CHOSEN,
by Shannon Barnsley
has "7544" words.
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He was the chosen one. King Tamman. The Lion of Ibelya, Knight of the People, the flame-haired one of prophecy, slayer of tyrants and savior of Lochsrun. The very gods had whispered to the Blessed Sisters of his coming. Sacred prophecy and commoner's prayer alike had foretold his deeds.
And Ryka was going to kill him.
She checked the clasp on her cloak and the laces of her boots for the dozenth time. The once reassuring weight of the daggers tucked into her boot and vambrace no longer provided any comfort. Blood pounded in her head to the anxious beat of a war drum.
Everything in the last year of her life had been for this moment. Now that it was here, she felt neither the hunger for justice nor the thirst for vengeance. It took all her willpower not to vomit.
"I hate to ask so much of you, Ryka," Acharian told her.
He looked at the girl before him: sixteen, confident in her sapling strength, a child still.
"No more than you asked of Tamman." Ryka saw how her words wounded him, but a fury burned away any remorse.
It was hard for Ryka to imagine he had once been High Mage, the greatest wizard in all of Ibelya, likely in all the world. Now he was a ragged old man in threadbare garb, weary with age and regret.
To Ryka he had always been Karn, a drunken harper who lived on the edge of her village. The villagers whispered that he was half-mad or perhaps all mad. They said he'd lost a son in the massacre at Ballybarden and never recovered or perhaps been robbed of a whole brood by Belakal's conscriptions. Still others said he was a soldier whose mind had been addled by the war.
High Mage Acharian was dead to the world, having forsaken his duties long ago and traded his illustrious reputation for drunken obscurity. Despite his many decades of service as a wizard, it was his role as Tamman's teacher that the people remembered him for. He had seen the chosen one go from farmboy to hero to king. He had seen the wicked warlord Belakal slain and the one true king placed on the throne.
That's where the story ended in all the tales. If only it could have ended there. If only Acharian had not lived to see his young ward grow into an even greater tyrant. If only Tamman had died a hero's death.
"Ryka," Acharian began, "I never wanted to use Tamman. Or to place him in harm's way. But it was necessary-"
"To stop a tyrant?" she retorted.
She let the journey bag fall from her shoulder. Whatever happened tonight, she would no longer need it.
Acharian sighed. "I thought ridding the people of Belakal was the greatest service I could do in this life. How was I to know I'd unleash an even greater evil upon them? I never meant for this to happen."
"And the babes of Ballybarden?" asked Ryka. "Did you mean for them to die?"
"It was... a necessary sacrifice," Acharian admitted, greyer now of face than of beard. "I knew Belakal might take such measures, but there was nothing that could be done."
Ryka looked to the Citadel walls. Her face grew wan with dread.
This whole venture had been Ryka’s idea. She had been the one calling for Tamman’s head the night she had stumbled onto Karn’s past and the many sordid secrets it held. He had reluctantly agreed to help her. Yet she could not help but blame him.
If it weren’t for Acharian’s plots there wouldn’t be a King Tamman to overthrow. She could be tending the sheep on her croft right now. Perhaps their conscripted farmhands might still be alive, working Ibelyan earth instead of feeding the worms in foreign soil.
"The task set before you will not be easy," said Acharian. "You know Tamman is no more favored by the gods than you or I and his sword no better than fine steel from the spice markets, but the people don't. Even if they do not fight themselves, you will find no aid from them. And... And if you can... If he’s..."
"He isn't the boy you knew," Ryka reminded him. She slung her quiver over her grey cloak. "If I have to kill him, I will."
"All the greater my sins," said Acharian.
Ryka doubted even Belakal had looked so defeated when the flame-haired hero had charged his gate, gods-forged sword in hand.
"Karn-" Ryka began, her fury tempered.
"I could not be prouder of you, Ryka." Acharian handed Ryka her bow and kissed her forehead as a father might. "Gods go with you, child."
Ryka nodded, choking down any emotion in her voice. This was no time for doubt. She had a mission.
Her bow slung over her back, she began to scale the wall. There was no moon to betray her tonight. Halfway up Acharian lost her to the darkness. She was gone, just a flicker of grey fabric into the black shroud.
"Gods forgive my arrogance," Acharian whispered to no one. "That I should claim their will and make a fool's prophecy of a wise man's hope."
And Ryka was going to kill him.
She checked the clasp on her cloak and the laces of her boots for the dozenth time. The once reassuring weight of the daggers tucked into her boot and vambrace no longer provided any comfort. Blood pounded in her head to the anxious beat of a war drum.
Everything in the last year of her life had been for this moment. Now that it was here, she felt neither the hunger for justice nor the thirst for vengeance. It took all her willpower not to vomit.
"I hate to ask so much of you, Ryka," Acharian told her.
He looked at the girl before him: sixteen, confident in her sapling strength, a child still.
"No more than you asked of Tamman." Ryka saw how her words wounded him, but a fury burned away any remorse.
It was hard for Ryka to imagine he had once been High Mage, the greatest wizard in all of Ibelya, likely in all the world. Now he was a ragged old man in threadbare garb, weary with age and regret.
To Ryka he had always been Karn, a drunken harper who lived on the edge of her village. The villagers whispered that he was half-mad or perhaps all mad. They said he'd lost a son in the massacre at Ballybarden and never recovered or perhaps been robbed of a whole brood by Belakal's conscriptions. Still others said he was a soldier whose mind had been addled by the war.
High Mage Acharian was dead to the world, having forsaken his duties long ago and traded his illustrious reputation for drunken obscurity. Despite his many decades of service as a wizard, it was his role as Tamman's teacher that the people remembered him for. He had seen the chosen one go from farmboy to hero to king. He had seen the wicked warlord Belakal slain and the one true king placed on the throne.
That's where the story ended in all the tales. If only it could have ended there. If only Acharian had not lived to see his young ward grow into an even greater tyrant. If only Tamman had died a hero's death.
"Ryka," Acharian began, "I never wanted to use Tamman. Or to place him in harm's way. But it was necessary-"
"To stop a tyrant?" she retorted.
She let the journey bag fall from her shoulder. Whatever happened tonight, she would no longer need it.
Acharian sighed. "I thought ridding the people of Belakal was the greatest service I could do in this life. How was I to know I'd unleash an even greater evil upon them? I never meant for this to happen."
"And the babes of Ballybarden?" asked Ryka. "Did you mean for them to die?"
"It was... a necessary sacrifice," Acharian admitted, greyer now of face than of beard. "I knew Belakal might take such measures, but there was nothing that could be done."
Ryka looked to the Citadel walls. Her face grew wan with dread.
This whole venture had been Ryka’s idea. She had been the one calling for Tamman’s head the night she had stumbled onto Karn’s past and the many sordid secrets it held. He had reluctantly agreed to help her. Yet she could not help but blame him.
If it weren’t for Acharian’s plots there wouldn’t be a King Tamman to overthrow. She could be tending the sheep on her croft right now. Perhaps their conscripted farmhands might still be alive, working Ibelyan earth instead of feeding the worms in foreign soil.
"The task set before you will not be easy," said Acharian. "You know Tamman is no more favored by the gods than you or I and his sword no better than fine steel from the spice markets, but the people don't. Even if they do not fight themselves, you will find no aid from them. And... And if you can... If he’s..."
"He isn't the boy you knew," Ryka reminded him. She slung her quiver over her grey cloak. "If I have to kill him, I will."
"All the greater my sins," said Acharian.
Ryka doubted even Belakal had looked so defeated when the flame-haired hero had charged his gate, gods-forged sword in hand.
"Karn-" Ryka began, her fury tempered.
"I could not be prouder of you, Ryka." Acharian handed Ryka her bow and kissed her forehead as a father might. "Gods go with you, child."
Ryka nodded, choking down any emotion in her voice. This was no time for doubt. She had a mission.
Her bow slung over her back, she began to scale the wall. There was no moon to betray her tonight. Halfway up Acharian lost her to the darkness. She was gone, just a flicker of grey fabric into the black shroud.
"Gods forgive my arrogance," Acharian whispered to no one. "That I should claim their will and make a fool's prophecy of a wise man's hope."
⚜
The air was biting even beneath the cloak, like a dagger through ineffective armor. The city behind her had gone dark, yet she still felt its light upon her. Every scuff of her boots, every scrabble of her hands, every steaming breath she took sounded a thousand times louder tonight. Surely someone would hear her.
Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Her stomach still churned. Ryka froze at the sound of someone coming. She pressed against the wall, still and silent.
It was just a foolish squire and his master's lady sneaking away for a forbidden moment. They were drunk on wine and passion. The squire's kiss was cut short as the lady ran ahead. She giggled, pulling him towards her. The squire leaned in, pinning her against the stone wall.
Ryka cursed her luck. Of all the walls to scale, she had to pick the one two drunks were currently snogging against. The lady's laugh was rent from the air as the squire's mouth wandered elsewhere. Ryka cursed again.
