Chapter Eight
Mountain Roads
The trek up to the mountains was largely uneventful. Vera thought it was a shame, but Rubicus ended up staying behind at Caledon Keep. She couldn’t blame him. He was getting on in years, and there was a lot of mountain range to get through. Even in a carriage, it was going to be a tiresome journey. At the keep, he could put his feet up, take a bath, and then yell at some soldiers, maybe find some new recruits for his company. They parted with a hug, and Rubicus implied he might meet them on the way back, but she wouldn’t hold him to it. She would, however, miss him. And she had paid for his services, so at least his men would be with them. Not that she didn’t trust her own guard, of course, but she felt comfortable around mercenaries in a way she never would around military men.
Then, of course, the real voyage began. Vera couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d travelled this far. Sure, back when she was in Ruben’s mercenary company they were always on the move, going from one town to the next, wherever the money was, but that never took them across the border. Not since the war, at least. The old mercenary had mentioned that, once upon a time, bands like his were sent out on skirmishes with neighbouring nations. The rise of Emperor Caligon had put a stop to that, if only out of a sense of self-preservation. Every country on the continent had been ravaged by the Emperor and his armies.
Raasland, if Clarus’ correspondence with his royal counterpart was to be believed, had been largely ignored by Caligon’s hordes, if only because it had not been an enticing target. The Emperor and his armies had pushed forward, unstoppable, sweeping across the world from overseas. At first, there had been the thought he was looking for riches, natural or otherwise, but that had not been sufficient. Some had tried to bribe the Emperor. It had not gone well for them. It seemed that for someone, something, like Caligon, conquest was method, means and reward.
Even here in the mountains, where the hordes had finally been stopped, the land still bore the scars of a now fifteen-year dead war. Hillsides with gashes in them where grass didn’t grow and would never grow again. Ghost towns. Weapons, discarded and eroded from years of disuse. Where a demon died, no life could sprout.
But the land had also begun to reclaim itself. Not all towns were ghost towns. An abandoned war machine was used by a goatherd and his flock to take shelter from the rain. There were children, here and there, playing with what looked like an old spear shaft. There was a family of ducks the entire entourage halted to let pass. Aesling was delighted to see how much life there actually was in the mountains. A part of her, Vera knew, had expected barren, rocky peaks, covered in snow, but the slopes were covered in green, the scars of battle only highlighting how well nature had flourished around it. Certainly, many demons had died and corrupted the soil, but ten thousand demons had crashed onto the gates of Caledon Keep, and the land around it had recovered anyway.
As they travelled down the winding mountain roads, staying at inns that had been scouted out ahead of time, Vera and Clarus enjoyed as much time together as they could. It was something Vera had worried about when taking her throne, the idea that she and her Clarus would drift apart. There were the many responsibilities Clarus had, and the ones she’d taken upon herself. But there was also, of course, the possibility that in the long term, they wouldn’t have been as good for each other as they’d hoped, but that turned out to be unfounded. They worked well together. Clarus often relied on her for advice, and she on him in return for her ideas when it came to magic and people like her. Aesling being there helped, too.
Vera had found that sometimes, she needed to retreat inside herself. On those days, it was easy for Aesling to simply slip forward and spend the evening with Clarus while Vera spent some time with herself. Between the three of them, there were no secrets.
Well, there was one.
“I am impressed, Vera. You’ve deceived him for years. He’s none the wiser.”
“Shut up,” Vera said. She sat in the grove, a place Aesling and her had constructed in the mind they shared. A beautiful oasis on even the busiest, most hectic days, it was a clearing in an infinite forest, lined with all kinds of trees. Vera had never seen most of them when she’d first entered it. Soft sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting everything in soft golds and greens. She loved coming here, as she was now, resting against one of the larger oak trees. It was quiet. Peaceful. Tranquil. Perfect, except for the one deep, disgusting secret she usually tried to ignore.
In a dark corner of the grove, just outside of the glade, was a mess of vines and roots, wrapped around something that could, only in darkness, be considered a person. It wasn’t. Not really. The Cavean didn’t even have a name, just a title. A hollow thing, an old general of Emperor Caligon. It was an absence of light, happiness. It was a lack of all that was good in the world. And it couldn’t die.
But it couldn’t live, either. Not in here, locked away inside of her mind. It was forever ensnared, slowly withering away — or so Vera hoped. But it could speak, still. And when it chewed or burned or snaked itself free enough through its bindings, it talked until it drove her and Aesling insane and they had to remind each other that inflicting pain was not something they would ever delight in. It was hard. The Cavean had killed many. It had killed Flaveo.
“I would be quiet, child,” the Cavean said, “but I can not hold my tongue.” Vera pointedly refused to look at it. Its vague humanoid shape was tied down, kneeling, arms outstretched, yet as she saw it out of the corner of her eye it felt like it was always smiling down at her. It didn’t even have a face. “You are simply an inspiration. I was a conqueror, but always in service to my Emperor. Yet you have deceived a King, had him make you his bride. I would bow but…” There was a cold, hollow chuckle, like bones falling on a stone floor. “You know.”
“Clarus and I are equals,” Vera said. She knew better than to argue with it, but sometimes it was just too frustrating. Besides, what was the harm in her venting her frustrations at their cause? “Something you would never understand.”
“Just like he wouldn’t understand that you kept his father’s murderer alive?” the Cavean chuckled. “Or do you think he’d be calm and composed as ever, your hero King?”
