Enjoy this Sneak Peek of The Lost Hero (Children of Light and Shadow, #1), releasing December 3rd, 2023!
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Prologue
The voice he had stolen gave a rasping gasp, catching in his throat. It was a struggle to breathe, to lift his arms. He felt a familiar panic as his body died, yet again.
“Quickly, quickly!”
He sensed the acolytes, felt their presence close, the sickly glow of them. This one had failed him, hollowed, destroyed by the power it carried. Chanting droned under the crackle of torches, the smell of incense and earth and decay.
It was pathetic nonsense, evolved over generations of their secret worship. The words held no real power, only the lust for it. But if they wanted to indulge in this cultish playacting to flatter themselves, he did not mind. The closer it bound them to him, the better.
The world grew dim from more than flickering torchlight. Death was close, the separation and pain.
“Do it now!”
One presented itself. It prostrated itself, eagerness and fear in its eyes. They had some vain selection process, bickering amongst themselves, vying for power. Fools.
He forced his faltering vessel to stand, to take this new one close, so he could sense what they dared to offer him.
Strong enough. But more importantly, eager. Accepting.
It was an agony unlike anything the mortal could have imagined, anything it could possibly endure. Even the most slavering devotees edged back as he moved from the dead husk to the new. The old one’s soul had long since burned into nothingness, and the fragile carcass collapsed, discarded.
Yet this one was hardly better.
How long since he had felt the might of old? How weak had men grown these past centuries? They would learn soon enough of true power.
Youth, if not mighty strength, renewed his limbs. He flexed his hands, felt his chest, the features he had taken. It was taller than the other and moved with fluid grace. An advantage, he supposed. At least it was a man, a human, not some half-breed scum.
The human’s pale memories cowered in the shadows. A leader? A country in turmoil? And the people, dirty and uncouth… but all the better to feed the hordes. Perhaps this body would be of some use after all, not just a vessel to endure until the boy could be found.
With now clear eyes, he looked over the dark room. The huddled forms of the acolytes, these slaves, of all races and kens, cowered before him. A few dozen, when once nations had worshipped his might.
“Go,” he snarled. He gripped the nearest torch and threw it into the midst of them, scattering red sparks across the earthen floor. “Get out of my sight!”
They scrambled to escape his wrath. Useless, mewling vermin. Chanting in caves? Groveling behind masks? When the Chosen One walked free in the sun?
He tried to sense the boy, find his prize, but this body was just too weak. Gifted with magic, yes, but nothing compared to the power of old. He cursed it, even as he reveled in its prophecy. Men had grown weak, and he had grown strong. He had only to endure until he found the boy. After hundreds of years, what was another few months?
He caught the last of the acolytes, cringing in the darkness. It cried out pathetically as he drained its life force into his own. Dropping the carcass, he straightened with increased strength. He would be strong when the time came, strong enough to take back what was rightfully his, what they had stolen from him so long ago.
1
The sun washed the barren landscape in a shimmering golden haze. Dull yellow earth hid behind the false luster, the air wavering like in a blacksmith’s forge. Squinting against the brilliance, he could just make out the cavalcade across the plain. The merciless sun glinted on the metal of their armor, betraying their position even as dust obscured their forms.
He made his count and climbed down to the ground, dropping from branch to branch. The dry, tingling scent of sap followed him. He stayed crouched in the dry grass at the base of the tree and looked over the camp. This tree was the tallest for miles, maybe thirty feet in all. Nothing compared to the towering ancients further into the mountains. The rest of this sparse copse grew low and tough, bent under the relentless power of the wind.
That endless wind hissed between the drab tents set up in a small cluster. His soldiers were at the ready, sentries posted further out. He had handpicked this team. He wished it were three times this number, but the decision had been out of his hands.
“Captain?”
One tent spread a little wider than the others, the canvas slightly newer and finer. Next to it, Lord Athus waved for him. He picked himself up and went to see what his lord required of him.
Athus smiled from where he sat on a camp stool, shielded from the sun by an awning. “Touch any clouds, my son?”
The old joke roused a brief answering smile. “None to be seen, my lord. The Vabians have crossed the gully.”
Athus’s grin faded. He sighed and rubbed his face. A solitary bird chirped hesitantly in the morning hush. Then, “Is this a good idea, Ero?”
Ero grimaced. “Do we have a choice?”
Lord Athus glanced to the northwest, where the forest-crowned mountains rose to meet a Shadow. Ero refused to look, defying the menace there.
Athus sighed again, wearily. The years had been unkind to him, and travel aggravated old wounds. The Watch was not conducive to peaceful sleep.
“You should rest, sir,” Ero said. “They can wait.”
“You kept me up, prowling around my tent like a wolf.”
