“He wants me to what?” I ask.
Lythienne’s face scrunches up into an expression that’s almost but not quite a wince. “Just to talk. To go to the World’s End and talk to Rowan,” she says.
I snort. “Didn’t you talk to Rowan?”
“Rowan wants to talk to someone from the Royal Guard,” she replies.
“He has,” I say.
I know for damn sure we’ve sent at least a half dozen guardsmen out to the World’s End to talk to one Rowan Sans Undervale. And they’ve all come back with the same reply: no, no, no, and no plus kiss my ass.
“Well, Rowan hasn’t talked to you,” Lythienne offers, with what looks like an attempt at a smile. “Not in person. Not yet.”
I cross my arms over my chest and frown at her. “This isn’t going to change anything.”
Lythienne makes a tut-tutting sound in the back of her throat. I sigh.
“Rowan’s that important?” I ask. I already know the answer, but still, I have to ask.
Lythienne meets my gaze. “Yes.”
Most people flinch and turn away when I look them in the eyes like that. Either Lythienne has nothing to hide, or there’s just nothing in the Lands Below that intimidates the king’s chief magician. I drum my fingers against my arm and try not to roll my eyes. Lythienne’s wanted Rowan in the king’s consortium of magicians practically since the day we were all trapped down here. But Rowan wants something in return, and it’s not a price I’m willing to pay.
“I’m not offering his brother a position,” I finally say.
Lytheinne sighs, but this is not up for debate. Positions in the Royal Guard are not handed out as trades. Or bribes.
“I’m sorry,” I continue. “You know why I can’t.”
Lythienne waves one wrinkled hand in the air to dismiss my feeble apology. “I know, I know. Just, Orryen.” She looks at me with her disconcertingly blue eyes. “Do try.”
I clench my jaw and refrain from pointing out that I am, in fact, trying to recruit Rowan. I’ve been sending the little son of a bitch letters for decades. About three years ago he sent me a beautifully polished wooden cylinder with a curious curve to it and a series of strange glyphs inscribed along the circumference. Over the next two years, he followed that bizarre gift with a series of ciphers, each more maddeningly intricate than the last, until I was finally able to decode the message he’d carved on the cylinder.
It read: go fuck yourself.
And that was when I realized I was holding a dildo.
My enthusiasm for bringing Rowan Undervale into the royal court had dimmed considerably since then. Lythienne leans forward and places one of her wrinkled hands on my arm.
“Orryen Kingson,” she says, and I know she’s about to get serious if she’s using my official title. “You know we can’t live down here forever.”
I sigh again. The beginnings of a headache are nipping at my temples, and I very much doubt a conversation with Rowan of the World’s End is going to improve matters.
“Every year it takes more and more magic just to keep the glowsoft orbs shining,” Lythienne continues. “We’ve already had to abandon most of the Outer Ring, and the void beasts get bolder every cycle.”
“I know,” I reply. My chest feels like it’s sinking in cold mud.
“Orryen,” she says as her hand tightens around my arm. “What are we going to do when we can’t grow enough food?”
I raise my hand to pinch the bridge of my nose. “And Rowan’s going to fix all this, huh?”
“Oh, dear!” Lythienne laughs like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “I don’t know if anything can fix it.”
“Great,” I mutter.
She fixes me with those cold blue eyes. “But I do know we don’t stand a chance without Rowan’s magic on our side.”
My headache surges forward, stabbing at my temples like an ice pick. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
Lythienne gives me such a wide, cheerful smile it’s hard to believe we’d just been talking about our eventual deaths from starvation. “Ah, you’re such a good boy, Orryen.”
“Always,” I answer.
I even manage to keep some of the bitterness from my voice.
* * *
The World’s End is a miserable place. I suspect it was always miserable, even before our magic waned and most reasonable people retreated to the arable land of the Inner Ring. But now the World’s End is objectively, inarguably awful, and the way my gut is churning after the five teleport hops it took to reach this horrible backwater of a town isn’t helping my mood one bit.
