A Rule of Queens

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Darius raised his sledgehammer with both hands and brought it down hard, smashing a boulder to bits under the sun of another bright, hot Empire morning. Surrounded by all his friends in the dusty working fields, he felt the sweat on his brow rolling down into his eyes, but he did not bother to wipe it away. Instead he raised his sledgehammer and grunted as he smashed another rock. And another.

Darius relived in his mind, again and again, the events of the day before, images flashing through his head. He was confused and frustrated as he thought of Loti. Why had she reacted the way she had? Was there no part of her that was grateful? How had she managed to turn his heroic acts into something he should be ashamed of? Did she really never want to see him again?

And after the way she’d reacted, did he ever really even want to see her?

Darius set down his hammer and caught his breath, the green dust rising up and settling in his face and hair and nose. He thought also about what he had done, killing those Empire soldiers, drawing upon his powers, and he wondered if the dead men would be found on that remote field. Surely, eventually, they would, even if it took one moon cycle or two. Perhaps when the rains came and washed away that avalanche. What would happen then? Would the Empire then come for retribution, as Loti said? Had he just signed a death sentence for them all?

Or was it possible, buried as deep beneath that avalanche as they were, that they would never be found? That the wild animals, notorious for roaming that area, would eat their corpses before they were discovered?

As Darius picked up his hammer and smashed rock under the watchful eyes of the Empire taskmasters, his thoughts drifted to the arrival of his sister, Sandara, and of the new people she had brought with her. The arrival of those people from the Ring had been a day unlike any other for his village. He thought of Sandara’s new people hiding out in the caves, and he wondered if they would all be seen by the Empire. Surely, it was only a matter of time until they were, when conflict with the Empire would be inevitable. Unless they fled beforehand.

But to where?

To Darius’s continued frustration, the village elders—indeed, the entire village—seemed to hold firm in their belief that confrontation with the Empire was not inevitable, that life could keep marching on the way it was. Darius saw it differently. He felt that things were changing. Wasn’t this a sign from the gods, the arrival of all these warriors from across the sea, who too had cause to fight the Empire? Shouldn’t they be harnessed, shouldn’t they all fight together, to overthrow Volusia? Wasn’t this the gift they’d all been waiting for?

The others didn’t see it that way. Instead, they wanted to turn them away, to send them off. They saw it as another reason to keep a low profile in the Empire, to do everything they could to keep their pathetic little lives as steady as they were now.

Darius recalled the last time he had seen Sandara, as she had departed for the Ring. He had not thought he would ever see her again. Seeing her again now had both surprised and inspired him. Sandara had managed to cross the great sea, to survive amongst the Empire army, and to come back. Partly it was because she was a great healer—and yet, in her heart, she was also a warrior. After all, they shared the same father. It made Darius feel that anything was possible. It made him feel that he, too, could one day get out of this place.

Darius thought back warmly to the night before, during the festivities, when he had spent half the night catching up with his sister, talking to her around the fires. He had witnessed firsthand her love for Kendrick, that fine warrior. They had taken an instant liking to each other, each recognizing the warrior spirit in one another, and he seemed to Darius to be a leader of men. Darius had encouraged his big sister to follow her passion, to be with Kendrick, regardless of whatever the elders had to say. He did not understand how she, so fearless in every other part of our life, could be so afraid to declare her love for him, to spur tradition, to spur the taboo of marrying another race. Was she like everyone else here, so afraid of the elders, of others’ opinions? Why did it matter so much what they all thought?

Darius blinked sweat from his eyes as he smashed another rock, and another. He could feel the eyes of all of his friends on him on this day. Since the day before, when he had arrived with Loti, he felt the entire village looked upon him differently. They had all watched him run off to bring Loti back, had all witnessed him run off to face the Empire, alone, without fear of consequence. And they had seen him return, with her. He had gained great respect in their eyes.

He also seemed to have gained their skepticism: no one seemed to believe their story, to believe that Loti had gotten lost, that they had merely found each other and walked back. Perhaps they all knew Darius too well. They looked on him with different eyes, as if they knew that something had happened, knew he was holding a great secret. He wanted to tell them, but he knew that he could not. If he did, he would have to explain how he did it, how he, the youngest and smallest of the bunch, the one no one thought would amount to anything, had alone killed three Empire warriors with superior weapons and armor—and a zerta. It would come out that he used his power. And he would be an outcast. They would exile him. As they had, Darius suspected, his father.

