Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 45

  Tilla gasped and shook. “I—”

  He raised his punisher again.

  Heart thudding and fingers trembling, Tilla grabbed the sack of cannons balls, hefted it over her back, and began her second patrol.

  Behind her, the other Black Roses trudged along, no longer speaking. Tilla heard only grunting, wheezing, and the odd whimper. She wanted to talk to her friends, but had no breath for words. She kept walking, step by step, inch by inch. All around in the camp, the other troops slept in their tents. Tilla envied them more than she had ever envied anyone else. Sleep—pure, beautiful sleep—was now her greatest lost love, greater than Rune, greater than her father, greater than home.

  By the time she finished her second round, she was limping. Her back twisted, and her shoulders felt ready to dislocate. Sweat drenched her, and her throat blazed with thirst; she could not remember the last time she had drunk. It felt like every bone in her feet had cracked. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw the others looking the way she felt; their faces were pale, their hair damp with sweat, their lips tightened.

  She wanted to rest, but the siragis raised their punishers. Tilla grunted and began her third round.

  Pain.

  Pain leaped through her bones and ground her spine.

  Pain twisted her feet, clutched at her chest, and burned through her lungs.

  Behind her, she heard a soldier fall, then smelled smoke as punishers burned flesh. Tilla turned to help the girl rise; punishers thrust her way too, and Tilla screamed. She kept walking, sack slung over her back. Step by step. Inch by inch.

  Think only about every new step, she told herself, sweat blinding her eyes. Don’t think about anything else; just the next step, one after the other, and it’ll be over.

  When finally the nightmare ended and the Black Rose completed its third round, Tilla’s head spun. She dropped her sack to the ground, doubled over, and felt fire racing through her bones. The other Black Roses gathered around her, bedraggled and drenched in sweat.

  “Come on, girls,” Tilla said and wiped her brow. “Let’s drag these sacks to the next phalanx and get some sleep.”

  Finally—it must have been close to two in the morning—Tilla lay back in her moldy blanket. She was too tired to even itch now. Everything hurt. Vaguely, she saw the other Black Roses collapse around her.

  There are still a few hours until morning, she thought. If I can only get a good, solid five or six hours of sleep, I…

  Her thoughts trailed off.

  Sleep welcomed her into a deep, black embrace.

  “On your feet!” The shout pierced the night. “Black Rose Phalanx—inspection! Form ranks!”

  Tilla blinked. Her muscles cramped. Her bones ached. Somebody was shouting at the tent entrance. When Tilla rubbed her eyes, she thought that she saw Nairi there, a torch in her hand. Darkness still covered the world.

  “Hairy horse dung,” Erry cursed at her side, sitting up. The clock tower began to chime in the distance, and Erry counted on her fingers, then cursed. “It’s only four in the morning!”

  Nairi was still shouting. “Out, Black Roses—morning inspection! Move!”

  The recruits stood up and shivered. Tilla’s teeth chattered. It felt cold enough to freeze liquor.

  “Armor!” Nairi screamed. “Swords! Move!”

  The Black Roses moved in a daze, strapping on armor with numb fingers. Swords rattled and pale, numbed feet thrust into boots. They stumbled out into the darkness, ninety-nine souls half frozen, eyes blurred and breath fogging. Outside the tent, they formed ranks and stood shivering.

  Nairi stared at them in disgust. Her torch crackled in her hand.

  “Pathetic,” she said and spat. “If we were under attack, you’d be dead by now.” She began to pace along the lines, staring at each recruit as if staring at flies upon her dinner plate. “Buckles unstrapped. Boots covered in mud. Half of you are missing your helmets. Not a single sword is oiled.” Her voice rose to a howl. “You are a disgrace!”

  Standing behind Tilla, Erry muttered under her breath. “That woman needs a few cannonballs dropped onto her head.”

  Nairi did not hear, but kept pacing along the lines, cursing.

  “Not one of you is properly armed and ready. I thought of letting you eat dinner today. I thought of letting you sleep a full five hours next night.” She shouted so loudly her face turned red. “You will eat nothing, and I will let you sleep only three hours next night, and this will continue until you can pass morning inspection!”