She clung to the wall for dear life. A single motion could betray her. Yet her hands were stiff with cold. Her forearms weakened under the strain of her weight. They began to tremble. The more she willed her muscles not to move, the more the tremors ran through them. She could only hold on for so long.
"Good sir, good lady!" a voice cried out.
The woman shrieked.
Ryka's heart sank. She turned her head as best she could to see the stranger. Relief flooded her, followed by panic. It was Acharian.
He was trying to save her. Still, if they recognized him all was lost. Ryka prayed his years as Karn the drunken harper would mask his lifetime as the High Mage Acharian.
"Please, good lords," croaked Acharian in an elderly voice. "Have you any coin to spare a poor old man? I came too late to share in the bread of the Blessed Sisters."
At the panicking woman's behest, the squire threw an indiscriminate handful of coins at Acharian's bent form. The lady then fled, the squire at her heels.
Ryka let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and continued. One hand. Then another. Her leather-clad hands and feet found jutting stones and crumbling mortar as she slowly but surely pulled herself up the wall. Acharian had lent some magic to her boots so her feet held firm on even the narrowest bit of stone. Still, if her hand slipped she could lose her balance and fall to her death, magic boots or no.
Finally, her hand found purchase on the crenelated edge of the castle wall. With both hands she pulled herself over the crenel, scraping between two thankfully unmanned merlons. Her youthful frame made the gap an easy fit, but the rough stone made her glad for her leather vambraces and knee-high boots.
Ryka felt the stone on her back. She lay there panting. Her breath hung with the stars above her. The sky was so clear. She could make out nearly as many stars as back home in her little village.
Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Her stomach still churned. Ryka froze at the sound of someone coming. She pressed against the wall, still and silent.
It was just a foolish squire and his master's lady sneaking away for a forbidden moment. They were drunk on wine and passion. The squire's kiss was cut short as the lady ran ahead. She giggled, pulling him towards her. The squire leaned in, pinning her against the stone wall.
Ryka cursed her luck. Of all the walls to scale, she had to pick the one two drunks were currently snogging against. The lady's laugh was rent from the air as the squire's mouth wandered elsewhere. Ryka cursed again.
She clung to the wall for dear life. A single motion could betray her. Yet her hands were stiff with cold. Her forearms weakened under the strain of her weight. They began to tremble. The more she willed her muscles not to move, the more the tremors ran through them. She could only hold on for so long.
"Good sir, good lady!" a voice cried out.
The woman shrieked.
Ryka's heart sank. She turned her head as best she could to see the stranger. Relief flooded her, followed by panic. It was Acharian.
He was trying to save her. Still, if they recognized him all was lost. Ryka prayed his years as Karn the drunken harper would mask his lifetime as the High Mage Acharian.
"Please, good lords," croaked Acharian in an elderly voice. "Have you any coin to spare a poor old man? I came too late to share in the bread of the Blessed Sisters."
At the panicking woman's behest, the squire threw an indiscriminate handful of coins at Acharian's bent form. The lady then fled, the squire at her heels.
Ryka let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and continued. One hand. Then another. Her leather-clad hands and feet found jutting stones and crumbling mortar as she slowly but surely pulled herself up the wall. Acharian had lent some magic to her boots so her feet held firm on even the narrowest bit of stone. Still, if her hand slipped she could lose her balance and fall to her death, magic boots or no.
Finally, her hand found purchase on the crenelated edge of the castle wall. With both hands she pulled herself over the crenel, scraping between two thankfully unmanned merlons. Her youthful frame made the gap an easy fit, but the rough stone made her glad for her leather vambraces and knee-high boots.
Ryka felt the stone on her back. She lay there panting. Her breath hung with the stars above her. The sky was so clear. She could make out nearly as many stars as back home in her little village.
A birth in Ballybarden green,
the moon the heavens fell
Shall mark the dimming of the flames,
oh, in that warlord's halls
For this child's birth shall toll his end,
the gods they chose him well
A lad whose life shall herald death,
and lo, it's Belakal's
Flame red of hair and green of hand,
a simple lad to see
A wizard by his side he shall
become the people's man
A hero so untouchable,
a child of prophecy
Unbreakable his gleaming sword,
forged 'neath the moon so wan
A child born of simple folk,
the moon the heavens fell
Shall rise a king of Ibelya
as dead the warlord falls
The people claim their victory
and he shall rule them well
The chosen one, so wise and strong,
brings justice to their halls.
the moon the heavens fell
Shall mark the dimming of the flames,
oh, in that warlord's halls
For this child's birth shall toll his end,
the gods they chose him well
A lad whose life shall herald death,
and lo, it's Belakal's
Flame red of hair and green of hand,
a simple lad to see
A wizard by his side he shall
become the people's man
A hero so untouchable,
a child of prophecy
Unbreakable his gleaming sword,
forged 'neath the moon so wan
A child born of simple folk,
the moon the heavens fell
Shall rise a king of Ibelya
as dead the warlord falls
The people claim their victory
and he shall rule them well
The chosen one, so wise and strong,
brings justice to their halls.
The prophecy: once prayer, then chant, then rallying cry, then a song for dark nights or idle hours. It was stuck in her head.
Ryka was too young to know Belakal's tyranny or the hope the prophecy had inspired. She was not yet born when the chosen one had come.
He had been a simple farmboy named Tamman, green as any to the ways of war and swordcraft. With Acharian at his side and the people's unwavering support, he had grown stronger, bolder, his legend more godlike with every telling. After the battle of Skellik-Moor, his forces had stormed the city. The steps of the Citadel had run red with Belakal's blood.
Tamman had been crowned that day. All the bards had sung his praises, all the people had cried his name, and all the children of Ibelya had grown up on his story until they knew it better even than their letters or prayers.
So Tamman had ruled, unquestioned, unopposed. His reign assured by the gods themselves.
And for twenty years only Acharian had known it was a lie.
Ryka wanted nothing more than to lie here forever. The cold stone on her back and the sharp air piercing her lungs felt more real than anything since she’d left her village. She could slip away into the night and no one would ever know of her intent.
It was a special kind of cruelty to make a child kill a hero, even a hero that never was or a hero since corrupted. For a moment Ryka wondered if Belakal's troops had once thought him their savior.
She sighed and arose. Her cloak securely clasped, she crept along the wall. Grey on grey. There was no one to see her. The guards were not so vigilante on calm nights like these, with no trouble about. Why bother, when their king was untouchable?
Before long she found a watchman's office and followed the winding staircase down. She heard a pair of guards discussing an ill-fated game of cards, but was able to slip into another corridor before they turned the corner.
Soon she was out and into the courtyard of the Citadel. It was late. The night's feast was nearly over. Many of the guests had gone home.
A drunken soldier or knight stumbled by here and there, some aided by comrades or servants. The occasional young lovers strolled through the lanterned courtyard. A few red-faced men snuck off to the city’s night markets.
Ryka knew these people were too preoccupied with themselves to spare a thought on her. She told herself she belonged here. This was her courtyard. Her Citadel. Her feast. Nobody would suspect her so long as she believed herself above suspicion.
Once inside the West Tower of the Citadel, where the king was housed, the real challenge began. That took all her newfound skills, be it blending into the shadows, conning preoccupied workers, or removing anyone who proved an obstacle. Several confident smiles, banal conversations, and incapacitated guards later, Ryka slipped into the throneroom. She could only pray that Tamman's habit of pacing the hall alone at night had not changed in the years since his advisor had vanished.
Ryka found a corner of the room, obscured by a statue and a loose-hanging tapestry. Here she would wait until her prey came to her. Nothing after this was certain. Thoughts of tomorrow were a luxury lost the night she had discovered Karn's true identity and the truth behind the prophecy.
Ryka was too young to know Belakal's tyranny or the hope the prophecy had inspired. She was not yet born when the chosen one had come.
He had been a simple farmboy named Tamman, green as any to the ways of war and swordcraft. With Acharian at his side and the people's unwavering support, he had grown stronger, bolder, his legend more godlike with every telling. After the battle of Skellik-Moor, his forces had stormed the city. The steps of the Citadel had run red with Belakal's blood.
Tamman had been crowned that day. All the bards had sung his praises, all the people had cried his name, and all the children of Ibelya had grown up on his story until they knew it better even than their letters or prayers.
So Tamman had ruled, unquestioned, unopposed. His reign assured by the gods themselves.
And for twenty years only Acharian had known it was a lie.
Ryka wanted nothing more than to lie here forever. The cold stone on her back and the sharp air piercing her lungs felt more real than anything since she’d left her village. She could slip away into the night and no one would ever know of her intent.
It was a special kind of cruelty to make a child kill a hero, even a hero that never was or a hero since corrupted. For a moment Ryka wondered if Belakal's troops had once thought him their savior.
