The Living and the Dead

This used to be her library. Their sanctuary, full of light, and knowledge, and stolen kisses among the shelves. Now she creeps along the unkempt stacks, blazing torch in one hand, bared steel in the other. She swore she would never return to this place.

She had no choice. Her quarry is here, a parasite in the heart of her palace. The library windows are darkened and the ash of damaged books coats her pauldrons, mixing with the sweat on the back of her neck. She paces in front of a cracked mirror but doesn’t bother to gaze into it. Her prey has no reflection.

He has no need for one. “Queen Andromeda.” She chokes back tears, spinning to face her tormentor, but the light of her torch only falls on cracking spines and trampled paper. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Clenching her teeth, Andromeda says, “You know why I’m here.”

He is suddenly before her, nothing more than a shadow, red eyes glowing softly beneath disheveled hair, but she knows his shape as well as her own. She knows the cocky tilt to his shoulders is unlike him, that the clothes he wears, the long tailcoats and jewels at his throat, are not his. Yet she knows the sharp outline of his face, knows the overly sure grin he wears. The fangs that flash with his smile were not always there. They are her fault.

He chuckles darkly, an unfamiliar sound. “Yes, I know why you’re here. The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter yet somehow Queen of Aedain. Bearer of Cygnus Fire-Sword, Oathed to Ranera, Goddess of Rebirth, et cetera.”

“And wife to Reynuin, King of Aedain.”

The shadow smirks, his glowing eyes unable to meet hers. “In short, the only candidate to fulfill the prophecy to my destruction.”

Andromeda’s fury is betrayed by her trembling sword tip. “I only want him back.”

The red gaze flashes to hers. “Then fight for him.”

The vampire strikes.

The strike against the outer walls sent rubble raining on Andromeda and her Shadesmare, a moon-white horse bred specifically for battle. “Behind me!” Andromeda shouted, sword flashing overhead. Her silver armor already made her red hair a beacon, but as she lifted Cygnus overhead, the blade blazed into hungry orange flames. Her warriors cheered even as the gates burst open, the enemy army storming their first line of defense. The seventh princess of Aedain was so far down the royal line she was trained for only one thing: winning this war. Her warriors knew she would not fail them.

Her mount crashed into the wave of armored bodies, cleaving a path for the warriors behind her. When Andromeda’s sword met the neck of a footsoldier, it cut through the icy body like it was made of butter. Another ice daemon took its place, and quickly met the same fate.

The ice daemons from the North were a mindless army, a wall of snow and shields that kept her from her true target. They only knew him as Scourge, and past the thrusting pikes and shouting blue maws, she saw him atop the hill, mounted on a snow-white elk, unmoving. Waiting.

The ice daemons fell to her soldier’s fire traps. They would survive without her. With a word to her Shadesmare, Andromeda leapt over a line of halberds, her flaming sword warding off thick arrows and the hasty thrust of blades.

Scourge turned to her. She could not see his face behind his intricate helmet, could not make out any of his form through the tightly knit armor, but armor was meaningless against Cygnus. As she approached the elk, she raised her blade.

He spoke a word, deep and guttural. His elk turned, eyes starbeam blue, and lunged. The creature should not have been able to move that fast, but its antlers speared her Shadesmare through the chest. Andromeda was thrown to the dirt, Cygnus’ flame guttering as she nearly lost her grip, her beloved warhorse screaming as she fell.

She did not have time for a drawn out battle. Raising her sword, still kneeling in the dirt, Andromeda recited her Oath to Renera. She had been a paladin since she was thirteen, and her pact was strong.

Cygnus’ flame glowed white, so bright it was hard to look at. Scourge’s elk took a step back but wasn’t fast enough to avoid her blow. The animal’s massive head thumped to the ground, her sword glowing so hot it cauterized the arteries before it could bleed. Scourge struggled to stay mounted on the headless beast. Andromeda raised her laser-bright sword, ready to cleave through armor and bone.

