“It wasn’t like that. I loved you like a son.”
Helmuth winced, and it took all his self-control not to kill him now. “What has come of the Four Kingdoms?” he repeated.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Liar.” Without anger, he backhanded the king across the face. He wore a glove, so his skin would not contact him. Not yet. The broken man howled.
All around him, the Horde prowled. They were human-like, but more primitive, without the pointless emotions of their supposedly more advanced cousins, humans. They lived for the hunt, for the kill, destroying all who stood before them.
Kklar-Ggra beckoned two of them closer, speaking in their rough tongue. They obeyed without question, careful not to get too close. One was male, his back ridged and humped, his thick hands hanging so low his knuckles occasionally sent loose rocks skittering. The female was larger, standing more erect, her teeth sharper, her claws longer, her strength that of two of her male counterparts. They killed with claw and teeth and weapons—mostly fashioned from the bones of their victims—without preference.
The king quailed, his cheek inflamed where he’d been struck. “The truth, or I shall give you to my friends,” Son-Gäric said.
“Why are you doing this?” the man—for that’s all he really was—asked.
“Because I can. Now answer. I will not ask again.” The mark over his heart thrummed with energy, but he would not unchain it. Not now. Though he’d mastered the power he’d been born with years ago, it still took all his concentration not to rip off his gloves and press his flesh to the king’s skin.
“The war continues,” the king said, his voice barely more than a whisper. The rest poured out of him like a flood. The rumors of a prophesied killer, the Kings’ Bane, indiscriminately assassinating rulers across the realms. Gill Loren had fallen. Sun Sandes too. Three of the Hozas were dead as well, plus three Ironclads.
“And my brother?” he asked. “Has he survived?”
The king-no-longer-a-king’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “I do not know your brother. When you came to me you were a crippled orphan.”
The reminder twisted itself through Helmuth. He fought off the feeling, maintaining his neutral expression. “Of course you do. Long has Crimea traded with him and his ilk. He is known as the Dread King.”
Realization blazed across the king’s face. “Wolfric Gäric? He had only one brother, Griswold, and he was killed after he usurped his niece’s throne.”
If the throne had been usurped that meant Wolfric was already dead. No matter. There will be others for my Horde. He felt nothing for Wolfric. Nothing for Griswold. He tried not to think about Zelda, of her betrayal. “There was another,” he said. “Helmuth.”
“The Maimed Prince? But he has not been seen for years. Decades.” The king’s eyes widened as realization hit him. “You? You’re the Maimed Prince? You never said anything all those years ago. I didn’t know!”
Helmuth smiled and backed away. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. You were a monster then and you’re a monster now. And monsters must be slain.” He waved the two forward, their teeth gnashing.
“No! You said if I told you the truth that you would—”
His next words were cut off by his screams.
Helmuth was almost complete. Almost. All that was left was the Four Kingdoms.
PART II
Raven Gwendolyn Roan
Goggin Siri
Somewhere between right and wrong, there is a garden.
That is where we shall meet.
Japarti, famous Calypsian poet
Fifteen
The Southern Empire, Zune
Raven Sandes
The dragon’s shriek jolted Raven awake.
“Siri?” she said, blinking, trying to make sense of the shadows surrounding her, the gray-stone walls and solid iron bars and the hole in the ground from which a foul-smelling odor seemed to emanate.
Gods, it was no nightmare, she thought, the past fortnight rushing back once more, as it did each time she awoke in this horrid place.
Zune, she thought. I am in Zune and this is my prison and my Aunt Viper has usurped the empire.
My dragon has been captured by the east—Raven could feel Siri’s anger, her pain, almost as much as she could feel her own.
And I am lost.
What of Whisper? That was always the final thought in the sequence, the most important. Thus far, all she knew was that they had been separated. A dark hood had been thrown over her head from behind and she’d been dragged away by strong arms that managed to subdue her kicking legs and clawing hands. Whisper had screamed, but that sound had been cut off sharply.
Raven didn’t want to think about what that meant.
Couldn’t think about it.
All is lost.
She remembered the sinking of Goggin’s ship, his guanero and their reptilian beasts leaping overboard. She remembered the eastern defenses, how the very walls of Ferria fought against the Calypsians, killing dragon and warrior until none were left.
None save me.
That was Raven’s true prison—living—not the stone walls and iron bars that surrounded her.
She knew she was in Zune because she heard one of the pit masters say it. Which meant, eventually, she would be forced to fight for her life in the pits.
If Whisper is dead, I have nothing left to fight for.
It was that thought that kept nagging at her. Yes, she knew Siri was still alive, but it was only a matter of time before the easterners killed her dragon too. Oh Siri. Oh Whisper. I am sorry. I have failed you.
Just like she’d failed everyone else in her life. Her people. Her empire. Roan Loren, who did everything in his power to try to help her. I should’ve listened to him. I am a fool.
“Eat.”
She didn’t respond, though she heard the woven straw tray slide through the slot at the base of the bars. It was the same as every day, unspiced meat of indeterminate origin, mashed tubers and tarot, and a too-small wooden cup of filmy water.