She sighed and arose. Her cloak securely clasped, she crept along the wall. Grey on grey. There was no one to see her. The guards were not so vigilante on calm nights like these, with no trouble about. Why bother, when their king was untouchable?
Before long she found a watchman's office and followed the winding staircase down. She heard a pair of guards discussing an ill-fated game of cards, but was able to slip into another corridor before they turned the corner.
Soon she was out and into the courtyard of the Citadel. It was late. The night's feast was nearly over. Many of the guests had gone home.
A drunken soldier or knight stumbled by here and there, some aided by comrades or servants. The occasional young lovers strolled through the lanterned courtyard. A few red-faced men snuck off to the city’s night markets.
Ryka knew these people were too preoccupied with themselves to spare a thought on her. She told herself she belonged here. This was her courtyard. Her Citadel. Her feast. Nobody would suspect her so long as she believed herself above suspicion.
Once inside the West Tower of the Citadel, where the king was housed, the real challenge began. That took all her newfound skills, be it blending into the shadows, conning preoccupied workers, or removing anyone who proved an obstacle. Several confident smiles, banal conversations, and incapacitated guards later, Ryka slipped into the throneroom. She could only pray that Tamman's habit of pacing the hall alone at night had not changed in the years since his advisor had vanished.
Ryka found a corner of the room, obscured by a statue and a loose-hanging tapestry. Here she would wait until her prey came to her. Nothing after this was certain. Thoughts of tomorrow were a luxury lost the night she had discovered Karn's true identity and the truth behind the prophecy.
⚜
Ryka had nearly fallen asleep when she heard the sound of
footsteps. Her heart hung somewhere between her stomach and her throat. She
scarcely breathed.
"Thief or concubine?" a man's voice rang through the throneroom.
Ryka froze. Her fingers gripped her bow.
"I know you're there," he said. "You might as well come out."
Ryka peered as best she could from her hiding place. In the darkness she could just make out the figure of a man. He lit a nearby candelabrum with the small lantern he carried. His hair shone copper in the firelight.
Tamman.
Her hand felt for the feathered tip of an arrow. Still, from this angle she could not get a good shot. She would only get one chance.
"I know my throneroom," said the king, his voice cool as his body was calm. "I know its look, its scent, and all its sounds. I know you're here. So you can come out and tell me your story or I can call the guards and whatever secret you carry can go with you to the grave."
Ryka kicked her bow and quiver behind the statue that hid her. Stiff with cramps, she stepped forward. King Tamman bid her come closer. Terror flooded her veins. Her feet numbly obeyed.
The man who stood before her was a legend she'd heard all her life. A hero whose exploits she and the other village children had reenacted a thousand times.
A king she had grown to fear. A tyrant she had hated since her best friend, Jor, had been conscripted along with the other young men in her village. A boy Acharian insisted was not so different from her.
It was hard to believe the stately king before her was once a gawky farmboy. When Acharian spoke of him, he pictured the nineteen-year-old he had taken from his simple life to fulfill the prophecy. Twenty years later, Tamman had grown into both manhood and kingship.
Ryka had to tilt her chin up just to meet his eyes. His broad-shoulders and muscled body filled out his embroidered coat well. A close-clipped copper beard framed his strong-jawed face.
Ulfbard, the sword Acharian had once claimed invincible, was belted at Tamman's waist. He carried the weight of it effortlessly. A finer specimen of hero or king could not have been selected even if it had been the gods' design instead of Acharian's random luck.
Tamman reached towards her. Ryka flinched, but he merely pushed her hood down. He studied her as she had him. A few years of bad harvests and no young men to pitch in on the farm had left her thin but strong-armed. The road had since hardened her, stripping her of any semblance of the village girl she’d been.
Her hair and eyes were brown. Her skin had a touch of tawny, a remnant of the Weylach people who had long overrun their borders, wreaking havoc for the Ibelyan country folk and the tribes of Lochsrun. But that was a lifetime ago, before Belakal had brought a tyrant's order to the war-torn land and Tamman had united old enemies against a common one.
Tamman took in the leather armor beneath Ryka’s cloak and the boots weathered by a long journey. His eyes fell on her boot and vambrace.
"Hidden daggers, eh?" said Tamman. "Not a concubine or a thief then."
Ryka's heart raced like a panicked deer.
"An assassin?" Tamman turned his back to her, lighting another candelabrum. "I haven't had an assassin since Belakal was overthrown."
Ryka had no idea what to make of his nonchalance. Was he really so deluded on his own myth? Did he believe the prophecy so fully that he thought she could not kill him?
"Tell me, girl," said the king, "who sent you?"
"Acharian," she admitted.
"So the old wizard's still alive?" He blew out the candle in his own lantern, abandoning it at the feet of another statue, and turned back to her. "And what are you then? Certainly no trained killer. You’re more of a child than I was when Acharian and I set out."
"My father worked a croft in Brenby," she told him. "My name is Ryka."
The dark, stone room seemed all too warm. Her leathers were a furnace.
"A crofter's daughter?" His coat swished as he walked towards her. "Acharian always was one for cliches. Tell me, girl, are you going to kill me? Ryka of Brenby, come to slay the king."
Ryka glanced around. Her bow was too far away. As were the candelabra.
In a sudden flash Tamman lunged for her. She sprang away, but he grabbed her arm. In seconds he'd pulled the hidden dirk from her vambrace, forcing it into her hand. He held her wrist so the dagger was right at his heart.
"You're here to assassinate me, aren't you?" he asked. "So do it."
His grip was bruising Ryka.
"Do it," he hissed.
His handsome face was now more beast than king. The Lion of Ibelya indeed.
"What? Can't do it?" he taunted. He threw her to the floor in disgust. "Of course not. What was your plan, girl? I'm the chosen one, remember?"
"No, Tam," Ryka breathed. "No, you're not."
"What did you say?" For the first time Tamman did not seem wholly prepared and in control.
No one had called him Tam since he had been plucked from his life as a farmboy.
"Acharian lied to you," Ryka said.
Her legs felt like trembling leaves, but she rose. Forcing herself to stand firm, she faced the king. He towered over her, but she met his eyes. The first time anyone had done so since he had been crowned.
"You're not the chosen one. You're just a man." Her ears and cheeks flushed hot, but she spoke on. "There was never any prophecy. Acharian made it up.
"No one would rise up. Acharian needed a hero the people would follow, even if it meant facing Belakal's wrath. So he created one. He wrote the prophecy and fed it to the Blessed Sisters. He knew the meteor shower would be over Ballybarden around Midsummer and the hill folk have always believed it a sign from the gods."
"And what?" Tamman seemed more interested in a loose bronze thread on his sleeve than her revelation. "He just couldn’t resist waxing poetic about my ginger locks?"
"Half of Ballybarden has red hair," she replied. "It was just specific enough to seem real, just vague enough to work."
Tamman was silent. He watched her intently, his face inscrutable.
"Belakal took the bait," Ryka continued. "He had all the babies in Ballybarden killed. All save the one Acharian secreted away. The sword isn't indestructible. He just needed your enemies to think it was so they'd be afraid to face you in battle.
"He scratched the runes into it. They don’t mean anything. It's just gibberish in some language dead even to the scholars. And when you came of age, Acharian came to you-"
"And I refused." Tamman’s words echoed in the hollow throneroom.
"But he needed a chosen one. And by then it had to be you." Ryka recited the story as though someone else spoke through her, her body numb. "It was Acharian who tipped off Belakal's soldiers. The ones who killed your parents. That's why they came for you when Acharian knew you'd be out. That's why he was there to save you the moment you came home. That's why he was already prepared for the journey.
"A few simple victories and the people fell at your feet. You were the symbol they needed. The sure bet only the gods could promise. Your triumph was preordained. They people knew it, Belakal's soldiers knew it. Everyone believed you would win, so you did."
Ryka handed him Acharian's ring, the one worn by the High Mage of Ibelya.
"This may sound like madness," she told him, "but I swear it's true. Acharian left out of shame at what he'd done and what you were beginning to do. He's been hiding all this time, trying to forget. He gave me this ring to prove my words. He still thinks you’re capable of redemption."
Ryka searched his face for any kind of reaction.
"It was a lie, Tam," she said. "It was all a lie."
"And why do you tell me this?" asked Tamman.
He was not shaken. Perhaps it was shock, Ryka reasoned.
"It-It went to your head," Ryka stammered. "No one man should be told he has a divine right to rule. Even Belakal’s orders weren’t beyond contestation.
"The people may not speak a word against you, but they curse the gods at night. Just as I did when Jor was conscripted. My village needed the men you took to work the land. The Belarri tinkers who trade with us say you scorched their land and burned their homes over a few skirmishes in the North. You had whole clans in Westbend put to the sword. Acharian thought-"
"Thought what, girl?" asked the king. "That I would change my ways if I knew my power came from him? If I knew I was still his puppet? Like you?"