“So are you going to tell me?” came a voice.

Darius looked over to see Raj standing beside him, a mischievous smile on his face. Nearby, also looking his way, were Desmond and Luzi, each smashing rock, glancing over at Darius.

“Tell you what?” Darius asked.

“How you did it,” Raj said. “Come on. You didn’t find Loti wandering alone. You did something. Did you kill the soldiers? Did she?”

Darius looked over and saw the other boys coming over, looking at him, and he could see they all had this question burning in their minds. Darius raised his hammer, took aim at a rock, and smashed it again.

“Come on,” Raj said. “I gave you a zerta ride. You owe me.”

Darius laughed.

“You didn’t give it to me,” he replied. “I chose to go with you.”

“Okay,” Raj conceded, “but tell me all the same. I need a story. I live for stories of valor. And this day is going on way too long.”

“The day has barely begun,” Luzi said.

“Precisely,” Raj said. “Too long. Like every other day.”

“Why don’t you tell us a story of valor?” Luzi said to Raj, seeing that Darius would not reply.

“Me?” Raj replied. “I don’t think you shall find one amongst our people.”

“You are quite wrong about that,” Desmond said. “There are always stories of valor, even amongst the oppressed.”

“Especially amongst the oppressed,” Luzi added.

They all turned to him, his deep, commanding voice filled with confidence.

“Do you have one, then?” Raj pressed, leaning on his hammer, breathing hard.

Desmond raised his hammer and smashed rock, and was silent for so long, Darius was sure he would not reply. They all settled back into the rhythm of smashing rock, when finally Desmond surprised them all by speaking up, looking down and smashing rock all the while.

“My father,” Desmond said. “The elders will tell you he died in a mine. That is the story they would like you to believe. To know otherwise would cause too much dissent, foment too much revolution. I will tell you: he died in no mine.”

Darius studied Desmond with the others as a heavy silence fell over them, and he could see his furrowed brow, the seriousness in his face, as if he were struggling with something internally.

“And how should you know?” Desmond asked.

“Because I was there,” Desmond replied, looking him in the eyes, cold and hard, defiant. With his commanding presence, several other boys began crowding around, too. They all wanted to hear his tale, which commanded attention. The air of truth was ringing out, such a rare thing amongst his villagers.

“One day,” Desmond continued, “the taskmaster whipped him too hard. My father snatched the whip from the man’s hands and choked him to death with it. I remember watching, being so young, so proud of him.

“When it was done, when we were both standing there looking down at the lifeless body, I asked my father what was next. Was it time to revolt? But he had no answer. I could see it in his eyes: he did not know what was next. He had given in to a moment of passion, a moment of justice, of freedom, and in that moment he had risen above it all. But after that, he did not know what to do. Where does life go from there?”

Desmond paused, smashing several rocks, wiping sweat from his brow, until he continued again.

“That moment passed. Life went on. Within the hour, horns of warning sounded, and I was with my father as he was surrounded by a dozen taskmasters. He had urged me to hide in the woods, but I would not leave his side. Until he smacked me so hard with the whip across my mouth, that finally, I did.

“I hid behind a tree, not far, and I watched it all. The taskmasters…they did not kill him quickly,” Desmond said, his voice choked with emotion as he stopped hammering and looked away. “He fought back valiantly. He even managed to whip several of them. He left marks on them which I am sure are still there to this day.

“But he was one man with a big heart and a whip. They were dozens of professional soldiers, with steel weapons, in armor. And they enjoyed to kill.”

Desmond shook his head, quiet for several minutes, the boys riveted, all silent, all stopping their work.

“I can still hear my father’s screams, to this day,” Desmond said. “When I go to sleep at night, I hear them. I see him struggling. In my dreams, I wish I was older, armed, and try to see myself fighting back, killing them all, saving him. But I was too young. There was nothing I could do.”

He finally stopped, the work fields completely silent. Finally, he raised a hammer and brought it down with all his might, smashing a large boulder into pieces.

“He died in no mine,” he concluded softly. And then he fell silent, going back to work.

