as dark, wispy smoke streamed in billows from her mouth, from under her nails, and even from the corners of her eyes like tears. Her skin felt like it was aflame, and she could feel her body calling on her renewed network of followers to regenerate the alien energy steadily eating away at it.

  “Rote!” Jone finally gasped, when the smoke passed enough to let her breathe again. “That hurts, you know!”

  “Sorry.” The spirit hovered close to Jone, a familiar charcoal face with short, pitch hair and large, almond-shaped onyx eyes, most of her body trailing away into smoke.

  I could almost forget that that was my body too, for a little while.

  Rote put a dark, smoldering hand under her chin and tilted the short Arcadian’s eyes up to meet her own, commanding her attention. “I just...wanted a moment. Just us. To talk about the road ahead, before you open that door.”

  Jone studied her for a moment, so strange, yet so very familiar. “So you’re scared too.”

  “Heh.” The smoky figure flitted behind her, there and gone in an instant’s swirl of drifting pitch. “Me? Scared?” She wrapped her arms around Jone’s shoulders. “Yeah. Guess so.” With a puff of breath, she rested her chin on Jone’s head. “It all comes down to this. I can feel her in there, you know. Not much further. Lot riding on the next few minutes.”

  Jone sighed. “You’re going to make me nervous again too. Besides, this isn’t the end.”

  “Your faith is admirable or whatever, but hardly logical,” the spirit replied.

  Jone shook her head. “I’m not talking about faith. I’m talking about cause and effect. Do you really think if we strike down Elizabeth, everything will just go away?”

  Rote reverberated, grumbling. Atop her head, Jone could feel the spirit chewing at what remained of her golden hair, and swatted at the creature ineffectually.

  “Drake,” the spirit finally growled.

  Jone nodded. “I don’t doubt he wants his freedom; his words ring true, as does his plight. But is it the full story? Why would it be? While Elizabeth's death or capitulation will no doubt damage the Empire, someone will rush to fill that void, will try to take up her mantle. If not him, then who? Either way, our war will not end tonight, no matter what happens. And then there are your people, as well. There is yet a path left to tread for us both.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky?” Rote rippled hopefully, suddenly leaning over Jone’s head and staring into her face, upside down. “Anyways, not what I wanted to talk about. I actually...wanted to answer your questions from before.”

  Jone hesitated. “What do you mean? Is this really the time for such distractions?”

  Rote shrugged, still upside down. “Maybe it’s the best time for such distractions.” She put a dangerously clawed, smoking hand gently to the side of her host’s face. “Maybe the reminder will do you good. And maybe...I don’t want to go into this having stuck by my mistakes. Just in case.”

  Jone opened her mouth to protest, but choked again as her mind flooded with images, washed away by a flood of feelings. Of memories. Of her own past, returning in a rush.

  Unlike in her crypt, these were no mere shadows, faded with time like old portraits. These were vibrant with color and feeling, even if worn and secondhand, filtered through the perspective of the creature in her head.

  Hammer and anvil rang out as the legendary smith Ansem forged her now-lost arms and armor, ever smiling. She missed another parry and fell, face stinging, as the mercenary captain Neela forged her raw talent and physical strength into a weapon of war. The smell of old parchment mingled with the quiet voice of Madame Marie as she explained how to not only see, feel, or fear, but to think and understand.

  Sunlight filtered through gently drifting steam as she played in her
parent’s garden, prompted by the invisible friend in her head. She planted seeds in Arcadian earth and watched as days passed, scrapes and bruises and dirty fingernails rewarded with growth and life.

  She smelled blood and dropped to her knees, the voice in her head screaming as her fingers found the hilt of fallen sword.

  Combined with her memories from the Tomb, everything suddenly became real. Faces grew names; events gained emotion, attachment. Places congealed from the forgotten ruins of time as Jone remembered the life she’d lost long ago.

  Tears ran down Jone’s face unbidden, unregulated.

  As finally, she remembered who she was.

  Claws slipped through the short-shorn hair at the nape of her neck; Rote floated to the ground and held her close as she shook and wept.

