KINGMAKERS PART 4 (CONTINUED)

The girl left my sister's note behind when she fled through the woods a few hours ago. Tucked beneath a heavy stone, it flaps gently in the wind. I scowl at the note and trample it with my wheelchair, but I only manage to stamp a streak of dirt over her neatly written name.

Three sisters, two of which I loved with all my heart. And fate decided to leave me with the only one I can't stand.

"Yanic!"

Speak of the devil.

I knew she'd come eventually. The battle quieted a short while ago. And my sister is nothing if not a survivor.

Mara crashes from the woods, hair streaming behind her where it's torn loose of her bun. Her bronze skin is soot-stained and her coat covered in dust. Where the tan fabric is visible, it's stained with blood.

"Any of it yours?" I ask.

She shakes her head and lifts a trembling hand to shove back sweaty strands of onyx hair. "Our people, all slaughtered. Right in front of us."

I look down at the citadel. The entire south end burns. Half the soldiers gather on the edge of the city; the others patrol the streets like purple and red ants, gathering the living and the dead.

"Better dead than enslaved," I grumble.

Mara stops a few feet away from me. The judgmental curl of her lip reminds me why we've never gotten along.

"I've let you sulk up on this hill long enough," she snaps. "But it's time to go now. The survivors are taking refuge in City-sur-le-Wall. We'll reassess our position and—"

"You haven't let me do anything, Xiomara."

She ignores me. "I have arranged lodgings with them until we can—"

I slam my fist against the arm of my chair. "I'm not going anywhere!"

"Of course you'll come." Mara's gaze darts over my shoulder. "They'll kill you when they find you here. And as obsessed with the dead as you are, I know you don't want to become one of them."

"I would only slow you down," I speak to her reason, for I know it is the only emotion she has.

"Anand is waiting in the wood. He can carry you."

"There will be no one to stop them from taking our dead."

"There isn't much else Julien can do to them, Yanic."

I wheel my chair around and find Zoya's spirit sitting on the edge of her gravestone. The gods often speak in signs. So I take this one as a sign I am where I need to be. "I will not have even their corpses used for—I'm not leaving!"

"This is not your responsibility!"

"I'm the one who led them into this war! I got Zoya killed! I am the reason th-that boy—" I choke on the words and turn my face to hide the traitorous tear on my cheek. "It is my responsibility. And if you were not so selfish, Mara, perhaps you might see that."

"The king would have slaughtered our people if you'd not led them to war. We were a threat to him. As were Zoya and you and the child." Mara's hand presses down on my shoulder, tentative. Strange. "This is on Julien, not you."

"Bah," I shrug her hand from my shoulder.

A holler goes up from the soldiers outside the citadel. They fall into a march, a large wagon bringing up the rear.

"Yanic, please." I'm surprised to hear tears in her voice. "You're all I have left."

I let out a weary sigh before I turn to face her. "We have time for one last story before you go." I put up a hand when she tries to protest. "I don't know if you remember the day I tried to kill the Empress the first time, but I think of it often. Even now in my old age.

"I was full of sorrow when I heard Wiona was dead. But I was filled with anger when I learned the reason why. Remember the way she used to stitch all night until her fingers bled? Her smooth young skin already covered in scars." I shake my head. "A drop of blood, they said, she spilled on the Empress' favorite gown. And for a drop of blood, the Empress ripped out our sister's—"

"I remember." Mara's voice is rough.

"Do you remember what you said when I decided to seek vengeance?" I hold her gaze. "'She is dead,' you said. 'And it is a tragedy. But now we must move on with our lives. We must be strong.' You swept her death away like winter dust. You haven't changed at all."

Mara cries freely now, tears carving bronze valleys between the blood and dirt on her skin. "Oh, brother. You've never understood me."

Irritation burns through my veins, settling in the pit of my stomach like a stone. "Leave me be, Xiomara. I wish to commune with the spirits of the sisters I love before I join them."

I turn my chair to find Zoya's spirit, smiling at me beside her grave again. Wiona joins her, wearing the same seamstress' dress she wore when we were children. Xiomara's cold shadow hangs over me, lingering even as the soldiers draw nearer.

"Even when they are dead," Mara whispers, "you choose them over me."

