Yes, the voice inside him answered. And I grow hungry again.
Tarin bit down hard on his lip, until he tasted blood, until the voice faded away once more.
“Tarin?” Fay said. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look rather pale.” A smile flitted across her lips.
“Hilarious.”
“I’ll build you new armor,” she promised.
“We will need the forges firing day and night,” he said, trying to push the focus away from him. “Armor, weapons…we may have a small force, but they must be well-equipped.”
Fay nodded in agreement. “I’ll speak to the men, find out if any of them have smith experience. If any of them deny me, I’ll send them to you.”
Tarin offered her a grim smile. “Don’t let the men work on my armor until the rest of the company is outfitted with weapons and plate.”
Fay narrowed her eyes, but didn’t contradict his order. Instead she asked, “How long do you think we have before the east attacks?”
“A fortnight, if we’re lucky. Half of the time to march to the Black Cliffs. The other half to scale them.”
“These men need months, if not years, of training.”
Tarin didn’t argue with that. “It will have to be enough time,” he said.
He stood, strode to the line of men waiting for porridge, towering over them like an ice bear over wolf pups, accepted his bowl, and then sat beside them in the snow.
Everyone was fresh and well rested and would soon have warm, full bellies.
Aye, he thought. This is good.
Because next he would work them until they could no longer stand.
Tarin embraced his old friend, their arms clasped.
Sir Jonathan’s eyes never left Tarin’s face, seeming to take in every detail. “You’re handsomer than I expected,” he said, taking a seat by the fire.
Tarin tensed at the jape, but then relaxed. He needed to get used to people seeing the real him—especially the soldiers he hoped to fight alongside. He sat down as well, sipping water from a tin. A light rain had begun to fall, very strange for the season. Typically any moisture in the air was frozen this time of year, puffy flakes of snow or stinging bullets of sleet. This misting rain was…odd…to say the least.
“And you could use a second bath,” Tarin said, recoiling, pretending to hold his breath. In truth, the knight now looked much the same as Tarin remembered, having trimmed his scraggly beard, cut his tangled hair, and scrubbed the dirt from his skin. Even the gaunt, bruised look his cheeks had held was swiftly fading. “What were you in the dungeons for, anyway?” It was a question that had been itching at him ever since he realized who the man was. The man he knew would never even consider committing a crime, a model soldier.
“You know, this and that,” Sir Jonathan said. “Mostly it was the murder that did it.”
Tarin gaped. “What?”
The knight looked away, and that’s when Tarin realized what was truly different about this man. It had never been the unkempt appearance of a prisoner, nor the weariness in his expression. No, it was the haunted look that never seemed to leave his eyes, even when he forced a smile onto his face. Something had happened to this man. Something worse than prison.
“It’s not a happy story,” Jonathan said.
Tarin said, “It’s yours to tell.”
“And mine to keep.”
Tarin nodded. “I’ll tell you my sad story if you tell me yours.”
So they did, speaking in low voices deep into the night, two ghosts sitting around a fire, watching as puddles of color gathered rain.
Seventeen
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
Rhea was working on controlling her emotions, though it was proving difficult considering the incompetence she was surrounded with.
“What in Wrath’s name do you mean she escaped?” she said.
The nameless guardsman looked ready to wet his britches. “I found, uh, well, Your Highness, you see, when I made my rounds through the dungeons, the master was unconscious in Gwendolyn Storm’s cell. The Orian’s cell was locked up with him inside. And I found this.” He held up what appeared to be a noose fashioned from lengths of ripped fabric.
She faked suicide, Rhea thought. When the dungeonmaster came inside the cell to cut her down, she’d sprung her trap. Clever, she had to admit. She’d underestimated the Orian, a mistake she wouldn’t make again.
“Is that all?” Rhea asked.
“No. After closer inspection, I found the dungeonmaster wasn’t really unconscious.”
“Dead?”
