A Fair Account of the Traitors Snow White and Rose Red

Never Each Other's Dream

Snow crumples to the ground beside me as Mother abruptly stops struggling in my arms. The weak pulse of Mother's heart flutters moth-soft against my fingers while Snow's ragged breath frosts the air, just barely. Somehow, the shattering of the mirror is killing them both. The jagged fragments of the Star of Kadith glisten with silent brightness on the pavestones, revealing nothing.

"Give them back!" I curse at the silver shards as they reflect the fractured frenzy of my tear-streaked face. When did I start crying? Now I can't stop. I've lost everything to Chant and the foul mysteries of this wretched glass . . . .

The ear-splitting clash of claw scoring metal draws my attention back to the palace. My gaze shifts to the south turret where Faylen and Micah weave a lethal dance on the roof amidst the razor thorns of the rose briars. Ignoring the sting of Faylen's scimitar, the Orune glitters like a rising sun as he seizes the blade in his bare fangs and flings it over the side in a spinning blur. Micah presses forward and forces Faylen to cling to a flag pole. But just as he lunges for Faylen's throat, the Sarevali hunter wrenches the pole free and thrusts it into the bear's breast with the brute force of a knight's lance.

"Micah!" I cry.

Mute horror seizes me as the two plunge from the roof locked together. A reverberating thud fills my ears as the Orune slams onto the square first. Micah staggers to his feet only to collapse again with an anguished bellow. Standing atop the golden bear's fallen body, Faylen pulls an ivory whistle on a leather cord from underneath his collar and blows once.

I hear nothing—but I know that I was not the one for whom his summoning was meant.

Shrill cries fill the air, and I squint as hundreds of flaming lights rise in the sky from the direction of the harbor and streak over Leona. The cry of pyrehawks is soon overwhelmed by the baying of hellfang foxes and the metallic rattle and rhythm of troops marching through the city streets. The whine of arrows cuts through the din as archers arm their bows from the saddles of sleek-pinioned gryphons. Of course, with the Leo guardsmen thrown into disarray by all three Grand Banes—a duel of geomagy and gloriphagy coupled with the elves' rampaging verdai—now is the perfect time for Sarevali soldiers to storm the palace. The Queen's Pearl glows with incandescent blossoms of fire as the first wave of pyrehawks slam into the outer wall.

Cruel clarity cuts me where I stand wonderstruck in my bridal rags; with no mighty geomage or gloriphage left to protect my country, Albemar will fall. Soon, before this day is done, I will lose my kingdom, crown and quite possibly my head. Strangely, only a weary resignation settles through my bones—and a final determination. Whatever strength is mine will end here, with my family.

Scrambling up, I seize a bent iron span from the rubble of the broken carriage and plant myself firmly in front of Mother and Snow's fallen bodies. Closing my eyes, I will my aura to curve the span into lethal sharpness. The blood in my wrists boils hot, but when I open my eyes I am forced to acknowledge that the power of my Grand Bane falls far short of my imagination. Only a meager gust of blue flames leaps from my skin to bubble the metal. The dull-edged iron mocks the semblance of a sword, but my makeshift weapon is all I can muster on such short notice.

Stray embers rain down like hot rain as Faylen's inexorable stride brings him closer. Picking up his scimitar, he swings it in a dizzy arc as he circles me at a leisurely pace.

"How disappointingly convenient." Faylen shakes his head in disgust as he eyes my fallen mother and sister. "I was rather hoping for a little sport with the victor, but they thoroughly destroyed each other."

Suddenly, Faylen's deliberate nonchalance during Snow and Mother's duel makes perfect sense. Faylen was waiting for Mother's gloriphagy to weaken all this time to spring his invasion without risking massive casualties.