  “They were the first humans I knew, you know?” The spirit spoke quietly. “So I hated them, of course. For what they were. But over time… They were simple, kind, superstitious people. People whose life and death made you who you are. With a little help from others along the way. Like me.” She shook her head, the tip of an onyx horn digging at the side of Jone’s head. “There. Now I have nothing left to feel bad about.”

  Jone smiled and gently pushed her away. “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes, rubbing away tears tainted with smoke.

  And as those final tears fell, and they turned her will to steel.

  “I remember you too,” Jone smiled up at the spirit. “Hearing that voice, my imaginary friend. My first friend. A whisper from somewhere else that sometimes scared me, sometimes mocked me, sometimes made me wonder what was out there, beyond my little world.” She grasped Rote’s wrist before she could move away, put her hand on the creature’s shoulder. “But always believed in me. Never let me down. And saved me, so very many times.”

  “Ahem.” Rote glanced away, vibrating. “Well. It’s true we’ve had our ups and downs, you and I…”

  “Yes?” Jone prompted as the spirit trailed off.

  A curl of smoky air ruffled her hair as Rote leaned her forehead against Jone’s. “More than one of your lifetimes’ worth, I suppose.” The spirit stared at her, her eyes huge, dark, and close.

  “I guess so—” Jone blinked as the spirit leaned in; she flushed bright red, thinking for a moment that the creature was going to kiss her. But Rote floated through her instead, leaning against her and resting her head on Jone’s shoulder. She could feel the warm, smoldering embers of Rote’s breath on her skin as she spoke again, like the dying coals of a campfire.

  “And...I wanted to say that...you’re human. Well, mostly human.” Smoky streamers, floating past Jone’s face, wavered with uncertainty.

  “Pretty sure I knew that by now,” Jone smirked, poking the floating creature in the face with a finger. “You remind me often enough, after all.”

  “No, what I’m trying to say is…” She vibrated again, a tingle of static sparking at her smoking edges. “You’re not just any human. You’re my favorite human. You’re my human, okay?” With a hiss of alien frustration, she opened her mouth and sank a couple rows of ivory teeth gently into Jone’s skin, in the space between her shoulder and neck.

  Jone winced. But she didn’t pull away.

  “It’s okay, Rote.” A double set of predator’s teeth drew tiny beads of blood from her tanned skin. She ignored it with a smile. “I’m not going anywhere.” She gave the creature a fond glance over her shoulder. “It may take me a while to process all of my memories of you, and I admit I may have been difficult to deal with at times—”

  “Extremely difficult,” the creature mumbled around her bite. “And stubborn. And I’ve never been certain of your intelligence. Also, possibly the single clumsiest person in the Seven Skies.”

  Jone chuckled. “I feel like I finally appreciate you,” she finished. “And I wish I had earlier.”

  “S’okay.” The creature finally retracted her teeth, allowing the tiny wounds to seal shut. “Truth be told, I’m about as fond of you as I am of anything. At least since...” Rote chuckled as her mood shifted mercurially, the note of false mirth a humorless, harsh sound, sweet honey hiding a sudden razor’s edge.

  Jone’s mood followed suit, growing somber. “The route ahead is the same for both of us Rote, I promise. Victory here means change, for your people and for mine. I swear it.”

  Rote flitted through her again, a ripple like a living heat wave. “I’ll hold you to that.” Her claws drew the shape of an “X” on her chest, over her core.

  “Please do.” Jone paused as, somewhere far away in the city, a bell tolled the initial tones of the first of the Dark Hours. “But it’s past time to go. Lives hang in the balance.”

  In one suffocating instant, Rote streamed back into her, setting her nerves ablaze. Jone gasped.

  Then she strode forward, throwing open the doors to Eternal Queen Elizabeth’s inner sanctum.

  “Today, a knight checkmates a Queen,” Rote commented, her honeyed tone thick with amusement.

  - - -

  Elizabeth’s private realm was actually a vast, beautiful garden, the likes of which Jone couldn’t believe was actually indoors. Wildly colored plants and graceful, sweeping trees unknown to Jone grew in precisely manicured, yet deceptively organic locations. The floor was rich, soft earth, covered by a thick carpet of even softer moss and tiny, springy, resilient white flowers. The long, vaulted ceiling was painted to resemble the sunrise over Elizabethia, and it was lit from above by a pair of gentle, warm, oversized spirit lights in the same colors of the Sisters in the Sky.