Whisper. She grabbed the tray and dragged it over, snatching a piece of rubbery meat and stuffing it in her mouth. The pit master started to leave, but Raven stopped him when she said, “Is she dead?”
The master chuckled. “Who?”
Raven didn’t look at him—was afraid of what she might do if she did. You know who, you merciless bastard! “My sister. Whisper.”
“Oh. Her. She’s not such a good pit fighter. Sorry.”
Raven turned and threw up the little meat she’d swallowed. Her head was swimming. No. He’s lying. Aunt Viper wouldn’t—she couldn’t—Whisper was no warrior, was just a girl who wanted to paint flowers and wear sweet-smelling perfume and dust the floor with her elegant gowns and—
She couldn’t breathe, gasping, retching again, nothing this time, just choking on air, her stomach heaving, her heart pounding through her skin, her life
Forfeit. Over. Nothing. Darkness.
She curled up in a ball as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Hours later, she stood. Anger wafted from her skin like smoke. For now, she’d locked the sadness away in an iron box, though its remnants remained on her cheeks, dried tracks of white salt.
She picked up the tray full of uneaten food. Launched it at the bars, hating how miniscule the sound was, the soft, straw tray a pathetic projectile.
Once I commanded dragons, led legions, ruled an empire.
Once I mattered.
She sank down once more, broken but not destroyed, her fire still lit.
Not because of love. Because of hate.
Revenge was all she had left.
“I want to fight in the pits,” she said when the pit master returned, his eyes flicking from her to the food splattered on the bars and ground.
“Not my call,” he said. He was a gangly, pale fellow with long arms, legs, and even fingers. A two-day growth of patchy stubble littered his cheeks and neck.
“Ask Viper
then.”
“She’s in Calypso. Ruling an empire.”
“Send her a stream.”
“You are in no position to—”
“Send it!” She was on her feet in an instant, her hands gripping the bars, her mouth stuck between them.
The man laughed. “There’s the tigress everyone says you are. Still. Doesn’t change anything. I just do what I’m told.”
Raven spat at him. He recoiled, wiped the spittle from his cheek, and then lashed out with a backhand.
She caught it in one hand and launched a kick through the bars, catching him in the knee. He groaned, falling backward, clutching his leg. “You bitch!”
Raven eased back into a crouch. She started scraping what was left of her food from the ground, licking her fingers. She needed to keep up her strength. Tonight she would fight in the pits.
She’d been right. Her disobedience had granted her wish.
“You’ll fight tonight,” the pit master said with a snarl. Raven was pleased to see him favoring his left leg, the other leg wrapped with a thick bandage. He turned away.
“Tell Aunt Viper I’m coming for her,” Raven said. The man stiffened, but didn’t respond. He’s been commanded not to engage, she thought. A smart move. He left.
A swell rose inside of her, but she swallowed it down. Back into the box. Closed the lid. Began to pace, wearing a line in the dust. Thought better of it and sat down to conserve her energy.
Closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Waited.
Hours, maybe days, perhaps years. Stars lived and died in that time, moons collided, suns exploded in fireballs that raged through her.
And then:
A sound.
She didn’t open her eyes until a key clicked in a lock and her iron door creaked open. “It’s time,” a voice said.
She rose, saying nothing. Wisely, they’d sent half a dozen pit masters. She didn’t fight them, let them shackle her arms and legs and lower a dark hood over her face. Muscled her along, one step at a time.
She listened to everything: the clank of her irons; the pad of her bare feet next to the scuff of the pit masters’ boots; the hollow sound of another door being opened; and then the roar of a crowd, dull and muted at first but growing louder with each step.
This is it. This is the place where I shall go on living, breathing furious air, bursting with raging heartbeats, fighting for all those I’ve failed over the years—
The hood was ripped from her head and she was shoved forward, bright lights assaulting her vision, her ears hammered by the screams and shouts of the crowd that surrounded her.
As a child, her mother had never allowed her to visit Zune, not even for the annual battle royale between the best fighters the pits had to offer. Now, she soaked it all in. The pit was circular, its wall constructed of large stone blocks sanded down, the spaces between them filled with mortar to remove hand- and footholds that might be used for climbing. The wall was high, well out of jumping range. At various intervals there were gates, all closed, including the one she’d been pushed through. Set along the stonework were weapons, most of which were rusty and dented from a hard life and insufficient care. Swords, daggers, a spear or two. There was even a single whip, strung across two pegs. No, not a whip. My whip. She ignored the obvious tease, continuing to scan the area.
Above the wall were rows upon rows of stone benches, all of which were filled with the roaring spectators, many of whom were standing and shaking fisted hands.
They love me. They hate me. She couldn’t tell the difference, but the sounds sent adrenaline through her as she waited for something to happen.
Somewhere along the way her shackles had been removed. Gingerly, she rubbed her wrists and ankles.