A fury flared in Ryka. Now she shook in anger.
"I am no one's puppet," she declared, her voice ringing through the throneroom. "I know the truth."
"The truth is Acharian needed a fool, so he sent a farmboy to kill a warlord," Tamman's voice rang like the rolling thunder through which the gods spoke. "Now he sends a crofter's girl to kill a king. And you'll fail just as I did."
Ryka's newfound confidence vanished. "What do you mean?"
"I didn't kill Belakal," Tamman admitted.
He sighed, showing the weight of kingship at last. His shoulders drooped. And for a moment she saw the face of a man who feared no assassin and not because he could not be killed.
"Belakal believed the prophecy," said Tamman. "He feared it so much his men slaughtered babies in the streets of Ballybarden. All those years I was hidden away he never slept a night without fearing I had somehow escaped. I was no more a man to him than I was to Acharian. I was an idea, a fear that haunted him."
Tamman turned away from her. He paced the throneroom like a prisoner would a too-familiar dungeon. She saw the dirk on the ground where it had fallen when he threw her. His back was to her.
"When I returned, he knew he was a dead man. Everything I did made him certain that death loomed that much closer. When I took the city I found him in the Citadel, but it was not the glorious battle they sing of at my feasts."
Tamman's voice was bitter, his cynicism as much a mask as his nonchalance. His hand reached out to brush the tapestry Ryka had hidden behind. It was of him, Ulfbard gleaming in his hand. He was the perfect hero, handsome in his armor. Belakal, or a gaunt and crooked figure that could have been Belakal, held his warsword, about to be slain.
"He was unarmed," said Tamman. "He was mad with fear and threw himself before me. He begged me to kill him so he could sleep, truly sleep, for the first time in nineteen years."
Ryka took a step towards Tamman.
"They never tell you that soldiers cry in the stories." He leaned on the tapestry as though for strength. "They never tell you that they shit themselves when you run them through. They told me Belakal was a monster. They never told me he was a man."
He looked up at her touch. She was just as surprised as he to find her hand on his arm. She yanked it back as though he had the pox.
"When I refused to kill him, he seized my swordhand and forced my sword through his chest," Tamman confessed. "Everything he'd done since the Blessed Sisters foretold his end was the desperation of a man afraid to lose his power. To be at the mercy of those he had wronged. Because he believed Acharian's gods-damned prophecy like the rest of the fools."
"You know?" Ryka couldn't process his words. "You knew it was a lie?"
Tamman turned to her. His face was far older than his thirty-nine years and yet for the first time she saw him for the overwhelmed boy he was.
He drew his sword. A dagger went from her boot to her hand without a thought. She crouched, a cat bracing for a lion's onslaught.
"Peace, Ryka," he said.
He held out his weapon. She hesitated more than a moment before tucking the dagger into her belt and taking the sword. Its weight surprised her. She was holding Ulfbard, the indestructible sword forged in the fires of the gods, wrought of metal that had fallen from the heavens.
No. No, she held a sword made by superior craftsman from distant Vaal-Ahan, a great civilization so far away that it was little more than story to a crofter's daughter or a farmboy. A sword made of metal from a meteorite.
Real or no, she held the sword with reverence. It may not have been legend, but it was still history.
"It-It's nicked!" she exclaimed.
Her fingers traced the small dent in the metal. It was right there for all to see. How had no one noticed?
"That happened at the battle of Weylach Wood," Tamman explained. "One of Belakal's generals left that. That was three months before we took the Citadel. An indestructible sword doesn't get nicked by some priggish general's blade. And a chosen one doesn't win the day when a shit-stained coward kills himself."
"Why?" Ryka's head swam. The room was spinning. Once more her legs threatened to give way beneath her.
"The Weylach and the tribes of Lochsrun put their ancient scores aside, not because they both hated Belakal, but because they both believed in me. I saw enemies pulling one another from the battlefield like brothers that day. I saw an Ibelyan farmer and a Weylach archer give their lives to save a Lochsrun warrior. I saw a Weylach soldier and a Lochsrun lass married after the battle. And the bride's brother not only accepted it, he clasped hands with the soldier and welcomed him to the family.
"Do you know what that's like?" His face went from absolution to damnation in an instant. "Of course not. You’ve known peace all your life. What does it matter if they’ve been warring for centuries if you only got the songs, not the blood."
Ryka eyed him warily. She had expected a legend. A tyrant. Not a man moved near to tears by acts of compassion.
"Acharian did what he had to for the greater good. So did I. If it took a chosen one to unite Ibelya and Lochsrun and the Weylach and even the Fair Folk of Briel, so be it. If it takes a divine mandate to keep the chaos at bay, then that's what it takes.
"I was everything Acharian ever wanted me to be. I sacrificed everything for his prophecy. I did everything he ever asked of me. The fate of an entire realm on my shoulders since the day the damned wizard picked me over the other screaming babies and now he sends a puppet just as foolish as I to kill me."
Tamman turned his back on her. She reached out as though to touch his shoulder but let her hand drop.
"Take your dagger. Or even my sword. More poetic that way. Kill me if you like. Gods know Tam the farmboy died a long time ago." Tamman drew himself back up, a king once more. "But know that my reign is the longest peace Ibelya has ever known. My reign has brought order and unity. Say what you will about Belakal, but he had the right idea. He just lacked the right story to inspire true loyalty."
"Your peace was bought with the suffering of innocent Belarri. You massacred Westbend," Ryka told him. "My village has barely survived. Half our men are dead. Who knows if the others will return or if they’ll even have a village to come back to?"
"Would you have preferred a Belarri raid?" He took in her swarthier complexion. "Your village knows the cost of raids well, I see."
Ryka glared at him.
"Your villagers can find refuge elsewhere in Ibelya," said Tamman. "Our lands are safe, thanks to those men."
"I don’t want refuge. I came here to kill you," spat Ryka. "To make you answer for what you’ve done. You took my friend, Jor, from me. He died in Belarra, patrolling the territories you conquered with the men we needed to prepare for winter. It was an ambush. Jor was a country boy. He never stood a chance against hardened soldiers."
"I was a country boy too." Tamman’s voice was quiet. "Be proud. He died for Ibelya."
"He died for you," Ryka growled. "You sent those boys to their death and didn’t even care. And why should you? There’s always more country lads when lords need lambs for the slaughter. All Jor wanted was a blacksmith's shop like his master's and a wife."
"And I suppose that'd've been you, girl?" Tamman turned to face her again. His presence seemed to radiate power. He commanded respect with every syllable. "Who is a crofter's daughter to tell a king what isn't fair? Who was a farmboy to tell a warlord what he was doing wrong?"
"Ruling demands hard choices. That's why people put kings on thrones instead of taking the crown for themselves. They want someone else to make the hard choices and someone else to blame when they can't stomach it.
"Yes, I have dealt swiftly with our enemies. That's why we have so few. And at least so long as I reign my people will know no raids or pillaging. Their lives will not be interrupted by coups or the political squabbles of lords or the territory disputes of hill folk or scholars bickering over the legitimacy of every succession." Tamman’s chest puffed out like a lion’s. His shoulders were so broad, yet she knew they weren’t as strong as he pretended. "I am the king. The gods willed it, so it shall be."
"But it's a lie." Ryka refused to be intimidated by his act. She had seen the truth.
"A lie?" He gestured around them. "Oh, girl, you can't be so naive. Look around you. Look at the tapestry or the statues of the kings of old. Those aren't men. They're stories. That's all that matters."
This was all too surreal. She didn’t belong here. She belonged on a bale of hay in the blacksmith’s shop, laughing as Jor worked.
"Do you think Belakal was really born under a blood moon?" he asked her. "Do you think he really killed more Lochsrun tribesman than anyone else or had a thousand women in his day? Do you think the kings of old married goddesses and fairies and had the blood of lions or wielded weapons forged of the bones of the dragons they killed? Half our kings didn’t have enough royal blood to fill a flask."
Tamman smiled, sure of himself and his legend.
"Acharian's lie was the only magic he ever worked that did anything good for anyone," Tamman scoffed.
"A lie isn't magic," said Ryka.
"Of course it is," Tamman insisted. "A good lie is the most powerful magic in the world. Otherwise Ibelya would be at war still. I would have been a farmer in Haversham or a workman in Ballybarden if the prophecy hadn't worked its magic. And you would have stayed a crofter's daughter and married whoever was man enough to gut the Belarri prick who ambushed him."
"Bastard!" Ryka screamed. "Jor was twice the man you’ll ever be!"
She had him at the point of his own sword.
The guards poured in at her shout. There were a dozen of them, trailed by curious servants and lords who had lingered after the feast or been awoken from their beds. Their eyes fell on their king and a sixteen-year-old girl in ranger's garb, Ulfbard the Unbreakable in her hands.
"He is not the chosen one," Ryka declared for all to hear. "The prophecy is a lie. You traded one tyrant for another."
