EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (185 page)

She wanted me to lose,
she realized.

“Splendid!” Prince Leresy said. He approached and clasped Tilla on the shoulder. “I must be a good teacher. I’ll be keeping an eye out for you, Tilla Roper.” He leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Perhaps someday you will visit my chamber, and I can give you some private lessons.”

Tilla stood stiff and still. Her knees trembled only the slightest. She looked over at Nairi; rage still flamed in the officer’s green eyes, but pain dwelled there too, and Tilla understood.

She loves the prince,
Tilla thought.
Oh stars damn it, Nairi and the prince... and me in the middle.
She wanted to shout out.
This isn’t my fault! I didn’t ask for Leresy’s affections!

“Well!” the prince said. “I’ve seen enough for one day. Lanse Nairi, keep up the good work. You’ll whip these girls into warriors yet.”

With that, the prince shifted back into a red dragon, took flight with a cloud of smoke, and disappeared over the walls.

When the smoke and dust settled, Tilla turned back toward Nairi, hesitating. She gasped to see the lanse draw her punisher, growl, and come marching toward her.

“Lanse Nairi,” Tilla began, “I—“

Nairi drew her sword, slammed Tilla’s blade aside, and drove her punisher forward.

Pain exploded across Tilla’s chest.

She couldn’t help it. She screamed and fell to her knees.

“You were to fight with swords,” Nairi said through clenched teeth, shoving her punisher against Tilla. “I teach swordplay, not wrestling, you seaside scum.”

Tilla gasped for breath. Lightning flowered across her. She screamed again. She tried to clutch at Nairi’s wrists, to push the punisher back, but her arms felt rubbery like loose skin.

“Please!” she tried to say, but screams drowned her words.

Tilla fell onto her back and writhed in the dust.

“Please, no!” somebody called behind her.

“Lanse Nairi, please!” cried another soldier.

Tilla could barely hear them. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Nairi knelt above her, twisting her punisher as if trying to shove the rod through Tilla’s chest. Smoke rose from her. Tilla’s eyes rolled back. Darkness, pain, and fire flowed over her world.

RUNE

“A
GAIN
!” V
ALIEN
BARKED
AND
THRUST
his wooden sword.

Cursing, Rune tried to block the attack. His own practice weapon blocked Valien’s. A second thrust flew. Rune checked the blow; the two wooden blades clanked. The third thrust slammed into his chest, and Rune gasped and fell back two steps.

“Dead again,” Valien said in disgust. “If I were Frey Cadigus, you wouldn’t last five heartbeats.”

Valien Eleison, leader of the Resistance, stood clad in a steel breastplate, tan breeches, and leather boots. Sweat matted his grizzled hair and clung to his stubble like dew to grass.

“If you were Frey Cadigus,” Rune said, “I would shift into a dragon and burn your arse.”

Rune wiped sweat off his brow. He wore a breastplate too, but Valien’s thrusts—even with a wooden sword—left his chest aching. He imagined that bruises spread beneath the steel.

Valien spat into the dust. “Dragon? Frey Cadigus dwells deep in his fortress; its corridors are too small for dragons. You’d have to fight his guards foot by foot, man by man. I doubt you’d slay one before they captured you.”

The ruins of Confutatis sprawled around them, a hodgepodge of fallen columns, the shells of towers, crumbled walls, and countless bricks strewn across dead grass. It was a tapestry all in whites, tans, yellows, and grays. Men and women of the Resistance, clad in robes the colors of these ruins, stood upon what remained of the walls and towers. They bore swords of real steel, and they clutched bows. They said nothing. They only watched.

Rune growled, raised his wooden sword, and swung it at Valien.

The older man scowled, knocked the blow aside, and slammed his wooden blade against Rune’s shoulder.

“Stars damn it!” Rune cursed.

Valien whacked Rune’s shoulder again. “Never curse by your stars. Your stars saved your life, boy. That’s more than your skill with the sword would do, it seems.”

Rune tossed that sword down, spat, and glared at Valien.

“It isn’t fair!” he said. “You’ve been fighting all your life. You were a knight. I was a brewer until a moon ago.”

