House of Dusk, House of Dawn: The House of Crimson & Clover, #12

PART ONE

THE BATTLE FOR FARJHEM

1

TRISTAN

Tristan gave one last searching glance at the monolithic glacier towering above them, a frozen wall stretching clear to the sky. Though inanimate, the iced fortification pulsed with the life of what lay beyond. The steam of pure cold rising from the ice was as clear a reminder as ever that he was as far from home as the earth allowed.

Anders was not wrong: the magic cloaking Farjhem was infallible. Marveling at this sheet of ice so massive it was seemingly unscalable, one would never guess it foreshadowed an entire world beyond. Only the subtle undercurrent of beating power rising with the steam betrayed this glacier was more than it seemed.

Harriett bundled in tighter. Her mind was as silent as her mouth and Tristan did nothing to challenge that. Even if he had felt talkative, he had nothing to say. The danger they headed into was immeasurable next to anything they’d done in their lives so far. Words would be as inadequate as they were useless at this juncture.

Tarek nodded at Anders. Are we going to admire the view or get this done?

The words snapped Anders back to his regimented self. Follow me. He started off into the mounds of snow, but halted, turning to face them. His shouted response was hardly a whisper among the interminable blanket of eternal winter. Say nothing when we get inside. Not until I’ve determined we are alone.

He trekked forth without awaiting a response. Tristan, Harriett, and Tarek dutifully followed.

Tristan was in the seventh grade when the first Harry Potter book released. He’d clamored and begged his mother to stand in line with him outside the Garden District Book shop, hours before it opened, sweating in the late summer heat. A boy wizard is sent to a magical boarding school, where he learns cool spells, makes lifelong friends, and triumphs over evil sorcerers? What’s not to love?

He never told Elizabeth, not after the first book, or the second, or even the fourth, that he knew deep in his marrow his own life would have turned out for the better had he been sent away to learn more about who he was instead of spending his youth minding the emotional state of his mother.

Now, he would give anything to go back to those old days, to ease her from a panic attack, or reassure her of his love. He would take all the bad and uncomfortable just to have her back.

Both Elizabeth and Connor were on his mind as the stalwart group moved achingly through the blinding snow. He focused on lifting one boot with great effort and thrusting it back down with powerful inertia. Over and over. They were not going far, but a yard was a mile in snow this deep. Mind your body temperature, his mother cooed from the back of his mind somewhere. If you begin to sweat, you must slow down. It won’t do to have the sweat freeze against your skin. His father had words for him as well. Don’t think about how far you have to go, son. Instead, think of how far you’ve come.

Tristan slammed to a stop when he hit a wall. No, not a wall, Tarek. The snow muffled Tarek’s grumbles. Harriett fell against his back as she caught up to the traffic accident.

We’re here! Anders yelled.

Where? Tristan wanted to ask. The view hadn’t changed in an agonizing long while. Snow and ice as far as his gaze could span. White upon white upon more white.

Anders looked up, along the ice shelf, toward the sky. With a brief glance back, he nodded and moved forward. He disappeared into the glacier.

Harriett gasped behind him. Tristan felt the same shock. But Tarek didn’t falter in his lagged steps, and then, he too disappeared. They were both gone, with no instruction and no explanation. Just… gone.

It’s like that book of yours, Tristan. You know. The one about the wizard.

Harry Potter, Mom. And it’s not just one book.

Yes, whatever it’s called. I remember you telling me the little wizard walked right into a wall and it took him somewhere magical. In my day, we called an experience like that a ‘good trip.’

Platform 9 ¾. Not LSD. No one cares about your drug stories, Mom.

Well, whatever, Tristan. You know what to do.

Yes, he knew what to do.

He reached for Harriett’s gloved hand in the blizzard and squeezed through the thick fabric.

Tristan closed his eyes as he approached the glacier and took a leap of faith.

There was nothing at all to it. No flip-flopping of his unsteady stomach, no strange gust of wind. Arriving through Farjhem’s secret, forgotten entrance was as easy as walking through any regular old door in Tristan’s world.

