No Man's Land Read online

His brow creases. “How did you—”

  “Like you see souls, I can see dreams. Calen, son of Vale. You were a happy lad, had a beautiful family.” She looks down. “Then it was ripped away from you.” Her jaw clamps for a moment, and she looks back at him. “You see what I want you to see, no more, no less.”

  She turns from him, toward the balcony, but then looks back. “How did you come about your unique gift, Karak? I have many powers but gazing upon the purest form of one’s soul isn’t one of them. So tell me, how did you obtain it?”

  He turns away from her, looking at the black mountains that surround the valley. Wringing his wrists, he sighs, feeling the ice of his own breath. “I said yes.”

  “Then it can’t be too hard for you to say yes again.”

  He looks at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Her eyebrow rises. “Time will tell.” She starts walking into the room, throwing another blow over her shoulder with, “Sleep well, Cal.”

  Seeing her sister was a shock that Revera was not expecting. She watches silently as the elf paces. The White Lady’s diamond dress sparkles in the light of the setting sun, the gems glistening with reds and yellows from the dazzling sky above. Her brow is creased in anticipation, in curiosity, rage, and in anger. Revera can read most mortals. Even most elves, though, they are tougher to open up. Her sister, though…

  Raea is impenetrable. She is a walled fortress, with walls as thick as mountains and a moat as deep as the darkness in Revera’s soul—at least that’s how the sorceress imagines the white-haired elf would describe it.

  Watching her both confuses and satisfies Revera. On the one hand, she can safely say the White Lady has no idea of her presence, as she’s more skilled in magic than Raea is. She hardly has any. Her gift is very powerful light she uses as almost a form of magic. A perversion of it they call pure and a gift from the Spirits. What Revera has comes from the earth itself. On the other hand, Raea shouldn’t be here.

  Raea is an aggravating elf to no one but Revera. She’s wise and powerful. She’s light. A vessel for Sericia’s power. Revera…isn’t. Raea received all of their parents’ attention. She’s the favorite. The first. Revera is second, and now Raea has done the same to Kepp. It would break her heart, but she isn’t sure she has one anymore.

  The White Lady. An elven princess with powers of light. She fell in love when she was young, and fell pregnant, bringing shame to her parents. But still, they loved her. The one she loved, and their child were cast out. She was forced to marry another and had twin sons by him. She favored her first son, the blond-haired Eldowyn, and ignored the younger twin, non-traditional Kepp. He was easy to manipulate because of what his parents didn’t do for him.

  Then there was Daron, King of Mera. Revera and Raea had been in the Meran capital of Kevah, on business for their home of Radian. It had been a quick affair, between the White Lady and the king, but it bore consequences even the wisest of elves couldn’t predict.

  It had been easy for Revera to lie about her love for Daron, and it had been an acceptable reason to bring the torment down upon Mortal. But that reason no longer holds for those who stand against her. Now, it’s the hatred of the product of their affair that will be what drives this war she’s waged.

  Awyn may not be the center of her reasons for this war, but she certainly is the weapon for it.

  But then again, no one truly knows of her reasons.

  And she’ll keep it like that for as long as it serves her.

  Walking out where the White Lady can see her, she smiles. “What a beautiful night we’re having, wouldn’t you agree, sister?”

  Raea turns when Revera reveals herself, both shock and agony on her face.

  Revera makes sure she puts on the most charming and cool smirk she has, collecting all her thoughts and attacks she’ll need for this sibling rivalry.

  The conversation isn’t meaningless talk.

  It’s war.

  “Revera.” The name is spat with such hostility that Revera can’t help but laugh. She averts her gaze from Revera’s, looking at her dress. “I see you still have a taste for luxury.”

  “One must destroy in style, sister.”

  Raea shakes her head, looking away.

  Revera laughs. “Oh, if I had a gold coin for every time someone I loved turned their back on me…” She throws up her hands. “Well, I’d be rich.”

  “You already are.” Raea steps closer to her, no taller than her twin, and yet she still manages to look down her nose at the sorceress. “Rich with the blood you’ve spilled.”