“I only need to find the right time and place to tell him.” She looked at the thing. Though it had no eyes, no face to speak of, she knew it was looking at her. “Or I could be rid of you and tell him afterwards.”
“There is no violence you could use to destroy me, little thing,” the Cavean said. Once upon a time its voice had been terrifying, overpowering, like a bell rung by a lesser god, all steel and hollow rock. Over the years, it had become subdued. Its grandiosity had diminished, and what was left was rasping, like a rusty blade on flat stone. “You may keep me contained but there is no power on this earth strong enough to destroy mine.”
“You’re right,” Vera sighed, and rested her head against the tree she sat against. “You are nothing, and nothing can destroy nothing. But you will wither away until you have been replaced with my own power and happy memories and you will be forgotten.”
The Cavean’s laugh was like a razor blade on a bowstring, a horrible grating sound that found its way between her shoulder blades then ran up her spine, nesting in the base of her skull. She raised a hand and the roots rose up to cover the creature.
“Saints, I hate that thing,” she mumbled to herself. She peeked up and out of the grove. Aesling was just getting up. She and Clarus had spent some time together, riding in their closed royal carriage, but she could tell the Dryad needed some fresh air. It did get stuffy in there. “A change of the guard?” she offered as she felt herself slipping forward. It was like sliding into a seat that was tailored to her, and suddenly she was in her own body again.
“Yes, please,” Aesling said, taking her place in the glade. “Ah, I see our other ward has been misbehaving again?”
“It has,” Vera mumbled as she stepped out of the carriage, shielding her eyes from the sun. She spoke quietly. Clarus was passed out on the bench, and neither of them wanted to wake him. Climbing onto her horse, she allowed the rhythm of the road to clear her head. They weren’t all too far from the Raasland border. Technically, the land between the two nations had once been a small nation of its own, Aporus, and that was another thing to discuss between monarchs. Caligon’s conquest had decimated its population, and there had been no official government for almost two decades. Whatever had once been the nation of Aporus was now just mountain villages, loosely connected through trade and nothing else, local mayors and ealdormen ruling over small plots of land.
The only reason none of the surrounding nations had attempted a land-grab was because, well, Caligon’s conquest had decimated every army. On top of that, there was a fragile peace now that nobody really wanted to break. There had been skirmishes before, but now there was the quiet understanding that everyone, each nation, was healing. Another war might mean the death knell for any participating country the same way it had been for Aporus.
The final part of their trek was a mountain pass, a road that had once been treacherous, thin and winding. But where Caligon had a will, his armies found a way, and though the Emperor’s hordes had done immeasurable harm, this was one of the few objectively good outcomes of the war. The pass had been broadened, and since maintained. It was a true king’s road now, and the entire retinue could travel unobstructed.
Vera beckoned one of Rubicus’ men, who rode up next to her. She’d made sure to memorise all their names beforehand, and one of them had stuck out to her. “Luka?” she said with a little hesitation in her voice. He nodded curtly. “You are from Raasland, correct?” He nodded again. The Raasland people were stoic, hard working people of few words.
She’d attempted to make conversation with the man before, and had received mostly short replies. At first she’d felt it rude, but it was just how he communicated. His nods were clearly meant with respect, he just didn’t speak when he didn’t feel it was necessary to.
“We should be seeing the border province of your country soon, are you excited?” Vera asked. “If you’re with Rubicus, you can’t have been home in quite some time. She studied his face. He was quite young, a little younger than she was, and he still had the tall, gangly build of someone for whom puberty was still visible in his wake. But he had the air of someone who had the clumsiness of that puberty drilled out of him. He shrugged.
Vera raised an eyebrow, and he seemed to realise more was expected of him. “No, Your Highness. Not really. I left Raasland when I was young. Travelled south with my parents.” Of course, she’d been told about this, but it was still different to hear him speak of his home country so dispassionately. On the other hand, she had little affection for the town she grew up in. The only memory that was left was of Rubicus finding her in its rubble.
“Anything you can tell me about it, then? I was to understand that the southernmost city has a King’s Palace?” she prodded.
Luka nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. The royal family enjoys visiting the mountains in winter. It is said they have many sports that involve going downhill quickly.”
“Curious,” Vera said. “Well, we’ll have t—” she was interrupted by a rider on the road. He wore the Raasland crest, a bear on a field of gold and red. Luka immediately rode to meet — and stop — him. The man wore ornate armour, a chequered banner visible on his mount’s caparison.
“Friend of the guilds,” Luka said, “state your business.” His accent was thicker than it had been a minute ago.
“A missive!” The man said. “I am here to greet King Clarus the Bright and his retinue!”
“You’re speaking to them!” Clarus said as he stepped out of his carriage. Even when he had just woken up, he looked like a king from a storybook. His golden beard was perfectly trimmed, and his hair was a very attractive kind of messy. Vera barely managed to avoid biting her lip in front of another nation’s emissary. “I am Clarus, King.” He stretched out an arm up to her. “And Vera, my Queen!”
“Perfect! I am here to escort you to King Leonald,” the messenger said as he jumped off his horse and took off his helmet. He looked to be about nineteen. In stark contrast to Luka, he seemed to have fully come into his own. There was nothing awkward or gangly about him. He had short brown hair, shaved at the sides, and deep brown eyes. Most obvious of all, however, was his wide, cocky grin that reminded Vera of Clarus when she’d first met him. He dropped down on one knee, pressing his helmet to the ground. “Prince Fennian, at your service.”