I brace myself against the teleport stone and bend over, waiting to see if my stomach’s going to empty itself onto the dirty snow beneath my boots. Cold bites at my cheeks and burns my throat as I pull air into my lungs. The glowsoft orbs are fainter out here, casting long blue-green shadows around the forest that rings the World’s End. The fact that all the trees died years ago as the magic keeping them alive ebbed doesn’t do much to help this town’s ambiance.
I spit, then wipe my hand with the back of my mouth and adjust my satchel. It jingles faintly; I’ve loaded the damn thing with gold coins that I’ll happily hand over to Rowan if he agrees to come back to the Crystal City with me. Although the stars only know what you’d use money for out here. The palace sends weekly deliveries of food and other essentials to the World’s End, the last outpost in the Outer Ring, and of course, you don’t need gold for food and essentials.
It’s a voids-damned waste of resources, all of it. I’ve tried to talk to the king about it, to convince him to stop supporting these outposts and concentrate our resources on the Inner Ring, but he’s got a soft spot for letting idiots waste their lives however they see fit. Which explains why Rowan is still out here instead of being marched to the Crystal City under conscription.
It explains a lot of things, actually.
My gut settles somewhat, and I pull myself up to standing. What looks like a barn looms in the semi-darkness off to my left, and there’s a small beaten track in the snow to my right. If I hold my breath, I can just make out the faint sounds of an off-key piano.
Great. It sounds like the World’s End pub is going strong.
One brief and freezing cold walk later, I push open the doors to the World’s End pub. The piano music cuts off abruptly, and a dozen faces turn toward me with expressions reflecting varying degrees of surliness. A group of men and women in varying levels of intoxication are huddled around a table with an ancient chess set. A fire roars on the hearth, and a very old man stands behind the polished wooden bar holding a rag and an empty pint glass like he’s expecting to bash someone over the head with them.
“Hello, gentlemen. Ladies,” I begin.
I close the door behind me to keep the heat in.
“Officer of the law,” one of the men at the chess table says. “What brings you to the lovely World’s End pub?”
“I’m looking for a man named Rowan,” I reply.
The man who’d spoken grins in a way that makes my heart sink.
“And why’s that?” he asks. “You gonna buy him a drink?”
Damn. This has to be Rowan. He’s the youngest person in the pub by a large margin, and it looks like he’s also winning the chess match.
“I’m here to make an offer,” I say.
The young man reaches forward, moves a black pawn, takes the white queen off the chessboard, and then crosses his hands behind his head. One of the older men at the table curses, then slams something down on the table and pushes his chair back angrily. Rowan pockets the man’s gold coin. Then he grins at me.
“I’m only talking if you buy me a drink, soldier,” Rowan says, with a wink.
I clench my jaw to keep from saying that one, I am a member of the Royal Guard and not a soldier, and two, from his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, it looks like Rowan of the World’s End has had plenty to drink already.
“Fine,” I say.
I walk up to the bar and order a beer. When I turn around the cluster of men and women has dispersed to the corners and Rowan sits alone at the table, methodically resetting the chessboard. I place his beer down next to him.
“You trying to get me drunk, officer?” Rowan says, with a smirk. “Cause I’m not drinking alone.”
Voids damn it. I hate the way alcohol clouds my mind and leaves my body stupid and sluggish. But Rowan stares at me in a way that makes me think this asshole’s not going to give an inch.
Okay. Fine. I’ll make the backwoods yokel happy and have one voids-damned drink.
When I return to the table with a second beer, Rowan holds out his two fists.
“Pick your poison,” he says.
“I don’t play chess,” I reply.
Rowan grins. “I don’t talk to men who don’t play chess.”
“Fine.”
I tap his left fist, then try the beer as Rowan opens his palm to reveal a white pawn. The foamy brew tastes like bitter horse sweat. Rowan replaces the pawns and spins the board so white is facing me.
“Your move,” he says.
I move my pawn forward two spaces. “I’m here to offer you a job,” I say.
Rowan moves one of his pawns forward one space. “I only talk business after the second beer,” he replies.
Stars, what an asshole. I drain half of my pint, try to ignore the way my stomach curdles as the beer hits it, and move a second pawn forward two spaces. Rowan takes a sip of his beer, then holds his hand over his mouth and stares at the board like he’s contemplating his next move. Finally, he brings out his queen and slides her to the edge of the board, right beside my little pawn.