Ero hadn’t been able to help himself. Not long ago, setting foot in this place had brought a swift, merciless death. Demon teeth crunched with the stones under his boots.
“Speaking of, you need to change, oston ma.”
Ero hunched his shoulders. “I hate wearing it.”
“It is the traditional ceremonial garb of the Champion of Athus’li, and you will present yourself appropriately.” Athus’s stern words didn’t hide his amusement, his mouth curved in a smile behind his beard.
“It’s blue.”
“As the Lady’s glorious spring sky, Her infinite blessing.”
“It provides no camouflage nor defense.”
“How is Baeark recovering from his ignominious defeat? Does he still vow to crush your skull between his thighs?”
Ero bit back his retort. After a brief, silent struggle, annoyed by Athus’s knowing look, he bowed. “As you will, my lord.”
The corners of Athus’s eyes crinkled. “Good lad.”
Ero bowed again, stiffly, and stalked off to his tent.
Inside, it was stuffy and growing hot under the sun. Ero stripped out of his usual tunic, buff-colored to match the drab landscape around them. Under this serviceable garment, he wore a leather jerkin, which hid the glinting metal of his A’amlan steel hauberk, formally the possession of Baeark, indomitable king of the A’amla people. Ero still dreamed of the beast’s paw tight around his throat, hot breath smothering his mouth and nose.
The Champion’s Tunic was lovingly wrapped in white linen. He was certain he’d “forgotten” it in his rooms. But Firn had her ways. He shook out the folds and glared at it. Sewn from the same serviceable fabric as his other garments, only its brilliant azure hue set it apart. It stood out in the Watch like a gem among dross.
“Captain? They’ve rounded the steppe.”
Indulging in the profanity he had restrained before his lord and master, Ero ordered, “Assemble the Watchmen.”
But it was with true reverence that he picked up his weapon. The Champion’s Tunic was symbolic, the rich dye difficult to produce, but nothing more. Men wore Athusan Blue sashes on feast days, and women wove ribbons of it into their hair to honor their Champion.
Ero drew the Sword a hand’s breadth and examined his reflection in the steel.
This made the Champion.
He buckled his baldric and belt securely, comforted by the weight of the weapon at his hip. He touched the hilt, telling himself he was testing the flexibility of his kit, but in truth testing himself, his worthiness. The power within the blade stirred, roused from its slumber to brush his thoughts.
Ero.
Almost a sigh, the faintest whisper. Proof his Goddess still claimed him, proof he was still worthy. He would never forget the first time it had murmured to him, acknowledging him. He dreaded the day when it did not.
“All is ready, Captain.”
Ero drew on his gloves. “Lord Athus?”
“Awaits your pleasure, sir.”
The Watchmen waited on their horses. Athus grinned as Ero went to his mount.
“You wear Her Blue well, lad. Athus’li guide you.”
His soldiers completed the ancient honorific, lifting their hands in salute. “Athus’li shield you!”
Ero settled into his saddle, stony faced. “Indeed, it will be a miracle if I am not shot, wearing this.”
Athus laughed. “Let’s go, oston.”
Muffled chuckles escaped his men. Ero smiled briefly, but turned his attention to the landscape around him.
The noise of the horses masked them, but he listened to the sparse shadows beneath the windswept bushes. The sun burned, but the threat was never completely gone. The rise and fall of the land was deceptive, no matter its barrenness. Hollows lay in every direction, an ideal place for an ambush, for some desperate crytch to await its victims.
The foreign envoy’s camp perched on a rise, a huddle of tents as plain as their own. The Athusans drew up on the flat pan below as the other party approached warily. Ero assessed them narrowly, watching for any hint of aggression.
Six archers, twenty arrows apiece. Eight swords. Heavy horses, slow to turn. Thirty more in the camp, waiting for the sign to rush. High ground gives the advantage.
Those eight swordsmen surrounded a slighter figure. No matter the heat, she rode with her cloak hood up and her form draped in heavy cloth. Horses shuffled, blowing and snorting as the two groups met, neither wanting to show any weakness. The tension carried a hint of awkwardness. Not unexpected, when hereditary enemies met to parlay.
The woman spoke. “Athus.”
“Vabia. Well met.” Ero’s lord spoke the common Vabian tongue with ease.
“And thee, my lord.”
“May we…?” Athus gestured as if to dismount.
“Please.”
There was a great creaking of leather and the jangle of metal armor. Ero winced as the Vabians clanked to their positions. The amused twist to his lieutenant’s mouth showed he wasn’t alone in his condemnation.
Heavy plate, hard to pierce without spears.
Ero shadowed his lord as his men arranged themselves. One of them carried forward a camp chair. Athus waited, standing by it until Vabia had been settled in her own place. Her personal guard hovered at her elbow, making no effort to hide his appraisal of Ero.
