As the day begins to close, the scout returns.

  “Your Grace,” he breathes, sliding from his horse. “I could not find the general anywhere. There was a blacksmith that insisted he had seen him and that he had gone to the jailhouse, but I did not find him there. I asked the townsfolk. Not enough to get him into any trouble o’course, but-”

  The king nods. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Y-Your Grace?” the young scout says sheepishly. “I did not see an army.” His brow creases. The boy’s eyes are gray, a deep smoky color, and his dark brows are huddled over them.

  From the cot, the king chuckles. “Yes, we know,” he says.

  Nathis turns to the young boy. “Thank you, Jayl. You are dismissed.”

  He stands, leaning on the supports for the king’s tent, having spoken to Taeg and his brother for the last couple hours. He had drunk more than a few cups of wine from the wineskin, and Kelo was well on his way behind him. The boy had grown more open and comfortable with each cup. With the interruption gone, the corpse boy continues his story.

  “Fairly soon after that, there was a rumor spreading through Inonin about a skeleton in the woods. Of course, I kept my hood up when I went into town back then. I still had a bit of shame about my appearance. But they came with swordsmen a few times, lurking in the woods, looking for a hideous creature that might suck out their very soul. I’m a damned good climber, and they never thought to look in the trees. These spruce trees have saved me more than once.”

  “Would you bring us to your home, when this is all over?” Taeg asks.

  Kelo shrugs, squinting one large black eye. “I’m not sure if I’m there yet,” he hums. “It’s not a castle by any means. Though I’m sure after growing up in a castle, a change of pace might be worth it.”

  Taeg smiles. Nathis watches as the two grow in their lost brotherhood. It is the first time he has seen Taeg laughing with true mirth. The king was always cheerful as a boy but with age, had lost his enthusiasm. Being a leader was hard for him, and his father knew that before Taeg came of age. It was something Roen talked about frequently. He feared for his son. The older man had begun to think that Roen’s very doubt was the agent that placed such lack of confidence in the young king. His mother strove to do the opposite, beaming over the boy like a jewel. Taeg’s pain for her was obvious.

  Nathis takes a moment to peer outside at the damp earth and its blanket of rust-colored needles. He feels a quickening pain in his stomach, worsening as the days go by. In the mornings, when he awoke with nothing in his belly, he would dry heave the acid in his gut until his chest ached and his throat burned. The alcohol helped, distracting his mind from the pain and keeping the nausea at bay. He could see the judgement from Anarah’s eyes as the cup reached his lips, but it hurt less than the pain.

  Nathis had known his time was not far when the blood started coming up with the acid and the whites of his eyes began yellowing like aged parchment. He had seen more of the world that he had intended at any rate and the idea of death did not frighten him, though in the back of his mind, he worried how his comrades would take his passing, however ugly it may be. He hoped to leave this world on the battlefield. It seemed much more kind than vomiting up his liver. The thought of dying in such a way frightened him more than his daughter’s grief.

  Nathis looks back at the king and takes a moment to appreciate the joy. He tries not to think about the darkness that follows his death; about how joy, even that of others, does not exist there. The king’s smile, beaming from ear to ear, reminds the general of his youth. He excuses himself with a polite nod in Taeg’s direction and brushes off the chiding invite to stay. Heaving himself from his seat, he slips through the flaps in the tent, relishing the cool air that greets his wrinkled skin.

  A flurry of motion happens around him. The group that had been standing idly around a campfire now tends to their horses, brushing the sweet-smelling hair from the animals’ sweaty coats, chattering and jesting with each other. Horsehair floats through the air like dust. The cook and his serving boys prepare a roasted goose over the great fire amidst the trees, the drip and sizzle of fat whispering through the flames. In the far corner of camp, Lark is heard screeching at her apprentice, Holl, the scrawny blonde-headed fool that willingly took on the position of being her slave. He bustles in and out of the makeshift tent Lark calls her shop.

