No Man's Land Read online

  “Brega, how’s the night treating you?”

  “You know how much I love the festival. The lights, the music. The boys trying to dance.”

  Eda had giggled her distinct, dainty laugh. “Haydrid and Baran are the worst of them.”

  Brega’s laugh had not been as fragile as Eda’s. “Haydrid has two left feet.” She’d sighed. “Baran barely dances. He flirts at the girls.”

  “At being the keyword. They don’t flirt back.”

  Brega had put her chin in her palm. “Sure, but he doesn’t flirt with me.”

  “You’re fifteen, Brega. He’s looking for older girls. Older than you, anyway.”

  “Yeah…” Brega had day-dreamily watched as Baran talked with a tall, dark-haired noblewoman from Nemma. She seemed to enjoy his company, until he must have said something that didn’t agree with her when she walked away with a red, angry face.

  “Just go over to him.”

  Brega had looked at Eda. “Have you lost your mind? It would be humiliating.”

  “If you don’t…” She’d smirked coyly and stood.

  Brega had watched with a creased brow as she walked over in her black dress to—Haydrid! Oh, no way. Brega had bounded from her seat and rushed through the crowd, the music speeding up, the dancing too. She’d kept her eyes trained on the tall red up-do that marked her friend’s position, but she lost her quickly. If that girl lays eyes on my brother, I swear I’ll put her in the stocks.

  When she finally made her way through the crowd—not without a dancing hand hitting her or a wayward foot stomping on her own—her eyes instantly fell on the sight she’d never wanted to see. Eda and Haydrid, as chummy as two could be. She’d been laughing at his no doubt terrible joke, her head thrown back and hand on his arm. Not subconsciously, Brega had observed. He’d had a stupid grin on his face, the top half of his flaxen hair pulled back, handsome in his new jacket their mother picked out for him days earlier. She’d made him wear it that night.

  Brega had bitten her lip, chewing on the pink-painted flesh. She’d heard the distinct footsteps of her mother walk up beside her—after years of knowing her, she could pick her perfume, her laugh, voice, and steps out of a crowd.

  “Haydrid is fond of Eda. Her the same.”

  “That doesn’t mean I like it, Mother. She’s my best friend.”

  “Maybe, but let them have this moment. There won’t be many more. Haydrid must marry a woman of royal or noble standing. Eda is the daughter of a servant girl.”

  Brega had looked into her mother’s brown eyes, her long blonde hair over her shoulder in an intricate braid adorned with golden flowers. “So, let him break her?”

  “Peasants are not so easily broken. They are stronger than us of royal blood could dream to be.”

  “Don’t let father hear you speak such words.”

  “I am your mother and his wife. I can speak such words and the worst Atta can do is scold me.”

  Brega had chuckled. “I thought you scolded him?”

  “I do no such thing. I merely warn my husband that if his foolishness doesn’t stop, then he’ll be sleeping in the stables.” She gave Brega a shoulder hug. “You can feel every emotion that comes in full. But never forget your position as princess, and one day, queen of another country.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Brega’s eyes had settled on Eda and Haydrid, who were talking with Baran and his new side piece—a dark-skinned girl dressed in fine clothes, dark blue satin, it looked like. Must be a noblewoman from Terandore. Maybe Dohr.

  The queen had drifted away, the touch of her hand leaving with her. In that moment, Brega had thought nothing of it, merely another loving gesture. But now, she wishes more than anything she could feel that touch again, the soft skin of her mother’s hand enveloping hers. She misses her perfume. Her distinct laugh, and voice. The sound of her footsteps, the soft pad of them, no matter if she was barefoot or wearing the highest of heels. She was so regal, so poised. She never let herself be caught off guard. She was perfect in every way.

  Brega stops Manon, looking around the woods. They’re silent, still. The sting as she breathes in the cold makes her sneeze, and she clicks her tongue, the horse continuing on at a fast walk. She swallows, going farther into the woods. She won’t go too far, she’ll circle around when she’s ready to head home. But it feels good to escape. Freeing.