Truly skilled. Longer reach… Keep your distance, then strike when he is off balance from the lunge. Favors his left; old injury.
Not a Vabian soldier, this man. His hard face did not appear impressed by Ero’s shorter build. Then his eyes found the distinctive hilt and cross guards of the Sword at Ero’s hip and paused. When he met Ero’s eyes again, he gave a slight nod of respect. Ero returned the gesture and breathed a little easier.
Their sovereigns in place, the soldiers fell into silence. The two rulers sat looking over the desert, faces carefully neutral.
“How is your father?” Athus asked.
“Weakening, but well. We hope for a few more seasons.”
“You have my condolences, madam.”
They spoke of harvests and rainfall for a few minutes. Then the queen said in a suddenly brisk voice, “Now, enough of this nonsense, Athus.”
Athus grinned. “Indeed. What concessions are you prepared to offer?”
“Concessions?” Her brow lifted with hauteur. “As though you have not unlawfully occupied the Eblea Valley these past twenty years and more!”
Ero stopped paying attention to them. He and his lord had gone over their arguments a thousand times in the past weeks. He suspected he could guess Vabia’s rebuttals just as well. He kept his gaze on the plain, on the shimmers of heat that obscured the horizon.
“Captain?” Athus beckoned him forward.
“Ta, reger?”
“Report to the queen.”
He could feel the Shadow on his neck as he answered.
“The pass to Druynia has been blocked. Some refugees escaped before winter, speaking of a man, a sorcerer taking control of the countryside. The Watch is restless, the covens more active and aggressive than in previous years. They do not fade back to Shadow when slain.”
“You have proof of this?” Vabia asked. The slightest curl of her lip doubted his veracity.
“My own eyes.” He tried to keep the ends of his words from snapping off, but her condescension irritated him.
He still felt the cold snag of terror, the shock as the crytch at his feet thrashed. Its teeth had gnashed and clicked, desperate to reach him, even as its body lay cooling some ten feet away. He had seen the carrion birds circling long after they had left it to rot.
Vabia sat silent for a long time. Her guard leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and turned to face them fully.
“I will be honest, Athus. We cannot fight this menace. I have neither the military might nor the support of my people to engage directly with Druynia. The last war still weighs heavy on their hearts.”
Ero squashed the pity her bleak words tried to evoke. Her father had brought that conflict on himself. Ero remembered well the whispers, the tension as Athus had prepared for war, the contention as the Council debated which side they would support, whose cause they would die for. Luckily, the Vabian king had negotiated a ceasefire with the Mogons before Athus had been pulled into the conflict.
Lord Athus spoke now as a father to a young daughter. She was young, Ero realized — younger than he had thought.
“My people do not seek war, either. Peace for us has been fleeting over the generations. But we sit on Druynia’s borders. When they attack, we will be the first to fight, and the first to fall. Would you have me sacrifice my people for nothing?”
Vabia was hard to read, her face impassive and her thoughts quiet.
She turned to Ero. “You, soldier.”
The Sword hummed with his anger. Athus’s eyes warned him silently, as if he didn’t know better than to rise to her deliberate taunt.
“Ai, regerin?”
“If your king, at this moment, commanded you to kill me, would you do it?”
Her guard spluttered indignantly.
Ero matched her challenging stare. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Athus would never break his pledge.”
She smiled mirthlessly. “And if you deemed me a threat?”
The smooth skin of her throat would be as nothing to his blade, the delicate flutter of her heartbeat stilled in a single motion. “Without hesitation.”
Her guard was already moving. Ero forced his body to be still, even as his mind raced through the battle, the choices, the outcomes. The man would jump forward, draw, then move left first to catch him unawares with a second blade as Ero parried. Shift to protect Athus, his soldiers moving to meet the Vabians. Crossbows hidden under cloaks, horn call to the waiting cavalry, get to high ground, she has a knife drop shield, better mobilitythrustsecondonleftturnunderstrike—
Ero blinked as Vabia held up a hand, halting her guard’s motion to move between them. “No, Ninan.”
The man growled in a strange language. His eyes flicked between Ero and the other Athusan soldiers. Vabia’s never wavered, bright and keen on Ero’s face. He didn’t know what she was looking for, but her mouth relaxed, from a twist of bitterness to something genuine.
“I commend you, Athus, on your choice of Champion.”
Athus thanked her with a calm Ero knew was feigned. “I can take no credit, however, as I have no say in the matter. But yes, Ero serves Athus’li well. As he will any who battle against darkness.”
She looked to the Shadow, then turned her back on it. The pressure on his neck was an itch now, like the pricks of a nettle sting. The Sword whispered warning, restive as it recognized the evil.