  Erry muttered again. “Next night? Morning? Tonight? I have no idea when’s what and who’s who. Is it morning or night now? Bloody stars.”

  “Shh!” Tilla said; Nairi was marching back toward them.

  “Back into your tent!” the lanse shouted. “You have one minute. I want to see a proper inspection now—boots shining and swords oiled. Go, go!”

  Nairi waved her torch, showering sparks and goading the recruits back into the tent. Outside, the lanse counted down the seconds. Inside, the recruits rummaged through the chest for oil. Finally—it must have been several minutes—they stumbled back outside.

  “Second inspection!” Nairi shouted. “You are late. You have failed. You will not sleep for two more nights. Go, back inside! One minute. Again!”

  Tilla sighed.

  With pain and darkness and bitter cold, her second day at Castra Luna began.

  16

  KAELYN

  She entered his chamber, her fingertips tingling and her throat tight. She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and spoke softly.

  “Valien?” Her voice shook. “Valien, it’s me.”

  He sat hunched before a hearth, his back to her. The firelight outlined his form but left him in shadow. He said nothing. He did not move. He could as well have been a statue.

  Kaelyn sighed. Valien was in one of his moods again. Lately these dark spells had been coming more frequently. When they hit, Valien could brood here for hours, eating little, drinking much, and try as she might, Kaelyn could shine no light into his darkness.

  It was a small room, hardly the chamber of a great warrior. In the stories Kaelyn’s father told, the cruel Valien Eleison sat upon a throne of bones, commanded a hall of demons, and drank from goblets of children’s blood. But this chamber was no larger than Kaelyn’s own. Half the shelves bore books: ancient bestiaries, histories, and epic poems. The other shelves bore jugs of the spirits he drank, overpowering rye that made Kaelyn’s eyes water and Valien’s memories fade.

  In Kaelyn’s chamber, she kept a painting of her mother, the dearest woman she had known. Valien too had lost someone, yet no memories of that woman were allowed in this chamber. No paintings. No mementos. Just mentioning Marilion, his fallen wife, was enough to send Valien so deep into darkness he would not emerge for days.

  “Valien,” she tried again. “We must discuss the boy.”

  Still facing the fire, Valien grunted. “He is not who I thought he was.”

  Kaelyn gasped. “Valien! You said he’s the spitting image of King Aeternum. You said—”

  “I know what I said.” His voice was raspier than ever, the death croak of a hanging man. He turned toward her, eyes red in the firelight. “He is the flesh and blood of Aeternum, that much is true. But he’s not who I thought he was. He’s not strong like his father. He’s not brave. He’s not wise.” Valien grumbled. “The boy is a fool.”

  Kaelyn sighed. “He is young.”

  “So are you.” Valien reached for a mug and took a swig of rye. “You’re eighteen. You’re his age, or only a year older.” He snorted. “I was eighteen when I first joined the Legions, then the knighthood soon after. Yet this one…” He drank again. “Rune Brewer is nothing but a spoiled, soft city boy.”

  “He’s not yet been hardened,” Kaelyn agreed. “But I traveled with him for ten days. He knew where he was going. He stayed with me.” She took a step forward and held Valien’s shoulder. “That shows some strength. He will learn. Teach
him.”

  Valien leaped to his feet so violently he knocked his chair back. It clanged to the ground, and Kaelyn started.

  “The boy will not learn.” Valien paced the chamber, teeth bared, face red in the firelight. “The boy brought us death and misery from the first day. I was wrong, Kaelyn. I was wrong to think he could bring the people hope.”

  He brought his mug to his lips and drank deeply. His cup held strong spirits—Kaelyn had tried a sip once and nearly choked—yet Valien drank down this liquid fire like water.

  “Valien!” Kaelyn said. She stepped toward him, held his arm, and lowered the mug from his lips. “Valien, look at me. Please. Listen to me.”

  He looked at her. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. In them Kaelyn saw his pain, his memories, and his loss.

  When he looks at me, she knew, he sees her. She too was eighteen. She was my age when she died. When he looks at me, he sees his wife. When he looks at Rune, he sees the babe he saved while she died.

