Axa. He made it.
The former master held his mirror aloft, talking into it, oblivious to Joaquin’s position in front of him. Joaquin shoved him back when he stumbled into him.
“Wait,” Jai said, stepping forward, between them.
“I’ll kill him if he doesn’t turn back,” Joaquin said. “I swear it. So many of our people are dead, and he’s alive. It’s not right. What kind of justice do the gods give us?” The man’s face, though stoic, was laced with sorrow, a miasma of anger and sadness and guilt and regret.
“I’m sorry,” Jai said. “But more killing isn’t the answer.”
Joaquin dropped to his knees, all fight having left him. “Then what is the answer? Why must humans treat each other this way? Why must vermin like him survive when good men and women do not?”
“Only the gods know,” Jai said.
“I’m sorry,” Axa said from behind.
Jai turned, at first assuming he was talking to his mirror again. But no, Axa was looking directly at him. Slowly, he turned the mirror around. “Sorry,” he said again.
“Jai Jiroux,” a voice boomed from the mirror.
Subconsciously, Jai took a step back, because that voice…
That voice.
A powdered face appeared in the reflection, smiling. Diamonds sparkled from his chalk-white skin. His narrow eyes bore into Jai like twin blades.
Emperor Hoza stared at Jai. And then he said, “Slaves! Capture Jai Jiroux and the Black Tears. Bring them to me.”
Jai whirled around, not understanding, trying to make sense of the senseless. “Yes, Master,” the slaves said in unison.
Joaquin was the first to grab Jai, and he didn’t struggle, not as dozens more piled on him, binding his arms and feet. Nearby, Shanti’s eyes were wild as she was bound too. Sonika fought like a tigress, but was eventually subdued. The rest of the Tears were also captured.
Jai lay in shock, his cheek pressed against the ground. What had happened? What had Axa done? Was this his fault?
Axa turned the mirror back around. “You have done well, slave,” Vin Hoza said. “I will consider reinstating you as a master.”
“Thank you, Master,” Axa said.
Jai closed his eyes.
Forty
The Northern Kingdom, Castle Hill
Annise Gäric
Annise felt numb. Bodies littered the castle grounds. Hundreds. Old men who should’ve been living out the last of their days next to warm fires. Young boys who should’ve still had their entire lives ahead of them. Seasoned warriors who had fought in, and survived, numerous battles, only to fall under her watch. Too many. She’d lost all but seven of her army. Utter annihilation. And yet they’d emerged victorious. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to reconcile the two conflicting truths.
Losing Sir Craig, her aunt’s husband, hurt the most, especially because he’d been killed in the battle’s waning moments, while carrying out her plan.
Is victory worth the cost?
She wanted to look away, to hide her eyes from the truth before her, but instead she planted her feet on the wall and stared down at the carnage, at her dead, at the remains of each of the monsters they’d slain. They’d fought for her. They’d died for her. She could’ve just relinquished the crown to her uncle and disappeared, and then all of these people would still be alive.
Why did you do this, Uncle?
There was no answer now, nor would there ever be. Sometimes men were just evil in the core of their souls, this she knew. Her father was one like that. Her uncle was another.
But if she had not fought, had not risen to the occasion, the kingdom would be doomed. She had to make their deaths mean something. She had to bring peace to the north for the first time in a century.
“I did as you commanded, Your Highness,” Sir Metz said, approaching.
“Good,” Annise said without looking away from the corpse-littered courtyard. “Thank you.” Sir Metz, as always, had been eager for her orders, even after the long, exhausting battle. Annise had immediately sent him to the castle pond to send a stream to Blackstone with the news of the Imposter King’s downfall, and that Annise had reclaimed the crown. The message ended with an order to cancel the attack against the west across the Bay of Bounty, and for nine-tenths of the northern army to withdraw. She hoped she’d been quick enough, and that an alliance with the west was still a possibility, regardless of Queen Rhea Loren’s stubbornness. As queen, Annise’s first order of business would be to refortify the borders at Darrin and Raider’s Pass. From there, she wasn’t certain what to do next.
