The priests wake you up in someone’s bed. A woman cries in the other room—most likely the mother or wife of the man whose body you’ve just stolen. She will not meet that man again.
You stand and test your new body. Strong shoulders and calloused hands, so a blacksmith or a farmer. The priests tell you that you are twenty years old, born the same day as the King. An unlucky day for a boy in this kingdom to be born.
One of the priests lowers his hood. He is not a priest at all, but the King. You recognize his ancestors in his face. You kneel.
He tells you to rise. His eyes are red from crying. He has just lost his father.
You ended your eleventh life protecting the previous king. You took a spear to the belly and died hours later half-buried in mud, acid from your guts souring the rest of you. You died waiting for your king to come back for you, but he did not.
The memory of your death tears a hole through your stomach. You press your hand against the wound only to find that it’s not there.
Is it true? the King asks. Did you know my father?
And your father’s father, you say, and his father and his father before that, all the way to the time when this kingdom was a greasy feast hall and the priests lay goat skulls at the foot of the throne and prayed for protection.
And they made you, the King says. The first knight.
And they made me, you say. Again and again.
The longer I look at you, the King says, the older you seem.
Funny, you say. I was just thinking the same about you.
#
The priests don’t approve of your grave-robbing, but they don’t stop you either. It’s not as if you ever take anything that didn’t belong to you in the first place.
At least they found your body to bury it. It lies in the catacombs below the castle, in the room reserved for all your iterations. You take the sword from your own skeletal remains. There are other things there too—trinkets, tokens. You leave them there. It’s best to start fresh. This sword is the only thing you ever keep.
As you leave the catacombs you pass old kings, men you knew once. The last king, only recently interred, already has a fine layer of dust atop his tomb.
You have your youth again, and with it comes a youth’s resentment. You bend your head over his grave and spit.
#
The roof of your tower has a hole in it. You find the King staring up at it in consternation, motes of sunlight catching gold in his dark hair. His face looks like too many dead men’s, while yours has only ever been stolen from strangers.
I’ll ask them to fix it, the King says. The servants don’t come here often, I suppose. You’re a bit of a specter.
He can see the sword you now carry. He must recognize it, though he doesn’t remark on it. Your king in this lifetime is more patient than his forebears. Perhaps that means you’ll live longer.
At least they lit the fire, the King says, and kneels by the hearth. The last time a king was in this tower, you both knelt naked on the stone floor and painted yourselves for war. Only one of you came back.
Will you not say something, the King says. Will you only loom? Did you run out of words in the crypt? Will you speak to the dead and not to me?
You shake away the ghosts and the cold of the crypts. You try to shake away the rage but it won’t go. You sit beside the King.
You ask him how his father died.
Dysentery, the King answers. Rather ignoble, to shit yourself to death.
You ask him about the war.
Which one? the King replies. There are too many to name. Half the continent’s breathing down my neck. Even the witches hate us.
So that’s what you woke me for, you say. To fight in your father’s wars.
I didn’t wake you up for war, the King says. I’m far more interested in the other thing.
#
You wait for the King to go back on his word but he does not. There are skirmishes on the borders and wounded coming back in carts, but he still doesn’t send you out to fight.
Months pass. You’ve been a butcher for many lifetimes, and idyll doesn’t suit you. You keep waking up in the middle of the night with a spear in your belly and carrion birds circling you in the sky. You start every morning in the sparring yards, hacking away at posts until your arms give out.
Sometimes the King comes to watch you, and though your vanity would prefer it to be out of admiration, you can tell that it’s not. It makes him unhappy when you remind him you’re a killer.
It’s what I was made for, you remind him. You’re flushed and sweaty from your exertions. Now, perhaps, you have his attention.
You still don’t believe me, do you? the King says. So you come here every morning to swing your sword around. You wait for me to become my father.
My King, you say, this land has known its lion’s share of battlefields. I should know: my blood has watered many of them. And so? In the next lifetime, a tree will grow where my skull was split and the slaughter will have moved on and I will rise to meet it yet again.
The King’s eyes flash. He scares you just a little when he gets like this.
And yet, he says, you are the only man living who still remembers when a king last brought this land peace. The first king.
It was a long time ago, you say. And you are not him.
I’m not, the King says. And that’s why I woke you.
#
Winter comes and the war wanes. The King comes to you often, asking for, of all things, your advice. He picks your memory for histories and war tactics and though this is a role you’re unfamiliar with, you find you enjoy it.