A speartip suddenly protruded from Scourge’s chest. He’d been struck from behind. Before Andromeda’s holy fire could smite him, a mortal weapon had pierced his armor. “No,” Andromeda whispered as a line of dark smoke bled from the wound. “No!” she shouted, striking the armor in vain.

It was too late. Scourge had already fled his vessel, a trickle of smoke against the gray sky.

Andromeda lowered Cygnus, its white flame easing to blue, then orange, then ash. Who among her own lacked the wit to allow Scourge to die on Cygnus’ edge?

As Scourge’s vessel toppled in a clatter of armor and dry flesh, Andromeda nearly drew her sword on the man, his spear now slung over his shoulders. He was unkempt, rough stubble along his jaw and hair slightly too long. His eyes were the color of the grass at their feet, his face just as bloodspattered. He smirked as if he had just accomplished something great.

“There is nothing about your blade that makes it great,” the vampire taunts, rocketing from one shadow to the next, his speed creating a vacuum pulling Andromeda from side to side.

She bares her blade in the place of a shield. “Have you forgotten the old texts? It is great because it is in my hands.”

He growls, a sound bordering on familiar. Andromeda stumbles as the creature shoots past her again. “Yet you haven’t tested if Cygnus can kill my vessel, have you?” His next move is a strike, his fist catching her chest plate and nearly sending her to the floor. “The old texts are merely words.” Andromeda blocks his strike at her knees. “Nonsense really.”

The vampire stops in the firelight so suddenly Andromeda sways with vertigo. “The truth of the matter is,” he rakes back his hair, eyes on the catch in her throat, “Cygnus is just a mortal blade without her fire.” He backs away, into the folds of paper and ancient shelving. “Call down Ranera,” he commands. “Let us finish this fight.”

“We cannot finish this fight,” Paviser Sidus sneered. “It has been seventy years since Scourge has come this close to our walls.” She turned to Andromeda, to the thrones of the five remaining princesses, as if seeking their own despair. “It appears nothing will push him back this time.”

“Not true,” Cornet Gallant stepped away from the map of Aedain on the war room wall. “A footsoldier’s spear vanquished the daemon, at least from the battleground.” Gallant pointed to the man near the door. “He’s here to discuss strategy for foot combat, if we are only to keep Scourge at bay.”

Andromeda barely glanced at the man leaning against the wall, the man who robbed her of the victory everyone in this room craved. He was smaller than she remembered, as was Gallant’s resolve. They could do more than keep Scourge from Aedain’s borders.

“It is not the only way,” Arcanist Natan leaned his skinny elbows on the table. “There is a prophecy in the Foundation-”

“A prophecy will not save us, scholar,” Sidus said dismissively.

When Natan turned, the light in the room seemed to turn with him. “Then have you forgotten the Year of Dragon-Fire, or Ranera’s promised salvation during the Siege of Six Kingdoms?” The man near the door cocked his head. “Have you forgotten that in your lifetime, in my lifetime, Ranera fulfilled that prophecy?”

Natan turned to the line of princesses, as if looking for support. Andromeda pursed her lips, as she had been trained. Her oldest sisters were Oathed to far greater spirits. They would decide if the council ever discussed a worthy proposal.

Mayvelle, crown princess to Aedain and Andromeda’s oldest sister, lifted her perfectly manicured hand to Natan. “And what does this prophecy foretell?”

Andromeda clutched Cygnus’ pommel. Mayvelle knew the prophecy as well as herself.

“It’s several pages describe the death of an ice daemon at the hands of the Queen of Aedain. A seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, Oathed to Ranera, bearer of flame.” Andromeda pursed her lips, waiting for the final qualification. “Wife to a dead king.”

The hopeful gaze of councilmembers suddenly turned downward. Despite her Oath, the birthright sheathed at her hip, her lifetime of training, Andromeda was not the heroine of this prophecy.

An older Arcanist muttered, “Then Andromeda’s only use is to produce seven daughters.”

Andromeda stood, Cygnus bared, uncertain how she would fight this claim when it was one she was slowly coming to believe.

Bellatrix, next in line for the throne after the death of their second sister, placed a hand on Andromeda’s arm.