  “Oh, you were just waiting to say that, weren’t you, Raea?” Revera’s nose to nose with her now, holding nothing back. “The line is abhorrent.”

  Raea’s eyes narrow. “That’s your problem, sister, you waste time on theatrics. You love the game—the means—too much.”

  “And you don’t love them enough,” Revera says, her words stream like a thundering river, fast and to the point. “Every story needs a villain, Raea. And we both know who the real villain is.”

  Raea straightens, her brow furrowing. “You can’t possibly be suggesting that you blame our parents for this terror? You are the one who’s cast the curses, destroyed lives, Revera. You.”

  Revera turns from her. Why did she ever approach? Nothing good could come out of it. She tries to be so superior, smarter than me. She clenches her teeth. I could vomit at her ascendency.

  In a rage Revera turns, heart blazing and the strength of her magic driving every word she uses. “What you wish me to do will never happen. I will not bow to you, sister. I will not bow to our parents. No Elven majesty, no human queen, no Besged king will make me relent. I will not be so easily stopped, Raea. I will not stop until this world burns and you and everyone else with it!”

  Her rage sends a flicker of fear over Raea’s face. She knows Revera can do it, and the sorceress knows it. Raea knows Revera could kill her. She knows it too. She’s grown strong in her darkness, in her hate, just as she was taught all those years ago in the northwest.

  She was taught to harness it.

  Instead, she conquered it.

  But the flicker escapes and vanishes as quickly as it came, without leaving a trace.

  Revera huffs, turning away in an attempt to mask herself, trying to calm down the rage. At times…at times it seems she’s over her head with her magic. It amplifies everything. She takes a shaky breath, her sister’s eyes not peeling from her back. But she feels the glare begin to fade.

  Revera clenches her fists. “I will not yield. I will not comply. I will never bow to you, to Awyn, to the Nomarian heir. I will fight until every last one of you is buried in a heap of bodies!”

  “I know you won’t bow, Revera. Nor relent. You’ve never been the kind of elf to submit. My son…that has been both his downfall and his saving grace. Not heeding to anyone, not giving up, and certainly not letting his adversaries win. It’s been his strength.”

  Revera’s whole body jolts slightly as she feels Raea’s cold hand on her shoulder, a thin touch like mist as the White Lady begins to disappear.

  “But I fear it will only be your downfall. And Mortal’s destruction.”

  Revera turns, ready to argue, but Raea is already gone.

  She shakes, the cold of her sister lingering, and her magic coursing too quickly through her veins. Her knees hit the ground, and she runs a hand through her hair.

  She wasn’t there. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She wasn’t real. She looks forward, anger tightening. I will never bow to those who ruined me. I will never give up until everyone that…

  You’ll be sorry. Every one of you.

  You’ll be sorry.

  Revera’s skin had prickled and her limbs had shaken as the cold washed over her, chilling her to her very core. Her feet had ached, and her heart was weighed down with sorrow. Steps heavy, all her burden was poured onto her shoulders, trickling into her blood and making her heavier.

  Nothing c
ould have been worse than that. No pain, no sadness. What she had felt had to be the worst it could get.

  She’d wavered as a wind swept through, so strong it had nearly knocked her off her feet. She’d stumbled but regained her footing only to be hit by another gust, and she’d crumpled to the rocky ground.

  There were two ways she could have gone. Straight, into Dalorin territory. Or, climb a mountain and head into Kahzacore.

  I’ll take my chances with the Dalorin, she’d thought. Swallowing, Revera had picked herself back up and continued her journey into the all-too-known grave that was the Black Mountains.

  She had never been that scared in her life. All around her, Dalorin screamed and screeched. Why none had attacked her, she didn’t know, but she had known it wouldn’t last forever.

  Staggering along the rocky ground, she’d wiped her tears from her dirty face. Her head hurt from crying, and she was too tired to continue. How could her parents have done that to her? How? What had she ever done to them? Nothing. She’d done nothing.

  And for some reason, she’d paid for it.