“Checkmate,” he declares, with a rather vicious gleam in his eyes.
“What the fuck?” I stammer.
Rowan finishes his beer while I stare at the wooden chess pieces in dismay. I’ve made literally two moves, and now my king’s boxed in, with nowhere to go but toward Rowan’s queen, and none of my other pieces can come to the rescue.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
This is a terrifically bad start to our negotiations.
“Cheers,” Rowan replies.
He lifts his beer, tilts it toward me, then drains it. Reluctantly, I follow pace. My head is already starting to swim when I come to my feet, drag myself back to the bar, and order two more beers. When I return to the table Rowan has reset the board. Grimly, I take a sip of my second beer. My cheeks feel hot.
“Orryen?” Rowan asks, raising an eyebrow.
I nod.
“Damn,” Rowan answers. “The Captain of the Royal Guard himself. I wondered when you’d find time in your busy schedule to visit the World’s End.”
Rowan drinks half of his beer in one gulp, which is disgusting. Then he spins the chessboard again and moves one of the white pawns forward.
“You here for business or pleasure?” Rowan asks.
“I’m here to offer you a job,” I answer.
Rowan holds up his palm. “I only talk business after the second beer, Captain Orryen. Really.”
With that, he finishes his entire pint and gives me a smile that looks like a challenge. I push one of the black pawns forward and lift my own pint glass. My gut shifts rather alarmingly as I do it, but I manage to drain the thing. The room pulses softly around the edges as I set it down.
“Job’s with the king’s magicians?” Rowan asks.
“It is,” I reply as I push another pawn forward.
“And my brother?” Rowan asks, moving his knight out. “He wants to join the Royal Guard, as I believe I may have mentioned once or twice in my letters. You got a job offer for him too?”
I shove another one of my pawns forward. “Look, Rowan, you’re both welcome in the Crystal City.”
Rowan moves his bishop, then lifts his glass.
“Look at that,” he says. “Empty. And yours too.”
He stares at me in stony silence until I shove back from the table and try to make my dignified way to the bar. I’m very aware of all the eyes staring at me as I order a third round of beers, then settle back into the creaky chair across from Rowan. He stares at me for a few minutes before I realize it’s my turn. I decide to move my knight, because hey, I like knights.
“Checkmate,” Rowan says.
“Damn it,” I mutter. I blink at the chessboard, where once again my king is totally boxed in.
“Cheers,” Rowan says.
He raises his pint, and so do I. This third beer goes down much easier. By the time my glass is empty, my head is buzzing pleasantly, I’m much warmer, and I’m starting to wonder why I don’t do this more often. It’s not so bad.
“Listen, Orryen,” Rowan begins.
He leans forward conspiratorially. I find myself leaning forward too.
“I appreciate you coming out here, buying me drinks, and letting me humiliate you in front of all my friends here,” Rowan says. “But, just in case my letters weren’t clear enough, let me tell you straight to your face, with all these fine men and women here as witnesses.”
Rowan leans back and sweeps his arm at the room. The piano falls silent once more. Belatedly, I realize I’m drunk, and this is bad. This is all very bad. Rowan’s been two steps ahead of me this whole time, and I didn’t even notice.
“If you and all the rest of the uptight, self-righteous pricks in the Crystal City don’t see fit to offer my brother, who is more voids-damned qualified and capable than any of you sons of bitches, a position in the Royal Guard, then I will never lift a single finger for King Galan. You get both of us, or you get none of us.”
I clear my throat to speak. Rowan ignores me.
“So, unless you come back here with a signed contract for Phaedron to join the Royal Guard,” Rowan continues, “I’m not doing a voids-damned thing for your king, or for any of his magicians. Until my brother joins the Guard, if His Royal Highness catches fire, I’m not even gonna piss on him to put him out.”
Someone laughs at this. I scowl.
“You got that, Captain Orryen?” Rowan asks. “You think you can carry that message back to the king?”
I push back from the table and come to my feet. The room sways alarmingly around me.
“You need me to maybe write it down?” Rowan offers with a shit-eating grin.
“We’re done here,” I reply.
The room explodes in laughter. I stomp across the room, rip the door open, and stalk out into the blistering cold.