Annise also had Metz stream a message to the east, informing the Ironclads of the change in northern leadership and warning them not to attempt an assault at Raider’s Pass nor Darrin. She hoped it would work—it would take time for her troops at Blackstone to complete the journey to their eastern borders.
Tarin hadn’t stopped moving since the battle ended. Annise watched as he strode from body to body, salvaging their weapons, which he knew they might need for the rest of the army when they arrived in Castle Hill. There was a pile for swords, one for armor, one for boots. The men kept their uniforms and personal possessions. From there he would throw a man over each shoulder, and sometimes one across his back, too, and haul them to a growing pile. Carrying three at a time, Tarin looked huge. Well, huger. Though previously she thought her eyes might’ve been playing tricks on her—how could a man as large as him get any bigger?—now she was certain. He was bigger, at least by a head, maybe more, a mamoothen of a man.
What is happening to you, Tarin? For the first time since she’d known him, he made no move to replace his helm or to pull his mesh mask to cover his face.
Although she was certain he was aware of her gaze, he never looked up at her, continuing the work that would break a lesser man’s back, heaping hundreds of bodies in a pile.
He’s preparing a funeral pyre, Annise thought. In the north, the ground was generally too hard and frozen to bury a body, so fire was used, the ashes scattered in the Frozen Lake or on the wind. It was said that if the ashes were deemed worthy, they would be taken up into the clouds, becoming part of the snowfall. If unworthy, they were sent to frozen hell, where the person would form once more, only to live out a thousand lifetimes in misery.
Annise hoped both her father and uncle were enjoying the fruits of their labors.
Tarin, she thought, her eyes never leaving him. Come to me.
She knew he would not, not until the fire burning inside him had been extinguished, the voice quieted. Until then, he would use his aggression to carry bodies.
Dietrich and three of the four men he had left were off somewhere in the castle, searching for servants and other castle workers who might still be loyal to Lord Griswold. If any were found they were to be brought to Annise for interrogation.
The fourth surviving soldier had been sent to retrieve Archer, who had been left with a small contingent of guards.
Sir Jonius was still a bear, but he was growing smaller by the moment, resting against the wall beside the funeral pyre. Though his numerous wounds were serious, he wouldn’t allow anyone to touch him. He, like Annise, refused to take his eyes from the desolation he’d been a part of.
Zelda sat in the puddle that used to be her husband, staring at something perhaps only she could see.
A sound finally pulled Annise’s attention away from the yard. She looked back over her shoulder to where the city was spread out below her, a series of stone buildings connected by uneven cobblestone streets. Several soldiers, including the one she’d sent, moved slowly toward the castle. Behind them was a train of carts bearing the tradesmen and women who’d travelled with the army from Gearhärt. Annise immediately spotted the blacksmith cart, where Fay sat working on some new design, the next version of Evenstar perhaps. Her gaze moved on, toward the front of the line of carts, until she saw a horse attached to a cart laden with supplies.
For some strange reason, she
expected to find Archer awake, and her heart leapt in her chest.
But no, he was unconscious, his form as still as the dead.
Annise sighed, making her way toward the steps that led down from the wall.
Sir Metz was still standing at attention, as if awaiting her next command. “At ease,” she said. “I have no need of your service right now.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. I will polish my armor as I await your call.”
“As you wish, Sir,” Annise said. For once, his armor did need a good cleaning. “Be sure to obtain sustenance as well.”
He bowed and descended the stone steps.
Annise made to follow him, but then stopped when movement in the city caught her attention. It wasn’t the guards leading Arch’s cart up the lane, but behind them. Someone else, stepping from one of the buildings. A man wearing a thick coat and scarf. A woman crowded behind him, equally dressed for the weather. They peered after the soldiers and cart.