  His horse waits for him at the northern end of camp, resting sleepy-eyed under the shade of a tall spruce tree. He pats the beast on her thick ginger neck and flicks her reins over the saddle horn. From behind him, the general hears a shushing of feet rushing toward him and turns to see a young man in his twenties approaching. He is bright eyed, the sword pinned to his belt flapping about as he runs.

  “General Stoles!” he shouts, bowing as he skids to a halt. His closely shaved head is sunburnt.

  “Yes?” Nathis inquires, speaking slowly.

  The boy pants, swallowing and regaining his composure. “Is it true? There is no army waiting for us?”

  Nathis chuckles, meeting the boy’s brown eyes. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Then are we to head home?” the young man questions. His thin eyebrows raise innocently, hope splayed across his face.

  Nathis sighs. “I will get back to you on that one, my friend,” he smiles, turning back to pull himself into the saddle. “Until the king calls off the army, I’m afraid not.” He finds his seat, wincing with pain.

  “But General… I don’t wish to fight.” The boy’s voice is soft, hushed under the din of men shouting.

  Nathis softens, looking about the camp before settling back on the boy. “I don’t believe any of us do, boy. Stick to your commander. It is his responsibility to see you home.” He steers his mare around toward Denand’s capitol. Though I don’t believe your Commander cares, he thinks to himself. He clucks his tongue and the horse steps forward, leaving the bewildered young man to stare into the trees.

  He makes his way down the hill into the town below, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. As he climbs down into the town, the smoke from the many fires turns his stomach, the alcohol sitting heavy, pooling in his eyes and distorting the road below him. His horse’s footsteps slide in the gravel. He passes a shouting blacksmith and smiles as the portly man crows about his wares. A young girl, younger than Lark, runs up to meet his mare, holding violets in her hands. The horse pulls her head sideways to snag a bloom in her teeth and the girl smiles. Nathis steers the mare away, toward the castle gate, noting the guards at the entrance. He approaches, shouting.

  “Hullo! How are you gentlemen today?”

  One of the guards, a scrawny balding red head, places his hand on his sword. “I’d fuck off if I were you, chap. The queen ain’t in the mood for none o’ya foolin’ arounds.”

  The other guard perks. “What’s your business ‘ere? We’ve had a couple of spooks running around lately and don’ want any more trouble.”

  “I mean no trouble,” Nathis drawls. “I’m looking for a man. Dark hair. Dark skin. A swordsman.”

  “What you need ‘im for?” the redhead snaps.

  “Looking to hire a hand. Got a few problems with the raiders in the Pfeists.”

  The two guards look at each other. The other guard, tall and black of hair, nods in Nathis’s direction. “We’ve seen ‘im. He was at the blacksmith’s yesterday morn. Stopped to flirt with the holdings maid while ‘e was at it. Haven’t seen ‘im since.”

  The General’s mare shifts a rear foot and Nathis takes it as his cue. “I don’t suppose I can get you to let me converse with the queen, can I?” he says.

  The redhead begins to draw his sword, but the taller guard interrupts, holding out his hand. “No sir, I can’t.”

  Nathis nods, hesitating. He gives his mare a pat on the neck, then kicks his heels into her sides. The horse snorts, pricking her ears back and jolting forward, her hooves scraping the stone below them. The castle guards move quickly, unsheathing their swords. Nathis hammers the horse through the redhead as he eagerly places himself between the castle doors and the thundering animal. He screams as he is trampled beneath her hooves.

  The black-haired guard waits patiently. Nathis pulls his sword from his belt, swinging toward the remaining man. But the guard dodges, swiping his blade through the chest of the general’s sorrel mare. A piercing scream comes from her throat as blood sprays over his boot and she careens sideways, throwing her mounted partner to the ground. Nathis lands underneath her, his leg pinned. His sword falls to the ground with a clatter. A tumult of sound echoes off the castle walls, screaming neighs and scraping hooves. A stabbing pain courses through the general’s leg, echoing in his stomach as the remaining guard moves over him. Nathis feels cold steel meet the flesh of his neck.

  His horse, breathing heavily, quiets as she dies, her blood pooling beneath him. He lays his head back on the stone walkway and the sword follows, pressing firmly into his skin. The black-haired guard stands over him, forehead wrinkling. His dark brown eyes furrow.