“There will be those who say we should not fight,” Vabia said. “I have spoken with representatives from Theica and A’amla. They are reluctant to commit. There is word that this sorcerer is a legitimate ruler.”
“This does not excuse his aggression. The refugees speak of atrocities, and plans to invade.”
“We have no proof of his intentions.”
“Can they not see the darkness gathering?”
Ero lost their conversation as something moved in the distance, a flicker. It grated on his ears. A Shadow? At midday? Yet it moved too swiftly for a cloud.
Above!
Vabia yelped as he kicked her chair, sending her crashing into her guard’s arms. Ero shoved Athus to the ground and lifted his shield to catch the projectiles unleashed on them. The steel rang like bells, the force of the impacts numbing his arm. The assailant swooped over, the beat of its wings kicking up dust, and then it was gone.
Soldiers shouted, loosing arrows after the rapidly diminishing shape. Ero dropped his shield and snatched a bow from the man next to him. The sun glared into his eyes as he tried to track it. Its flight was intentional, something intelligent driving it on. The fletching brushed his cheek. He aimed high and loosed.
“Did you hit it?” Athus demanded, dusting himself off.
Ero squinted against the brilliant sky, washed nearly white. “Maybe a glancing blow. Phytos, Hent, see what you can find.”
He yanked out the foot-long spike embedded in his shield. He could feel the razor edge to it even through his gloves. “Yrni.”
“In these parts?”
“Could be a solitary hunter.” But Ero knew that for the lie it was. He’d destroyed the last of their nests in the Pellisans just this spring. Someone had sent it here from deep in the Kvirs, where the remnants of the covens had fled for refuge.
Vabia stood and shook out her riding skirt. “It appears our secret meeting was not as clandestine as we supposed.”
The alarm in the two camps had to be calmed, scouts sent to reconnoiter. Vabian cavalry thundered around, kicking up dust and noise that would only aid a second attacker. Ero waited tensely for his men to return.
“Yrni, sir,” they confirmed, handing him his arrow, the tip glistening black. “Dead, but unfaded. Like the others.”
Vabia turned to him, eyebrows raised. “An excellent shot, Champion. I forgive you your treatment of my person.”
No amount of training could stop Ero’s sneer. She saw and laughed at him. Athus pressed a firm hand into his shoulder. He took a slow breath in and calm with it. Impertinent woman.
“We are compromised,” he said shortly. “We’re leaving.”
Athus only hesitated a moment. He bowed to Vabia. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I regret we must end this profitable discussion prematurely. May I contact you for further negotiations?”
Vabia’s mirth faded. She stared after the path of the attacker. Despite her youth, there were lines around her eyes. Her guard touched her arm, a clear plea to leave.
She turned to Athus. “May I accompany you?”
Athus was flummoxed. “Into Athus?”
“That is where you are going, correct? Unless you were using this as an opportunity to penetrate Vabia while I am away from the palace?”
Ero kept his face carefully neutral, as he had suggested that very thing when they first received Vabia’s missive. But Athus was a better man than him and had refused such subterfuge.
“Will your people not grow concerned when you do not return?” Athus asked slowly.
“I am said to be at my summer house, recuperating from a nasty croup. We still have much to discuss. Or will you let an assassin end our peace talks?”
Athus saw Ero’s small but emphatic head shake, and chose to ignore it anyway. “We would be honored by your company.”
“Tama! Nahn—!”
“Your Majesty, I must protest—”
Ero and the Vabian guard spoke over each other, unable to keep their objections silent.
“I have decided, Ninan.”
The man pressed his lips together. Ero had a moment of sympathy for the older soldier.
Athus adopted the fatherly tone Ero resented with a fierce guilt. “Ero, oston, go fetch the horses.”
But if this Ninan could mind his tongue in front of his monarch, so could he.
“Ta, reger.”
2
Juen watched the boy Ero stalk to the horses. He was not much more than a boy, much younger than she envisioned the Champion of Athus to be. Ninan fumed silently next to her, scowling when this Ero led her horse close.
“Thank you, Champion,” Ninan said stiffly, closing his hand on the reins. “I will assist Her Majesty.”
Ero said nothing, merely turned and went to get his master’s mount.
It took a tedious half an hour to get the cavalcade moving. Her own Guard Captain had to be persuaded to leave without her, as if they had not made plans for this very contingency, among others. The soldiers had to be divvied up between the two groups, and her baggage fetched. Ninan fidgeted impatiently at every delay. He watched the sky, the horizon, eyes moving constantly.
Finally, they rode, she and Athus at the center of a ring of soldiers, Ninan and the Champion tense on either side.
Under cover of Athus chatting merrily with his men, Ninan leaned in to protest once more. “We agreed this would be our last resort,” he hissed. “How can you trust them?”