With all the might in her farm-worked arms, Ryka threw the sword. It flew through the air, its sheen ablaze in the torchlight. Ulfbard crashed into the statue of King Urech the Stout. The ancient stone crumbled where it struck. A chunk fell from the long-dead king's chest, taking his arm and shoulder with it. Shards of gleaming metal fell like stars. Ulfbard lay shattered.
Ryka turned to face the crowd.
"Do you see now?" she asked.
"Belarri lies!" screamed a maid of the castle.
"Traitor!" cried the squire Ryka had seen with his master's lady. "Seize her!"
The growing mob was on her in moments. The squire tore the dagger from her belt. She screamed and kicked, but a servant and a knight held her fast. Ryka shouted her rages, railing against Tamman and Acharian and the Blessed Sisters and the father who had told her Jor was doing his duty by his king and all the other fools. She stood in the halls of Ibelya's ancient Citadel, but Tamman had brought no justice here.
Ryka broke away and made a go for the dirk on the floor. She lunged at Tamman. He did not flinch or block. Two guards caught her before the blade sank into the king's unguarded heart.
One of the guards twisted her hand. The dirk clattered to the floor. She tore and struck and flailed to no avail. Ryka saw the look on the people's faces and hung her head.
They believed he was untouchable. And so he was.
"Hold," Tamman ordered.
He did not shout. He did not even raise his voice. His face was calm, his stride assured.
"The girl is but a puppet. She's a traitor's fool not a traitor herself," said Tamman. "There is a man outside the castle. An old drunkard who fed her this madness. Find him and bring him to me. I'll deal with them both myself. The gods gave me justice to temper my strength. I shall judge their fates and hear no more of this raving."
"Thief or concubine?" a man's voice rang through the throneroom.
Ryka froze. Her fingers gripped her bow.
"I know you're there," he said. "You might as well come out."
Ryka peered as best she could from her hiding place. In the darkness she could just make out the figure of a man. He lit a nearby candelabrum with the small lantern he carried. His hair shone copper in the firelight.
Tamman.
Her hand felt for the feathered tip of an arrow. Still, from this angle she could not get a good shot. She would only get one chance.
"I know my throneroom," said the king, his voice cool as his body was calm. "I know its look, its scent, and all its sounds. I know you're here. So you can come out and tell me your story or I can call the guards and whatever secret you carry can go with you to the grave."
Ryka kicked her bow and quiver behind the statue that hid her. Stiff with cramps, she stepped forward. King Tamman bid her come closer. Terror flooded her veins. Her feet numbly obeyed.
The man who stood before her was a legend she'd heard all her life. A hero whose exploits she and the other village children had reenacted a thousand times.
A king she had grown to fear. A tyrant she had hated since her best friend, Jor, had been conscripted along with the other young men in her village. A boy Acharian insisted was not so different from her.
It was hard to believe the stately king before her was once a gawky farmboy. When Acharian spoke of him, he pictured the nineteen-year-old he had taken from his simple life to fulfill the prophecy. Twenty years later, Tamman had grown into both manhood and kingship.
Ryka had to tilt her chin up just to meet his eyes. His broad-shoulders and muscled body filled out his embroidered coat well. A close-clipped copper beard framed his strong-jawed face.
Ulfbard, the sword Acharian had once claimed invincible, was belted at Tamman's waist. He carried the weight of it effortlessly. A finer specimen of hero or king could not have been selected even if it had been the gods' design instead of Acharian's random luck.
Tamman reached towards her. Ryka flinched, but he merely pushed her hood down. He studied her as she had him. A few years of bad harvests and no young men to pitch in on the farm had left her thin but strong-armed. The road had since hardened her, stripping her of any semblance of the village girl she’d been.
Her hair and eyes were brown. Her skin had a touch of tawny, a remnant of the Weylach people who had long overrun their borders, wreaking havoc for the Ibelyan country folk and the tribes of Lochsrun. But that was a lifetime ago, before Belakal had brought a tyrant's order to the war-torn land and Tamman had united old enemies against a common one.
Tamman took in the leather armor beneath Ryka’s cloak and the boots weathered by a long journey. His eyes fell on her boot and vambrace.
"Hidden daggers, eh?" said Tamman. "Not a concubine or a thief then."
Ryka's heart raced like a panicked deer.
"An assassin?" Tamman turned his back to her, lighting another candelabrum. "I haven't had an assassin since Belakal was overthrown."
Ryka had no idea what to make of his nonchalance. Was he really so deluded on his own myth? Did he believe the prophecy so fully that he thought she could not kill him?
"Tell me, girl," said the king, "who sent you?"
"Acharian," she admitted.
"So the old wizard's still alive?" He blew out the candle in his own lantern, abandoning it at the feet of another statue, and turned back to her. "And what are you then? Certainly no trained killer. You’re more of a child than I was when Acharian and I set out."
"My father worked a croft in Brenby," she told him. "My name is Ryka."
The dark, stone room seemed all too warm. Her leathers were a furnace.
"A crofter's daughter?" His coat swished as he walked towards her. "Acharian always was one for cliches. Tell me, girl, are you going to kill me? Ryka of Brenby, come to slay the king."
Ryka glanced around. Her bow was too far away. As were the candelabra.
In a sudden flash Tamman lunged for her. She sprang away, but he grabbed her arm. In seconds he'd pulled the hidden dirk from her vambrace, forcing it into her hand. He held her wrist so the dagger was right at his heart.
"You're here to assassinate me, aren't you?" he asked. "So do it."
His grip was bruising Ryka.
"Do it," he hissed.
His handsome face was now more beast than king. The Lion of Ibelya indeed.
"What? Can't do it?" he taunted. He threw her to the floor in disgust. "Of course not. What was your plan, girl? I'm the chosen one, remember?"
"No, Tam," Ryka breathed. "No, you're not."
"What did you say?" For the first time Tamman did not seem wholly prepared and in control.
No one had called him Tam since he had been plucked from his life as a farmboy.
"Acharian lied to you," Ryka said.
Her legs felt like trembling leaves, but she rose. Forcing herself to stand firm, she faced the king. He towered over her, but she met his eyes. The first time anyone had done so since he had been crowned.
"You're not the chosen one. You're just a man." Her ears and cheeks flushed hot, but she spoke on. "There was never any prophecy. Acharian made it up.
"No one would rise up. Acharian needed a hero the people would follow, even if it meant facing Belakal's wrath. So he created one. He wrote the prophecy and fed it to the Blessed Sisters. He knew the meteor shower would be over Ballybarden around Midsummer and the hill folk have always believed it a sign from the gods."
"And what?" Tamman seemed more interested in a loose bronze thread on his sleeve than her revelation. "He just couldn’t resist waxing poetic about my ginger locks?"
"Half of Ballybarden has red hair," she replied. "It was just specific enough to seem real, just vague enough to work."
Tamman was silent. He watched her intently, his face inscrutable.
"Belakal took the bait," Ryka continued. "He had all the babies in Ballybarden killed. All save the one Acharian secreted away. The sword isn't indestructible. He just needed your enemies to think it was so they'd be afraid to face you in battle.
"He scratched the runes into it. They don’t mean anything. It's just gibberish in some language dead even to the scholars. And when you came of age, Acharian came to you-"
"And I refused." Tamman’s words echoed in the hollow throneroom.
"But he needed a chosen one. And by then it had to be you." Ryka recited the story as though someone else spoke through her, her body numb. "It was Acharian who tipped off Belakal's soldiers. The ones who killed your parents. That's why they came for you when Acharian knew you'd be out. That's why he was there to save you the moment you came home. That's why he was already prepared for the journey.
"A few simple victories and the people fell at your feet. You were the symbol they needed. The sure bet only the gods could promise. Your triumph was preordained. They people knew it, Belakal's soldiers knew it. Everyone believed you would win, so you did."
Ryka handed him Acharian's ring, the one worn by the High Mage of Ibelya.
"This may sound like madness," she told him, "but I swear it's true. Acharian left out of shame at what he'd done and what you were beginning to do. He's been hiding all this time, trying to forget. He gave me this ring to prove my words. He still thinks you’re capable of redemption."
Ryka searched his face for any kind of reaction.
"It was a lie, Tam," she said. "It was all a lie."
"And why do you tell me this?" asked Tamman.
He was not shaken. Perhaps it was shock, Ryka reasoned.
"It-It went to your head," Ryka stammered. "No one man should be told he has a divine right to rule. Even Belakal’s orders weren’t beyond contestation.
"The people may not speak a word against you, but they curse the gods at night. Just as I did when Jor was conscripted. My village needed the men you took to work the land. The Belarri tinkers who trade with us say you scorched their land and burned their homes over a few skirmishes in the North. You had whole clans in Westbend put to the sword. Acharian thought-"
"Thought what, girl?" asked the king. "That I would change my ways if I knew my power came from him? If I knew I was still his puppet? Like you?"