  “Why didya have to go an’ do that, now?” he asks, shaking his head.

  Nathis can feel his mare’s blood reach his neck, seeping into his hair, warm and sticky.

  “I don’t suppose I can see the queen now, can I?” he chuckles. “You’ve already taken my horse as collateral.”

  “I’ll take you to her. But try an’ kill me again and I’ll open your throat, see.”

  “Yessir,” Nathis mouths.

  “And the bloke you did manage to kill… well, he was destined, if ya know what I mean.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The guard, formally introduced as Helmar, drags him through the castle doors, bloody, limping, and bound at the wrists. They pass through a stuffy, dark great hall and Nathis notes the pictures on the walls; portraits of Silon’s family posted proudly on the crumbling stone. Her father’s dark eyes stare blankly in his stiff, kingly portrait. Helmar leads him through a wooden door to the right, which opens into a drawing room. The walls are lined to the ceiling with the hides and horns of animals—bear, cougar, moose—more animals than the old general had seen in his lifetime. A great spruce table spans the length of the room, at which sits a woman, surrounded by parchment. A wooden plate of chicken bones sits to her right and a goblet of mead is grasped in a delicate hand. She is pale-skinned, black of hair, and as beautiful as the snow-capped mountains she rules over.

  “Your Grace,” Helmar bows, dragging Nathis through the doorway. “A guest to see you. Nathis Stoles, a general with the country of Larynth. He wishes to speak with you.” Helmar shoves the general to his knees, wiping horse blood from his hands onto the leather bracers on his forearms. The Queen does not look up.

  Nathis grimaces, wishing his arms were free from the bindings that hold him. The three sit in silence as the queen finishes up her quillwork. She does not speak until her quill stops scratching.

  “General Stoles,” she says. Her voice is deep and rich, and her presence floats about the room like a wraith. She does not speak like the people of her country.

  “Your Grace.” He clears his throat, gazing painfully up at the table. “Lovely to meet you.”

  She eyes him with a dark gaze. Her lips are painted burgundy. “What brings you to Denand?” Her head tilts, and a cascade of midnight hair rolls over her shoulder.

  “I am looking for a friend of mine. His name is Tygoh Dacre, a noble for the crown of Larynth. We believe he traveled into your capitol just yesterday morning.”

  She does not hesitate. “And how will my counsel help you, sir?”

  “I believe it is not your counsel that will help me, but my counsel that may help you. Denand was rumored to have had an awaiting army for Larynth. We took the advice, given that your scouts have been crawling all over our cities like roaches. I came to see for myself whether that was true or not. Obviously, we were fooled. But I believe Tygoh came for other intentions, intentions in which I would not deem unfounded on his part. He is an intelligent man, but reckless in the pursuit of his desires. I have formed a bad habit of following after to check up on him.” Nathis smiles lightly.

  The Queen examines him, still seated stiffly in her seat. “Helmar,” she calls. “Please leave General Stoles with me. Wait outside.”

  “He tried to kill me, Your Grace. And Clane lies dead in the street- “

  She holds up a slender hand. “And you will be available outside should I need you.”

  Helmar screws up his face, hesitating before slinging loose his grip on Nathis’s shoulder. He turns to open the door and Silon stops him again.

  “His bonds, Helmar.”

  The tall guard’s eyes widen as he takes in his queen’s intention. He slips the dagger from his belt and saws the rope free, nicking Nathis in the process. He does not flinch. Helmar slits his eyes at Nathis, looping the rope around his fist and exiting through the door. It slams behind him.

  “Your guards think highly of you,” Nathis hums, pulling himself up off the ground and rubbing at his wrists. He stumbles on the way up, still feeling the wine. He wipes the blood from his arm on his chest piece. “The redhead my horse trampled was quite enthusiastic.”

  “Your man came here last night,” she spits. “Along with a woman.”