Juen followed his gaze to where the Champion sat erect in his saddle. He had slung his scabbard across his back. The end of it stuck out from behind his damaged shield.
“He holds the Sword of Tanyr,” she reminded Ninan.
He grunted. “Be that as it may, that does not make him trustworthy.”
So, he had felt it, too? There was something in the boy’s face, some coldness she was surprised to find. No matter the legends, seeing the fabled weapon in the hands of one so young, yet so hard…
Juen chanced a look. Closing her eyes, she reached out. Sliding past the warmth of the others, the muted forms of the horses, she found the blade a cool slash in the heat of the day. She brushed it, probing gently. A sharp flare, and she was thrust back.
“Ero? What is it?”
Juen reeled in her saddle. Her horse had come to an abrupt halt, the riders around her shifting and muttering. She blinked, head aching sharply from the force of the rebuff.
The Champion sat tense, his hand gripping the hilt of the Sword. His soldiers followed suit. Arrows nocked with the creak of bowstrings.
“Jhert zen ta…” Ero cast a narrow look over the empty desert. Juen held herself still and small, grateful for the shadows of her hood as his dark eyes paused on her, then moved past to the desert. “Nahn fur, Athus. Nothing.”
But he still increased their speed until they were trotting briskly. He gave sharp hand signals, which his men responded to without speaking. They peeled off in pairs to scout ahead and behind, returning with quiet murmurs. The talk faded as the afternoon stretched on. Her soldiers pressed closer, uneasiness rising from them like the heat waves from the chalky earth.
Athus maintained his air of calm cheer, but she saw him watch his Champion — warily, but without fear. With trust, she realized, as they put their heads together and conferred about some detail. The king looked to this youth for guidance.
The day wore on hot and dusty, until the sun was setting behind the foothills before them. The tired horses slowed as the ground rose to meet them, following a faint trail that widened into a smooth, well-worn path. They followed this track as it curved into the hills, walls of rock and scrub rising beside them. The scraggly bushes became leafy trees. The air, instead of stifling, cooled, and a whisper of sound reached them on a crisp breeze.
After the sour stink of the Watch, the scent of fresh water was intoxicating. The horses lifted their heads, their necks and flanks streaked with dust and sweat. Not that they could get to the rushing waters.
The Gap of Athus was a narrow bridge, hung from heavy ropes and built of solid hardwood planks. The canyon walls were sheer here, carved deep from ages of thundering water. They crossed in pairs, the bridge barely swaying as hooves clopped.
Athus and the boy waited until the last of them had crossed.
“All clear, Captain,” the final Athusan said, dipping his head respectfully to the youth half his age.
The Champion raised a hand. Juen squinted in the direction he looked, up into the hills. There was a faint glint of light, as if from a mirror or the lens of a telescope.
“Come on, lad, I’m starving!”
The Athusans chuckled as their Champion smiled briefly at their king. “Lead the way, my lord.”
It was an easy ride from the Gap. The path wound through a dense, rocky forest, but the road had been carefully graded. Despite the long day, Juen felt revived breathing in the clean scent of pine.
They were sighted long before they saw the city, nestled down in a valley. A crowd had gathered in a plaza to welcome their king home. Their calls quickly fell to shocked silence as Juen was handed down from her mount.
Athus pretended nothing was amiss. “Firn, prepare a room for Her Majesty.”
An aged woman bowed, her hands tucked into her sleeves. “At once, my lord.”
Weary and glad to escape the whispers, Juen followed the crone up a sweeping outdoor stair and into a small house set beside a swift stream. Her meager baggage was quickly unpacked and set out to air.
Ninan prowled around the small rooms—a bedroom and a sitting room—opening every drawer, testing every beam and lock. Juen left him to it and stood at the open window. The thick shutters opened inward, revealing a view of the valley at twilight. This was a guest house, she guessed, one of a cluster on the slope below the larger King’s House, snuggled against the bluff behind her. The stream fell from above in a narrow waterfall and wound past and down into the valley, where it joined a larger river from the south.
The buildings around her were all of timber and steeply pitched to shed winter snow. They connected with covered walkways and shallow stairs, forming one large complex. The city itself followed the twists and turns of the valley floor, opening into the forest they had passed through. Fields spread away to the west. She knew the hills behind her held copper and iron, as well as precious gems.
This country was small, but mighty, both in spirit and goods. And Athus spoke the truth: they would fight until they were overrun, fierce and valiant to the last man.
Speaking of whom… The Champion, distinctive in his brilliant tunic, walked up the wide stairs leading from the plaza. Juen used the opportunity to study him without fear of drawing his attention.
“Make no mistake,” Ninan said next to her, “he would not hesitate an instant.”
Juen smiled without humor. “Then we must give him no reason to fear us.”