I turn over my shoulder and watch her disappear into the shadows of the wood. She does not look back. And for some reason, it unsettles me.

"Let her go," Zoya's spirit says as a cloud rolls over the late afternoon sun. "This war began with you and me. So too will it end."

~

All of us asked for something the day Julien was crowned king.

Amelie, her freedom. Solene, their title. Marguerite, her place by his side.

I asked for something that was not so selfish. And it sent me running anyway.

"Zoya!" I burst through her door, a shower of autumn leaves blowing in with me. "Zoya!"

"Coming, coming!" Her voice came from below, where she treated those who were too poor or too young to care for themselves. She emerged from the stairwell, tucking strands of graying onyx hair into a wide headband.

"Sister," I croaked.

"Gods, Yan, you'll wake up the babies." She gave me a look over. "Why aren't you at the palace? Did something happen?"

With shaking hands, I lit one of the weed cigars in a box on her table. I exhaled a plume of smoke, swiping a rag from my pocket over my sweaty forehead.

"Something's happened alright," I said.

Zoya stilled, her hands covered in soapsuds. "Our plan failed?"

"The Empress is dead. The Emperor, too. Everything went as you said it would."

"Then what?"

"We're bloody fools, Zoya." I stabbed out my cigar and paced instead. "Julien has declared war on anyone who helps our people. He's sent out an order to construct a wall. A wall to keep our people from taking refuge here now that there will be chaos."

Zoya sat at the table, wiping her healer's hands on the front of her smock as she frowned. "That is a shame. But at least they will be free."

"Free," I snorted. "Yes, free of the Empire now that we've scrambled it. But not free from Julien. Wall or no, he'll find a way to crush them."

"Take a breath and calm yourself, brother. You're jumping to conclusions."

"You sound like Mara," I grunt.

"You need to return to the palace," she said. "Listen to his plans. We shouldn't carry out the rest of our plan until we know what he intends to do."

I shook my head, crossed my arms, uncrossed them and drummed my fingers against a chair. Zoya sat calmly, her eyes crinkled in thought.

"I can't go back," I told her. "The others are too brainwashed to see, but it's just as I expected. He takes off his mask more and more now, showing those in the palace what he's capable of."

My oldest sister laughed. "So you'll fight man and monster and mage without blinking, but this tiny little king frightens you?"

The image of his mouth stained with blood flashed in my mind. My stomach rolled. The chair screeched against the floor when I pulled it out to sit across from her.

"I know you don't understand, Zoy." I grabbed her hands. "But you have to trust me—I can't go back. Strange things are happening in that palace. Strange things that I want nothing to do with."

Zoya looked between my eyes. Her face darkened at whatever she found. She nodded. "We need someone else to report on his activities."

"Yes," I said, relieved. "I've already got someone in mind."

"Marguerite?"

I shook my head. "She's got enough to deal with."

My heart squeezed and Zoya patted my hand sympathetically. She picked up my half-smoked cigar and lit it again.

"There are more rumors of dissatisfaction," she said. "My patients tell me so. If everything goes well, he'll be off the throne before winter comes."

I sighed, remembering my words to Amelie that night. I was supposed to be done with the fighting. But ever since the One Shot Lady stole into my club, I'd been breaking that vow more and more.

"Now tell me," my sister blows out a steady stream of smoke, "how did it feel? Taking the heart of the woman who took Wiona's?"

I propped my aching leg on the table, ignoring Zoya's sharp look.

"The Empress looked the same as she did when we were young," I said. "She no longer wears those extravagant gowns, but she was more beautiful up close. Her eyes were not black, but a deep brown. She had the thick lashes of our people and the hair to match, but it spilled over her shoulders in curls that bespoke a mixed heritage.

"At first, she stood silently beside her husband while he begged Julien to open up the trade between our homeland and the kingdom once more. 50,000 acres of farmland, he begged, for 100 pounds of the finest Empire weed."

Zoya snorted, smoke coming out of her nose. "It's worth at least twice as much."

"Shows how desperate they've grown."

"Go on," Zoya said, waving her hand. "Did she recognize you? The Empress?"

I shook my head. "She looked into my eyes, scanning between them. But no light of recognition registered. She only remembered me when I showed her the scar across my ear. She remembered giving me it and all that happened after. But she did not remember Wiona.