The consistency of the air changed dramatically in an instant. The choking, bitter cold of outside was replaced by a new but equally repressive must that filled their lungs and produced immediate bouts of coughing from all but Anders. The creature had no pressure points, Tristan thought. His construction was pure blood and steel.

Plumes of dust fell from the dark sky. Anders’ refusal to bring in light meant Tristan was left to guess at the contents of the sediment, and his mind immediately went to the crumbling, ancient bones of his Empyrean ancestors.

A shudder passed through him. Harriett shook her head.

Don’t tell me you didn’t think the same thing. He broke their shared silence.

If I had but one last wish, Tristan, it would be to visit all the places your imagination goes to and see the world through your eyes.

Tristan didn’t know how to respond to that, and meanwhile, Anders had progressed forward and disappeared from his limited view. He struggled to catch up, and Harriett fell into pace behind him.

He had so many questions. He should have asked more before the start of the mission, should have quelled his swiftly beating heart and budding adrenaline and stopped long enough to understand the practicalities. How long was the tunnel once inside? How big was the Blacksmith shop? What the heck was the crap that would fall on them from the sky like old death?

And how would they know when the rest of the Brotherhood’s army made it into Farjhem and put their plan into motion? Anders and Tarek intimated they would know, but would they share?

Ahead, Anders’ heavy steps stilled. Tarek as well came to a stop, and soon, Tristan could see why. They had entered a clearing that seemed to be some kind of room, if you could call it that. More like an enclave, and a somewhat tidier version of the dark and dusty cave they’d just emerged from.

The room had some natural light, though Tristan could not determine the source. All around them, extraordinary steel languished in rotting wooden cases. Sword upon sword, the likes of which Tristan had only seen in movies and read in books. But these weren’t decent props; before him lay a graveyard of perhaps the most impressive sword collection existing upon the earth.

Moths and spiders ate away at the corners of the Blacksmith shop. Two massive steel anvils flanked a cobwebbed forge whose better days were long behind it. Termites, or some other parasite, had long consumed most of the wood in the room, and the cases listed to this side or that, barely held aloft by their foundations. Some had long ago given up the ghost and lay in tattered heaps on the dirt floor, their steel contents in a messy pile. Weapons that would sell for more than his father’s car in a free trade market just lying there, as if they no longer had a purpose in this world.

Tristan had a strong urge to ask more about the place, but his better sense—which was a new, surprising part of himself he was only beginning to come into—kicked in before he could make the error. The time for his questions had passed, and that time may never come again. He was not a child anymore, expecting placating by all the adults cultivating his natural curiosities. The dependencies of adult intervention in his life were his greatest struggles in achieving grown-up independence. Now, for the first time in his life, he made the switch from child to adult without much effort.

He looked at Anders. Anders closed his eyes. Listened. For what, Tristan didn’t know, and once again, knew better than to ask.

When his eyes flashed open, Anders had a peace about him that calmed Tristan enough for him to release his long-held breath.

We are alone. For now. Anders’ voice reached barely above a careful whisper. I do not expect this will last long. I have nothing else to tell you, Tristan and Tarek, that you don’t already know. The clock here will tick faster than any you’ve ever encountered. Harriett and I will pace the perimeter for as long as we need to, or until our safety has been breached. Are you ready?

Tarek nodded. Tristan paused long enough for Anders to say,

You have no choice. The clock starts now. Be swift!

Tristan felt the quick, soft squeeze of Harriett’s hand, her one brief reassurance before she disappeared to help Anders. He looked to his left at Tarek, but the creature’s lids were closed, the eyes beneath them fluttering like the onset of R.E.M. sleep.

Tristan drew in one final breath, cleared his mind, and his eyes, too, closed.

Aleksandr. Show yourself.

2

AGRIPIN

From Farsengel to the throne room at the palace. Agripin would have heartily approved of the change in scenery, swapping prison for opulence, under just about any other circumstance. Except, in their present reality, the prison was their only blanket of safety. As long as they were there, they were not headed for their execution, or, possibly, standing on the very spot of the event. The throne room under his soulless sister Oriana was no longer a place for joy and celebration. It was now the centerpiece for her short but bloodthirsty reign of terror.