The woman Firn cleared her throat from the doorway. “Your Majesty, a meal awaits.”
Up in the main house, Athus stood from his chair and saluted her. “Welcome and well met, Vabia. Please, sit.”
The man waited on her himself as she settled in the proffered chair, lower and wider than the Vabian style. Juen perched on the edge, finding the dimensions of it awkward.
“I hope your rooms are satisfactory, my lady?”
“Lovely,” Juen assured him. And they were. A bit cramped, but every detail was finely worked, cozy and snug. Easy to heat during a harsh winter, she supposed.
Firn and others served a small meal—just Athus, Juen, and the Champion, or captain, or whatever it was they called him. Firn passed him and reached down to pat his cheek. A quick smile warmed his eyes for an instant.
They ate in subdued silence. Athus made small talk, but fatigue and wariness stilted the conversation. Ninan loomed protectively, and the Champion responded by glowering all the more.
Juen was glad to retire to bed.
The next morning dawned cool and misty. Juen lay in her bed and listened to the house workers going about their tasks. A chorus of bleats signaled the passing of a herd of sheep into their daily grazing grounds.
She sat up and leaned over to open the shutters. Already, the town below bustled. Much like in her own city, shopkeepers hawked their wares, carts ferried goods along cobbled streets. She could see farmers in the fields, and soldiers in a training yard.
But over it all hung the Shadow, a reverse sunrise, a diminishing of light rather than a promising glow. It tainted the cheerful activity below, making it strained.
Breakfast was served in that same room. The atmosphere had eased. The Champion became slightly more human, sitting cross-legged at his king’s feet and eating the savory rice pudding and eggs Firn brought him with good appetite.
The Sword of Tanyr lay at his side, sheathed in its magnificent scabbard. Juen would have given much to have it in her hands for an hour. The power she had felt yesterday was ancient and foreign. But she dared not attempt to touch it again—not in such close quarters. The boy would know it was her for certain. She did not want to die before breakfast.
After the meal, Athus led her on a tour of his tiny mountain city. Juen looked with real interest. No Vabian royalty had been allowed on Athusan soil in three generations. She was curious to see if the rumors of this “savage” nation were true.
The streets were clean and in good order. Goods from all over the subcontinent were being hawked in the markets. Soldiers mingled, standing guard and helping the citizenry with their work. The people appeared well fed and happy, and they greeted their king with unaffected pleasure.
Somewhat surprising was the equally enthusiastic welcome the people gave the dour Champion. Dressed in a dull, sand-colored tunic and breeches, he faded into the buildings around them. He ignored the salutations, which Juen thought unpardonably rude, until she saw Athus’s sly wink and the boy’s unmistakable flush.
She looked again and noted that many of the well-wishers were young women. They waved blue ribbons as the horses passed. The Champion kept his face forward, cheeks dark.
Athus spoke his native tongue with a heavy accent, but Juen thought he said, “You’ve been afield all winter. Give them some hope, son.”
To which the discomfited soldier replied, “Davin, dress your line.”
An officer whom Juen assumed to be Davin directed his men to tighten their perimeter. The man saw her watching, and his grin vanished.
After duly admiring the city and its people, Juen was ready for a meal and more negotiations. She had done her best to hide her worries yesterday, the urgency of her plight. She maintained her carefully cool façade, which hid her terror. Ninan knew, and her most trusted advisors, but no one else, of the threat she had received.
The afternoon wore away as Athus’s councilmen and -women went through the usual political posturing. It was oddly comforting to know bureaucracy plagued every ruler. Juen listened politely, wishing she could rest her cheeks from her bland, diplomatic smile.
As she expected, extensive lists were made, boundaries were debated, and nothing was decided. Bronze bells pealed and echoed off the bluffs. Athus neatly interrupted one of his advisors when the man paused to draw breath.
“We have made progress today,” he said. The advisor deflated and glared. Juen sniffed back a chuckle. Athus went on, “I propose we adjourn for the evening.”
The air outside was already cool, smarting her cheeks after the warmth in the council room. Athus came to her side and smiled ruefully.
“I don’t know about you, my lady, but I am ready for a meal after all that talk.”
“Indeed.”
“Then if you would follow me?”
Juen made suitable responses to Athus’s polite nothings. He led her down past the plaza to a wider area fenced off with wooden rails—an open-air theater of some sort, she saw. This had been used as a market only this afternoon. Wilted greens and cast-off produce were being swept aside with the straw. Wide wooden steps were being claimed for seating. A bonfire took shape at one end, with sturdy children ferrying wood to the crackling blaze.
“I thought we would have a little celebration,” Athus explained. “A feast to honor your visit, my lady.”
Inevitable, she supposed, but also instructive. A people’s amusements could tell much about them, likely more than their diplomats. The few Athusans she had met in her homeland had been quiet, wary, and watchful.