"'My sister was one of your seamstresses,' I told her. 'The youngest you'd ever employed. She was so delighted to be chosen to mend your extravagant gowns— you remember the ones? So lovely and exquisite, the sale of one could have fed the people for a year.'

"And do you know what she said in reply?" I chuckled darkly. "'I had many servants,' she said. And that was it. Her only excuse."

Zoya curled her fist. "Mother always said Wiona was merely a drop in the rainstorm of the Empress' life. You shouldn't have expected different."

"All the same." I sighed. "I stuck my ax through her heart. And then the King ordered Quentin to kill the Emperor right after. Forty years of exile ended with a few swipes of a blade. But I felt nothing, Zoy. No sense of vengeance, no sweet relief. Just… Nothing."

If Mara had been there, she would have lectured me on the futility of revenge. She would have said 'I told you so' or something equally as superior.

But Zoya merely lifted one dark brow. "Your stories usually end with a bit more flair," she said.

I smiled, even though I didn't feel much like smiling that day. "This story isn't over yet. We have a war to win and a king to kill."

~

Before my first battle, I was a ball of fury and excitement and thirst for glory.

The enthusiasm faded after a few more years of endless jobs in lands whose names I could not pronounce. In the later years, a calm would come over me before the first shots were fired.

Yet no matter how many battles I fought, everything was just a veil to conceal the basest emotion of all: fear. Fear that I would never see my family again. Fear that I wouldn't make it out alive.

And so when the fear creeps upon me as two dozen of the King's men slink from the woods surrounding this cemetery of unmarked graves, I let it.

I don't try to quash it with a cocky word to a comrade. I have no comrades left anyway. I don't try to bury it beneath a string of chanted encouragements in my head. I have no encouraging words left. I don't even try to pick up my battle-ax and polish the blade and prepare for slaughter as the soldiers surround me.

Fear trembles through my limbs, sheens my forehead. It trickles down my spine like perspiration. But I hold my ground before Zoya's grave. They can have the others. But not her. Not her.

"Yanic, isn't it?" The soldier who speaks has a kind voice, which is why I'm surprised his face is so scarred. "Yes, I remember you. One of the King's merry assassins who helped put him on the throne. We haven't come here for you. Wheel away, sir, and we'll let you be."

I click the wheels of my chair into a locked position; I meet the young soldier's gaze.

The wind howls. The trees dance. Leaves rustle and sticks snap in the wood before the soldier drops his eyes.

"You're an honorable man, sir." The young man draws his revolver. "I heard you killed the late Empress in the East for killing her servant. I'd like you to know, sir, that before King Julien was crowned, I was a servant, too."

The soldier raises his revolver, meeting my gaze again. "My life was worth less than the palace rats. And King Julien's rule saved me from it. I owe him my loyalty for as long as I live."

"Still, I am sorry." He cocks the trigger. "It is shame to lose one of the great warriors of our time."

In my mind, I am young again; strong of body and prowess.

In my mind, I smash them with my war hammer in one mighty blow.

In my mind, I paint the gravestones red with their blood.

But since Julien killed Zoya and left me with this festering stump, I have not been that man. And so these things I imagine remain only in my mind.

A shot rings out.

I expect to feel pain before the darkness claims me.

But there is no pain. There is nothing.

Another shot rings out. Warmth sprays my face.

A third shot explodes.

The scarred soldier falls, a veil of dirt rising up in his wake.

And then there is only the acrid stink of gunpowder and the soft thunk of throwing knives and the muffled cries of the dying.

I unlock my wheels and shoot to the side while the soldiers' attentions are elsewhere. The ground is already littered with their bodies and I wheel to a stop against one, tugging the soldier's revolver from his bloody hand.

Excitement, calm, then a furious rage crash over me in waves.

I fire and bodies fall like stalks of wheat. I am the harvester, come to glean. I fire and fire, wheeling my chair like a chariot. I am the reaper, come to collect. I fire and fire and fire again until, at last, there is only silence.

My ears ring. I cough and blink in the haze, searching for my rescuers.

A woman leans over a fallen soldier, checking for a pulse.

"Amelie?" I say in disbelief.

She straightens and turns to face me. Her skin is darker and far more lined than it was when I last saw her. But those cold as steel eyes haven't changed at all.

