Stephen Deas: The King of the Crags

'But that's not the true story,' whispered Semian, 'is it?'

'Names have a power of their own, don't they, Rider Semian.' The blood-mage smiled thinly. 'In the original revelations the red rider is the herald of the end of the world. The burning of everything. I don't think Rider Hyrkallan has quite such apocalyptic intent.'

Jostan jumped to his feet. 'Semian, why are you even talking to this… this creature. You know what he is! He told you!'

'We saw some blood-magic once,' said Semian mildly. 'Do you remember, Jostan? It was an alchemist who did it.'

'The queen outlawed its practice! On pain of death!'

'And yet this man worked for her knight-marshal.' Semian shifted closer to the blood-mage and gripped the man's knee. 'I drank dragon-venom and I survived.'

Kithyr nodded. 'Most people do, actually.'

'I had a vision!'

'Also common, I understand.'

'I saw a priest. And a dragon.' Semian seemed to see Kithyr's hands for the first time. 'His hands were burned. Like yours, but worse! He told me what I had to do!'

'And what was that?' asked the magician.

Jostan had had enough. He was already half drunk and the last thing he needed was to listen to Semian going on about his vision again. 'He thinks he's the red rider.' Jostan spat. He expected the magician and Nthandra to both fall about laughing, but neither of them did. If anything, they both looked at Semian with even greater interest. 'Did you hear me? He believes it. Prophecies, end of the world, he believes the lot. He thinks it's him.' There. 'He's crazy. And if you don't think he's crazy, then you're both crazy too.' He walked away and left them to it. Not just crazy crazy, either. Dangerous crazy, Cracked. Mad as a bag of spiders. That sort of crazy. He looked back over his shoulder at the tiny circle of light surrounded by a near-infinite darkness. The three of them were huddled together as if they hadn't even noticed him go. Nthandra had draped both arms over Semian's shoulders now. She'd had her eye on him since they'd arrived, but Semian seemed oblivious. Close by, other riders sat and stared at the fire; around them, looming mountain shapes reached up to gouge dead black holes from the starlit sky. Some drank, others sang softly to themselves. Jostan knew a few of them, recognised more. Several caught his eye and gave him a nod. One or two waved him over to sit with them and share their drink or their sorrow. They'd all known Deremis. He was the first of the Red Riders to fall, and none of them, it seemed, knew quite how to take the news that he was dead. Jostan went and sat among them for a while, but somehow they were still apart. The Night of the Knives, had brought these riders together and he'd missed it. While the Night Watchman and his Adamantine Men had put their brothers and their fathers to the sword, while Queen Shezira and King Valgar had been taken to be tried for treason, Hyrkallan and these few had fought their way out of the speaker's palace. With them, somehow, they'd taken Queen Almiri – Shezira's eldest, Valgar's queen, mistress of Evenspire and now, because of these few riders, the fulcrum to end Speaker Zafir's rule if only the right lever could be found. And Jostan had missed it. Missed it because he was with Semian and Princess Jaslyn at the alchemists' redoubt, facing something far worse, but he could hardly say that, could he? Hyrkallan's riders had all lost friends or family or both, and what did he lose? Nothing. Nothing and everything. They knew, of course. They knew he and Semian had faced the rogue dragons. They knew about the caves and the smoke and fire and the alchemists and the Embers. They knew that he'd shielded Princess Jaslyn and that Semian had taken dragon-venom so that, in being eaten, he might kill one of the dragons. They knew, they just didn't… understand.

They didn't care. There. That was the truth of it. They only cared about Zafir and that she had tried to murder them. Them and their queen.

When he looked again, Semian and Nthandra and the blood-mage were all gone. He stayed with the others for as long as he could bear it and then slipped away, back to their tent. Deremis' tent. He approached it slowly, quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone inside. If Nthandra was with Semian well then he didn't much care either way, as long as she gave him some warmth as well once she was done. He was beginning to understand how she felt. Anything, anything not to be alone.

Sure enough, as he crept close, he heard whispered voices from inside.

'I can feel it. I know it's there.'

'Yes.'

'I need to know. I need to know if I'm right.'

'Yes.' Jostan slipped closer. The first voice was certainly Nthandra. The second didn't sound much like Semian.

'It is true.' Jostan had almost reached the flap of the tent. He froze. She was with the blood-mage. The thought made him want to be sick. He could almost see her, naked, straddling him while he pawed at her with his ruined fingers.

'Let me touch you.' No! Don't let him touch you! 'Yes. It is true. You carry a child within you. You carry a boy, Nthandra of the Vale. You carry your dead husband's heir.'

'What do I tell the child when it's born? That it has no father?'

'Have a few years of joy with him and then see if perhaps the alchemists would take him.'

'They won't. He has a bloodline. Even if he doesn't know it.'

'You could give him to the Adamantine Guard. No one will care whether he has one father or ten.'

'No! I'd rather cut his throat when he comes out of me than give him to Zafir.'

'The speaker will be long gone by then.'

'I said no!'

'Then tell him whatever you wish. You tell him that he carries all that is left of his father within him. Make him his father's son. Sit him on whatever throne is his.'

No one will believe me.'

'No.'

Jostan couldn't move. He ought to slip away, come back later, but he couldn't. He couldn't move forward either. He needed to see and yet was too afraid to look.

'Because behind your back they call you a whore, Nthandra of the Vale.'

'He'll be a bastard. It's not fair.' Suddenly she was shrieking. 'We were to be wed as soon as he came back! I was unbroken! I never lay with another man.'

The magician's voice softened. 'It is unfair, but think of this son as a gift. Men such as he are often born to be great. Destiny has fingered your son, Nthandra of the Vale. Do you want him to be great?'

'Yes!'

'I can help with the hole inside too. With the helplessness, the hopelessness, the uselessness. I can help you make all that go away. If you want me to.'

'Yes.' Her voice was quiet now, sobbing. 'Please.'

'Which one, Nthandra of the Vale? I can do only one.'

'The child then,' she said, her voice so broken that Jostan could barely understand her. 'I owe it to him.'

'Greatness and happiness are rarely the same thing. You know that.'

Jostan didn't hear what Nthandra said next. He wasn't sure if she even said anything at all. Then he heard the magician again.

'So be it. Will you give yourself to me, Nthandra of the Vale. Your body and your soul must be mine.'

A real rider, he knew, would have heard enough. A rider like Hyrkallan or Deremis would burst in on them right now. He knew that. They'd kick the magician out of the tent and send him packing, either with a boot or with a sword. Nthandra might curse and wail and spit at them, but they'd do it anyway because it was right. Not because it was wanted, but because it was right.

And I am not like them. He silently turned and moved a little way away. Too far to hear their whispers but close enough in case they turned to screams. They didn't. After twenty minutes the blood-mage came out. He straightened his clothes, brushed himself down. He paused for a few seconds and looked straight at where Jostan was sitting, invisible, buried in shadows. Then he went away. Jostan stayed where he was – long enough, he thought, for the magician to be far away – but before he could bring himself to move, Kithyr was back and now he had Semian with him. They walked right past him.