Would they wrestle clothed only in bear skins? Fight gladiatorial-style, as many sensational plays claimed back in Vabia?
Given the giggling children waving tiny flags of colored cloth and the lack of naked men, she thought not. There was no sign of reticence here. The noise grew as the makeshift theater filled, the enticing scent of roasting meat wafting with the woodsmoke.
Ninan stood by her chair and watched as the preparations were completed amidst laughter and talk. Townspeople crammed onto the steps all around the plaza, some sitting on the pavers, others perched on the peaks of the buildings around them.
There were varying styles of tunics, with different braids and sashes. Social classes? Clans? She regretted that she knew little about this small nation; she felt out of her depth.
Dusk fell over the valley. Juen accepted a woolen wrap from a smiling woman and tucked her feet up under her skirts, glad of the blaze warming her side.
A sudden thunder of drums silenced the chatter. A man leaped into the center of the open space. He yodeled something in one of Athus’s many dialects, skipping as he enticed the crowd. They roared their approval, some thousand or more faces in the evening light.
Ninan leaned over to ask, “A jester?”
“Of a sort,” Juen said under the roll of yet more drums. “A storyteller, I think. My grandmother told of a time when she saw an Athusan story-weaver. He had traveled into Vabia before the war. Theater with a touch of simple magic, I believe.”
The story-weaver chanted in time with the drums, making exaggerated motions with his arms. Others joined him, actors in simple costumes, pantomiming the man’s narrative. Though she did not know the language, she began to recognize the tale.
“The Birth of Athus’li,” she told Ninan.
A young woman danced before the fire, playing Athus’li Herself, designated by a crown of flowers as She was born of spring and Her people’s hope for peace. An appropriate topic, given the threat looming over them.
Players weaved in and out of the crowd as the story continued, changing costume, singing at times, reciting at others. Athus’li was lifted onto their shoulders and paraded around for Her people to acknowledge.
Juen took a steaming wooden bowl from Firn in the break between scenes. “Thank you, good lady.”
“My duty, young queen. Ero, for you. And Sorrint, dear.”
Juen had not noticed the Champion’s arrival in the commotion. He sat at Athus’s feet, another soldier about his age lounged next to him.
“Ona bai, ama.”
“My thanks, amona.”
That made no sense. Juen mulled over the little Athusan she knew. Few in Vabia knew more than what was needed for basic trade, and there were an unreasonable number of clan dialects besides. She was certain that ama was “mother,” and amona was “grandmother,” but there was no possibility that the two men were cousins in the same line. They were too dissimilar, different jawlines, different eyes. This Sorrint was darker, the Champion clearly lighter skinned beneath his tan.
And Athus had called the boy “oston,” his son. Yet Firn was a servant and much older than Athus, too old to be the boy’s mother. But the Champion had called Athus “tama,” or “father,” but also “my king.” It was more than her tired mind could sort out at the moment.
Laughter louder than the drums followed Lady Athus’li’s ascension into the heavens. A troupe of comedic tumblers cartwheeled across the stones. Children squealed, begging for their turn to toss a fruit or twist of straw in an attempt to hit the performers. They dodged and flipped, catching the projectiles to juggle, other times launching them back at the audience. If something managed to find its mark, the acrobat would stagger dramatically and collapse to the ground, their death throes as emotive as any tragedy.
Juen was breathless with laughter by the time the last tumbler stood triumphant in the center, a winter apple balanced on his nose. Then the story-weaver came back and shooed him away. The man now carried a wooden sword, which he twirled and flourished magnificently. A hush fell over the crowd, grins shining in the firelight.
From out of the shadows came a hideous beast. The flickering light made the wool-and-straw construction seem almost like real fur and scales. It had too many legs, the masked head snarling. Shouts of frightened hilarity rose as the creature swooped down on the onlookers, shaking its bristling mane, stomping in time to the drums.
The story-weaver brandished his blade. The creature growled, and he struck. The faux sword snapped in two. The performer stood gaping past his ruined weapon into the beast’s maw. A shout of laughter chased him from the stage, defeated and scrambling with comic haste.
The drums swelled, and another man entered, this one dressed as an Athusan soldier, a Watchman in his leather armor, his hood pulled low over his eyes. The cheers did not cover up a harsh exclamation from the Champion. Juen watched as Athus reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair.
“You know this is my favorite, oston!”
The new actor shouted challenge. The beast roared, and battle was joined. Back and forth they danced, first the hero, then the beast with the upper hand. A gasp rose as the hero fell beneath the monster’s claws, arms straining to hold back gnashing teeth.
The beast reared back to deliver the final blow. The hero rolled free, snatched up his fallen sword, and braced himself as the beast impaled itself on the deadly steel.
