This time, there was no humor in his tone, and no one laughed.
Roan nodded.
“Good. Now, we have a battle to plan.”
“Battle?” Roan exclaimed. “What battle?”
The king sighed. “Do we have something to seal his lips with?” he asked no one in particular.
“I’ve been asking the same question all the way from the Barren Marshes,” Gareth said.
“Apologies,” Roan said, miming the sealing of his lips. “Not another word from me. I’m a fly on the wall, a silent observer, one without a voice box, a mute, the—”
“Village idiot?” Gwendolyn suggested.
Roan shut up.
“Word from the north is that the queen, Sabria Loren Gäric, was executed for high treason,” Prince Guy said, running a hand through his long hair.
“Wait,” Gareth said. “I heard it was the king who was dead.”
“Try to keep up, brother,” Guy said. “Streams have been coming in over the last few days. The king was murdered. The queen plotted against him with her son, Prince Archer, who was next in line for the kingship. The king’s brother, Lord Griswold, declared himself King Regent, and found them guilty of treason. He had the queen executed, but Archer, the slippery little bugger, managed to escape with his sister, Princess Annise. Apparently two knights escaped with them, a Sir Dietrich of Gearhärt, and a famed warrior known only as the Armored Knight.”
“How mysterious,” Gareth said.
“Thank you for your valuable comment,” Guy said. Roan had to stifle a laugh. He was quite enjoying watching Prince Gareth being bested by his twin. He and Prince Guy Ironclad might just get along.
The king stretched his arms, placing his hands behind the back of his head. “Sons, this is the moment we’ve waited years for. The north is weak and ripe for a full-scale attack.”
“What?” Roan exclaimed, unable to keep his promise to stay quiet. “Why would you risk more lives in a battle with the north?”
The king pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, as if it had begun to ache.
Gareth said, “The north is as much our enemy as the west. On numerous occasions they’ve attacked our borders, killing our people, plundering, pillaging, burning our towns. The Dread King might be dead, but who’s to say his brother isn’t worse?”
Roan shook his head. It was no wonder the Four Kingdoms were forever at war. No one was willing to leave the past where it belonged and look to a peaceful future. “Who’s to say he’s not better?” Roan countered. “You haven’t even spoken to him, haven’t even tried to make peace.”
The king had had enough of Roan’s argument, slamming his fist down on the arm of the throne. “The north killed my brother. Murdered my wife. The north must fall!”
Roan took a step back. He’d heard rumors of Coren Ironclad’s death, but nothing about the queen’s. As far as he’d known, Queen Henna Ironclad was alive and well. “I didn’t know about your wife.” He glanced at Gareth, remembering the easygoing way in which the prince had jested about his mother when they were camped in Barrenwood. Now, Gareth stared at his feet. Obviously he’d been trying to cover up the pain he felt, pain that was now laid bare in the tightness of his eyes, the firm set of his jaw. Roan fought back the urge to comfort him. “I’m sorry. How did it happen?”
It was Prince Guy who answered. “Eastern women are as strong as they come,” he said. “My mother was never willing to hide in Ferria and let her husband and sons be the only ones in the family to risk their lives. She traveled with the war parties on numerous occasions, offering her skill with bow and sword. Several fortnights ago, our camp was raided in the middle of the night by men bearing the northern sigil. We fought them off, killing most of them, but she didn’t…she was…”
“I’m sorry,” Roan said again, though he knew those two words offered little at this particular moment.
“I will avenge Henna’s death,” the king growled. “Blood for blood. Death for death.”
Roan had nothing else to say. Given the anger he could see simmering in the king’s eyes, he knew there was nothing he could say to change his mind. War was inevitable.
“Where will we attack?” Gareth asked. “The Black Cliffs? We lost thousands on the Razor the last time.”
“No,” the king said. “We go for the heart. We aim for Raider’s Pass. And this time we have a secret weapon.”
Roan almost asked “What?” again but then noticed the way everyone in the room turned to stare at him.