  He panted, breath raw, and Kaelyn embraced him.

  He needs me now, she thought. He needs me more than he needs Rune. He needs me more than his memories.

  “It’s all right, Valien,” she whispered into his ear as she held him. “Don’t lose hope now. We have more hope than ever before.” She touched his cheek. “And I’m with you, as I’ve been for two years now. I fly at your side—through fire, light, or blood, whichever will fall upon us.”

  You are weary, she added silently. You are broken. And you are drunk. But you are our leader, and you are the greatest man I’ve known. And you will lead us home.

  He wrapped his arms around her, great arms that even now, even here, made Kaelyn feel safe and small; each of those arms was nearly as wide as her body. She laid her head against his chest and felt his heart beat against her cheek.

  “I cannot guarantee that he will live,” Valien said. “If once more we face the fire, and I must choose between him and another… I cannot guarantee his life.”

  Kaelyn looked up at him. Those old ghosts circled in his eyes like crows around a gallows tree.

  “I know,” she whispered. “He might die. So might the rest of us. For now, let him be a beacon of hope to the people. Let him be a torch in the shadow my father cast upon this land.” She gave him a twisted smile. “Am I not the same? I’m the daughter of the emperor, a voice rising in defiance. Am I too not a symbol for your uprising?”

  He grabbed her arms so roughly that she gasped.

  “You are more than a symbol, Kaelyn.” He snarled at her. “You are a bright blade. You are a lioness. You are—”

  “—the daughter of Emperor Frey Cadigus,” she said. “I am a statement and a banner of rebellion. Rune will be one too. You lead us, Valien Eleison, and you will lead us to victory. But the people… the people will rally around Rune.” It was her turn to snarl. “I fly at your right-hand side. Let Rune fly at your left. Together—the last knight of Requiem, the daughter of Cadigus, and the son of Aeternum—we will topple this regime, kill my father, and place Rune on the throne.”

  Valien turned away from her. He walked to the hearth, placed his great hand—wide as a bear paw—against the mantel. He looked into the flames, head lowered.

  “If I have to choose again, Kaelyn… if I…”

  His voice died, and Kaelyn felt her eyes water. Valien rarely spoke about that night, but Kaelyn had heard the tales whispered in countless taverns and halls. Seventeen years ago, when Frey Cadigus had stormed the capital and slain the royal family, Valien had fought him; he still bore the scar of Frey’s blade across his chest. That night, Kaelyn knew, Frey had given him a choice. Valien had but moments to flee before more of Frey’s troops swarmed the palace—just long enough to save the babe, the last heir of Aeternum… or to save Marilion, his young wife.

  Valien fled the palace that night with a babe in his arms.

  His wife burned.

  Tears stung Kaelyn’s eyes, and she approached her leader, embraced him from behind, and laid her head against his back.

  “You will not have to choose,” she whispered.

  He spun toward her, teeth bared, cheeks flushed red. He clenched his fists.

  “When fire rises, we will all burn!” he said, eyes blazing like a rabid animal’s. He clutched Kaelyn’s arms, and his voice rose into a torn howl. “I will not lose you! I will not see you burn, Marilion, I—”

  Kaelyn gasped and stared silently.

  Valien’s eyes widened. He shut his mouth. His face whitened. He looked aside and blinked and his fists trembled.

  “I’ve had enough to drink this night,” he rasped. “Leave me, Kaelyn. Leave me.”

  She touched his cheek with trembling fingers, and tears filled her eyes. “Valien—”

  “Leave me!” he roared, waved his arms, and tossed his mug across the room. It smashed against a shelf, and more mugs fell and shattered, and Kaelyn turned away. She fled the room, eyes stinging and legs trembling.

  17

  RUNE

  They flew in the night, a black and green dragon, two shadows under the clouds.

  As Rune glided, the cold wind felt heavenly in his nostrils. Whenever he went only a few days without flying, the magic tingled inside him, and he lashed out, grumbled, and felt as if ants were crawling through his bones. He would fly with Tilla many nights above the water.

  And now I fly with Kaelyn.

