She hated Thorgrin for this—why couldn’t he have gone alone to find his son? Why had he had to drag Reece into this, Legion brother or not?
Yet no matter how hard she tried to shake Reece from her mind, to move on, every day since, Stara thought of nothing but Reece, when he would come back, when she would see him again. It was tearing her up inside. And now, finally, here, so far from anything, so well-hidden, reality was starting to sink in. She would never see Reece again. He would never come for her. He would never find her.
And that was a reality she could not accept.
Stara stormed inside as she walked, determined to find an answer. There had to be a way. There had to be some way to find him. Otherwise, life meant nothing to her. She refused to spend the rest of her days hiding in this peaceful place of the Ridge, while Reece was out there, in danger. This place, even with all its beauty, held no peace for her as long as Reece was not in it.
“Those are peonies, my lady,” came a voice.
Stara turned, surprised, caught off guard by the voice, and was startled to see a member of the royal family standing before her, smiling. From his proud jawline and glistening blue eyes, she could see the resemblance to the King’s family, though he was not an immediate member that she could recognize; he looked to be no older than sixteen, dressed in the royal garb of the court.
The man reached forward, smiled, took her hand, and kissed it, a twinkle in his eye.
“They are the finest flowers in court, my lady,” he added. “You have fine taste.”
He stared at her, and she recognized that look in his eyes. She had seen it on too many suitors over the years: the look of a man captivated by her beauty. It bored her. And in fact, she resented it, given her preoccupation with Reece.
“My name is Fithe,” he said. “I am a member of the royal family.”
“Are you?” she asked. “You wear the colors, yet at the feast I did not see you seated at the King’s table. Nor are you one of the King’s sons.”
He smiled.
“You are quite perceptive,” he replied. “You are correct. I am his nephew—one of them, at least—hardly afforded the privileges of the sons, but a cousin to them nonetheless. But at least I am allowed in the Royal Gardens, which has led me to you.”
He smiled wide and Stara turned away, so bored by men’s advances upon her. He was nice enough, but speaking to him was the last thing she wanted.
She turned her back and went back to examining the rows of flowers, strolling along them, wanting peace and quiet, wanting to think of Reece and nothing else.
He began to walk alongside her, and she sighed loudly, making it clear she was annoyed.
“I would prefer the pleasure of my own company,” she said curtly.
“I meant not to offend, my lady,” he said, still walking beside her. “It is just…I could not help but notice you since you arrived here the Ridge. I have been waiting for a moment to talk to you. Your beauty surpasses even what others say.”
She looked away, sighing, not wanting to talk to him.
“Please, my lady,” he pressed. “I mean you no harm. I would like only to talk to you, to spend some time with you. Allow me to at least show you our royal city.”
She faced him, frowning.
“I have seen your city,” she replied. “Enough of it, anyway. I care not for it. I had rather wished I had died in the Waste.”
He gasped, caught off guard. He looked back at her, surprised; clearly he was not used to women speaking to him this way.
“I wish for nothing here,” she replied. “There remains but one thing I wish for in this world, and it is something you could never give me. So you had best leave me be.”
He surprised her by staying put and staring back at her, his eyes not filled with scorn or anger but compassion.
“And what is it that you wish for?” he asked. “Simply tell me, and it will be yours.”
She looked at him, surprised, her interest piqued.
“I doubt it,” she said. “But if you care so much then I will tell you: I want the love of my life returned to me.”
She expected him to walk away, and was surprised as he stood there and stared at her, his brow furrowed.
“And where is he?” he asked.
Stara did not expect him to ask her that, or to even care, now that it was clear that she wasn’t interested.
“Reece is far from here,” she said, “beyond the Great Waste, beyond the sea. He is a castaway, I presume, at sea, on a ship. If he lives at all.”
He looked at her for a long time and Stara waited, expecting him to laugh, to walk away, to be rid of her—which was partially what she wanted.
So she was shocked when he finally responded, in all earnestness:
“You love him very much, don’t you?” he asked her.
Stara was taken aback by his sincerity, and to see his eyes well with tears.
“Yes,” she replied, feeling her own eyes tear up, “I do.”
Fithe grew silent, looking down; he seemed to consider her request for a long time.
Finally, he looked back up at her and nodded.
“I will help you,” he said.
She studied him, speechless.
“You will?” she asked, feeling her heart beat faster.
“I respect your love, your devotion,” he said to her. “I would have loved to have loved you, but I see you are committed to another. And if I cannot have you, then I will have the next best thing: a place in your heart for having helped you.”
Stara stared back, touched. For the first time, she felt her heart fill with hope.
“We have strict rules here in the Ridge,” he continued. “For our self-preservation. One cannot just leave the Ridge. It would leave a trail for the Empire to find, and endanger us all. Leaving this place is no small feat; if caught, you will be imprisoned, and I along with you.”
She nodded back.
“I know,” she replied. “I do not expect you to help me.”
“I will, though,” he said.
She examined him, saw his sincerity, and tried to understand.
“You would risk imprisonment for me?” she asked. “You don’t even know me.”