  Nathis nods. “I have a hunch as to why your scouts have been trespassing on our land. One of yours was unfortunate enough to land in Tygoh’s grasp. He told us that you had sent him into the unknown to find a woman, a Xelinite.” His blue eyes pierce hers, but she does not falter. “You’ve caused quite a stir in Erah.”

  “I do not apologize for caring for my people. Xelinite power is highly sought.” Her face is stern, eyes cold. Nathis takes note of her garb; a dark blue velvet gown falls low on her chest and a set of silver rings adorn her right hand. She is Anarah’s age, just beginning to show the shadows of smile lines about her thick lips. Her eyes glaze over as he takes her in.

  “Then what we saw was true. A ship,” he says, taking a seat across the table from her, “sitting in the southern ocean astride the docks of Izevel.”

  He watches her swallow roughly, gazing at him as if he were a fly buzzing about her head. “What is this council you have come to offer me?” A small lift in her lips.

  “After you tell me where Tygoh Dacre is. I’m fond of him. He’s to marry my daughter.” He smiles brightly.

  “He is in the cells with the woman.”

  Nathis is silent, flitting his eyes about to examine the pieces of parchment scattered on the young queen’s desk. “Finances?” he nods at them.

  She sighs. “General Stoles, I thought you to be of some interest to me, but it appears that I was mistaken. You are not as astute as you pretend to be.” Her mouth moves deliberately, speaking as if her teeth were in the way.

  “I’ve come to the same conclusion myself at times,” Nathis leans back, resting his bloody arms on the chair. “But this is not one of those times. Your father was a sickly man. And not sickly as I am, Your Majesty, but sickly in his mind. I hoped that you were not the same.”

  He watches as she looks down for the first time, then continues.

  “Larynth and I do not condone the sale of humans, regardless of their origins. To what end does this leave you? An alliance with Tauris? Money? Power?”

  She is silent.

  “The woman,” he continues. “She is the one your little Pfeist Mountain scout was looking for. A rumor we were not aware of when he showed up at our castle walls. She is a member of the castle Guard. Her apprehension should buy you severe punishment.”

  She wets her lips. “Tauris offered us payment for the Xelinites. I used whatever men were willing to volunteer for such a task. They were starving, and an offer of food bought their time.”

  Nathis searches the face of the young queen, the stinging scrapes on his arm bleeding into the armrests of his chair. Silon eyes the blood.

  “From my own experiences, Your Grace, pride will get you nowhere,” he says.

  “We entered into an agreement with Tauris, yes.” She moves her eyes back to his. “More specifically, the Tauran Council, or so they call themselves. I do not know what they do with the captives and I do not wish to learn.”

  “A blind eye does not erase evil,” Nathis murmurs.

  “And starvation does not disappear while you coddle your good karma,” she says bitterly. “My kingdom is dying, General. Wilting in the shadow of my father.”

  He nods. “This is where my counsel can help you. But you are going to need information from my friends down there,” he says, motioning to the floor.

  Silon looks about her room, gazing expressionless at the animal skins on her walls. She then smiles a beautiful, toothy beam at a pair of antelope antlers mounted next to the door. Her attention is captivated for a moment before she turns to face Nathis again.

  “My father was sickly. That much is true,” she smiles again. “But I am not. If not for my desperate situation, I would be apt to turn you away, throw you in my cells, what have you. But I am due to clean up his mess. I can tell you with confidence that Tauris does not have grand intentions for these people, though I couldn’t tell you what exactly those might be. I will release your people. And they will come to me. I must remind you that I still have the advantage here,” she grins.

  “Of course.”

  She shouts toward the door for Helmar, and he bursts through within seconds, nearly tearing the hinges off the wall. His sword is drawn, knuckles white. Silon informs her guard with measured calm that the dark woman and the mahogany-haired man are to be released and taken to her. His initial shock is deterred by a stern look from the beautiful woman, and he returns several minutes later with the two in tow.

  Tygoh, removed of his hair tie, sports a disheveled mess of long, dark hair spilling over his shoulders. Drair, stoic as usual, is missing her characteristic eyepatch, her Lynac tattoo nesting like a timid dragon on her brow. Silon orders their shackles removed, and the two take their seats next to General Nathis, dirty and tired.