Darius’s heart was heavy as he contemplated the tale, all the boys quiet now, a somber air over all of them. Raj’s smile had long faded, and Darius wondered if that was the tale of valor he’d hoped to hear.

After a long while of smashing rock, Raj came up beside Darius.

“Now it’s your turn,” Raj said to him quietly, out of earshot of the others. “What happened out there?”

Darius continued smashing rock, shaking his head, silent.

“They changed their mind,” Darius insisted. “They let her go.”

“And the soldiers who changed their mind,” Raj said, a mischievous smile on his face, “would they be back in Volusia now? Or shall we never be seeing them again?”

Darius turned to see Raj smiling back at him knowingly, admiringly.

“It’s a long road back to Volusia,” Darius said. “Stronger men have been known to get lost themselves.”

Darius stood in the small dirt field behind his cottage, the click-clacks of his wooden sword filling the air as he attacked the well-worn wooden target. It was a large cross he had made out of layers of bamboo, tied together and stuck into the ground, one which he had been swinging at since the time he could walk. In the dirt, his footprints were well-worn, embedded in the ground before it.

The cross was crooked by now, nearly falling over, but Darius didn’t care. It served its purpose. He slashed at it again and again, left and right, ducking an imaginary enemy, spinning around, slashing its stomach. He lunged forward, jabbed, turned his sword sideways and blocked an imaginary blow. In his mind, he saw a great many enemies coming at him, an entire army approaching, and he fought and fought in the sunset, at the end of his day shift, until he was dripping with sweat.

The persistent sounds of his swordplay filled the air, and while his neighbors yelled out to complain, he didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He would slash away the day’s memories, every day’s memories, until he was spent with exhaustion.

Darius heard the occasional bark at his feet, and he did not need to look down to know it was Dray, the neighbor’s dog, sitting loyally by his side, watching him as he always did, barking and getting excited as Darius struck the target. A medium-size dog with scarlet hair that grew too long, like his master’s untamed hair, Dray had unofficially become Darius’s dog long ago. He belonged to one of the neighbors, but whoever owned it had stopped feeding it long ago. Darius had encountered Dray whining one day, and had given him one of his scarce meals. Ever since, Darius had had a friend for life. Since that day, they had developed a ritual: Dray watched Darius fight, and Darius ate only half of his dinner, giving the other half to Dray. Dray rewarded him by always seeking out his company, especially when he was at home, sometimes even sleeping in his cottage.

Dray lunged forward and bit the bamboo, playing along with Darius’s imagination, snarling and tearing at in imaginary enemy, as if it were a true foe coming for Darius. Darius often wondered what would happen if he faced an enemy with Dray at his side. Like Darius, Dray was not the biggest of the bunch, or the strongest, or the most loved. But he had a great heart, and he was the most loyal animal in the universe. Over the last few moons, he had even taken to sleeping curled up before Darius’s door, snarling if Darius’s grandfather even dared to approach.

“Are you tired of swinging at sticks?” came a voice.

Darius looked over to see Raj and Desmond standing there, each holding long wooden swords, looking back with a mischievous grin.

Darius stopped, breathing hard, wondering; they lived on the other side of the village and had never come by his cottage before.

“It’s time you sparred with men,” Desmond said, his voice dark, serious. “If you strive to become a warrior, you are going to need to hit targets that hit back.”

Darius was surprised and grateful that they had stopped by. They were several classes older than him, much bigger and stronger, and well respected amongst the boys. They had many older, stronger boys to spar with.

“Why would you waste your time on me?” Darius asked.

“Because my sword needs sharpening,” Desmond said. “And you look like a good target.”

Desmond charged for Darius, and Darius held up his wooden sword and at the last minute, blocked the blow. It was a mighty blow, strong enough to shake his hands and arms, and to send him stumbling back several feet.

Darius, caught off guard, saw Desmond standing there, waiting for him.

Darius raised his sword and lunged forward, slashing down. Desmond blocked it easily. Darius kept swinging, slashing left and right, again and again, and the click-clacks of their wooden swords filled the air. He was thrilled to have a real, moving target, even if he could not overpower the bigger and stronger Desmond.