“I’ll behave; you really don’t have to—” Slam! The metal door to his cell shuddered as one of Prince Gareth’s men left Roan alone. Torchlight flickered through the small barred window in the door.
Evidently the soft bed he’d ordered had been substituted for a lumpy mattress stained with a reddish-brown substance he really didn’t want to think about.
Exhausted, he slumped against the metal wall, sliding to the ground. “Dragons,” he muttered. How did I get here? he wondered. Not a fortnight past he was just another browbeaten lad on the streets of Calypso, and then…the Beggar touched him. He remembered the way the shiva had recoiled as the plague rose from Roan’s skin. In a way, seeing that fear in his eyes was almost worth everything he’d gone through. Almost.
The door eased open without so much as a creak, and a shadow slipped inside his cell. Roan started to rise, to defend himself, but then saw who it was and sank back down.
“You don’t fear me?” Gwendolyn said. Her golden eyes shimmered in the torchlight, making her look even more wild.
“You’ve already shot me with an arrow, beaten me senseless, and gutted me. What else can you do?”
“Quite a lot,” Gwendolyn said cryptically. A lock of silver hair fell across her eyes and she pushed it away, tucking it behind her ear. “I missed with the arrow on purpose, you were already senseless before I beat you, and my sword stroke was a mere flesh wound.”
Roan gaped. “A flesh wound? I felt your blade go through my back.”
Gwendolyn waved his remark away. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I’d have cut off your head or stabbed you through the heart. I’m guessing your mark wouldn’t be able to help much with those sorts of injuries.” She handed him a metal plate.
Roan was pretty sure she was right, but he wasn’t about to test out her theory. He accepted the platter, which contained an enormous smoked fish, its buggy eye staring up at him. His stomach rumbled and clenched at the same time.
He swiftly placed the plate on the floor, pushing it away.
“Not hungry?” Gwendolyn asked.
Instead of answering, Roan asked, “How did you know I bore a tattooya?”
“Tattooya,” Gwen scoffed. “What a barbaric word.”
“It’s as good as any,” Roan said. He repeated the question, switching the word for the one more common to the east. “How did you know I bore a skinmark?”
“I didn’t, but I had my suspicions.”
Roan scoffed. “So you risked my life on a suspicion?” He shook his head. He tried to reconcile the strong violent woman standing before him with the sensitive caring girl he’d seen hug the diseased man they called Bark. There was something intriguing about her…
“I was right, wasn’t I? I’ve been watching you. How you could barely walk after a day of riding, but seemed a new man the next morning.”
“Maybe I got a good night’s rest!” Roan protested. Inwardly, he chided himself for using his lifemark during the journey east.
Gwendolyn ignored him. “And then when I attacked you in Ironwood, they should’ve had to carry you to the castle, but mere moments later you were ripe for walking again.”
“I’m a Southroner. I’m tough.”
“Not that tough.”
“Fine. But how did you know I could heal a grievous wound? You could’ve given me a scratch and proved the same thing.”
She grinned, cat-like in the gloom. “I didn’t know. I wanted to give you sufficient motivation to use
your gift. Also, it was more fun that way, wasn’t it?”
Roan kicked the plate further away, the smell of smoked flesh more nauseating than before. “Look, I get that you hate me because I’m from Calypso, but I’m not the ghost of Roan Sandes.”
She froze at the name. Her response was a growl. “I know that.” Roan started to speak, but she cut him off. “And I don’t hate you.”
“Gwendolyn—”
“Gwen.”
“Gwen. I know nothing about your people, the Orians, but I have nothing against your kind.”
Her lips curled. “My kind?”
He blew out a frustrated huff. “Aye, your ancestors. The metal people, or whatever.”
“Metal people?” Her eyebrows rose. “We are more than the ore we sow, just as your people are more than dust and sun.”
“You believe that?”