“Pick up your sword,” Valien said. His eyes blazed and his face reddened. “It isn’t fair? Life’s not fair, boy. Was it fair when Frey slew your parents? Was it fair when he toppled this city? Was it fair when my w—“ The grizzled warrior stopped himself and gritted his teeth. “Life is cruel and death is crueler. You can cry about how things aren’t fair, or you can stand tall and
make
things fair.”

Rune stared at the man. Rage flared inside him like dragonfire.
You are why I’m here!
Rune wanted to shout.
You sent Kaelyn to drag me out of my home, to take me here, to...

As fast as it had flared, his rage dissipated. He thought back to the night with Kaelyn in the rain. That sword—the Amber Sword of Aeternum—stood against a fallen statue only feet away.

Make things fair.

Rune grumbled, reached down to his fallen wooden sword, and lifted it.

“The wooden sword’s too heavy,” he said. “The Amber Sword is light and fast. I could parry assaults with that one.”

Valien’s face softened, and he sighed and nodded. “The wooden sword needs to be heavy,” he said. “It will strengthen you. When you’ve trained with thick wood, thin steel will seem lighter than air. You are right, Relesar Aeternum. Until a moon ago, you were only Rune Brewer, not a warrior, and I’ve been swinging swords for longer than you’ve lived. But now you are a warrior. Now you too will fight. I will bruise you here, Rune, until your body aches so badly, you will even dream of pain. But it will make you strong.” Valien smiled thinly. “When training is hard, the battle is easy.”

“I don’t want to fight any battle,” Rune said.

Valien clasped his shoulder. “Nor do any good men. A brute craves battle. A coward flees from it. The wise man hates war, but will fight to defend what he loves.”

“And what do we defend, Valien?” Rune asked. “What do we love?” He swept his arm around. “A pile of ruins? Bricks and broken statues?”

“An idea,” Valien said. “A memory. A story as old as starlight. We defend the light of Requiem, even as darkness closes in around us. We defend the heart and soul of our people. And that, Rune, is one battle I am willing to fight.”

Rune thought about this for a moment. Valien’s words rang true to him. Rune too wanted to fight for light, for the soul of Requiem, and for justice. And yet... he wondered. Valien’s men—some said Valien himself—had slain Tilla’s brother. The Resistance had slain many legionaries. Those soldiers had not been bloodthirsty worshippers of the red spiral. They had been humble farmers and tradesmen—people like his friends from Cadport—torn from their homes, given swords, and sent to die. Frey was evil and deserved death, but could the same be said for his soldiers, the youths the Resistance killed?

Can light shine in a kingdom so shadowed in death?
Rune wondered.
Can we ever light the beacons of justice after shedding so much blood?

He did not know. But he nodded. Fighting was
something
, he thought—fighting was standing up, flying onward, and making a change. That, Rune thought, was still better than hiding in shadows.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it with his hand, then raised his wooden sword again.

“All right, old man,” Rune said. “You’re going to slow down soon, and when you do, I’ll be the one making bruises.”

With a grin that looked almost like a snarl, Valien nodded and lashed his sword, and the wooden blades clattered.

That evening, the Resistance gathered in the fallen hall of old kings, the place where Rune had first met Valien. Candles burned upon the craggy walls. Trestle tables stood topped with bread rolls, smoked meats, dried fruits, cheeses, and nuts. Men and women, their robes and faces dusty, raised mugs of ale and drank deeply. Steam, smoke, and the scents of the feast filled the air.

Hundreds of warriors filled this grand hall. Across the ruins of Confutatis, two thousand others gathered in burrows, abandoned homes, and old cellars. This city had become a place of bones and old blood, but today light and hope shone here again.

“It is the Night of Seven!” Valien announced, standing at the head table of his hall. He raised a goblet of ale. “Tonight is the holiest night of Requiem’s stars. Tonight marks a thousand years since the heroes of Requiem, the seven who survived the Great Slaughter, stood and rekindled the light of Requiem.” Valien raised the goblet higher, and hundreds of mugs rose across the hall, returning the salute. “We live in a time of darkness. Requiem lies cloaked in shadows—the shadows of the Cadigus Regime.” The resistors hissed across the hall, and Valien spoke louder. “Tonight we say: Like the Living Seven, we will fight. We will keep our light blazing. Tonight let us drink for those old heroes, and let us vow to continue their fight.”