She was ready. The poor soul—some criminal—who was led through one of those gates would be forced to face the entirety of her wrath, her anger, an outlet for all the pain, sadness, loss, frustration, betrayal—
Across the pit, a gate opened with a clang.
A willowy, slender form was pushed through, her long hair like rays of sunshine falling across her slight shoulders. The girl’s eyes were wide and scared. Confused. Lost.
Raven’s heart soared through her throat and into her head.
Whisper.
Just as quickly, it fell back to her feet, filling her with dread.
Oh gods.
Her sister was her opponent.
Whisper’s eyes found hers, widening further, and she inhaled sharply. Her sister took a beseeching step forward, her hand extended.
All Raven’s anger left her, leaving a promise in its wake:
I will die for you, Whisper. Always and forever.
That’s when two more gates opened, one on either side, the lions leaping through with twin roars. They were too thin, their ribs showing.
Starving. Half-mad. Deadly.
One turned toward Whisper. The other toward Raven.
Acting on instinct alone, she lunged for her whip.
Sixteen
The Southern Empire, Dragon Bay
Gwendolyn Storm
Dragon Bay had more than lived up to its name, the fiery sun beating down upon her day after day, attempting to cook her alive in her armor. Each night when the sun vanished beneath the horizon, Gwen felt like she could breathe again. And each dawn seemed to suck the air from her lungs, the sun turning the turquoise waters of the bay into a sea of fire.
When her water supply had run out, she’d almost been forced to make landfall in the Dreadnoughts, the long, narrow island that was home to the gray-skinned barbarians who had helped the Calypsians slaughter her people over the years.
Thankfully, Orion had been with her, sending a light rainfall that allowed her to fill her skins and quench her thirst.
She didn’t have a plan, not really, except to find any Sandes who were still alive and end them. Roan might never forgive her for it, but he could be a bit naïve sometimes. Bane wasn’t entirely wrong: Sometimes there were those who needed to die in order for there to be peace. The Sandes, after centuries of warmongering, were the head of the dragon. And the only way to kill a dragon was to cut off its head. Gwen should know.
After several days living on the water, she landed her boat a safe distance from the glinting, domed city of Citadel, the City of Wisdom, home to an army of scholars and the largest archives in all of the Four Kingdoms, a treasure trove of information.
And it was information she needed.
Her legs felt wobbly and clumsy as she dragged her boat up onto the dry, cracked earth. All she wanted was to find some shade, but she took the time to cover her small vessel with the broad leaves of a leathery beige plant she found growing nearby. It wasn’t the best hiding spot, but it would have to do.
In truth, she suspected she might never leave the southern empire.
She took a long swill from the last of her water skins, and then set out toward the city, which seemed as out of place amongst the dry, arid land as a lake might’ve been. After being on the water for so long, her legs felt like someone else’s, and she took the opportunity to regain her agility, stretching as she went.
Around midday the city drew nearer, the windblown plains becoming clean, cobblestoned streets that curved in concentric circles connected by narrow alleyways that felt like arrows aimed at the heart of the city.
One of the benefits of landing in this city first was that no one cared who she was or where she was from. This was a city of knowledge, and all who sought it were welcome. Though she received several strange looks—her shining armor, silver hair, and golden eyes sticking out like a third eye—they flitted away quickly, the scholars hurrying past carrying armfuls of scrolls. Many of them also carried paper cones of food, which they nibbled on as they hustled along.
Gwen’s stomach grumbled, but she ignored it. Information first, food second.
She considered questioning one of the scholars, but thought better of it, instead turning down one of the arrow-strai
ght alleys, which was full to bursting with the lunchtime crowds. At the end of the alley was the barest sliver of a magnificent sight. The Citadellian Archives, its massive glass dome stretching toward the clouds.
She hurried toward it.
The alley spilled out into a broad area surrounding the archives, where she had hoped to find scholars sitting and eating, reading their dusty books and scrolls.
But no one sat. Even here, people moved to and fro, many funneling into one of the archives’ many perimeter entrances.
She stepped in front of one of the scholars, but she merely went around Gwen as if bypassing a rock in a stream. Gwen frowned. She tried again with the same result. Frustrated, she was about to grab one of the scholars and sling him against the nearest wall, when she froze.
What in the Four Kingdoms…
Unconsciously, she took a step forward, then another. Remembering herself, she stopped, sidestepping into the flow of the crowd and letting it carry her forward toward what she’d seen.
No, not what. Who. For exiting the archives was a familiar face that sent tendrils of dread and delight in equal measure through her chest. The delight was for him:
Roan.
The dread was for who he was with:
Windy Sandes.
One who must die, Gwen thought.
Gwen reached back and plucked an arrow from her sheathe.
Seventeen
The Southern Empire, Zune
Raven Sandes
Her fingers found the whip’s handle, yanking it from the wall an instant before she threw herself to the ground.
It was a good thing, too, as the half-starved lion had not been idle, charging on her heels, lunging for her legs. It snapped, missing her and crashing into the wall, its thin yet powerful body shouldering her as it swept past.