"Yan!"

I swivel my head toward her voice and Marguerite comes crashing from the wood. She wears a split skirt gown in her signature red, a pair of soft brown boots, and a belt studded with throwing knives. She falls to her knees beside me, tears in her eyes.

"Are you hurt?" She scans my bloody clothes.

I shake my head, hugging her to my chest as she cries. "But how did you get away?"

"Oh!" Marguerite's tears disappear as quickly as they came, a roguish grin pulling at her mouth. "Just wait until I tell you the story, Yan. It rivals even the best of yours."

I ruffle her strawberry hair with a hand, wanting to laugh. "Believe it when I hear it."

Solene jumps down from the wagon the soldiers carried here, stuffing a new masque in their satchel. They give me a nod of respect. I return it with a stiff bow of my neck.

"I am happy to see you're in one piece," I tell them.

Solene smiles as they reach me. "And I you, friend. I hate to switch so quickly to business, but I suspect we don't have much time."

I clear my throat. "Of course. Business first."

"The wagon," Solene nods their bald head toward it. "Why is it here if they came only for you?"

"They didn't come for me. They came for the bodies."

"The bodies?" Amelie calls from where she's still checking the felled soldiers for pulses. "What use are the dead?"

I open my mouth to finally speak of what I saw, but Solene beats me to it.

"It's how Julien is using magek," they say, green eyes glossing in thought. "I can't believe I didn't think of it before."

Marguerite pales. "What do you mean?"

"The blood," Solene says. Their words tumble out, stumbling over each other in their excitement. "When the Mages first arrived in this world, we were slaughtered for our differences. The leaders of old would drink our blood, claiming it gave them our powers."

The image of Julien, bent over the Empress' body after I killed her flashes through my mind.

"So you know a solution then?" Marguerite jumps to her feet. "A way to negate the effects?"

Solene bites their lip and opens their mouth to reply.

"What the fuck is this?"

We swivel our heads around to where Amelie stalks between the gravestones like one of the risen dead. She holds my sister's note in the air between two golden fingers. My heart plummets when I realize what it must say.

"What the fuck is this, Yanic?"

I suck in a breath. "Give me a moment to explain, Am—"

"Yes," she shouts. "You will explain. Because even I can't understand how you could betray a fucking child!"

Fury is etched into her trembling mouth; sorrow, yes I see it, too, in the tremble of her lips. "After what happened to your little sister? After all we went through? I've always known you were wary of me, Yanic. But this?" Amelie throws Mara's damning note to the ground, starting toward me as she yanks her rifle from her shoulder.

Marguerite steps in front of me. "Please, Amelie," she says, raising her palms. "He is our ally, our friend—"

But the One Shot Lady laughs, not sparing Marg a glance. "What did Julien give you for my son? No," she smiles, but it does not touch her eyes, "what did he take from you?"

"Zoya," I whisper. "They captured me and Zoya."

Amelie's face darkens like a storm. "So you gave up a boy," she says quietly, "for an old woman five years from the grave?"

"She is my sister," I growl, yanking Marguerite out of the way.

Amelie raises her rifle, smiling a cold, cold smile. "Was."

Solene puts a hand on Amelie's shoulder, appearing out of nowhere at her side. "Think twice, Amelie. We need him."

She cocks the trigger. "A stick from the woods would be better aid."

"You always said you'd never kill an ally," Marguerite says.

Amelie's lips twitch. "An ally wouldn't do this to me."

Marguerite steps between us again. "We've all done things we regret."

"He's been in the city longer than any of us," Solene says. "He led the rebellion. He knows things Solene and I don't."

Amelie stares me down and, for a moment, I think she will ignore them. She'll pull the trigger and I will join my sisters and Amelie's boy in death, where I belong. But then her lips peel away from her teeth.

She releases the safety and growls, throwing her rifle to the ground. Amelie storms into the wood without a word. Just before she disappears into its gloom, I think I see her shoulders shaking with grief.

Solene offers empathetic words before hurrying after Amelie. Marguerite holds my hand and prattles on about something to try to distract me. She waves a hand in front of my face, asks if I am listening.

But all I can see is Rueben's small spirit, watching from the shadows of the wood.