  It doesn’t last long. A loud growl comes from behind a tree and she doesn’t see the large gray wolf until Manon rears and Brega falls to the ground, eye-level with the fanged dog. Her horse dashes away, Brega scrambling after it. “No, wait!” She reaches for the galloping mare, as if she could somehow extend her hand the increasing distance and pull herself back onto the saddle. But when her eyes return to the gaze of the wolf, she wholeheartedly accepts that isn’t going to happen.

  “I can’t do this.” She hadn’t meant it this way. She doesn’t want to die. She just doesn’t want to rule. She wants to live.

  I guess this is the Spirits’ way of telling me that I can’t have both. So, they just chose for her? What are these beings the elves worship so? It is no longer a curiosity to her why most mortals haven’t worshipped the Spirits in so long. The Hadorians were the last to keep up the practice—but then they stopped too. They’re crueler than the gods of the Trads. Why isn’t there a god, a spirit—someone—whose divinity isn’t brutal?

  The next moments happen in a blur. The wolf sinks to the ground and lunges at her. She screams, scrambling out of the way. Catching sight of a stick, she grabs it, turning on her back to see the wolf above her and stabs it in the eye, the beast leaping back, growling. In a speed she never knew she had, she gets to her feet and reaches for a low tree branch, but teeth grip her ankle and she lets out a cry, the wolf dragging her to the ground. The moment she comes into focus is when the wolf heads for her neck and she swipes her hand in defense, shock crippling her as she watches flames dance across her fingertips, leaping through the air and lapping against the wolf’s face, the animal letting out a pained howl, and it quickly runs away.

  Brega looks at her hand, her palm on fire but no pain burns with it. Instinctively she slams her hand into the snow, the flames going out immediately. She scrambles backward, hitting a tree, clinging onto it for dear life. She breathes rapidly, part of her knowing what just happened but unwilling to admit it. The other part of her is terrified she’s been cursed. But what curse would save her life?

  “Am I not special, is that it?” The words echo in her mind. Brega slowly lifts her hand, the palm as fair as it was an hour ago. She shakes. I didn’t mean it like this either.

  Chapter Eight

  Adriel’s hands wring together as she makes her way down the hallway, the corridor emptied of guards and servants. The drapes of the large windows are open to a gray winter outside. Sometimes she wishes she had wings, so she could fly out of one of these monstrous rectangular glass panes and into whatever star leads to freedom.

  But freedom will never be hers until this war is over, and Revera is dead. Maybe even the Last Lieutenant. His death would be another point for Mortal. The only thing is that Revera will be easier to kill than Karak. She may be an all-powerful sorceress, and Adriel admits her magic is extremely powerful, but she’s still an elf. And there are not many powers on Ardon that can undo the power of a Light Pool. Including Revera. A sword bathed in a Light Pool will most certainly do the trick. Karak, though. No one knows how he can be killed. If someone does, they clearly have no intention of sharing.

  No one came to get her. No one knocked on her door to say she was needed. She simply knew. Her power of foresight isn’t always through visions or dreams, they aren’t always vivid pictures. Sometimes it’s a voice. A word. Perhaps a smell or sound. This time, it was merely a feeling. A sense that something has gone very wrong. A palpable sensation leading her to Eldowyn’s room. The feeling warns that she may not like what she sees when she opens his door.

  Admittedly, she’s never had the best relationship with h
er brothers—with any of her family—except for her father, Aiocille. He and her mother Raea had fallen in love when she was a teenager, and the affair resulted in Adriel. But Raea was supposed to marry Lord Rowan, and so Aiocille and Adriel were forced to leave Radian. They settled in Eron, Aiocille taking up a position in the King’s Court, the famous court of Resodan. It’s one that likely hasn’t been stepped foot in for years, as the monarchs there have had a running reputation of being blissfully ignorant to the outside world, and their people’s problems. Neglectful. Something in the red grass, people say.

  Adriel and Aiocille never escaped the burdens of Radian, though. She ended up in Revera’s tower, but there are worse places. Her father made it out with his soul intact but not with his body. By the end of their stay, when Revera began purging the land of elves on what must have been some vengeful quest for…for what? What happened to her? But Aiocille was turned into a dragon. Not just any dragon. Gotham. The fire-breathing monster of the Last Lieutenant.