A mighty shout rose as the monster twitched its last. It was carted off amid triumphant jeers. The man Sorrint leaned to say something to the Champion.
“Wasn’t how it happened,” the boy snarled.
“You want to go show us how, then?” his friend shot back with a grin.
“One of the boy’s battles?” Ninan murmured to her, eyes on the victory procession moving past them.
“It appears so.”
More of the boy’s exploits were portrayed. Frightful ogres, giant serpents, a besotted Luksa princess. All fell before his might.
Juen wondered how much of it she should believe. She certainly had not believed when news came of the death of the Ranjik, a terrible creature on her northern border who had slaughtered an entire battalion of her border guards as it stalked the valleys. Witnesses had described a young man, armed with a divine weapon, a silent warrior who slew the creature with deadly ease and vanished into the night before the grateful villagers could ask his name. A legend come to life.
More stories followed as the fire burned down, the light changing from gold to red. The tales changed as well, less theater and more recitation, falling into a cadence of half chant and half song. Darker, older tales of Heroes past. Ynla. The Warrior of Avrelin. Solondar. Until finally, the story-weaver stood and spoke as the First Hero.
Tanyr.
The crowd was hushed now. Children slept in their parents’ arms. The fire was allowed to die, until the moon alone lit the plaza with silver light.
It was a tale Juen knew well. It was told and retold all over the subcontinent, how the First Hero had defeated his greatest enemy, once his dearest friend, who had been consumed by the lust for the great power of the Goddesses. No actor played opposite the story-weaver, but Juen could almost see the enemy challenging, a horrible figure of darkness that was once a man.
Tanyr stood firm, sorrowful, but undeterred from his grim purpose. They clashed, their battle shaking the earth itself. Lightning ripped the heavens, the sky weeping at the betrayal. Tanyr fell, wounded by Maiek, Lord of Darkness and Demons. The drums were barely audible, felt more than heard as Tanyr groaned, blood streaming from the mortal wound in his flank.
The spell was broken by a sudden motion. Juen tore her eyes from the scene and looked down to where the Champion’s hand clenched his tunic. His fingers tightened, fist pressed against the same place the actor did, where legend told Tanyr had been pierced by the darkness.
She looked to the boy’s profile. The moonlight washed the color from his face and reflected white in his eyes. In the night, she could not tell their shade. The flickering embers made them crimson, then dark, then golden. He hardly seemed to breathe, the lines of his face no longer youthful, but hard and furious.
How many Champions had held Tanyr’s sword? How many warriors had waged this eternal fight, through untold ages, until this very moment? Could this boy remember them? Was he reliving this battle once again? Was the face of darkness one he recognized?
Juen shivered inside her borrowed wrappings. Was it the story-weaver’s magic chilling the air with fear? Or was it sorrow? Juen could not place the emotion in her chest, cold and biting, almost loathing. Yet Tanyr had not hated his enemy, had in fact loved him as a brother. But the feeling was there, chewing at her. If not the enemy, then who did the First Hero hate so absolutely?
The drums stopped. They waited on a breathless moment of despair as Tanyr faltered before his triumphant foe.
A crash and a flash of light. Juen blinked the glare from her eyes to see Athus’li, now resplendent in robes of white and gold, lend her strength to the Hero. Together they stood firm, Her grace and power channeled through this mightiest of warriors.
Maiek fled, banished by all that was right and good. Tanyr knelt at Athus’li’s feet, devotion deeper than destiny binding him to the Goddess, whose love, too, had grown for this mortal.
Juen cheered with the Athusans, though in the Vabian version, Va’ali was the one to aid and wed Tanyr. She supposed each people claimed their own deity as the savior of the stricken Hero.
It was the last presentation of the night. The actors bowed for the applause, and slowly the crowd dispersed back to their homes. Juen yawned with sudden fatigue. It was late; the moon had moved past its zenith and was dipping toward the hills.
Athus offered his arm. Juen accepted his help to stand, legs stiff. She tucked her wrap close, the air cool in the spring night. Snow still dusted the highest hills beyond the city.
“I hope you were entertained, Your Majesty.”
“Delightful, Athus.”
The Champion was silent behind his lord as they walked back to the house. Ninan opened her door and herded her inside. Coals glowed in the brazier, the bed turned back invitingly. She stopped in the doorway, breathing in the peace of this place, all at once glad she had come to this strange, half-savage land.
“Sleep well, Athus, my friend.”
“And you, Vabia.”
She still hesitated, watching the Champion’s back as he followed Athus to the King’s House. If those fireside stories were true, if he truly was the one born to defeat the Shadow…
“Metsa ah, Champion.”
He paused and half turned. She saw the motion of his head, an acknowledgment, and then he continued on.