A fury flared in Ryka. Now she shook in anger.
"I am no one's puppet," she declared, her voice ringing through the throneroom. "I know the truth."
"The truth is Acharian needed a fool, so he sent a farmboy to kill a warlord," Tamman's voice rang like the rolling thunder through which the gods spoke. "Now he sends a crofter's girl to kill a king. And you'll fail just as I did."
Ryka's newfound confidence vanished. "What do you mean?"
"I didn't kill Belakal," Tamman admitted.
He sighed, showing the weight of kingship at last. His shoulders drooped. And for a moment she saw the face of a man who feared no assassin and not because he could not be killed.
"Belakal believed the prophecy," said Tamman. "He feared it so much his men slaughtered babies in the streets of Ballybarden. All those years I was hidden away he never slept a night without fearing I had somehow escaped. I was no more a man to him than I was to Acharian. I was an idea, a fear that haunted him."
Tamman turned away from her. He paced the throneroom like a prisoner would a too-familiar dungeon. She saw the dirk on the ground where it had fallen when he threw her. His back was to her.
"When I returned, he knew he was a dead man. Everything I did made him certain that death loomed that much closer. When I took the city I found him in the Citadel, but it was not the glorious battle they sing of at my feasts."
Tamman's voice was bitter, his cynicism as much a mask as his nonchalance. His hand reached out to brush the tapestry Ryka had hidden behind. It was of him, Ulfbard gleaming in his hand. He was the perfect hero, handsome in his armor. Belakal, or a gaunt and crooked figure that could have been Belakal, held his warsword, about to be slain.
"He was unarmed," said Tamman. "He was mad with fear and threw himself before me. He begged me to kill him so he could sleep, truly sleep, for the first time in nineteen years."
Ryka took a step towards Tamman.
"They never tell you that soldiers cry in the stories." He leaned on the tapestry as though for strength. "They never tell you that they shit themselves when you run them through. They told me Belakal was a monster. They never told me he was a man."
He looked up at her touch. She was just as surprised as he to find her hand on his arm. She yanked it back as though he had the pox.
"When I refused to kill him, he seized my swordhand and forced my sword through his chest," Tamman confessed. "Everything he'd done since the Blessed Sisters foretold his end was the desperation of a man afraid to lose his power. To be at the mercy of those he had wronged. Because he believed Acharian's gods-damned prophecy like the rest of the fools."
"You know?" Ryka couldn't process his words. "You knew it was a lie?"
Tamman turned to her. His face was far older than his thirty-nine years and yet for the first time she saw him for the overwhelmed boy he was.
He drew his sword. A dagger went from her boot to her hand without a thought. She crouched, a cat bracing for a lion's onslaught.
"Peace, Ryka," he said.
He held out his weapon. She hesitated more than a moment before tucking the dagger into her belt and taking the sword. Its weight surprised her. She was holding Ulfbard, the indestructible sword forged in the fires of the gods, wrought of metal that had fallen from the heavens.
No. No, she held a sword made by superior craftsman from distant Vaal-Ahan, a great civilization so far away that it was little more than story to a crofter's daughter or a farmboy. A sword made of metal from a meteorite.
Real or no, she held the sword with reverence. It may not have been legend, but it was still history.
"It-It's nicked!" she exclaimed.
Her fingers traced the small dent in the metal. It was right there for all to see. How had no one noticed?
"That happened at the battle of Weylach Wood," Tamman explained. "One of Belakal's generals left that. That was three months before we took the Citadel. An indestructible sword doesn't get nicked by some priggish general's blade. And a chosen one doesn't win the day when a shit-stained coward kills himself."
"Why?" Ryka's head swam. The room was spinning. Once more her legs threatened to give way beneath her.
"The Weylach and the tribes of Lochsrun put their ancient scores aside, not because they both hated Belakal, but because they both believed in me. I saw enemies pulling one another from the battlefield like brothers that day. I saw an Ibelyan farmer and a Weylach archer give their lives to save a Lochsrun warrior. I saw a Weylach soldier and a Lochsrun lass married after the battle. And the bride's brother not only accepted it, he clasped hands with the soldier and welcomed him to the family.
"Do you know what that's like?" His face went from absolution to damnation in an instant. "Of course not. You’ve known peace all your life. What does it matter if they’ve been warring for centuries if you only got the songs, not the blood."
Ryka eyed him warily. She had expected a legend. A tyrant. Not a man moved near to tears by acts of compassion.
"Acharian did what he had to for the greater good. So did I. If it took a chosen one to unite Ibelya and Lochsrun and the Weylach and even the Fair Folk of Briel, so be it. If it takes a divine mandate to keep the chaos at bay, then that's what it takes.
"I was everything Acharian ever wanted me to be. I sacrificed everything for his prophecy. I did everything he ever asked of me. The fate of an entire realm on my shoulders since the day the damned wizard picked me over the other screaming babies and now he sends a puppet just as foolish as I to kill me."
Tamman turned his back on her. She reached out as though to touch his shoulder but let her hand drop.
"Take your dagger. Or even my sword. More poetic that way. Kill me if you like. Gods know Tam the farmboy died a long time ago." Tamman drew himself back up, a king once more. "But know that my reign is the longest peace Ibelya has ever known. My reign has brought order and unity. Say what you will about Belakal, but he had the right idea. He just lacked the right story to inspire true loyalty."
"Your peace was bought with the suffering of innocent Belarri. You massacred Westbend," Ryka told him. "My village has barely survived. Half our men are dead. Who knows if the others will return or if they’ll even have a village to come back to?"
"Would you have preferred a Belarri raid?" He took in her swarthier complexion. "Your village knows the cost of raids well, I see."
Ryka glared at him.
"Your villagers can find refuge elsewhere in Ibelya," said Tamman. "Our lands are safe, thanks to those men."
"I don’t want refuge. I came here to kill you," spat Ryka. "To make you answer for what you’ve done. You took my friend, Jor, from me. He died in Belarra, patrolling the territories you conquered with the men we needed to prepare for winter. It was an ambush. Jor was a country boy. He never stood a chance against hardened soldiers."
"I was a country boy too." Tamman’s voice was quiet. "Be proud. He died for Ibelya."
"He died for you," Ryka growled. "You sent those boys to their death and didn’t even care. And why should you? There’s always more country lads when lords need lambs for the slaughter. All Jor wanted was a blacksmith's shop like his master's and a wife."
"And I suppose that'd've been you, girl?" Tamman turned to face her again. His presence seemed to radiate power. He commanded respect with every syllable. "Who is a crofter's daughter to tell a king what isn't fair? Who was a farmboy to tell a warlord what he was doing wrong?"
"Ruling demands hard choices. That's why people put kings on thrones instead of taking the crown for themselves. They want someone else to make the hard choices and someone else to blame when they can't stomach it.
"Yes, I have dealt swiftly with our enemies. That's why we have so few. And at least so long as I reign my people will know no raids or pillaging. Their lives will not be interrupted by coups or the political squabbles of lords or the territory disputes of hill folk or scholars bickering over the legitimacy of every succession." Tamman’s chest puffed out like a lion’s. His shoulders were so broad, yet she knew they weren’t as strong as he pretended. "I am the king. The gods willed it, so it shall be."
"But it's a lie." Ryka refused to be intimidated by his act. She had seen the truth.
"A lie?" He gestured around them. "Oh, girl, you can't be so naive. Look around you. Look at the tapestry or the statues of the kings of old. Those aren't men. They're stories. That's all that matters."
This was all too surreal. She didn’t belong here. She belonged on a bale of hay in the blacksmith’s shop, laughing as Jor worked.
"Do you think Belakal was really born under a blood moon?" he asked her. "Do you think he really killed more Lochsrun tribesman than anyone else or had a thousand women in his day? Do you think the kings of old married goddesses and fairies and had the blood of lions or wielded weapons forged of the bones of the dragons they killed? Half our kings didn’t have enough royal blood to fill a flask."
Tamman smiled, sure of himself and his legend.
"Acharian's lie was the only magic he ever worked that did anything good for anyone," Tamman scoffed.
"A lie isn't magic," said Ryka.
"Of course it is," Tamman insisted. "A good lie is the most powerful magic in the world. Otherwise Ibelya would be at war still. I would have been a farmer in Haversham or a workman in Ballybarden if the prophecy hadn't worked its magic. And you would have stayed a crofter's daughter and married whoever was man enough to gut the Belarri prick who ambushed him."
"Bastard!" Ryka screamed. "Jor was twice the man you’ll ever be!"
She had him at the point of his own sword.
The guards poured in at her shout. There were a dozen of them, trailed by curious servants and lords who had lingered after the feast or been awoken from their beds. Their eyes fell on their king and a sixteen-year-old girl in ranger's garb, Ulfbard the Unbreakable in her hands.