“Not exactly. His eyes were open. His body was stiff. He was like Bern Gentry—you know, paralyzed.”
Rhea breathed, seething. First her attempt to ransom Gareth Ironclad for one of the skinmarked failed, and now the only other skinmarked in the west, Gwendolyn Storm, had escaped? And she’d been double-crossed by Darkspell in the process? For the first time since she’d become queen, Rhea felt like things were completely and utterly out of her control.
“Get. Out,” she said, pointing toward the exit from the throne room.
“Your Highness, if I may, a thorough search will be conduct—”
“Out!” Rhea screamed, her voice rising. “And find Darkspell. Bring him to me!” The guardsman’s eyes widened and he scuttled away, leaving her alone once more. Any moment her Fury would return with Gareth Ironclad. She’d planned to execute him immediately, to make a spectacle of it, to show her people they were already winning the war against the sinners of the east. But now…
He was her only bargaining chip to keep her brother, Roan, on the straight and narrow path back to Knight’s End, hopefully with the Western Oracle or her long lost son in tow.
Yes, until Rhea recaptured the Orian…Gareth Ironclad would live.
Approaching footsteps chased her thoughts away. Well, at least the decision is made, she thought. For now.
When she saw who had arrived, she stood, pushing a broad smile onto her face. “Children!” she said, opening her arms wide for a hug.
Bea and Leo, her twin siblings, froze when they saw her. Her chambermaid stood behind them, trying to coax them forward, to little effect. The twins’ feet were planted firmly—not defiantly, but with fear.
They’re afraid of me, Rhea thought, and the realization saddened her for some reason. Something about having a soul growing within her had made her care more about the family she’d once despised.
Unlike the last time she’d seen them, with their filthy faces and hair, they’d been cleaned up and dressed in fresh linens—a white purity dress for Bea and long, grey woolen trousers and a white shirt for Leo. They were much skinnier now, on account of the lean diet offered in the dungeons.
“Approach your queen,” Rhea said.
Bea’s lip quivered. “You locked us in the dungeons for days.” Leo nodded his agreement.
“As I told you, it was for your own protection,” Rhea said lightly. “We have many enemies, more than ever before.”
“They say Cousin Jove is dead,” Leo said, finally taking a step forward. He blocked his sister—he’d always been protective of his twin, though she tended to be the feistier one.
“He is. Tragic. First Bane killed Father, and then our cousin. I should tell you, Ennis is dead, too, though it was me who killed him—he committed treason, after all.”
“You killed Cousin Ennis?” Bea practically shrieked, stepping from behind her brother.
Here we go, Rhea thought. Well, the silence was good while it lasted. “Executed is probably a better word to use,” she said. “But yes. A queen must be strong and obey the law, just like everyone else. We all have to make sacrifices.”
“You’re a monster,” Bea said.
“Don’t say that,” Leo hissed. Rhea was fairly certain he didn’t mean because it wasn’t true; rather, he was scared of what she might do to them.
Good. Let him be s
cared. Fear will ensure his silence, that he will keep my secrets. Bea on the other hand…
“Would you prefer to stay safe in the dungeons?” Rhea asked them.
“No!” they answered in unison, doing that annoying twin thing.
“Please,” Leo begged. “We’ll do anything.”
Bea nodded earnestly, though Rhea could see it was an act. Wrath, her sister was breathtakingly beautiful. When she was older, perhaps, Rhea would force her to carve the mark of Wrath on her face.
“All I ask is that you love me, like you once did. Can you do that?”
Leo and Bea exchanged a glance, an unspoken agreement passing between them. They turned back to her. Leo nodded. Bea said, “Yes, we can do that.”
“And what does the scar on my face represent?” Rhea asked.
Another glance. Bea, always the actress, answered, “Your devotion to Wrath, my queen.”
“Very good. And what do you know about Grey Arris?”
“Who?” This time, Bea was being genuine, and Rhea was happy to know she could tell the difference.
“Sorry. You would know him as Grease Jolly.”