The King doesn’t always take your advice after you give it. He’s still adamant about peace. You both argue about it late into the evenings, pacing relentlessly around your tower.
The King spends so much time in your tower that he decides one icy morning to fix the roof himself since it’s clear the servants won’t come. He does a fair job of it, but works himself nearly frostbitten, and it falls to you to bully him into blankets and warm his bluing hands by the fire.
He asks you to tell him about the first king, and you do. You try. You remember his eyes. You remember his voice. Or do you? How sure can you be? Did he always look like the man you see in front of you, or is your mind inventing the likeness? You thought loving someone so much you bound yourself to his memory meant that you’d at least get to keep the memory.
He was good, you say. He was the only good thing I ever saw in that life.
I’ve read his journals, the King says. It never came easy to him, the business of ruling. He wrote of you often. But I’m sure you’ve already read them.
The priests offered his journals to you once, three lifetimes after he died, when it became clear that none of his descendants would ever live up to his name. They left you alone in the room with all of his scribblings, and it’s the closest you ever came to burning this place to the ground.
No, you say. I’ve never read them.
#
Witch fog descends on the castle and you spend all day making sure every lantern in the castle is lit, that there are bowls of milk and bread left in the doorways, that the priests keep the entrance to the catacombs locked tight.
War has come, just like you always knew it would.
The King thinks you are overreacting, as does the rest of the court. They’ve never had to fight an army of witches after a blood sabbath riled them up into berserkers.
That does sound awful, the King says, when you point this out to him.
So don’t tell me I’m overreacting, you say. Until the witch fog lifts, we should all be on guard, especially you.
I’ll sleep in your tower, the King says. I imagine I’ll be safe there. Now leave me alone. It’s hard to get any work done when you’re like this.
You leave, feeling oddly jilted, and drill the guardsmen in defensive maneuvers against witch spears. When night falls, the King comes to your tower and turns out all the lanterns without looking at you.
I’m exhausted, he says, and slips beside you in bed. This, on its own, isn’t so unusual, since the King has slept here before. It is unusual when he slides towards you in the dark and kisses your neck.
He climbs on top of you and you don’t stop him. His mouth is hot on your skin, and you feel something soft brush against your cheek. His hair? No, it feels like spiderweb, like the veils that witches wear.
It’s the only warning you get. You twist away just in time—instead of tearing open your throat, her teeth only pierce your collarbone.
She sits up, the illusion slipping away. You can’t see her face behind the long ragged veil of lace and spiderweb, but you can tell she is laughing at you.
We have him, she says. He is ours forever. This kingdom will finally end.
By the time you reach for the dagger under your pillow, she is already gone.
#
It crosses your mind to not go after him. If the kingdom ends, then so will you. Shouldn’t all things get to end?
The thought doesn’t linger long. Twelve lifetimes ago, you swore an oath. It is the only promise you have ever kept.
Also, you love him. You have loved all of them, even the ones that treated you like a weapon and sent you to die. You’re cursed to always come back like a kicked dog. Of course you have to go after him.
The court wants to send an army marching to the border to fight the witches for the King, and in any other lifetime you would have led the charge, been the vanguard into the wilds, but in this lifetime, something is different. If the army marches then there will be war, and a war with the witches will not help anyone and it certainly won’t free your King.
So you take a horse in the middle of the night and ride ahead. By the time they realize you’re gone, it’ll be too late.
The tumbleweed and ram’s horn wall of the wilds rises up to meet you. You came here once before, lifetimes ago, when witches were more welcoming. Things have changed since then.
You find a gap in the wall wide enough for you to squeeze through. You suspect it was put there on purpose. It’s not exactly a welcome, but you’ll take it. You make your slow, painstaking advance through the wall. At one point, the path narrows into the smallest possible gap. Everything smells like hot animal hide and dust, but you also catch a fleeting breeze of fresh air.
You realize that the only way through is to leave your sword behind.
It is not an easy decision. You try many times, twisting your arm to near dislocation, contorting yourself through the gap in any way you can. Brambles and thorns and burrs and bone tear through your clothes and skin and you howl in anger more than in pain.
The first king gave you this sword. He gave you this sword.
He never wanted to give it to you though. He didn’t want you to be a weapon. That came later. And it’s not like you didn’t have a choice in it either. It’s not like you ever chose to stop fighting, lifetime after lifetime, dooming yourself to repeat your mistakes.
