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Queen Dasa Yormedar held out the subtly wrought sword and shield that Ariona had long admired. Many a sparring match had he spent captivated by their grace.
"Take them, Ariona," she said.
"I--" Ariona swallowed hard, joy and unworthiness warring in his breast. "I do not know that I can. These are meant for hands far more skilled than my own."
"They are meant for you, Nephew," Dasa said, her small smile wry. "Wrought by queen's hand alone, to be undone by queen's hand alone."
The gilding that covered the pair was an alloy whose making was known only to Latrian royalty, smelted in alchemical crucibles locked in the highest chamber of the Ivory Tower. To wield the sword was to wield Latrian sorcery in every thrust. Together with the shield--which at first glance seemed to leave its bearer free to archers, and whose delicate lattice seemed eager to shatter--it would fend against that same sorcery.
The pair were meant for one man. A hero, who had risked his life to uncover the fallen king's inhuman experiments, who had routed the madman and slain his monstrosities of tortured flesh and souls. They were the armaments of a loyal servant of Latria, who could be trusted not to use the queendom's own power against it.
"Sir Ostrava is the one who suggested I craft a second pair," Dasa said, seeming to read Ariona's thoughts. "He holds you in high regard."
Ariona ducked his head, as though to avoid the compliment. "Too high. I have not the will to serve as bravely as he does."
"You have a throne awaiting your ascension. We are not so free as Ostrava, Nephew. He may die for homeland, if he so chooses, but you and I are obligated to live for ours."
Ariona's shame flared anew. It was not for Boletaria's sake that he feared death. His hands felt heavy as he reached for his aunt's gift.
He saw Ostrava fall. The Yellow Monk had not yet blacked out the sun, and Ostrava's armor flashed like a dying star as he plunged from the top of the tower. Ariona's bones ached in sympathy when Ostrava's body caught on a ledge, landing with enough force to knock his helmet free and send it toppling out of sight.
Ariona held his breath. Could Ostrava really have landed on such a narrow projection by accident? Surely he only feigned death to deceive the monk's hordes. The prince had watched a shadowy, octopus-headed man drain the life from his mentor, yet he could not help indulging in this foolish hope.
A rough hand on his arm brought Ariona back to himself.
"Run, lad," Rydell said as he dragged Ariona along. He whirled his pole to knock aside a centipede that bore the agonized faces of three men. The monster plummeted into the river far below. Peering over the edge to watch its fall, Ariona saw that the waters were already running red in places. "Run," Rydell said again. "Don't let his sacrifice be in vain."
Ariona grit his teeth, ducked his head, and raced along the bridge. Running was horrifyingly easy, he found.
He ran as Latrian soldiers fell around him, their throats pierced through by gargoyles' bolts. He ran as Rydell left him to join Dasa and her sorcerers on the bridge to the church. He ran as the Yellow Monk's ballista rolled out and cut them all down in a hail of arrows that darkened the sky.
He was not running away from Latria. He was running to Boletaria. He would petition his father for a detachment of knights and lead them back to Latria himself.
It was his duty to survive.
Boletaria--the land once heralded as a paradise, the land that held Ariona's last hope--had been reduced to a nest of Demons. Legions of soul-starved slaves and soldiers stalked the watchtowers and the underground passages. At the heart of the palace, dragons roamed the smoky skies, unchecked by Brushwood Knights.
Here and again, Ariona heard echoes of familiar, mocking laughter. Once, he even thought he glimpsed the swollen face of a demonic minister in a high window. The fiends had escorted the Yellow Monk back into Latria. Did their presence here mean that King Allant had . . .
No. That was impossible. The Demons must have invaded the palace in an attempt to cast Allant from the throne. Ariona would have to find a way through them. He would seek the king's counsel, and together they would find a way to retake Boletaria, and Latria after that.
"You're one of the sane ones, eh?" said a voice like the cry of a carrion bird. Ariona whirled, his sword raised, to see a dregling perched on a cask in the corner of a storeroom. The dregling rasped a laugh. "No need for that, young sir. I've no interest in robbing the living." Even as he said this, his glittering eyes roved over Ariona's garments and arms.
"What has happened here?" Ariona asked, keeping his guard up.
"Happened? That's plain enough. The Demons have brought Great Boleteria low, and all that's left is to scrape together such a living as you can until they take your soul too! I doubt I've anything to interest a gentleman like yourself, though."
"And what of the king?"
"The king, eh? He's as mad as the rest. Here." The dregling narrowed his eyes, and Ariona was glad his helmet hid his face from that shrewd gaze. "Your accent . . . You come here from the southern lands, have you?"
"From Latria, yes, on a mission to seek aid from King Allant."
"Latria, is it? You're a long way from home, then."
Ariona said nothing. The unwitting truth of the dregling's words cut deeper than he would have expected. By rights, Boletaria was his home, his inheritance, but he had not set foot in this land since he was a boy.
"Well, you can reckon your mission at its end, young sir. The Ivory Tower will find no help here."
"No, I cannot turn back. Not until I speak to the king."
The dregling laughed again, and his undisguised amusement grated over Ariona's fraying nerves. "Good luck with that. I'd stay clear of that passage if I were you, though. A pack of soul-starved dreglings have gathered there. They may be dreglings, but you'll find them trouble enough in those numbers."
"I will find a way. I must."
"Give me a name before you go," said the dregling. He leered. "Fancy wares fetch a better price when they've got a story behind them."
Ariona held his sword out in front of him and traced his eyes along the ornate edge. "Ostrava," he said, before striding off into the corridor.