Dray snarled and barked at Raj and Desmond, running alongside Darius, snapping at Desmond’s heels.

“You’re quick,” Desmond said, between blows. “I will give you that. But you don’t use it to your advantage. You’re not half as strong as I—and yet you fight as if you’re trying to cut through me. You cannot fight a man my size. Fight as if you’re your size. Be quick and nimble. Not strong and direct.”

Darius swung with all his might and Desmond stepped back, and Darius went circling through the air, stumbling forward, landing on the ground.

Darius looked up and saw Desmond standing over him, reaching out, giving him a hand, pulling him up.

“You fight for the kill,” Desmond said. “Sometimes you just need to fight to survive. Let your opponent fight for the kill. If you are patient, if you avoid him, and watch him, he will overreach; he will expose himself.”

“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to kill a man,” said Raj, coming over. “You don’t need a strong blow—just a precise one. I believe it’s my turn.”

Raj raised his sword high, aiming for Darius’s head, and Darius spun, raised his sword sideways, and barely blocked the blow. Then Raj leaned back, put his foot in Darius’s chest, and shoved him, and Darius stumbled backwards.

Dray barked and barked, snarling at Raj.

“That’s not fair,” Darius said, indignant. “This is a swordfight!”

“Fair!?” Raj yelled out with derisive laughter. “Tell that to your enemy after he has stabbed you between the legs and you lay dying. This is combat—and in combat all is fair!”

Raj swung his sword again, before Darius was ready, and he knocked the sword from Darius’s hands. Raj then dropped to the ground, swung his legs, and kicked out Darius’s knees from under him.

Darius, not expecting it, landed hard on his back in a cloud of dust, winded; Raj then pulled a wooden dagger out of nowhere, dropped down, and held it to Darius’s throat.

Darius conceded, raising his hands, pinned to the ground.

“Again, unfair!” Darius complained. “You cheated. You pulled a hidden dagger. These are not honorable actions.”

Dray rushed forward, snarling, and leaned in close to Raj’s face, showing his teeth, close enough to make Raj drop his dagger, raise his hands, and slowly get up.

Raj roared with laughter as he jumped to his feet, grabbed Darius, and pulled him up.

“What is honor?” Raj said. “Honor is what we, the victors, name it to be. When you are dead, there is no honor.”

“What is battle without honor?” Darius said.

“He who speaks of honor is he who never lost,” Desmond said. “Lose once, lose a leg, an arm, a loved one—and you will think twice of honor next time you face your foe on the field. Surely, he is not thinking of honor. He is thinking of winning. Of life. Whatever the cost.”

“You’d be surprised how much a man is willing to throw away—including honor—when he is staring death in the face,” Desmond said.

“I would rather die with honor,” Darius countered, defiant, “than live in dishonor.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Desmond said. “Yet what you think and what you do in a moment of life and death do not always match.”

Raj stepped forward and shook his head.

“You are young yet,” Raj said. “Naïve. What you still don’t see is that honor comes in victory. And victory comes in expecting everything. Even dishonorable actions. You can fight with honor if you choose. If you are able. But don’t expect your enemy to.”

Darius thought about that—when suddenly a strident voice cut through the air, interrupting him.

“DARIUS!” yelled the harsh voice.

Darius turned to see his grandfather standing at the door of his cottage, scowling down at him. “I don’t want you with these boys!” he snapped. “Get inside now!”

Darius scowled back.

“These are my friends,” Darius said.

“They’re trouble,” Darius’s grandfather replied. “Inside now!”

Darius turned to Raj and Desmond apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” Darius said. He felt bad, as he’d truly enjoyed fighting with them. He already felt his skills sharpened from just their small bout, and he wanted to fight again.

“Tomorrow,” Raj said, “after training.”

“And every day after that,” Desmond said. “We are going to make a warrior out of you.”

They turned to go, and Darius realized he’d made two close friends in the group for the first time. Older friends, great fighters. He wondered again why they’d taken an interest in him. Was it because of what he’d done for Loti? Or was it something else?

“Darius!” snapped his grandfather.

Darius, Dray at his heels, turned and walked to his grandfather, who stood at the door, scowling. Darius knew he’d face his grandfather’s wrath; his grandfather never wanted him sparring at all.