Guards lined every inch of the perimeter. In their crimson uniforms, pressed up against the shock of lily white walls Oriana had ordered painted under her rule, they appeared to be elaborate elements of the scenery more than a threat. But Agripin harbored no illusions as to why they were here. Not to protect Agripin and Aleksandr, but to prevent them from trying to flee.

All the chairs were removed from the vast throne room, except the throne itself. The absence of furniture had the effect of lengthening the room into an abyss of white and crimson marble—Oriana would have removed the crimson from the flooring, Agripin was certain, had the marble not been centuries old and the materials so difficult to bring into Farjhem—that stretched on farther than Agripin had remembered.

He himself had sat upon that throne, however briefly. He could do it now if he wanted. The guards were unlikely to stop him. They weren’t likely to stop him from doing anything, really, except escaping, and he had no illusions of that with the magic bindings they’d applied before the heavy doors closed with a resounding boom.

Agripin suspected the guards were lulled into a sense of security by the magic trussing him and Aleksandr, but he knew something they apparently did not. Bindings only bound so much magic on a mystic. His abilities were only muted, not extinguished. Agripin hypothesized the same was true for the tall, quiet, so-called Savior of the Realm, who leaned in introspective silence against the dais.

Agripin could not help but be amazed by Aleksandr, who seemed to be taking the fact of his imminent execution with the strength of one bearing a spine of crucible steel. He betrayed no emotion when the guards dragged them from Farsengel, and had said or done nothing since to indicate his distress. He must be terrified, Agripin thought. Although he had the face of a grown man, he had barely walked the earth for a year. He was an infant in many ways that mattered… a babe lost in the wilderness, without the loving protection of his mother or father.

Or was he terrified? Since meeting Aleksandr, Agripin had come to learn the boy met none of his pre-conceived ideas. He was no child, and certainly not naïve, not in the ways most would define the word. Aleksandr had said to Agripin that he wasn’t afraid to die, and he saw none of the untested bravado of the very young in his eyes. Reflected back rather was the calm resolution of the very old. He was an enigma, one potentially very worth deciphering. Agripin worried there wasn’t time to solve this mystery before their lives became forfeit to Emyr.

You’re very brave, Halfling, Agripin ventured. His pacing stopped as he approached Aleksandr.

Aleksandr squinted as he chanced a look up, ever briefly. What would you know about bravery?

Agripin overlooked the slight. He had, after all, ordered the execution of Aleksandr’s father. A few verbal jabs would hardly even the score. You get that from all three of your parents. They all know their own bravery, and I’ve witnessed it in each of them. Your mother draws her strength from a fire deep within her. Your first father, Finn, from the water stretching across the earth. And Aidrik from the air around him.

What is that, poetry? Aleksandr pulled his legs to his chest and dropped his head on his knees. Or do you always get reflective when your head is about to roll?

You are right to infer my head has been poised to roll more than once, Agripin joked, though the fun fell short and neither of them laughed. "Your mother and fathers are some of the best creatures I’ve ever known. Perhaps I am reflective. Perhaps I’m only offering you an honest perspective and kind words. Which would you rather believe?"

I don’t believe anything that comes out of your mouth, Aleksandr groused, his words muffled against his grubby jeans.

Agripin continued, not for Aleksandr, but for himself. He had always pushed forth in action, sometimes without much strategic forethought, and as a prince of the realm, things had always worked out. But the execution of Aidrik, he could see now, was not one of his finest moments. It might be his darkest. I regret what happened to your father, he confessed. At the time, I convinced myself and others my decision to throw him on the sword was to save us all. I see now it was only to save my own hide.

Aleksandr tilted his head to the side against his knees. One eye peered up. You only see that now?

Have you never made a mistake? Never erred in your own judgment?

Aleksandr smirked, but it disappeared in a cloud of thoughts Agripin couldn’t read. He wondered if Aleksandr was questioning his own decision to trust someone who had pretended to be his friend and then led him to his fate in Farjhem.