“Oh, him. He was a common thief, and his sister was sinmarked. Your Highness brought them both to justice.”
Rhea smiled. “Leo, do you agree with everything your sister said?”
He nodded, apparently unable to speak.
“Good. Now come give your elder sister a hug.”
They did, and while they embraced, Rhea was surprised how truly happy she felt. She had a family again.
Still, she was no fool. As soon as the twins had departed to get reacquainted with their royal bedrooms, she instructed her chambermaid to watch them like a hawk. “Tell me everything they do, everything they say, everyone they meet.”
Her chambermaid nodded and then curtseyed. “Yes, Your Highness. I will not fail you.”
Gareth Ironclad was back in his tower cell. Gwendolyn Storm was still missing, though all of the furia were scouring the streets of Knight’s End. The Orian would’ve been smart to slip away from the city as soon as possible, but Rhea’s instincts told her she was still here, and would stay until Gareth was either dead or liberated.
At least he’s still useful as bait, Rhea mused. Perhaps this was the way Wrath intended it to be. Had she ransomed Gareth and then Gwendolyn had escaped, she would have nothing left to hold over Roan to bend him to her will. Then all her plans would be ruined. Without the Western Oracle’s ability to create fatemarks…
She tried not to think about it.
Instead, she focused on the next matter at hand. Darkspell had been found—not hiding, but in his laboratory, of all places. Mixing vile concoctions, attempting to create the potion he’d promised her.
And now he was being shoved to his knees before her.
“Gwendolyn Storm, our Orian prisoner, escaped,” Rhea said.
Darkspell, wincing, said, “This is a setback. We shall require another subject for experimentation.”
Either he was a very good actor, or he had no clue how the prisoner had escaped. “Her dungeonmaster was found paralyzed.”
He cocked his head to the side, birdlike. Again, the performance was topnotch; unless it wasn’t a performance. “A vial went missing. I thought I’d misplaced it, I do that sometimes…”
“Are you saying it was stolen?”
“Clearly.”
“Clearly, Your Highness,” Rhea corrected.
The man, to her surprise, snarled at her. “If you think I would help an easterner—an Orian at that—escape, then I have just the potion to clear your addled mind.”
“Watch your tongue—” Rhea started to say, but one of her new Furies was already striding forward, lashing out, snapping a backhand across the potionmaster’s face. His head jerked to the side and he fell back.
When he swiveled back around, slowly, his cheek was inflamed and blood wept from a gash opened by one of the Fury’s sharp fingernails. Despite that and the dangerous position he was in, his expression remained defiant, the old man’s eyes as sharp as his tongue. “Kill me if you must. But it’s the traitor in your midst you should be worried about. I came here offering you an advantage over your eastern rivals. After your decisive victory in the Bay of Bounty, I believed you were the horse to back in this contest. But perhaps I was mistaken.”
Rhea didn’t know who or what to believe anymore. She thought after she’d destroyed the north and captured Roan, Gareth, and Gwendolyn, that things would fall into place, like a well-positioned row of dominoes. Instead, the tangled web of her plans seemed to be unravelling before her very eyes.
Still, something about the potionmaster’s story rang true. Why else would he not have fled after freeing the Orian prisoner? Unless it was a slick double maneuver, this man was innocent of everything but guarding his potions. And he was right, her time was better spent finding the true traitor in her court.
“I believe you,” she said. “And I would continue to have your services. The Orian’s escape is no matter. We will simply release your potion directly into the Spear and hope it works. If not, we shall try again and again and again, until they’re all dead.”
It had taken Bea no more than a day to betray Rhea, a truth that concerned her greatly. The speed and confidence of her sister’s treachery shouldn’t have surprised Rhea, but it did. Bea, despite the risk of going back to the dungeons, was made of stronger mettle than she’d given her credit for.
Rhea would melt her down and remake her.
