*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The messenger gives him a name, scrawled in blotchy, black ink, stained with dried blood.
Ben tucks this into his pocket, tucks it away for safekeeping even as the name is stored in the quick, flickering levers of his mind, filed for his particular intent, his fatal purpose.
The young man stands, feeling the ache of hard battles, the soreness of a back spent long hunched over desks. It has been much easier to visit the libraries since the city guard lost control. The only tricky part has, of course, been preventing these places from being torched.
There are plenty of other things in this grimy city to burn, he thinks to himself as he turns toward the window. Plenty of other people.
His window hangs open toward the East, toward the tall, dark thing, newly cobbled together out of the remnants of the old city fortress, looming high now, like a silent creature. Up there, in the high tower, hidden behind all that solid stone, is Fae Urilong. Ben remembers her from Helm's Hollow, remembers lashing out at her as he broke through the rock around his hands, lurching forward, trying to get up, and when feeling—
The Paragon had sent her back to take him on.
Two non-Skillers facing off across city ruins, he thinks, watching the bright flicker of anger, resistance, spread wide between his tower and hers. What do all the other rulers make of this?
This, of course, is not to say his opponent is without power or guile. She is pretty, she is mannered—two traits often overlooked in a ruler, but deadly when well-employed—and she can be brutal, if pushed. Ben is sure of it.
I just need to push her hard enough...
He remembers the coronation, when the Keesark nobles had insisted on pomp, insisted on grandeur. He had watched of course—watched to see what she would do. Watched to see how she would react to his personal gift.
The only fitting gift for one who would deign to rule above us all.
He had smiled when she showed up in white; a simple, white cape with hard shoulders, hair pulled back into a high bun. It was not the opulence the families had wanted, not the grandeur.
Ben could see Allayria in that. But Allayria would have shown up in armor—no dress, no silk gloves. And she would have never worn white.
"You couldn't pay me to go back," she had said a long time ago in this city as they looked out another window, guessing at who was passing. Their anger and rage at the city guards was held in check still then, not let loose as it is now.
He feels his fingers squeeze into a fist and he glances down, loosening the grip.
The coronation. The Urilong girl in white. Yes, he sent her his gift, but when it was done, when she had to emerge out of the room, she had not conceded to him or the nobles: the dark crown was set on her forehead but she still wore that simple dress, her hem stained crimson. And all of Solveigard City saw: the queen, soaked with blood.
But the other, the Smith-caller, had lingered behind her like some kind of wraith, black and clad in smoldering metal, face alight with silent fury. The common people were uncertain about this new queen, but they were certain in their fear of him. It was an effective move, brilliant in its own way. Ben can concede that, concede her cleverness. The red queen and her obsidian bloodhound.
And now she gathers children around her, like some great protector, like their lives mean anything more to her than the people out here, fighting for a right to choice, a right to autonomy.
Another clever move, he thinks, but I have plays of my own for this board.
An idea has formed in his head, a solution that only needs the means propped up around it. It needs a clever eye, a sly sleight of hands—someone with an edge of daring and a breath of caution. But his wily friend has gone underground.
She has him now, he thinks, but he suspected this long ago, when he, Meg, and Iaves were so conveniently found at Helm's Hollow. He always had a soft spot for her. It needles him still, but he shunts this aside, buries it deep with other, inconvenient things. He will deal with Keno when the thief raises his head above the grass. He caught Ben unawares once. Never again.
But still, this works at Ben still as he pours over the plans, the reports. An old itch, an old whisper at the back of his mind. His fingers brush the pocket, brush over the letter and the name, the first clue of a trail—a true trail this time, unlike the last.
The real trail to Pang-Sing.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A/N: Oh Ben, we have not missed you.
Chapter notes: Ben faced off against Fae and Caj in Partisan's "Pai Luella." He and Allayria trade names in Paragon's "The Name Game."