He smiled.
“True, I do not,” he said. “But I feel in my heart as if I do.”
“And yet it sounds as if there is no way,” she said. “I want to find him, and to do so, I must leave the Ridge.”
“You would have to broach the mountains, to cross the Waste, to find a boat, to set sail at sea alone…” he said. “It is no easy feat.”
“I care not,” she said. “None of those things frightens me.”
He nodded.
“Very well, then,” he said. “If your heart is filled enough, then there is always a way.”
He held out a single hand, and looked at her with all his intensity.
“Come with me.”
Stara placed her hand in his, and as he led her back out, through the gardens, she felt for the first time a new sense of purpose in life, felt that finally, whatever the risk, she would be reunited with Reece again.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Godfrey stood there, surrounded by a room of hostile Empire soldiers, expecting to be killed—when suddenly, a great horn sounded, shaking the room. It came from somewhere in the distance, persistent, sounding again and again, a dark, foreboding sound, something the likes of which Godfrey had never heard—and the soldiers all turned as one and ran from the room.
Godfrey stood there, sweating, perplexed, staring out at an empty room—only Akorth, Fulton, Merek, and Ario beside him, along with the bartender behind the bar.
Godfrey turned to the others but they all stared back, equally baffled.
“The horns of war,” the bartender explained, stopping what he was doing, his voice grave.
“What does it mean?” Merek said.
The bartender shook his head.
“An enemy is at the gates. Volusia is under siege.”
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Godfrey raced from the tavern with the others, all of them bursting out onto the streets of Volusia. Godfrey was dimly aware of how lucky he had been the war horns had sounded when they had, sparing him from a sure pummeling or even death back in the tavern. Yet as he ran through the panic-filled streets, he was not so sure of his good fortune. He saw thousands of Volusian soldiers mobilizing, racing to the city gates, locking and bolting them and preparing for war.
They all ran toward the city gates, all eager to see what was happening, and as he got closer and burst out of an alleyway, Godfrey finally got a peek through the city gates—and as he did, his heart stopped at the sight: there, lining the horizon, were tens of thousands of Empire soldiers, dressed in their all-black armor, hoisting the banners of the Empire—and marching right for Volusia.
Godfrey had never seen an army that size, and the way they marched, so disciplined, he could see it was a professional army. They bore professional siege equipment, too, rolled on massive wooden platforms, along with a host of catapults—and Godfrey realized that they intended not only to conquer this city—but to obliterate it.
Godfrey was baffled. He did not understand why the Empire army would march on an Empire city, what business they possibly had here. Had the Empire erupted into a civil war?
Godfrey scanned the city and amidst the chaos saw the slaves of Volusia all being auctioned off in the city squares, saw thousands more slaves in the streets, being led to the auction block—and he remembered who the real enemy was. The Volusians. The Empire wanted to destroy this city—and so did he. He wanted all these slaves set free, and perhaps, he realized, this was his opportunity.
The conquerors at the gates, he knew, might be worse than the conquerors here; but if these Volusians prevailed, the slaves would never be free. Besides, Godfrey desperately wanted revenge for Darius and his people. This was as good of a chance as he was going to get.
Spears and arrows began to fly through the iron bars of the city gate, and Volusian soldiers began to cry out and fall as they crisscrossed the courtyard to take up positions all along the city walls. Volusian soldiers, meticulously disciplined, marched single file along the ramparts, obeying the shouts of their commanders, taking up positions. They prepared cauldrons of burning oil and they knelt and fired bows and hurled spears, killing scores of soldiers on the far side of the gates. It was a massive army invading, but it was a massive city they attacked, well-fortified, and Godfrey knew this would be an epic battle. It could go on for months.
Unless he had something to say about it.
Godfrey and the others knelt in the shadows, along a city wall, all of them looking out, watching the war unfold before them. Godfrey exchanged a look with the others.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Merek asked with a mischievous smile.
Godfrey smiled back.
“And what might that be?” Akorth chimed in, worried.
“Let the Empire in,” Godfrey explained. “Let them have the run of the city.”
“That is madness!” Fulton said. “They might kill us!”
Godfrey shrugged.
“The Volusians will definitely kill us,” he replied. “The Empire might not. And if they do, at least this way they will kill the Volusians first, exact our revenge for us, and we can free these slaves.”
Akorth and Fulton, panicked, frowned and shook their heads.
“And how do you propose we do that?” Ario asked, calm and collected, as always.
Godfrey watched the Volusian soldiers turning the huge crank to the gates again and again, beginning to close the massive golden doors behind the city gates—and he had an idea. He leaned over and stroked Dray’s head.
“Dray,” he commanded. “Go. Avenge Darius. Attack those men!”
Dray needed no prodding: he barked and bolted across the courtyard, doing exactly as Godfrey bid, raising up a cloud of dust as he left a trail.
Dray reached the first soldier and sank his teeth into his ankles—and the soldier cried out, dropping the crank.
“NOW!” Godfrey said.
Godfrey rose to his feet and charged, and the others followed on his heels, Akorth and Fulton, huffing, trailing the group.