“If sex is your only suggestion, Arcanist Fayer, you may leave.”

Mayvelle raised a golden eyebrow. “My sister misspoke.” The weight of her gaze fell on Fayer. “Leave.”

The Arcanist stood, sputtering. “What other choices do we have?”

“We will fight with the skill of our army,” Bellatrix gestured toward the spearman at the door.

“Or Andromeda could marry,” Natan offered meekly.

“And who, Arcanist, would marry her when he may be fated to die?” Cornet Grace asked dismissively.

Andromeda sheathed Cygnus. It was true. The other councilmembers snickered like her doubts made manifest.

Then a spear thunked against the marble floor and the man leaning against the door said, “Me.”

“You still think you’re the prophesied one, don’t you?” the vampire laughs from the shadows but Andromeda is relieved. It is far from familiar. “You’re still missing one deliciously critical piece of prophecy.” Scourge steps into the torchlight, gesturing to his well-dressed yet heavily scarred vessel. “Reynuin is not dead.”

“Maybe it isn’t about either of us. You’re certain you’re the ice daemon in the prophecy?” Andromeda raises Cygnus, fire sparking along its tip. “Because you don’t seem like much of one from here.” When she strikes, Cygnus cuts through the weak ice magic Scourge summons, its tip nearly reaching the vampire’s throat.

Words caught in Andromeda’s throat as she crossed the empty war room toward the spearman. All that came out was, “Why?”

The spearman leaned against the wall, frustratingly casual. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

She knew what he expected. She wouldn’t give it to him. “Why did you mortally wound Scourge knowing it would never kill him?”

The playful light died from the spearman’s eyes, his jaw tightening. “I was overcome, and I am ashamed of that. I lived in Brevere.” Andromeda suddenly couldn’t meet his gaze. The town on Aedain’s border had been completely sacrificed. “I lost everything. My family, my land, the temple I was sworn to protect.”

“So you’re marrying me because you have a death wish,” Andromeda surmised.

“I want to marry you,” the spearman clarified, “because I was with you on the battlefield. You can defeat Scourge, prophecy or no. I robbed you of that chance. I want to give it back.”

Andromeda fidgeted with Cygnus’ hilt. He was handsome, but more importantly, he was skilled and determined. “We can do it now,” she said, “at Ranera’s temple.”

She started toward the courtyard, but the spearman grabbed her wrist with surprising tenderness. “Wait.” She could have broken his hold but Andromeda turned. “My name is Reynuin.”

“Did your family even know you married?” the vampire asks, fangs bared with exertion. “That you had no love for your husband?”

Andromeda falters, enough to let a shard of ice shear her cheek. “I love my husband,” her voice shakes. “I just didn’t know it when I became queen.”

It is a terrible thing, to become a queen. Andromeda was in this very library when it happened. She must have imagined the tome on ice magic was cold beneath her fingers, but instead of reading closer to the fire, she kept wringing her hands to warm them.

“Here,” Reynuin set a steaming mug of mulled cider at her elbow.

“How did you-”

“You always get cold when you study here.”

“It has-”

“It has the best lighting in the library, I know.” Reynuin grinned, lifting her stack of already-perused books. “I thought it would help.”

His bright gaze softened, landing on her lips, and for the first time, Andromeda did not fight the heat rising in her belly. She had never felt this, the prophecy keeping love far from reach, but lately, her thoughts lingered on Reynuin’s body as they trained, her gaze on his hands as they read, her mind wandering to his bedroom at night.

“Reyn,” she barely said before he kissed her. She twisted his sweater in her hands, pulling him close, sure she would never let go.

Then a blast shook the library. The magical trebuchet immediately killed Mayvelle and Cerene. Feyelle and Val fell fighting Fayer, the Arcanist leading the coup, but he wielded ice magic as if Oathed. Bellatrix insured Andromeda escaped the fight, Reynuin insured she survived.

Overnight, Andromeda was Queen, and Reynuin was fated to die.