She nodded. “Yes. Despite what Gareth might have told you, I don’t hate the Southroners because of what happened to my—I despise the empire and what it stands for, but that doesn’t mean the fruit are as rotten as the tree.”
“Wait, I’m confused, am I the tree or the fruit?” Roan said, grinning.
A flicker of amusement crossed her face, before winking out like a star disappearing behind a cloud.
“You don’t come across as a Southroner,” she said, furrowing her silver eyebrows.
Roan held his expression steady. “My guardian taught me much of the west. Because of my—”
“Father. Aye. So you’ve said. But why would your guardian teach you of the west when it was your father who abandoned you?”
Roan was careful with the next words he spoke. “He believed ancestry was important.”
“And what do you believe?”
“I don’t truly know. I don’t feel connected to anywhere. Not the south. Not the west. My home is wherever I happen to be at the moment.”
“Your home is a dungeon?”
Roan smiled. “Aye. It’s nice and cool, and if I lean just the right way the stones feel like a goose-feather mattress.”
Gwen chewed on her lip, staring at Roan for so long he began to feel uncomfortable. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she said, “Eat. You’ll need to keep up your energy for the next couple of days.”
“Why? What’s happening in two days?”
“As soon as sufficient supplies have been procured and packed, we ride for Raider’s Pass.”
With that, she slipped out as stealthily as she’d entered.
Roan wrinkled his nose, but it wasn’t because of the fishy smell that permeated his cell. By the time the first moon was full in the night sky, he’d be closer to his true home than he’d been since the day he was born.
That’s when he finally realized what he had to do. He had to go home and face his real father, once and for all. It was something he’d been avoiding his entire life, something he always knew, in his heart, he’d have to do in order to make his mother’s sacrifice worthwhile.
He needed to escape and flee west, even if it forced his father to kill him.
Because doing so could change everything.
The next day Roan was permitted to go for two walks to stretch his legs and ensure they didn’t atrophy before the long ride ahead of him.
To his surprise, his first escort was Prince Gareth. “If you try to run, I’ll stab you through the heart,” the prince said when he opened Roan’s cell door.
“No, you won’t,” Roan said, following Gareth out. “Like your father said, my skill will be needed for the battle against the north.”
To Roan’s delight, Gareth didn’t respond. He’d called his bluff, a fact which gave Roan great pleasure.
The dark corridor led to a metal gate, which was opened by an armored guardsman wielding a dual-edged axe. The sharp edges of his lips seemed to mirror the shape of his weapon, and Roan felt uncomfortable until they were well out of his line of sight.
As before, the castle was abuzz with activity. Carts laden with sacks of food were being hauled in one direction by muscled steeds, directed to various parts of the castle by a small man with a wispy goatee and a baritone voice so loud it could be heard over the clash of soldiers’ weapons as they trained. Along one edge of the wall, swords were being sharpened, while along the other side armor was being polished to a gleaming shine. Several broad-shouldered women were pumping an iron crank and water was bubbling from the ground—originating from a deep-earth well perhaps. They filled skin after skin with the water, tossing the sealed pouches in another cart, which was already piled high.
They’re preparing to ride to battle, Roan thought. Just as Gwendolyn had told him.
“Must you stare at everything?” Gareth said, keeping one arm on Roan’s elbow as they strolled along the castle wall, sticking to a line of shade cast by the enormous metal-and-tree barrier.
“Excuse me?” Roan said. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring.
“Why? Did you pass wind?”
Roan shook his head and made a greater effort to offer only fleeting glances at the activity around him. Even more impressive than the sheer number of men, women, horses, carts, barrows, weapons, and sacks that he saw, was the level of organization. Everyone involved seemed to know exactly what to do and when, and where to go once they were finished. It was a far cry from the utter chaos of Calypso with which he was so familiar.
They passed through a break in the wall, moving into the second castle ring. It was quieter here, and Roan studied the metal walls, which were formed between enormous, iron-sheathed trees. The surface of the barriers seemed to ripple, almost like water disturbed by raindrops.