According to Rhea’s chambermaid, upon reaching her quarters, Bea had requested quill, ink, and parchment. She’d written a letter, sealed it the old-fashioned way, with wax printed with the royal sigil, and then called for a messenger, not to send the note via stream, but to hand-deliver it to one of the rival lords in Knight’s End. Lord Thorne, Rhea’s grandfather on her mother’s side. It was well-known that the Thornes had long coveted the throne, though the closest they had come was wedding their daughter—Rhea’s mother, Cecilia—to the crown prince, who’d later become the king and Rhea’s father. Now, of course, Cecilia was dead, along with House Thorne’s chances at ever ascending to the top of the royal food chain.
Rhea’s chambermaid had intercepted the message and brought it directly to her. Rhea’s lips had pursed and her blood had boiled as she’d read the letter, which was essentially a list of her “crimes” against Wrath and the west, enough ammunition to have her brought to trial, her rule overturned and denounced.
It was the darkest of treacheries, plain and simple.
But now it was time to put an end to Bea’s never ending attempts to undermine Rhea’s rule. She’d tried threatening captivity. She’d tried kindness. Fear was next.
“Thank you for joining me, brother, sister,” Rhea said as her siblings approached, wearing wary expressions. Well, at least Leo looked wary, uncertain, while Bea looked as smug as a dog with both paws clamped atop a bone.
Rhea stood in a secure location along the banks of the Bay of Bounty, well out of sight of the royal docks, which were, as always, bustling with activity. Each of the Three Furies stood guard, in case some fool stumbled into the area and saw something he shouldn’t.
In these sorts of situations, Rhea had learned, it was better to get right to things. Beating around a bush only gave the bush time to grow gnarled branches, thorns, and thick roots. It was better to hack down the bush, pull up the roots, and toss it all into the hottest part of the fire.
“You committed treason, Bea,” Rhea said.
“What?” Bea said, placing a hand over her heart. “I would never do that.”
Rhea held up the message, which fluttered open, the wax seal broken.
“I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
The nerve of this girl. Even now, to deny her betrayal.
“I have a firsthand witness. And the message is in your handwriting.” Rhea showed no anger, only certainty.
Still, Bea showed no fear, defiance coursing across her
doll-like face. “You aren’t above the law,” she hissed. “We are the heirs now, Leo and I.” Upon her mention of his name, Leo seemed to shrink into the collar of his shirt, as if he wanted no part in whatever was to come. “You have sinned, sister, no matter what you tell our people. You know it, we know it, and Wrath knows it. The scars on your face stand for whore, not Wrath. Father would be ashamed of you.”
“Enough!” Rhea said, her temper finally reaching the end of its leash. “This is not a discussion. I could have you executed for less.” Rhea didn’t actually plan to kill her sister, only to scare her into submission. She’d done it with a far stronger woman—her first Fury, who had died to save Rhea’s life during the battle they eventually went on to win. And now, Rhea would do it with Bea, recreating her into the sister she wanted—submissive, loyal, scared.
“You would never execute me,” Bea said. “I’m your sister.” As if that meant something in war.
Softening her tone, Rhea said, “Have you heard the stories of how I won the battle against the north?”
Bea’s hands moved to her hips. “We were in the dungeons, remember? We know nothing about nothing.”
“Well, let me be the first to tell you the tale…”
When she’d finished, Bea laughed. “You used to make up stories when we were children, too. Used to try to scare us. It worked then. Not now. A sea monster? That’s the best story you’ve got?”
Ignoring her sister’s outburst, Rhea turned to the calm waters of the bay, which lapped against the rocky shoreline. Let this work, let this work, let this work…
She didn’t know for certain whether she could Summon Wrathos at will, not without the Summoner’s help (and he, of course, was dead), but Rhea believed she could, and she thought that was the important thing.
She didn’t know the words to say, or what to do with her hands, so she simply acted on instinct, raising her hands over her head, opening her palms to the sea, and shouted, “Wrathos! Your Queen commands your presence!”