"He is not the chosen one," Ryka declared for all to hear. "The prophecy is a lie. You traded one tyrant for another."
With all the might in her farm-worked arms, Ryka threw the sword. It flew through the air, its sheen ablaze in the torchlight. Ulfbard crashed into the statue of King Urech the Stout. The ancient stone crumbled where it struck. A chunk fell from the long-dead king's chest, taking his arm and shoulder with it. Shards of gleaming metal fell like stars. Ulfbard lay shattered.
Ryka turned to face the crowd.
"Do you see now?" she asked.
"Belarri lies!" screamed a maid of the castle.
"Traitor!" cried the squire Ryka had seen with his master's lady. "Seize her!"
The growing mob was on her in moments. The squire tore the dagger from her belt. She screamed and kicked, but a servant and a knight held her fast. Ryka shouted her rages, railing against Tamman and Acharian and the Blessed Sisters and the father who had told her Jor was doing his duty by his king and all the other fools. She stood in the halls of Ibelya's ancient Citadel, but Tamman had brought no justice here.
Ryka broke away and made a go for the dirk on the floor. She lunged at Tamman. He did not flinch or block. Two guards caught her before the blade sank into the king's unguarded heart.
One of the guards twisted her hand. The dirk clattered to the floor. She tore and struck and flailed to no avail. Ryka saw the look on the people's faces and hung her head.
They believed he was untouchable. And so he was.
"Hold," Tamman ordered.
He did not shout. He did not even raise his voice. His face was calm, his stride assured.
"The girl is but a puppet. She's a traitor's fool not a traitor herself," said Tamman. "There is a man outside the castle. An old drunkard who fed her this madness. Find him and bring him to me. I'll deal with them both myself. The gods gave me justice to temper my strength. I shall judge their fates and hear no more of this raving."
⚜
The guards threw Acharian to the ground. His old knees
collided painfully with the stone. One of the guards spat on him. Tamman
dismissed his men. The great, iron-worked doors of the throneroom closed behind
them.
Acharian looked to his young champion. Tamman held Ryka by the forearm.
"Why must you always send a child to do your dirty work, old man?" asked Tamman.
"Tam," said Acharian, "I know you must be confused-"
"He knew," Ryka told him. Tamman's grip was like iron, even through the leather. "He's known since Weylach Wood."
"What?" Acharian demanded. For once the old man looked like a wizard of power. "You idiot boy. Here I thought you corrupted by divine right, but you're no more than a boy grasping at shiny toys. You arrogant fool-"
"Arrogant?" hissed Tamman. He released Ryka and approached his former teacher. "Did I think myself above the gods and give my words to the Blessed Sisters as their own? Did I play chicken with a warlord and let a whole village of mothers pay the price for my game?"
"Tam, I understand your anger-"
"You understand nothing!" Tamman shouted. It was the rage of an angry young man not the fury of a king. "I was happy! I had a life! I could have stayed on my farm in Haversham if you'd just left me be. I could have married the thatcher's girl and had a family and lived my simple life, never knowing the people who raised me weren't my parents.
"Gods, you took two families from me! You had soldiers and hill folk and priestesses sacrifice themselves for my cause. They thought they were dying for me, not some old man's gambit. And now you preach to me about arrogance."
"Tam, listen-"
"NO!" cried Tamman. "No, you listen, you self-righteous bastard. All those people who died, all the ones who followed me, could I let them down? Could I tell them they were just your pawns like me and Ryka and their deaths were for nothing? You taught me the ends justify the means so I’ve played your mummer's farce for the last twenty years.
"I hate the king I have to be. Every day Tam the farmboy curses what King Tamman has done, what he has to do." His eyes shone with tears. "I was just a boy. You made me a king. I did what I had to to keep a kingdom together."
"Tam, I have suffered every day for the shame of what I've done," said Acharian. "I wanted you to stay a happy boy in Haversham more than you know. I crossed a line trying to do what I thought was right. And you know you crossed a line too. Somewhere, you lost sight of what this was all for. You aren't the just king I raised you to be-"
"I am every bit the king you needed me to be!" roared Tamman.
"Tam-"
Tamman struck Acharian across the face with such force that the wizard's nose ran with blood.
"Never speak that name!" Tamman raged. "You killed Tam the day you called me chosen one. He could have died a good man and beloved son without the blood of village boys and Westbend children on his hands. So don't you dare speak his name."
Acharian was too stunned to use magic in his own defense.
Tamman seized Ryka by the arms. "Ryka, marry me."
"What?" Ryka, still defeated from the people's failure to see the truth, could not seem to process anything anymore.
"You are the only person who knows the truth," he told her. "You are the only one who knows what really happened the day Belakal died. Do you know what a weight was lifted just by telling someone, anyone, even a crofter's daughter playing at being an assassin?"
Ryka shook her head. "You're mad."
They were both mad. The world was mad. Any world that took so much from Tam and Ryka and Jor and the tinkers and Westbend and Ballybarden was mad. War upon war, tyrant after tyrant, revolution after revolution and nothing changed. The world was still sick with lies.
"Ryka, be my queen," Tamman implored. "We could rule together. With you at my side we could show the people that we have their best interests at heart. You could help your village. Hell, as queen you could help all the villages you please."
"Let her go," said Acharian. "She's a child, Tamman. And she’s been through enough. This is our dispute."
"Ryka, please, stay," pleaded Tam.
In his eyes was such hurt and such a fleeting hope.
"Please, you- You understand," he implored. "You know. You could be my confidante, my right hand. You could be my friend."
Ryka looked from the handsome, red-haired hero before her to the renowned High Mage on the floor. Both men greater than a crofter's daughter could ever dream of being. Both more broken than she had ever been, even the night the truth had shattered her reality as irreparably as she had a king's sword.
"Don't you see how he's used you?" Tamman seemed more a raving drunk than Karn. "He's played you. That's what he does. He plays his games and we're left putting the world back together."
"Tamman, please," Acharian begged. "I am so sorry. I can never undo what I've done to you. I can't give you back your life or your farm-"
"You mean the one Belakal's men burned when you tipped them off?"
Tamman turned his madness back on the wizard. The man who'd chosen him, over dozens of other children, each as insignificant as he could have been.
"You told them where I lived!" Tamman punched Acharian straight in the jaw. "You sent them to my farm!" He hit Acharian again. The wizard did not fight back. "They murdered my parents!" Tamman held the old man as though he might strangle him. "The parents you chose for me. If they hadn't taken me in they'd still be there. They'd be alive if it weren't for me."
Tamman released the bloodied old man. The king sank to the floor. His stately facade crumpled like a paper dragon in a mummer's show.
"If it weren't for you!" he cried out, leaping to his feet. He began to beat upon the old man.
The dirk bit into his shoulder. He was more aware of the shock of it, too numb to feel the pain fully. He looked at Ryka in surprise. The fury had drained from him.
"You broke my sword..." he said, as though just realizing it. "You stabbed me."
Tamman took a step towards his would-be assassin. Ryka held the dirk still. She threatened to strike again.
"No one's hurt me in twenty years. Even Acharian won't lift a spell against me. Some days even I believe the prophecy. But you don't. You're the only one who sees shit and calls it shit." Tamman reached out a hand to caress her cheek. "If only the world held more of you."
"Tamman Hillcroft, that is enough," ordered Acharian, High Mage of Ibelya. The wizard stood, crackling with power. The lights flickered and burned blue. "Let. The girl. Go."
"You sent her here," said Tamman. "You could have faced me yourself. Gods, you could have faced Belakal yourself. But the people wouldn't follow you, would they? All your magic and titles and you don't have a shred of real power."
"Tamman, I never wanted any of this," said Acharian. "And I hate myself for bringing yet another innocent into this madness-"
"Innocent?" echoed Ryka.
Tamman's head snapped to her, more wounded than when she'd stabbed him.
"Tam isn't innocent." Ryka met the farmboy's gaze.
"Ryka...?"
"You're a murderer," she continued, "A false king clinging to a prophecy made up by an arrogant fool."
Tamman grabbed her hand. "Ryka, please. You have to understand."
"I do." Ryka snatched her arm away. "And I would rather die on a hillside in Bellara than live your lie for a day. You bloodied your own hands, Tamman. The wizard had shit to do with i-"
It took only a second. Ryka never even knew to be scared. In a flicker of candlelight Tamman’s hands found her jaw and brown hair, as though about to caress her, and snapped her neck.
"Then take the truth to the grave," said Tamman, releasing her from his grasp. "The living have no use for it."
Ryka fell, a limp puppet.
Acharian screamed. He ran to her, cradling the girl in his arms as he had the red-haired baby he'd carried from Ballybarden.
Ryka was already gone. Her eyes were frozen, looking to some corner of the room, as though the tapestry held more answers than the men who screamed and shouted and blamed one another.
Tamman brushed past Acharian with all the nonchalance of an indifferent young man.