Valien drank deeply from his goblet. Across the hall, hundreds of warriors drank from their mugs.

Rune drank too. The ale was bitter and dark, but it flowed well down his throat and warmed his belly. This feast, these candles, and these stories warmed him like the ale. Back in Cadport, soldiers never spoke of the Living Seven, the ancient heroes of Requiem. Soldiers never spoke of the stars. They only hailed the red spiral, worshipped Frey Cadigus, and mostly they hated—they hated the Resistance, they hated the old enemies of Requiem, and they hated the fallen Aeternum Dynasty for its weakness.

“Here there is no hate,” Rune said softly into his mug. “Here there is memory and camaraderie and hope.”

At his side, Kaelyn placed her mug down, wiped suds off her lips, and touched his hand. She smiled softly, and the candlelight glowed in her eyes. Their fingers twined together under the table.

“I’m glad you’re here with us, Rune,” she said and squeezed his hand.

Rune thought back to how he had kissed Kaelyn; this memory too warmed him. When he looked at her now, he could almost feel her lips again. Kaelyn’s hazel eyes shone, her hair cascaded like waves of molten gold, and her smile warmed him more than hearth fire. His hand, which held hers, felt more alive than his entire body.

I want to fly with her again,
he thought,
to dance in the night, to hold her body against me, to feel her lips against mine.
She drew him like heat draws a freezing man, so powerfully he could barely breathe.

With a bolt of pain, he tore his eyes away. He stared at the tabletop.

Tilla,
he thought.
Tilla Roper. I walked with her on the beach. I kissed her too. I vowed to see her again.
His throat stung.
How will I find you now, Tilla? Do you too have food, friends, and a warm fire? Or are you cold and afraid, and do you need me?

He felt a hand in his hair. Kaelyn was looking at him, eyes soft with concern.

“Rune,” she said, “you look sad.”

He forced a smile and drank some more. “Are you going to force me to dance again?”

She laughed. “Of course I am! Many more times. For the rest of your life. But not now—now we do not dance. Now we sing.” She stepped onto her chair, raised her mug, and cried out to the hall. “Vir Requis, let us sing the song of our people. Will you rise and sing the Old Words with me?”

They rose across the hall, hundreds of men and women with gaunt faces but bright eyes, with calloused hands but raised heads. Kaelyn stood before them, and she sang, and their voices rang with hers. Rune realized that he knew these words—his grandfather used to sing them on quiet nights—and Rune joined his voice to theirs.

“As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our columns, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.”

They all drank again, and when Kaelyn turned toward Rune, her eyes were solemn, her smile gone.

“The song of Requiem,” Rune said to her. “It is forbidden now.”

She nodded. “My father forbade it, but it is old beyond reckoning; we have been singing this song for thousands of years. We will sing it again in the palace of Nova Vita, and starlight will fall upon us.” She raised her mug again and cried to the crowd. “Blessed be Relesar Aeternum, rightful King of Requiem! Blessed be his name!”

The hall erupted with cries.

“Blessed be Aeternum!” they called. “Stars bless the rightful king!”

Their cries echoed all around. Men and women stood waving their mugs and chanting his name. Rune stood up too, uneasy. Maybe it was the ale, but the room spun around him, a sea of faces and voices and eyes.

“Blessed be Relesar Aeternum, the rightful king!” they cried.

Rune looked around, feeling his face flush and stomach clench. He wanted the ruins to collapse and bury him; never had so many eyes stared at him. He wanted to cry out:
But I’m not a king, only a brewer. Not Relesar, only Rune!
Yet he remained silent. He had accepted Amerath, the Amber Sword. He had drunk from these men’s brew; if not as a king, then as a brewer, he knew the significance of that. And so he only stood silently. Perhaps it was the best thing he could do now.