  Her foot had clipped a rock and she’d tumbled forward, landing on her hands and knees, flesh scraped and stinging. As she’d lifted her shaking hands, she’d turned them over, looking at her bloodied palms. Her skin was raw, peeled. Scratches of red, and dirt blended in with the cuts. Revera’s face had contorted as the tears started to flow once again, and she’d let out a strangled sob, the pain in her head amplifying. She’d screamed out, not caring if the Dalorin heard her.

  Broken. Shattered. Nothing able to put her back together again. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart had hastened as she clawed at her chest, as if it would let the air in. Panic and betrayal. Pain, and the agony of the realization that she’d never be the same.

  She prayed she wouldn’t live on to watch as she became a different person. That would have been a blessing—not to watch herself become a monster.

  She couldn’t have known how much it would change her, and she’d never have known how much pain and suffering would follow.

  But what no one knows—or what no one wants to admit, at least those who know what she used to be…

  She was once normal.

  She was once respected.

  But she was never loved.

  Chapter Three

  A light snow falls, the sky gray, the ground white. The trees are black, no leaves dress their branches. Cannan Forest is too familiar for Hagard’s liking, it reminds him of what became of one of his best friendships. Aradon may not have been killed when he fell into that river all those months ago, but Hagard wishes he had.

  He’s not murderous, though, Aradon was by the end. He’s still breathing, but the man Aradon was, died. Hagard never had the courage to see him in a cell under Kevah, so he just…didn’t.

  It was good to be enlisted into the hunters. Actually, he’d volunteered, but he’s glad to be away from the city most days. His life is simple now. It was simple all those months ago. He’d collected information for Aradon, gave it to him in Olway, and drank himself into oblivion. Simple. Perfect. Then he got caught up in the war against Revera, and he lost one of his dearest friends—who also bought all his ale, so there’s that down side too. Now, he hunts. He kills any animal finds with his group of hunters and they return to Kevah, drop off the food, rest for a night or two, then history repeats itself. Hunt. Return. Sleep. Hunt. Return. Sleep.

  Simple. But no longer perfect.

  He doesn’t have anyone to buy him drinks. Not that he gets the chance to drink these days. He’s soberer than he’s ever been, and he hates it.

  Eldowyn hasn’t said much to him. To be fair, he hasn’t made a move either. If they pass each other in the hallway, they’ll give each other a nod, but nothing more. It seems everyone’s relationships have melted away. Last time he saw them together, the twins Eldowyn and Kepp weren’t fighting, but they weren’t talking much either. No one visits Aradon in his cell. Kepp and Saine barely leave Vergo’s Pass… And Awyn is…

  Hagard pops the lid off his water flask and drowns himself in what he wants to be alcohol, but it washes away no memory, no pain. He had hoped one day they would be friends again. That war would be over, and everything would go back to normal. But normal will never be back. It’s gone. Even if they win this war, no one will be the same. The world will have changed forever.

  But what he fears most is that he will never see Ava again. When he was fifteen, he wanted to marry her. The dream remained. Then his father died, and his dreams faded away and alcohol became his only reason to live. He still loves her, but he’d learned to love ale more. The taste of the bitter poison is what he craves now, not her comebacks. Alcohol will always be in this world, but Ava will not. Love dies. People die. Why waste one’s time on love when naïve bliss can be achieved at the mouth of a bottle?

  It should be his brothers he fears never seeing again. His mother too, if she’s still alive. But what he fears more than never seeing them again, is their anger, their disappointment.

  So, instead of fearing them, he tries to not even think about them.

  “Move it, Gard!”

  Hagard looks to his right, Alfie’s blond hair peeks out of his heavy fur-lined coat, and scarves line his neck. He’s drowning in clothes, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Wha’ did I say ‘bout callin’ me Gard?”

  “Would you prefer I call you Hag?”

  Hagard blinks. “Shut up.” He looks back into the forest. Crouched behind bare brush, they wait for game. The likelihood of them seeing any is slim, but their hunting party has spread around the entirety of Cannan, so they’re bound to kill something. Cannan is one of the last forests with animals in it, most have fled to the warmer climates of Eron and Terandore, some even to the deserts in Arneth. While they’ll find no water in the smoldering of the desert, they’ll find safety from this cruel winter.