  She’d read stories of Karak. He crawled out of the ocean, some say. And he himself bled over the once-green fields of Eron. That, though, contradicts the story of the red plains—the war in the First Age was so gruesome the grass was stained with blood. But that’s only one story of the infamous lieutenant. Some say he was born in the Darkness to Zyadar himself, a child of shadows, and he climbed through the dimensions until he found Ardon. Others say he was born a Dalorin—impossible, but unsettling still.

  But the most terrifying stories are the ones that mirror Crozacar’s. The stories that say he was once normal. A human with a family, a home, and a nation. The stories that say Crozacar tricked him into joining him—or the other ones that say he willingly killed his family for the Dark Lord. Adriel doesn’t know if any are true. She doesn’t believe any of them.

  In the First Age, he was known as the First Lieutenant of Crozacar. The alpha of war commanders. The greatest warrior to have ever lived. Now he’s the Last Lieutenant of Ardon, the man who helped end the world likely only elves would remember—but there aren’t many of them left.

  Mortal wasn’t always called Mortal. It used to be named Halen, meaning immortal in one of the lost languages—Altarian, she thinks. But it could be some perverted version of an elven tongue for all she knows, it was so long ago. Once evil started to rain down on the continent, the people figured out that Halen and its people were not immune to death. Not immortal.

  In fact, it was split in two—Altare drifted away into the ocean, dead and uninhabitable, no one even tried to sail back. The name of it is a distant memory, nearly forgotten, as those who were told stories by Altarian descendants die off. Now, Adriel fears what happened to Altare could happen to the entirety of Mortal, and its people.

  She stops short when she gets to the door. It’s shut, which isn’t unusual, even if Eldowyn was inside he’d have it closed. He likes his privacy. But the bad feeling grows. The deathly feeling she has. Adriel reaches for the knob, her hand shaking.

  Slowly, she lets herself open the door. She sees the large canopy bed first, then the white furniture spread out over the room in no curious way—the classic layout of a palace room. The dresser and wardrobe beside each other, the desk under the windowsill, a sofa in front of the fireplace with a blanket thrown over the back. Normal. Nothing out of place.

  She steps into the room, the white marble floor’s covered with a charcoal gray rug. It’s odd. She was expecting to find…well, she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. But not this. She’d thought the worst. This feeling…it hasn’t gone away, still. Even though everything appears fine.

  “A—” A wheezy, rasped voice sends her spinning on her heel and her eyes widen at the sight of her brother, bloodied to a pulp, collapsed on the floor.

  “Eldowyn!” She rushes to him, on her knees. It reminds her too much of Thasoe, when Aradon nearly killed Awyn. He’d choked her, ugly red rings around her fair neck. They’ve since gone, but she thinks the memory has lingered with the queen.

  “Eldowyn, what happened? Are you all right? No, of course you’re not.” She helps him sit up, but he groans, and collapses back down. She needs to calm herself.

  He coughs, a clogged sound. “K-Kepp.”

  Her brow creases. “What?”

  “Kepp happened.” Eldowyn’s eyes close, tears streaming down the side of his face. “He—” An uneasy breath expels from his lips. His voice sounds like a defeated child, a strained, terrified soul. “He’s with Revera.”

  The words hit Adriel like a ship running into a rock. “He’s with Revera.” Eldowyn’s words soon turn into her own. He’s with Revera. He’s with Revera, he’s with Revera, he’s with Revera, he’s with Revera… Her baby brother. Kepp. Someone who used to be so sweet, so caring. Selfless…he’s Revera’s dog?

  “How long were you out for?” she asks once they’re both sitting dumbfounded against the side of the bed.

  “Probably less than an hour. The sun looks no lower.” Eldowyn sighs. “He beat me hard. I wasn’t even expecting it, couldn’t…” He looks done in, biting his lip, grimacing in pain where it’s split. “I couldn’t defend myself. I didn’t get the chance. He just kept hitting, kicking. He was so angry.”

  His head falls in his hands. “I was so stupid. Why did I have to…?” He lets out an almost laughing breath, as if he doesn’t know what emotion he should be feeling.

  Adriel just feels defeated.

  “Why did I have to say those things to him?”