“Death means nothing to Ranera, does it my Queen?” the vampire relaxes, daring Andromeda to strike him. “This terrible perversion was easy to inhabit, but it has made me wonder: Why would a king fated to die go to such lengths to stay alive?”

“I wish I could have loved you like this from the start, Andri.” Reynuin kissed her shoulder, pulling the bedsheets over their nakedness. Winter had been exceptionally long, and they were far from Aedain’s palace.

“Whatever love you offer is a gift I never thought I would have.” Andromeda settled against his chest. “Because I love you too.”

They stared at the wooden beams of the cottage’s ceiling, Reynuin tracing a pattern against her ribs. His voice was painfully quiet in the near-dark. “Do you think I’m going to die?”

He didn’t notice Andromeda’s flinch. “I’ve looked at the Foundation in three languages, and all of them say the same thing.” She propped herself on her elbow but he didn’t meet her gaze. “It says ‘A king no longer alive.’ It doesn’t explicitly state that you would die.”

His eyes flash to hers, his grin tired but genuine. “I knew you would see that.” He drummed his fingers on the covers, then turned to face her. “When I was a guardian of Ranera’s temple in Brevere, a young father died in a terrible accident. His body remained whole, and his family quickly brought him to the temple, before the Goddess of Rebirth.”

Andromeda could barely breathe. “And?”

Reynuin bit his lip, as if hardly believing it. “And Ranera brought him back. He wasn’t completely human, but,” Reynuin ran his fingers through her hair, “he went home with his family.”

Andromeda caught his hand, bringing it to her lips. “I suppose we have to go to Brevere then, and learn to make you neither living nor dead.”

“Its a long way.”

“I would go anywhere with you.”

“Is this rebirth then?” Scourge asked, holding out the same hands Andromeda would stare at as Reynuin carefully cradled a book.

“It was, for a time,” she admitted, lowering Cygnus but not her guard. “He’s the same, but stronger, faster.”

“Angrier,” the vampire winked. It was in that rage that Scourge could take any vessel, take Reynuin, and refuse to return him. “He is so angry right now.” Ice crept up the vampire’s arms as Scourge leached his vessel’s strength.

Jaw quivering, Andromeda whispered. “I’m sorry Reyn. I love you.”

Cygnus blazed to life in a blinding flash, its tip already past the chainmail shirt the vampire wore. Reynuin had a tattoo of griffin there, and Andromeda knew exactly where the strike.

So did the vampire. He gripped Cygnus’ blade, allowing steel and fire to sear the flesh from his hand. Andromeda’s stomach dropped in horror but she did not relent. Leaning against her holy blade, she drove forward.

The vampire spasmed as Andromeda nicked his chest, a small curl of smoke leaking near the molten chainmail. Scourge stumbled back, shocked, before finding is own blade. He slashed overhead, daring Andromeda to raise her swordtip.

She did not. Scourge’s blade buried itself in her neck. Cygnus pierced his chest and ignited.

The smoke that tried to flee its vessel caught on fire, like gunpowder, crackling with light before adding to the dust on the floor.

Scourge was no more.

Cygnus clattered to the ground, a lazy flame igniting the edge of a book. Andromeda couldn’t feel her hand, couldn’t feel her knees strike the wood floor.

It was done. The prophecy was fulfilled and it had taken everything from her.

“Andri.”

Her eyes were heavy, as if she were dreaming, but when she turned she found Reynuin. It really was a dream then.

Not a dream. His fangs flashed as he tried to comfort her, but Andromeda knew they would die here together. The skin at his neck was already gray.

“I’m glad I came back,” she whispered. “If only to find you.” Her words were nearly lost to the crackle of the slowly burning library.

“You were supposed to survive the end of the world,” Reynuin whispered, pulling her close.

“You were supposed to survive our love,” Andromeda coughs against the gathering smoke. Her blood is a warm pool, begging her to dive.

Like a candle blowing out, the flames in the library suddenly vanish, leaving curls of dark smoke in their wake. A brilliant hand falls on Andromeda’s arm.

“Ranera?”

“Be reborn.”