  He looked at her. She flew to his right, the hint of fire in her nostrils like two embers. She gave him a sad smile and tapped him with her tail.

  “What did you want to show me out here?” he asked.

  “Be patient!” she said. “I’m taking you there. And be quiet; imperial dragons still patrol these skies.”

  They glided silently. Forests and plains streamed below and clouds hid the stars. Dragon eyes were sharp—sharper than his human eyes—but Rune could barely see more than smudges in this darkness. Some distant lights shone—fortified outposts of the Regime—but otherwise the land lay in shadow and mist. A drizzle began to fall, and Rune allowed just a little more fire to fill his belly, crackle in his mouth, and warm him.

  He tried to imagine that these forests below, rolling shadows in the night, were the waves back at home, that those distant lights were Cadport waiting on the shore. He missed those waves. He missed the cobbled boardwalk with its shops, rusted cannon, and Tilla walking beside him. He missed the Old Wheel, he missed Scraggles, and he missed his father.

  I miss home, he thought. But what was his home now? And who was his father? Rune did not know, and so many questions still burned inside him like the fire. As he glided through shadow and rain, ice filled his belly along with the flames. He looked at Kaelyn, and she met his gaze, and he saw the same sadness in her eyes.

  “There,” she said and gestured below. “There’s an old ruined temple on the hill. Do you see it?”

  Rune squinted. He could discern only vague shapes in this darkness. He thought he saw pale columns, some only broken stems, rising upon a hilltop.

  “A temple,” he said. “An old temple to Requiem’s stars.”

  Kaelyn nodded and began diving toward it. “It was a temple. Priests used to worship the Draco constellation here. My father…” Kaleyn sighed. “He didn’t like that.”

  Rune descended beside her. Wind and rain stung his face. A temple of marble columns had once stood in Cadport; Rune had heard the city elders whisper of it in awe. They said priests and healers would play harps there, sing to the Draco stars, and bless the city. Today that temple was a courthouse, its walls draped with banners of the red spiral, its marble columns stained with blood.

  But there was no use for a courthouse here in the wilderness, and as Rune descended toward the ruins, he marveled at the columns. Their marble shone like moonlight. Some columns lay shattered upon the hillside, but others still stood, forming a rectangle. The roof they had once supported had fallen; its bricks lay strewn across the grass, pale lumps in the night.

  The two dragons
landed upon wet grass. Above them loomed the temple columns, two hundred feet tall at least. Rune tried to imagine this temple standing in its glory days—back when the Aeternum Dynasty had ruled. He could almost see priests’ white robes fluttering between the columns, almost hear their harps.

  When he looked above, Rune gasped to see the clouds part. The Draco constellation shone between them, the holy stars of Requiem.

  “Our people used to worship these stars,” he said softly. “My father would pray to them at night. He thought I couldn’t hear. Many of Cadport’s elders would still pray secretly, knowing that if any soldiers heard, they would be broken upon the wheel. Do you think those stars have any real power, Kaelyn?”

  She stood at his side, a slim green dragon, and watched the constellation with him. The starlight glimmered on her wet scales.

  “I’ve never doubted it,” she said. “My father hates those stars. How he would rail against them! He would shout that these stars had never protected Requiem, that under their light, so many of our people died. He claimed that only he could defend this land, that only he was worthy of being called godly, not some lights in the heavens.” Kaelyn blasted smoke from her nostrils. “Anything he hates so much must have power, Rune. And so I believe.”

  She shifted into human form. The rain dampened her hair, and her clothes clung to her. She smiled, spread out her arms, and twirled in a circle.

  “Oh, you’re one of those horrible people who loves dancing in the rain, aren’t you?” Rune said.

  He shifted into human form too, then hugged himself as the rain chilled him. Grinning, Kaelyn grabbed his hand.

  “Dance with me,” she said. “Join us horrible people for one night.”

  He tried to tug his hand free. “Bloody stars, Kaelyn, did we fly all the way here for this—to dance in the rain? I’m cold and wet.”

  “Poor baby.” She pouted at him, then grinned again. “The stars shine between the clouds! The old priests would always dance when rain and stars met.”