“You are like a child,” Gareth said. “Everything amazes you.”
Roan couldn’t deny the fact that he was amazed. “In the south, metal is metal. It doesn’t move, and can only be shaped by a blacksmith’s forge under extreme heat.”
“Seems like an awful lot of effort,” Gareth said. “We have near on two-hundred Orians in the castle employ. They maintain the walls, transforming them to suit my father’s needs. They work in shifts, so there are always at least two score ready to seal the gates if Ferria is attacked. Additional implements can be quickly added to the castle defenses if necessary—spiked walls, higher turrets, slits to shoot arrows from. Whatever we need.”
Roan was duly impressed. Somewhere in his memory he recalled something about an attack on Ferria, but he thought it was a long time ago. He ran a finger along the wall, and the metal seemed to feel him back, like it was alive. He remembered: “The Dragon Massacre,” he said.
“Yes,” Gareth confirmed. “The last attack on Ferria was over eighty years ago. Your people, the Calypsians, came with dragonfire and death, killing thousands of my people. The wall was just a metal wall back then. It was because of the massacre that my grandfather added an army of Orians to maintain the wall.”
Roan swallowed thickly. Though he hadn’t been born then, and wouldn’t have participated in such violence anyway, he still felt ashamed at what his people had done. No one should have to face a dragon in battle—he knew that better than most.
“I’m sorry,” Roan said.
Gareth laughed his apology away, as if talk of the massacre of his ancestors was light conversation. “No matter. In a way, it was an Oresend. The attack made us stronger, more prepared. Would you like a demonstration?”
Based on the way the prince’s lips were curled up on the side, Roan was pretty sure he should decline, but he was too curious. He nodded.
Gareth craned his head back and gazed at the top of the wall, where a woman stood, her armor reflecting blades of sunlight. The prince raised a hand and flicked his fingers. There was a metallic shriek, like two blades scraping against each other, and something slashed past Roan. He let out a frightened yip and dove for the ground. He rolled over and looked up to find a spike protruding from the wall, a scrap of his shirt dangling from the sword-like point.
Gods, he thought. No invading army would ever stand a
chance against such defenses.
His gaze stretched past the spike to the top of the wall, but the Orian woman was gone.
Back in Roan’s cell, the prince said, “Did you enjoy your walk?” Gareth stood just inside the entrance to the shadowy room, leaning against the doorframe. Even in the dim lighting, his face was exquisite, without blemish, like a painting. Roan could criticize a lot about the prince, but his allure was undeniable. From what Roan’s guardian had told him, just thinking something like that in the west could get you in trouble with the furia. But it was different in the south, where beauty and attraction were not limited to one gender. He wasn’t certain where the east fell on the subject, but he wasn’t about to find out.
The prince raised an eyebrow. “Is there something on my face?” He reached up to touch his cheek.
Roan flinched, realizing he’d been staring. “No. Well yes. Your finger.”
“Hilarious.” The prince turned to go.
“Sorry, it’s a habit of mine.”
The prince turned back. “What?”
“Jokes, japes, quips. It’s easier sometimes.”
“Easier than what?”
Roan shrugged. “Facing reality.”
Gareth’s eyes met his, and for the first time, Roan felt like he saw something behind them. Something more than a spoiled, obnoxious, arrogant prince. Just as quickly, the amused twinkle returned and Gareth said, “I could see that. If I were you I wouldn’t want to face reality either.” He spun on his heel and left, slamming and locking the door behind him.
Roan sighed. He supposed he got what he deserved for trying to have a serious conversation with a royal.
Gareth had delivered Roan back to his cell just in time for lunch, which consisted of two pieces of bread smashed together with a thin slice of meat of unknown origin. After the prince left, Roan pinched the meat between two fingers and deposited it in the corner of the small space where a hungry mouse might find it. He wiped his fingers on his pants, and then ate the bread slowly, trying not to think about the fact that it had touched cooked meat.