You choose it now. You leave the sword behind, resting in the crook made by two ram’s horns. You force your way through the gap and emerge on the other side of the wall, torn and bloodied, your hands empty, more helpless than you have ever been.
This is how the witches find you.
They arrive in a stampede of rams that thunders across the steppes, their gauzy robes billowing behind them. You’re surrounded in an instant, rams tossing their enormous horns in your face. A witch tips a spear beneath your chin and forces you to look up at her. You can’t see her face, but the veil is familiar. She’s the same witch who tried to kill you before.
Isn’t this a surprise, she says. I thought the wall would keep you out. Why have you come?
I came for the King, you say.
You’re not much use to him like this, she says. The tip of her spear explores your throat.
Then he’s still alive, you say, feeling more relief than you should considering your life is in danger.
For now, she says.
The last time I was here, you say, I recall your people received the King and me in your halls. We broke bread and slept safely beneath your roof. And now you threaten a defenseless man. It looks like honor has left these lands.
For your sake, she says, you’d better hope it hasn’t.
Her spear lowers. The witches all regard you, faceless and silent. They’ll hear you out, at least.
An army approaches the wall, you say. They won’t leave without their King. I’ve come to bring him back to avoid any violence.
Our walls will stop an army, the witch says, sounding almost bored.
Besides, she adds, I think you’ll find that your King doesn’t want to leave just yet.
#
The witches take you to the King. The ride across the steppes is punishing under the glare of the sun, and the witches give you a veil of simple undyed gauze to shield your face and neck.
This place, at least, looks exactly how you remember it. The halls are carved high into the mountains, where only rams can climb. The ascent is nearly vertical, and you cling to the back of your ram and try to look like you know what you’re doing.
You find your King in the highest hall. He sits in a circle of blood and ash, a ram’s skull covered in writing cradled in his lap. His lips move as he chants. He is in the midst of becoming a witch.
You run to him. You almost make it, but then a witch steps into your path. He’s even taller than you, his veil woven with what looks like dried lizard skin. He grabs you and pulls you away.
It can’t be interrupted, the witch tells you. He’ll be fine.
Out of desperation, you call the King’s name. His eyes open. He stops chanting and looks surprised to see you. He didn’t expect you to find your way through the wall. His eyes look for your sword and do not find it.
Take him away, the King says. He can’t be here for this.
You see him close his eyes and begin chanting again. Betrayal feels like a spear in your belly and acid spilling from your stomach.
You let the witches lead you away.
#
He comes to find you hours later and tells you it’s time to leave.
Are you really a witch now? you ask. I don’t see your veil.
Don’t start this right now, he says. We’re running out of time. The army will be here soon, and I have to be there to meet them.
Two rams wait for you outside the hall, and you both make the sickening descent back down to the steppes and begin riding to the border.
Did you do it for power? you ask. Winning wars wasn’t enough for you? Was everything you told me about wanting peace just pretty words?
He is silent, which only angers you further.
I was wrong about you becoming your father, you say. You’ve become something worse.
Yes, he says. I suppose I have.
You reach the border in time for darkness to fall. The wall is gone. In its wake there only remains scattered bones and the occasional tumbleweed. Somewhere, if you chose to look for it, you would find your sword.
I didn’t do it for power, he says. I didn’t even do it for peace. I did it for you.
#
He builds a fire where the wall once was and explains it to you.
Near the end, he says, the first king realized what he’d done to you. The impossible promise he’d asked you to keep. You would only end if the kingdom ended. But he knew the kingdom would never end if you were there to protect it. All things should get to end. It’s the only way something better can be built.
The witches offered me a way, he continues. A way I could end the kingdom by turning myself into something different. I’m a witch now. The wall is gone. The lands are joined. I am no longer king and you are no longer bound.
You have died eleven times, but this is the first time you’ve ever felt truly lost.
Do you understand? he says. You’re free. You could leave right now, live your last life how you choose. You don’t need to follow me anymore.
You stand up. You can see that he expects you to leave. You can tell he doesn’t want you to.
You go to his side of the fire, kneel, and kiss his hand.
I have one last promise to keep if you’ll let me, you say.
I may have made a horrible mess of things, he says. I don’t know what will happen next. I’m scared I’ve ruined everything.
It’s all right, you tell him. Twelve lifetimes ago, a man said those same words to me.