  Nathis shoots a glance at Tygoh, who is staring darkly at the table. Heat fumes off the young man in waves. Drair stares at the wall, and it is here that Nathis realizes he has never seen her eyes. They are a rich dark brown, bright and vivid.

  He turns back to the Queen, who has shuffled all her parchment together and ordered a mug of mead for herself, delivered hastily by a young serving girl.

  “Thank you very much, Your Grace, for cooperating.” Nathis smiles. He waits until Silon has gripped eyes with him again before continuing. “We know what the Taurans are using the Xelinites for. I had to see for myself if you knew, scope out your character, if you will. Begging your pardon, but I believe you to be more intelligent than your father was, however na?ve you may be.” Her lips purse. “It is no slight on your part,” Nathis assures, “but you need to know how your actions to save your own people are affecting the lives of others. We need an ally in this. I believe we can come to terms that will satisfy both our needs.”

  He pauses. He knows the words coming out of his mouth are grounds for treason under any other rule. He waits for Tygoh to interject with a protest, but the man says nothing. The Queen breathes in deeply. She closes her eyes and the long, black eyelashes that line them flutter. When they open again, she speaks.

  “However na?ve I might be,” she draws out the word, locking eyes with him, “I know that I cannot afford to care for both my people and the well-being of another country. That is their sovereign’s responsibility.”

  Before Nathis can refute, a low voice comes from his left.

  “No, Your Majesty, it is not your responsibility,” Tygoh seethes. “However, you are the one shoving families in cages for the sake of feeding the fat bellies of blacksmiths pushing wares to strangers on the street. Why don’t you put him in the fields or put him to making mining tools instead? You have these mountains around you, rich with resources, if only your people were more focused on the community instead of themselves.”

  Nathis winces. The queen does not react.

  “Reallocate your efforts. The Xelinites have done nothing to deserve their sale as property,” the young man growls.

  Nathis refrains from looking at his counterpart, but a smile creeps over his chin. He looks back at the Queen for her reaction. She looks at Tygoh with curiosity, but contempt does not arise.

  “You are correct,” she says. “I see their blood in you. No doubt you harbor some animosity towards me.”

  Nathis sees the woman next to him flinch, moving her gaze toward the cavalry general. Tygoh hesitates, then pulls his shoulders back from their hunched position, speaking directly to the Queen.

  “My mother was from Xelinac, unbeknownst to me until just this past moon. I shunned their existence before, insulted and maimed their reputation. They were monsters to me. I arrived at your holding cells before we infiltrated your castle. There was a young girl, no more than fourteen, holding a screaming infant in her arms, begging for the maid’s help, begging for anyone’s help.” He swallows, looks away, then back.

  “She died. The infant died in the arms of her child mother, screaming for food. She starved to death in the cells you have risen for the purpose of feeding your own people. I was wrong. They are more than monsters. They are humans. Had my father told me the truth, my world would have opened up. I would not have grown into the selfish, callous, cold-hearted swine I have become. I understand your circumstances. Your people are dying in the streets and you are comfortable selling the bodies of Xelinites so long as their reputation in this world remains vilified. Should you have been raised under different parents, different housing, a different world, that reassurance of selling human lives would never have crossed your mind.

  “But our world of nobles and kings is rotten, scathing to those under us. We sit in our castles and look over the land as if we own it. We feel entitled to the lives of others, entitled to their thanks and the sweat on their backs. We are not. We are not entitled to anything but our own responsibilities as rulers and as humans.”

  The Queen leans back in her seat. Her arms land lightly on the rests of her chair and a strand of black hair falls rebelliously into her eyes. “Thank you for the speech.”

  Nathis leans onto the table and looks over at Tygoh, who sits rigid. He smiles when the younger man catches his eye. “Anarah would be proud,” he mutters.

  A long sigh rips from Tygoh’s chest, and Nathis sees the anger leave his eyes for the first time since he was a child. Nathis looks back to the Queen.

  “Now, we have business to attend to.”