Others emerged from hiding, citizens of the north, gazing respectfully after their beloved prince. The one they always hoped would one day be their king.
Annise tried to take a breath but couldn’t seem to get her lungs to work. Finally, the air shuddered through her throat. Despite all the people below her and the height from which she stood, she felt alone and small. It was as if now that she was back in Castle Hill, she was that broad-shouldered princess again, who preferred wrestling with the boys in the yard to dancing at the winter ball. Unlikeable. Unlovable. Destined to be Archer’s awkward older sister, What’s her name again?
And then Zelda was beside her, sticking her jaw out defiantly. A moment later Sir Dietrich appeared, along with his men. Sir Metz, his armor still unpolished, returned next. Sir Jonius, who was a man again, save for extraordinarily hairy arms and legs, strode up the steps and fell in line. His chest was laced with gashes and spotted with bruises, but his thick bearskin had protected him enough that he would survive. He couldn’t seem to form a smile, but his eyes were the same, always the same, as he nodded to her.
Annise nodded back and then looked around, expecting Tarin to come next, but he was still toiling in the yard, sweat dripping from his brow.
She wanted desperately to go down those stairs, to meet Arch’s cart, to shake him until he awoke, to beg him to tell her what to say to the people gathering outside the wall.
His people. Even now, even as the queen, she couldn’t think of them as hers.
She gritted her teeth and stuck out her jaw and planted her feet on snowy stones, willing her toes to grow roots. I will not leave this spot until these people are my people.
The soldiers led the horses and cart train through the gate, but Annise didn’t watch them. Her eyes were focused on the people milling about below, stamping their feet in the cold, their breath misting from their lips. Once they had stopped moving up the laneway and were gathered tightly together, she spoke.
“I am your queen,” she said. “I will not fail you.”
She had an entire speech planned out in her mind, all about how she would be better than her father, how she would listen to her people, how she would reduce their taxes and protect them from enemies both within and without their borders.
But she never got to give that speech, because it was after only those nine words that the people began cheering and stomping their feet. They raised their hands toward her, their fists clenched. “Queen Annise!” they sang. “Queen Annise!”
A tear trickled down her cheek.
Later that day, Annise sat beside Zelda. They stared at their reflections in the puddle, which had reformed into ice as the temperature dropped. The iced-over puddle was all that was left of Sir Craig.
“Aunt,” Annise started to say, but Zelda cut her off.
“Did I ever tell you about your uncle?”
“Lord Griswold? What about him?” She frowned. Her uncle had never been warm toward her, and frankly, she didn’t care. She wouldn’t mourn his passing.
“No. Helmuth,” Zelda said.
Annise shook her head, wondering where this was going. “All I know about Uncle Helmuth is that he left Castle Hill long before I was born, after Grandfather skipped over him in the line of succession.” She also knew he had been born with a lame foot, which was why he was remembered as the Maimed Prince, a nickname that had always bothered Annise. Surely there was something more important to remember him by than a deformity from birth.
Zelda nodded. “That’s correct. My father was a difficult man, but at his core, his heart was gold. It just needed a little polishing before you could see it. In the end, he regretted the way he’d treated Helmuth. He hated that he’d driven him away.” She paused, seeming to collect her thoughts. “Unlike Griswold and Wolfric, I never despised Helmuth. We weren’t friends, exactly, but we played together sometimes. Games of the mind rather than of the body. We were closely matched, but he usually won. Your Uncle Helmuth was clever. He might’ve made a good king in another world.”
Although the story was fairly interesting to Annise—she’d never heard anyone speak a good word about Helmuth—she still didn’t understand her aunt’s purpose in telling it. And one thing she’d learned from spending time around Zelda was that she always had a purpose. “This isn’t another world though. It’s the only world we’ve got.”