I mean the words. I need not your belief in me to say them, Agripin pressed on. His boots clicked against the solid marble as he resumed his pacing. He had no real desire to move, only the knowledge he might not have the luxury much longer. I was jealous of Aidrik the Wise. He was the son my father wished I could be. I knew it then. I know it now. It matters not at present, and perhaps it should not have mattered then. Aidrik was a friend and brethren, and I would have killed for him. But I confess it now—to you, whether you’ll hear it or nay, for there is no one else to hear it—I felt a sharp satisfaction in ending his life. In this truth rests the darkest corner of my soul. We all have one, you know. Some of us only manage to avoid it longer.

You say you regret killing him, then you say you loved it? Aleksandr rolled his head away. Confessing you’re a monster doesn’t make you less of one.

Did I say I was less of a monster? Or only a clearer one as I paint the whole of myself before you?

Aleksandr said nothing.

Despite what I’ve confessed about my darkness leading me into that terrible decision, I regret it. I do. In my dreams, I stole away from Farjhem with your parents, forsaking my realm for my loyalties. In the beginning, I misread your human parents’ peculiarities as weaknesses. I saw them as less than what I was, and I derided them for this. But as I grew to know them, and later, when they were gone and I continued to unravel who they were, I understood their strength—their combined strength, in addition to their unique individual strengths—was greater than any I had ever known. In my prejudice, I overlooked something marvelous. I regret that as well.

Aleksandr waved one arm around the room without looking up. There are hundreds of people here who might care more than I do.

Yet none who deserve these words more than you.

What I deserve is some peace before I die.

You’re still resolved to let them kill you.

Aleksandr laughed. You keep saying stuff like that, but you haven’t offered a single idea for how the hell to get us out of this mess. So yes, monster, I’m coming to terms with my death because I’d rather not die trembling in fear.

You? The son of Anasofiya of the Darkness? Of Finnegan the Brave? Of Aidrik the Wise?

Mock me all you want, we’re both ending this day the same way.

The massive double doors at the other end of the throne room yawned open with a cavernous belch. Agripin whipped his gaze in that direction.

It was not Oriana, though, nor the executioner. Cyler rushed across the marble, his robe a crimson wave flying behind him, one long contiguous swish across the flooring. The guards broke their silence, mumbling in confusion as the interloper drew closer to the prisoners.

Oriana means to kill you both, Cyler said in haste.

Why, the whole world must know this by now! Agripin said with a booming laugh.

Cyler didn’t crack a smile. Publicly, Aggie. She means to murder Aleksandr before the crowd to silence any further insurgencies in Farjhem. And you.

Publicly. Privately. Agripin waved his hands around. Dead is dead.

Cyler’s frustration rose in his cheeks. You didn’t train me to lie down like a beaten dog before my enemies.

A flurry of activity rose near the door as new guards flooded into the room. Cyler gave a single glance back and then returned his eyes to his old master. You trained me to remember that nothing is over until it is.

The guards swarmed Cyler, asserting he didn’t belong, wasn’t authorized. Word hadn’t reached Oriana of Cyler’s treasonous release of Maxima or he’d be in chains. Cyler shook them off and obediently followed, but cast a long glance over his shoulder as he exited.

Do something, his eyes beseeched.

But what? Agripin wondered as the doors closed on them. And why would Cyler look to him for a solution when he was the prisoner? What could he possibly do?

But while the answer remained elusive, the question nagged at him from every corner of his mind.

Agripin’s greatest trait—and he would tell anyone this, over whiskey, over warfare, with his sword at their throat—was his resourcefulness. He was often disloyal, self-serving, and short-sighted, but these things had never proved fatal due to his unusual ingenuity.

And could it be… as he thought of his confessions… his true depth of remorse… that his greatest trait could also lead to his atonement?

Agripin turned from the boy and set his sights on a plan.

3

NERYS

It was Nerys’ idea to enter Farjhem first, before the rest of the Dragon Brotherhood. They didn’t like her plan. The idea was too risky, they said, throwing her out like a decoy when she was so valuable. Her life meant more than this.

And how am I even a drop more valuable