They reached the crank and all grabbed hold of it—but could not budge it.
“Turn it the other way!” Godfrey said.
They all turned it the other way, and as Godfrey pulled with all his might, slowly, the city gates began to re-open.
Soon, Volusians caught on. Godfrey ducked as a spear flew by his head, and as he looked up, he saw a squad of Volusians locking eyes on them and tearing off down the ramparts right for them.
“LOOK OUT!” Ario yelled.
Ario picked up a spear, took aim, and hurled it—pushing Godfrey’s head down just in time to miss a throwing ax. Godfrey turned to see the spear impale a Volusian soldier a few feet away, attacking them from behind.
Merek drew his sword and killed another Volusian as he attacked them from the other direction.
They all focused again on the crank, and Godfrey kept turning, his hands burning, determined not to let go. He knew, though, that their time was limited, the pack of Volusians bearing down and getting closer with every moment. The door opened wider and wider, moving at a snail’s pace.
Godfrey looked up and saw the Volusians were but feet away, about to kill them—but still he would not abandon the crank. He heaved one last time, with all the others, and finally, the gates opened just wide enough.
There came a great shout as there appeared, rushing through the open gates, hundreds of Empire soldiers, streaming in. The Volusian soldiers, overrun, had no recourse but to turn and flee as the momentum pushed them back into their own city. Before their eyes, Volusians were slaughtered, hacked down by the pursuing Empire army, and finally Godfrey felt vindicated. He recalled Darius and his men, butchered in these very same streets by the Volusians—and he knew there was justice in the world.
Godfrey knew that, in the chaos, this was their chance to escape this city.
“Let us go!” Akorth urged, pointing to the rear alleys which could lead to freedom.
Godfrey wanted to leave this place, he truly did.
But he knew he could not. Silis, the Finian woman, would be vulnerable in this invasion. If they did not help her, she would be dead. She had saved him—and he owed her.
“No!” Godfrey called out. “Not yet. We have an obligation to fulfill first. Follow me!”
He turned and ran across the courtyard, Dray barking at his heels, hoping the others would follow—but determined to proceed, even if they did not. For the first time in his life, it was not personal gain that was driving him—but valor. Duty.
He heard footsteps and turned to see the others right behind him, all of them determined, whatever the cost, to do the right thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Kendrick raced with the others across the Great Waste, fighting the sunset, all of them hurrying to make it back in time and knowing what was at stake if they did not. The temperature was beginning to drop dramatically, the light dimming with each passing moment, and Kendrick recalled what the nights were like in the Great Waste. Each night spent here, you took your life in your hands.
Though they had survived in the past, Kendrick knew it would be different this time; here, closer to the Ridge, the nights were more treacherous. Each time he had laid down to sleep he had woken to find a few of his men dead, either eaten by insects, or by strange creatures of the night that disappeared, leaving nothing but bite marks.
Kendrick glanced back over his shoulder and saw the sweepers attached to the rear of the horses, broad and wide, covering their tracks as they went, removing all sign that they’d ever been here. They were ingenious devices, and Kendrick felt at least a sense of satisfaction that they were accomplishing their mission. By the time they reached the Ridge, there would be no sign they’d ever been here, and any danger he and his people had caused by arriving here would be erased.
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Kendrick looked over as he rode and saw the bloody corpse of the Ridge soldier, draped along the back of a horse, and his heart went out for him. Because of him and his people, this brave soldier had traveled out here, and now lay dead. Kendrick could not but help feel responsible—even if he personally had saved many of their lives.
Kendrick spotted Naten riding before his men, a permanent sneer on his face, still not looking Kendrick’s way. Even though Kendrick had saved his life, he’d received nothing but bitterness in return. Some people, Kendrick knew, would always be the way they were. And yet, Kendrick noticed a shift in the attitude of the other members of the Ridge toward him. Ever since the fighting back at the twisted tree, since he had helped save them as if they were his own, they had looked upon him with a new respect. He knew that slowly, they were coming to accept him, even though he was an outsider.
They charged and charged, the sound of horses thumping in his ears, and Kendrick scoured the horizon for any sign of the Sand Wall, knowing it was the first landmark he needed to see. Yet he was frustrated to find it was always out of view.
A shout suddenly rang out above the din of the horses, and Kendrick was surprised as he looked over and saw one of the soldiers of the Ridge suddenly fall from his horse as it collapsed beneath him. They both rolled on the ground, as the others all ground to a halt, and Kendrick was baffled. At first he assumed the horse had tripped—but he did not see how, given the flat landscape.
But then he was shocked to see another horse collapse—and then another—sending its riders down to the ground, the first rider shrieking as he was crushed beneath the horse.
Soon there was an avalanche of horses collapsing, rolling, sending up huge clouds of dust.
Kendrick veered out of the way of all the fallen horses, just in time, and just as he thought he was safe, suddenly his own horse inexplicably collapsed out from under him, and Kendrick felt himself go flying, face first, onto the hard desert floor. Riding at the speed he was it was a hard landing, making him winded and feel as if he had broken every bone in his body.