  Adriel isn’t even going to ask him what he said. She doesn’t need to know, doesn’t want to know. He clearly said the wrong thing—more than the wrong thing. He said a horrible thing. But she isn’t going to try to read his mind. Nor pry, ask, or yell at him about why he said such a terrible thing. If she doesn’t know, then they can remain as they are. In shock, scared, defeated, and alone. But they will be all those things together.

  Awyn is… gone. She’s furious with Raea. Her father is a fire-breathing monster. Eldowyn is her last family member that has remained by her side. The last one who cares.

  Adriel grasps his shaking hand as she trembles herself. They entwine their fingers, hopefully gaining whatever comfort they can give the other. Eldowyn puts his head back, Adriel doing the same. Maybe he doesn’t close his eyes, but Adriel does. She doesn’t want to sleep. Or pass out. She wants life to rewind. To go back to when Saine chased her through the fields of Eron, watching as the eagle that became a symbol for their love pealed across the sky. But even their love has seemed to fade.

  She shakes her head. Six months. A short time for everything to get screwed up.

  There’s a certain comfort in sleeping on a hard bed, a pillow filled with what feels like paper and a blanket thinner than what the pillow is stuffed with. It’s a comfort that he’s getting what he deserves. A certain penance while his spine is bending, he’s paying for his mistakes. Maybe not in full—definitely not in full—but it’s a start. Locked up in this cell is only the beginning of what will be a very long road to redemption. But he’s finally figured it out, at least.

  His abnormal need to protect Awyn. Redemption. She was going to be his saving grace. Now, in the dark, he realizes he’d felt it the moment he’d heard she escaped. He may not have been Slayer, but the Bowman would never have hurled himself into this war if it couldn’t offer him something. And there were three things it could offer him.

  The first one was obvious—he helps her, she gives him an army to take back his country. The last two have taken him a while to work out. One, being at the center of a war is a sure way to get some blood on his hands without feeling guilty. Bloodshed in battle isn’t murder, it’s a necessity. Maybe he didn’t know, or maybe he didn’t want to admit it, but he was—is—addicted to death, and he saw Awyn could give him his next dose.

  The last reason was relieving. Awyn was his redemption. Helping her, he would have wiped his past clean. A true clean slate, not just a change of names and a bit of Tanea rest and relaxation. No breathin
g techniques. There would have been no change required. But helping Awyn…well, surely it would have undone the wrongs he’d done.

  Now he realizes that was naïve. All of it was naïve. If Awyn had gotten her crown the first time they were in Mera, when he killed her uncle Tamon, if she’d never fallen into the ground—she still wouldn’t have given him her army. No matter what she promised. It wouldn’t be the time. She’d have to kill Revera, or possibly even the army of Sanarx. And her being his redemption, that would make him laugh now if he still had a laugh. Nothing will ever wash the slate clean. Nothing. No matter what he does, or who forgives him. There is not one thing that will ever make his past right. It will never let go, no matter if the future is saved. The past will eat away at him, and even if he wears Idies’ crown, it will devour him.

  And his addiction. To blood, to killing, to death. It made him worse. Fighting in the war made him a lot worse. Every life he took, his addiction grew. He didn’t feel it. Not until he nearly killed all his friends in Thasoe after Revera forced the Dia on him. If he really wants to cure this lust within him, he’s going to need a knife to the heart. And he doesn’t think there’s anyone who would do that to him. No matter how much he hurt them, there isn’t one of his friends who would kill him. Maybe Adriel.

  The guards won’t unless they’re ordered to, or he posed some sort of threat to them, but that would be as good as killing himself. He’d say he had too much pride to do that, but his pride departed like everything else he once had. So, what can he do to kill the monster?

  “Why must you kill it?”

  Aradon sits erect, his eyes widening as he sees the face he never thought he’d see again. Eyes he’s known since he was a child. The person he cried over when they left this world in twinkling light. An uncle to him. A mentor. A friend. He left too soon. He was killed by that wretch Tamon. Aradon ended him swiftly, but he wishes he hadn’t. He wishes he had drawn his death out. Slowly. Painfully. With every suffering breath Tamon would have breathed, he would have been paying for what he did to Awyn. To her family. To Aradon. He took his family from him.