"You killed her..."
Acharian knew him guilty of any number of horrors, but to murder an innocent girl with such little care? He couldn't see how the Tamman he'd trained and ridden with and told stories to over the fire and cared for along their quest would do such a thing.
"Don't lie to yourself, old man." Tamman never met his eyes, fixed as they were on the throne beyond.
Acharian held Ryka's empty shell to him.
"Gods forgive me."
"They may," said Tamman, turning to face him one last time. His eyes held more fire than any hell the gods could have dreamed up. "But I never will."
Tamman turned his back on the defeated old man and once more ascended the stairs to the throne. He hid the tremor well as his hands lifted the crown Acharian had once placed upon him. It was a burden all too heavy. One he had never chosen to bear.
Acharian looked to his young champion. Tamman held Ryka by the forearm.
"Why must you always send a child to do your dirty work, old man?" asked Tamman.
"Tam," said Acharian, "I know you must be confused-"
"He knew," Ryka told him. Tamman's grip was like iron, even through the leather. "He's known since Weylach Wood."
"What?" Acharian demanded. For once the old man looked like a wizard of power. "You idiot boy. Here I thought you corrupted by divine right, but you're no more than a boy grasping at shiny toys. You arrogant fool-"
"Arrogant?" hissed Tamman. He released Ryka and approached his former teacher. "Did I think myself above the gods and give my words to the Blessed Sisters as their own? Did I play chicken with a warlord and let a whole village of mothers pay the price for my game?"
"Tam, I understand your anger-"
"You understand nothing!" Tamman shouted. It was the rage of an angry young man not the fury of a king. "I was happy! I had a life! I could have stayed on my farm in Haversham if you'd just left me be. I could have married the thatcher's girl and had a family and lived my simple life, never knowing the people who raised me weren't my parents.
"Gods, you took two families from me! You had soldiers and hill folk and priestesses sacrifice themselves for my cause. They thought they were dying for me, not some old man's gambit. And now you preach to me about arrogance."
"Tam, listen-"
"NO!" cried Tamman. "No, you listen, you self-righteous bastard. All those people who died, all the ones who followed me, could I let them down? Could I tell them they were just your pawns like me and Ryka and their deaths were for nothing? You taught me the ends justify the means so I’ve played your mummer's farce for the last twenty years.
"I hate the king I have to be. Every day Tam the farmboy curses what King Tamman has done, what he has to do." His eyes shone with tears. "I was just a boy. You made me a king. I did what I had to to keep a kingdom together."
"Tam, I have suffered every day for the shame of what I've done," said Acharian. "I wanted you to stay a happy boy in Haversham more than you know. I crossed a line trying to do what I thought was right. And you know you crossed a line too. Somewhere, you lost sight of what this was all for. You aren't the just king I raised you to be-"
"I am every bit the king you needed me to be!" roared Tamman.
"Tam-"
Tamman struck Acharian across the face with such force that the wizard's nose ran with blood.
"Never speak that name!" Tamman raged. "You killed Tam the day you called me chosen one. He could have died a good man and beloved son without the blood of village boys and Westbend children on his hands. So don't you dare speak his name."
Acharian was too stunned to use magic in his own defense.
Tamman seized Ryka by the arms. "Ryka, marry me."
"What?" Ryka, still defeated from the people's failure to see the truth, could not seem to process anything anymore.
"You are the only person who knows the truth," he told her. "You are the only one who knows what really happened the day Belakal died. Do you know what a weight was lifted just by telling someone, anyone, even a crofter's daughter playing at being an assassin?"
Ryka shook her head. "You're mad."
They were both mad. The world was mad. Any world that took so much from Tam and Ryka and Jor and the tinkers and Westbend and Ballybarden was mad. War upon war, tyrant after tyrant, revolution after revolution and nothing changed. The world was still sick with lies.
"Ryka, be my queen," Tamman implored. "We could rule together. With you at my side we could show the people that we have their best interests at heart. You could help your village. Hell, as queen you could help all the villages you please."
"Let her go," said Acharian. "She's a child, Tamman. And she’s been through enough. This is our dispute."
"Ryka, please, stay," pleaded Tam.
In his eyes was such hurt and such a fleeting hope.
"Please, you- You understand," he implored. "You know. You could be my confidante, my right hand. You could be my friend."
Ryka looked from the handsome, red-haired hero before her to the renowned High Mage on the floor. Both men greater than a crofter's daughter could ever dream of being. Both more broken than she had ever been, even the night the truth had shattered her reality as irreparably as she had a king's sword.
"Don't you see how he's used you?" Tamman seemed more a raving drunk than Karn. "He's played you. That's what he does. He plays his games and we're left putting the world back together."
"Tamman, please," Acharian begged. "I am so sorry. I can never undo what I've done to you. I can't give you back your life or your farm-"
"You mean the one Belakal's men burned when you tipped them off?"
Tamman turned his madness back on the wizard. The man who'd chosen him, over dozens of other children, each as insignificant as he could have been.
"You told them where I lived!" Tamman punched Acharian straight in the jaw. "You sent them to my farm!" He hit Acharian again. The wizard did not fight back. "They murdered my parents!" Tamman held the old man as though he might strangle him. "The parents you chose for me. If they hadn't taken me in they'd still be there. They'd be alive if it weren't for me."
Tamman released the bloodied old man. The king sank to the floor. His stately facade crumpled like a paper dragon in a mummer's show.
"If it weren't for you!" he cried out, leaping to his feet. He began to beat upon the old man.
The dirk bit into his shoulder. He was more aware of the shock of it, too numb to feel the pain fully. He looked at Ryka in surprise. The fury had drained from him.
"You broke my sword..." he said, as though just realizing it. "You stabbed me."
Tamman took a step towards his would-be assassin. Ryka held the dirk still. She threatened to strike again.
"No one's hurt me in twenty years. Even Acharian won't lift a spell against me. Some days even I believe the prophecy. But you don't. You're the only one who sees shit and calls it shit." Tamman reached out a hand to caress her cheek. "If only the world held more of you."
"Tamman Hillcroft, that is enough," ordered Acharian, High Mage of Ibelya. The wizard stood, crackling with power. The lights flickered and burned blue. "Let. The girl. Go."
"You sent her here," said Tamman. "You could have faced me yourself. Gods, you could have faced Belakal yourself. But the people wouldn't follow you, would they? All your magic and titles and you don't have a shred of real power."
"Tamman, I never wanted any of this," said Acharian. "And I hate myself for bringing yet another innocent into this madness-"
"Innocent?" echoed Ryka.
Tamman's head snapped to her, more wounded than when she'd stabbed him.
"Tam isn't innocent." Ryka met the farmboy's gaze.
"Ryka...?"
"You're a murderer," she continued, "A false king clinging to a prophecy made up by an arrogant fool."
Tamman grabbed her hand. "Ryka, please. You have to understand."
"I do." Ryka snatched her arm away. "And I would rather die on a hillside in Bellara than live your lie for a day. You bloodied your own hands, Tamman. The wizard had shit to do with i-"
It took only a second. Ryka never even knew to be scared. In a flicker of candlelight Tamman’s hands found her jaw and brown hair, as though about to caress her, and snapped her neck.
"Then take the truth to the grave," said Tamman, releasing her from his grasp. "The living have no use for it."
Ryka fell, a limp puppet.
Acharian screamed. He ran to her, cradling the girl in his arms as he had the red-haired baby he'd carried from Ballybarden.
Ryka was already gone. Her eyes were frozen, looking to some corner of the room, as though the tapestry held more answers than the men who screamed and shouted and blamed one another.
Tamman brushed past Acharian with all the nonchalance of an indifferent young man.
"You killed her..."
Acharian knew him guilty of any number of horrors, but to murder an innocent girl with such little care? He couldn't see how the Tamman he'd trained and ridden with and told stories to over the fire and cared for along their quest would do such a thing.
"Don't lie to yourself, old man." Tamman never met his eyes, fixed as they were on the throne beyond.
Acharian held Ryka's empty shell to him.
"Gods forgive me."
"They may," said Tamman, turning to face him one last time. His eyes held more fire than any hell the gods could have dreamed up. "But I never will."
Tamman turned his back on the defeated old man and once more ascended the stairs to the throne. He hid the tremor well as his hands lifted the crown Acharian had once placed upon him. It was a burden all too heavy. One he had never chosen to bear.
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About the Author: Shannon Barnsley is a fantasy writer and certified redhead with a love of folklore/fakelore, culture, and mythology. Much of her fiction is inspired by the frozen northlands from which she hails in rural New Hampshire. Shannon graduated from Hampshire College with a degree in Creative Writing/Mythology & Religion. Since then she has whiled away the hours blogging about banned books, working in a haunted 18th century village, and pursuing that white whale of writing majors: the published novel. You can follow her on this wayward journey on Twitter at @ShanBarnsley.
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