Remembering his courage that day in the mountains, so long ago now, when Romaine had fallen, Erika drew herself up. “I am no outsider,” she snarled at her accoster. “Who are you to question me?”
The man raised a bushy eyebrow. “I am Darien of the Calafe,” he rumbled. “And I know all of my people in Mildeth, those who survived the death of our kingdom. And I don’t know you.”
“And yet I am Calafe.”
“Did you come from the south then?” Darien asked, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “Perhaps you’ve lived amongst the Tangata all this time, sharing their beds, breaking your fast with them.” He snorted and waved a hand. “Begone, women, look for shelter elsewhere.”
Movement came from behind Darien as two others stepped from the crowd with clubs in hand. One sported a missing eye, the other a nasty scar that started at his exposed shoulder and disappeared beneath his shirt. Erika shivered again at the evidence of their lost war. Most of the Calafe had refused to flee the Tangata. Only those too injured to fight, or with families to protect, had fled willingly. Even Romaine had only survived because of a head knock that had incapacitated him during the final battle.
Alongside her, Cara shifted at the sight of the men and Erika sensed her friend’s tension. Quickly she stepped between them. She didn’t want to see what would happen if the people of this city witnessed the Goddess in all her glory. After the rumours that had spread ahead of the fleeing army, it was unlikely to be friendly…
“Ay, I came from the frontier,” she said softly, allowing the accent she had worked so hard to squash the past decade to slip back into her words. She kept her eyes locked with Darien. It was obvious he enjoyed some degree of status amongst the refugees. “I stood with Romaine of Calafe when he marched south against the Tangata,” she hesitated then, knowing she carried news the world had not yet heard. “And I was at his side when he died.”
“Romaine is dead?” the man asked, shock showing in his eyes. He lowered his hand, the tension going from his body. “It cannot be true.”
Cara stirred at his words. “It is,” she said softly. “He died saving me, protecting me from a terrible man.”
For the first time, Darien took note of Cara. His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down and Erika’s heart clenched, fearing Cara would be recognised as the Goddess that had revealed herself on the Illmoor. This man could not have been there, but rumours would have spread…
“It is said Romaine journeyed into the mountains to protect a…woman with fiery hair and eyes of amber,” he said softly, and Erika realised this man knew the truth. But he only inclined his head to Cara. “I am glad to hear his passing was not in vain. Long did our champion seek the release of death.”
The Goddess swallowed at his words, her eyes shining in the afternoon sun. Erika felt a sting in her own eyes, but she clenched her teeth and forced the grief aside. How much easier this would have been, if Romaine had lived to stand at her side. They could have worked together to reunite their fallen kingdom…
…but there was no use wishing to change the past. There was only the present now, only her. Drawing herself up, Erika nodded to the Calafe.
“He died fighting for his kingdom,” she added.
A frown touched the man’s face, and he looked at her, perturbed. “Who are you, girl?”
“I am no girl,” Erika said, inserting every inch of authority she possessed into her voice. These men must not view her as a child, and so she drew about her the practiced air of the Flumeeren court, the skills she had acquired in her years training beneath the queen. “My name is Erika, daughter to King Micah, and the rightful Queen of the Calafe.”
The man stared at her, eyes wide, brows lifted into his ragged mop of black hair. Then abruptly, he threw back his head and let out a booming laugh. Erika jumped at the sound, flinching back from him, before a scowl crossed her face. Instinctively, she clenched her fist.
The sound of Darien’s laughter drew the attention of the nearby crowd, and as his laughter faded, Erika and Cara found themselves surrounded now by onlookers. Embarrassment rose within Erika as she felt the weight of their gaze and her cheeks grew warm.
But they fell silent as the heat grew in her hand, their eyes drawn to the light seeping from her fingers. Swallowing her doubt, Erika she raised her fist, the gauntlet aglow, its magic bursting out to bathe the faces of the onlookers. Even Darien’s eyes widened at the sight and unconsciously he took a step back.
“What sorcery is this?” he whispered.
Erika ignored him. Instead, she scanned her surroundings, settling finally on an appropriate place to stand. Crossing to a nearby fountain, she climbed up onto the rim. The water within had long since dried up, probably one of the first luxuries to be halted with the approaching war. There was a statue within of a man upon a horse, probably queen Amina’s father, Erika guessed, though she could not have said for certain.
Ignoring the now silent crowd, Erika crossed the barren fountain and pulled herself up onto the statue, climbing higher, leaving behind those below, until she stood upon the back of the horse and looked out across the plaza.
A thousand faces stared back at her, mouths wide, eyes fixed upon the glowing gauntlet. Erika grimaced as she look at them, at their pain, their poverty, the cruelty the world had dealt them. Once, she had condemned these