  His eyes scan the snowy woods. He’s never been the most patient dwarf, but he’s learned to be silent these past six months. Be silent, and the world will be generous. Keep quiet, and his head may stay on his shoulders through the entirety of this war.

  “Last day, food’s running out,” Alfie whispers, his breathing loud.

  “Den we better kill sometin’.” Hagard grips the handle of his ax, eyes sharp. A rustle in the bushes heightens his senses, but nothing comes from it—it was only Alfie shifting.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’ll be more so when we don’t get any food for de trip back ta Kevah.”

  Alfie grins. “I’ve been four days without a scrap of bread and two without a drink of water. I’ll be fine.”

  His over-inflated self-assurance does nothing to calm Hagard’s nerves. He’s been through worse. He winces as the heat of the Blood Chamber in Terandore floods his skin. He feels the sweat on his brow, and the fear in his heart. Aradon was off that day. He had given up. He had just…given up. He was lighthearted, for a man who was about to die. But, there’s a sense of freedom when one lets go. Eldowyn had been angry. Why couldn’t Aradon have busted them out in his Besged state?

  The why is the reason he’s rotting in a cell in Kevah. And the reason why Hagard doesn’t speak to him or Eldowyn. The why is the one who cursed the land in winter. Who started this whole war in the first place. She locked Awyn up in the dungeon and messed with Aradon’s mind and soul.

  Revera is the reason. She’s always the reason.

  “Gard, look,” Alfie’s whisper sends him out of his head and back into the forest. Winter always makes woods bigger, no grass, no brush, no plants. But in front of him, several yards away, is a buck.

  “Our luck’s improving.” Hagard puts his ax aside and grabs his bow and arrow. It feels awkward in his hands, he doesn’t like how absent he feels from the life he takes. He isn’t a fan of killing, but it’s personal enough that he should at least feel what he’s done to the full extent. Anyone who says killing isn’t personal is a liar. Animals clearly aren’t the same, but the
habit remains.

  Aiming, he lets the arrow loose and it hits the buck in the flank. The deer takes off—a hobbled dash—but it won’t get far. Hagard stands, letting another fly, Alfie joining him. Their arrows caress the other just slightly as they careen in the air and hit the deer in the haunch. They rip the flesh, now three bloody wounds take the animal down.

  “Ha! We got it.” Alfie heads toward the buck, Hagard following. Bending down, Alfie starts tying rope around the deer’s ankles as Hagard looks around the forest.

  “We’re going to be the talk of Kevah.”

  “It’s a sad ting when one becomes famous for shootin’ a deer.” Hagard looks down at the blond. “Let’s go, we need ta be at camp before nightfall.”

  “You worry too much, the sun’s still above the horizon.”

  “Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you’d be worried too.”

  Alfie shrugs. “Well I haven’t yet, so call me ignorant.”

  “Yer ignorant.”

  He scoffs. “I’m wounded.”

  Hagard glares at him, hoisting the ropes over his shoulder. “Get a move on, Alfred.”

  The blond’s mouth drops. “Oh, now you’re just being cruel.”

  Hagard chuckles.

  Darkness. Under the city, under the palace, the prison is a damp, murky maze of cells and chambers. Echoes of prisoners talking with themselves seem to creep up Ethiah’s skin, making her steps quicken, each foot on the ground another echo that makes her hurry from the darkness, toward the light at the end of the tunnel.

  It seems nearly a cruel imitation. A joke on her. These halls remind her too much of the dark years. Not the winding corridors. Nor the countless doors, or the prisoners inside them. But the darkness. And the quiet. The echoes are present, but they’re faint, and when they don’t sound, when she nor the guards refuse to take another step…it’s silent.

  Darkness and reticence. She doesn’t know which terrifies her more.

  When she gets to the end of the corridor, she stands at the door, the guard eyeing her.