“You should not have been rude,” Darius said as he walked through the door. “Those are my friends.”

“Those are boys who do not know the cost of war,” he retorted. “Boys who embolden each other to revolt. Have you any idea what happens in a revolt? The Empire would kill us. All of us would die. Every last one of us.”

Today, Darius, emboldened, was in no mood for his grandfather’s fear.

“And what of it?” Darius asked. “What is so wrong with death, when it is from fighting for our lives? Would you call what we have now life? Slaving away all day? Cringing at the hand of the Empire?”

Darius’s grandfather smacked him hard across the face.

Darius, shocked, stood there, feeling the sting. It was the first time he had ever struck him.

“Life is sacred,” his grandfather said harshly. “That is what you and your boy friends have yet to learn. Your grandparents and mine sacrificed so that we should have life. They put up with slavery so that their children, and their children’s children, could have a life of safety. And all of the reckless actions of you teenage boys will undo generations of their work.”

Darius glowered, ready to argue, not agreeing with anything he’d said, but his grandfather turned his back and snatched a cauldron of soup and crossed the cottage with it, preparing it before a flame. Something Darius’s grandfather said made him think. Something clicked within him, and for some reason he had a sudden burning desire to know.

“My father,” Darius said coldly, standing his ground. “Tell me about him.”

His grandfather froze, his back to him, holding the pot where he stood.

“You know all there is to know,” he said.

“I know nothing,” Darius replied firmly. “What happened to him? Why did he leave us?”

Darius’s grandfather stood there, his back to him, and remained silent. Darius knew he was on to something.

“Where did he go?” Darius pressed, stepping forward. “Why did he leave?” he asked again.

His grandfather shook his head slowly, as he turned. He looked a thousand years older as he did, saddened.

“Like you, he was rebellious,” he said, his voice broken. “He could stand it no more. One day, he made a run for it. And he was never seen again.”

Darius stared at his grandfather, and for the first time in his life, he felt certain he was lying.

“I don’t believe you,” Darius said. “You are hiding something. Was my father a warrior? Did he defy the Empire?”

His grandfather stared into space, as if staring into lost years.

“Speak no more of your father.”

Darius frowned.

“He is my father and I will speak of him as much as I wish.”

Now it was his grandfather’s turn to scowl.

“Then you shall not be welcome in my house.”

Darius glowered.

“It was my father’s house before you.”

“And your father is here no longer here, is he?”

Darius studied his grandfather’s face, seeing it in a different light for the first time. He could see how different of a man he was from him. They were cut from different cloths, and they would never understand each other.

“My father wouldn’t run,” Darius insisted. “He wouldn’t leave me. He would never leave me. He loved me.”

As he spoke them, Darius for the first time sensed the truth of his words. He sensed also that there was some great secret that was being hidden from him, that had been hidden from him his whole life.

“He would not abandon me,” Darius insisted, desperate for the truth.

His grandfather stepped forward, seething with anger.

“And who are you to think you are so great as to not be abandoned?” Darius’s grandfather said sharply. “You are just a boy. Just another boy. Just another slave in a village of slaves. There is nothing special about you. You fancy yourself to be a great warrior. You play with sticks. Your friends play with sticks. The Empire, they play with steel. Real steel. You cannot rise up against them. You never can. You will end up dead like the rest of them. And then where have your precious sticks gotten you?”

Darius frowned, hating his grandfather for the first time, hating everything he was and everything he stood for.

“I might end up dead,” Darius said back, his voice steel, “but I’ll never end up like you. You are already dead.”

Darius turned and began to storm from the cottage—but he stopped at the door, turned, and faced his grandfather one last time.

“I am special,” Darius said, wanting his grandfather to hear the words. “I am the son of a great warrior. I am a warrior myself. And one day, you, and the entire world, should know it.”

Darius, fed up, unable to withstand another moment, turned and stormed from the cottage.

Darius burst outside into the late afternoon light, no longer wanting to see his grandfather’s face, to face his lies. He walked quickly out through the back fields, and looked out at the horizon, at all the slaves still filtering back from a day’s work. He studied the horizon, the endless sky, lit up in pinks and purples. His father, he knew, was out there somewhere. He was a great warrior. He had risen above all this.

One day, somehow, he would find him.