Zelda offered a toothless smile. “My point is, I mourned Helmuth when he left, just as I grieved for my father. We all mourn differently. I choose to remember all the good, because most of people have plenty of good in them, even if they do foolish things from time to time. Craig had the most good of any man I’ve ever met. He was the only man who looked at me and saw me. Really saw me. This thing is rare to find.”
Annise nodded. She knew that as well as anyone. Tarin was the only one who’d ever made her feel that way.
Zelda continued. “Craig lived a good life. Half the time he was scared of his own shadow, and yet he refused to hide from the sun. He took chances he never had to take, risked his life for what he knew was right. He fought to the very end.”
“I’m sorry I thought bad thoughts about him,” Annise said. “I’m sorry I believed him to be a coward.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Zelda said. “You couldn’t have known. My husband was a talented actor. When he was Drunk Craig, he hid his honor in his false flask. When he was Sir Craig, he hid his fear behind his shield. He was one of a kind, and he always had affection for you. He told me many times how much he believed in you. As queen. As a person.”
“He did?” The thought made tears well up, and Annise let them drip down her cheeks and splash onto the ice.
“We all do. Why the frozen hell do you think we’re here fighting monsters? Well, besides for the fun of it!”
Annise laughed and hugged her aunt, who, despite her jape, was also crying. They held the embrace for a long time, remembering Sir Craig. Remembering his sacrifice.
Annise was worried about Tarin. Well, more worried. She was used to how he would pull within himself after a battle, but he’d never avoided her for this long.
Give him time, she kept telling herself, but after a week with no communication…
I’m losing him, she realized. Enough is enough. No more waiting.
So she went to him. Sir Metz insisted on following her around as her personal guard, and she was too exhausted to begrudge him the honor. “Wait here,” she told him as she entered the small underground room. He didn’t object, although he didn’t seem that keen on leaving her side.
The room had once belonged to the potionmaster, old Darkspell, who Annise had been frightened of as a child. It was his potion that had created the ninety-nine monsters that had devastated her army. Unfortunately, when Sir Dietrich and his men had searched the castle, they’d found no sign of the hunched old man. His supplies were gone, too, leading them to believe that he’d fled as soon as the battle began, perhaps even earlier.
A wise move. Annise would’ve seen him strung up by his wrinkled old to
es for what he did.
Now, Tarin had claimed the room for his own, spending hours in the dark, not even bothering to light a candle or lamp. It was here that she found him now, his back resting against the stone wall, his elbows on his knees, his head stuffed between them, eyes downcast. Though he still wore his armor, his helmet was off, his head and face exposed.
Despite his size, his strength, his armor, he looked so vulnerable it almost brought a tear to Annise’s eyes.
“Leave me,” he said as she shone her lamplight across him. His voice was a shadow of the man she knew.
“No,” she said, still fighting back tears.
“I am dangerous.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “To our enemies.”
He shook his head, looking away once more. “To everyone. To myself. To you. This thing inside me…I can’t control it. I thought I could, but I was wrong. It controls me.”
“You weren’t wrong.” Annise placed the lamp on the potionmaster’s empty table, and strode to Tarin, grabbing his chin in a tight grip.
His eyes met hers. “I love you,” she said, her voice trembling. Only as she said it did she realize it was the first time she’d told him. Why didn’t I say it sooner?
A tear trickled from his eye, meandering down his cheek, changing direction each time it crossed one of his protruding black veins.
“Look, Tarin,” she said. “Whatever is happening to you, we can face—”
His expression changed in an instant as he cut her off. “You have no idea what is happening to me,” he growled. He reached up and touched her jawline, which still bore the long shadow of a bruise. His touch was too tender for the words he’d just spoken, and they made Annise shiver. “You say you love me? Then you have to let me go. I cannot put you at risk any longer.”
“What?” Let him go? “Tarin, no. I won’t. I can’t. I am—”
“The queen,” he interrupted. “And I am a distraction, and a dangerous one.”