  As Jone drew closer, she smelled the scent of salt and water in the fresh, exotic air. At the far back of the room came a gentle, rhythmic roar and crash, repeating endlessly, yet never quite the same twice. Finally, she spotted the bizarre source: a massive oval set into the floor, in which water, of all things, slowly ebbed and flowed of its own accord, crashing over and over against massive white stone cliffs.

  With a shock, Jone realized that the view was of a place, as seen from very far away and from very high above.

  “It is quite the view, isn’t it?” A young woman’s voice, cultured and intelligent, called out from further into the garden. “I change it every few years, but I always come back to this one. It’s just so different from anything that exists in our world.”

  Rounding a small copse of abducted, carefully sculpted trees, Jone realized her lifelong enemy had been watching her the whole time from a raised platform, carefully positioned to be rendered nearly invisible from below by the abundant flora. Located in the center of the room, the small dais featured a long, elegant red marble dining table, masterfully carved with prancing lions and fanciful creatures, topped by an extravagant feast that even Jone herself couldn’t hope to put a dent in.

  And at the head of the table, in a small gold and ruby throne, was the Eternal Queen Elizabeth.

  For the first time, Jone set eyes on the enemy whose commands had razed her homeland, waged wars, and killed those closest to her.

  She was almost a disappointment.

  Almost.

  Queen Elizabeth was a tiny woman, small-breasted and small-waisted, seemingly younger than Jone herself. But the finer details of her figure were almost lost among the flowing folds of the finest, most detailed garments Jone had ever seen, a fluffy bundle of shaped embroidery, silk, lace, and gemstones. Her rich, lustrous hair was stacked high, elegantly piled upon itself with intricate clasps and needles of gold and ruby gemwork, only to spill down her back like a waterfall of vibrant cardinal tresses while still being long enough to drip down to the tops of her tall-heeled shoes.

  Her poise was perfect, precise, regal, and fit her like a glove. Her sharp, dark eyes glittered, demanding attention and obedience at a glance. Her smile was soft, deceptively disarming, at the same time that her very presence radiated power and control that weighed palpably against Jone’s skin and threatened to steal her breath.

  Calmly, Eternal Queen Elizabeth took another small bite of what loo
ked like a gigantic egg white. “Won’t you join me, Jonelise? I know it’s late for a proper breakfast, but in here...it’s whatever time I decide it is.” She gestured toward the ceiling with her butter knife.

  Jone held her ground and stared, one hand tight on the hilt of her stolen greatsword, the other balled tightly into a fist.

  “Oh, come now,” the Queen’s voice was amused. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long, long time. Can we be civil for a little while, or must you kill me at first sight? I’d rather you not condemn us both to immediate barbarism.”

  “Don’t you dare underestimate her. She may be tiny and pointlessly fancy, but remember who and what she really is—this woman’s a manipulator and a killer, and I can feel her aura of power seething at us from the other side of the Abyssal room.”

  With an absent nod, Jone ascended the path to the dais, and Elizabeth gestured for her to sit in the empty, white marble seat at her right hand.

  “You don’t seem afraid of me,” Jone watched her eat for a moment, cutting into meats and vegetables that Jone didn’t even recognize. “Or angry.”

  “Should I be?” The Queen raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Instead of us murdering one another, I’d like to hope that we can find common ground today. Not everything is as it seems, Jone. I didn’t build my Empire on bones. We don’t have to be enemies. Now that we can finally speak face to face, perhaps we can simply end this. Tonight.” She glanced up, her eyes curious; for once, Jone wasn’t the shortest person in the room. She flashed a charming smile. “Think about it: all the war, all the death. Finally over. Neither your people nor mine have to suffer any further.” Her gaze was bright and almost overwhelming. “Please. Have a seat. Let’s work this out.”

  Feeling lost, Jone sat and rested her blade across her knees, one hand still gripping the hilt with white knuckles. This...isn’t how this should go, is it?. I don’t know how I expected this to go, but this definitely isn’t it. Her brow furrowed in confusion as Queen Elizabeth pushed a select couple of plates and bowls in front of her. The foreign food smelled delicious, and her stomach rumbled audibly at the rich, warm scents wafting up from the table in front of her.