“You are no longer a youth,” Urstadt said, as if that explained it.
“I’ve seen only twenty-two summers.”
The sun had now set completely. The night was dark, and the stars were out. Urstadt tossed her a waterskin, and Winter took a long, gulping drink gratefully.
“Once you have mastered the basics,” Urstadt said, “you should begin to practice fighting while using telesis.”
Winter lowered the waterskin. She had not thought of faltira since beginning the training session. That seemed a good thing. “What do you know about fighting while using telesis?”
“Nothing,” Urstadt responded. “But it is a skill you cannot neglect to develop.”
True enough, Winter thought.
“Commander Winter!”
Winter made a face as she turned to face the oncoming Ranger. She hated the title the Rangers had given her, and they did not seem interested in alternative suggestions. It sounded ridiculous. “Commander Urstadt” rolled off the tongue, had a certain ring to it. “Commander Winter” was as clunky and awkward to say as Winter felt she was at the job.
The Ranger was just a few years Winter’s senior. “Riders in the distance,” he said.
“More than one?”
“Many more,” the Ranger said. “We can’t quite make out an exact count yet, but… dozens, at least.”
Winter’s heart pounded more quickly. They had not seen so many before.
“To arms,” she said. “Don’t form up yet. They may not want to fight us. But be ready.”
Winter looked to Urstadt. This would be their first encounter with the tiellan clans. Winter needed to make sure it went well, one way or another.
* * *
In moments, Winter was mounted, Urstadt on the steed next to her, watching the riders approach in the distance. Selldor waited on his horse on Winter’s other side. He had become her de facto lieutenant-of-choice. While his military prowess did not seem any greater than Winter’s, he did appear loyal, and he was certainly angry. That was an emotion Winter could channel.
Her seventy Rangers formed up behind them, mounted and armed with spears and swords. A few of them had bows, but they had very little experience using the weapons from horseback—nothing like the fabled riding archers of the tiellan clans.
Four ranks of about a dozen riders each approached. Tiellans, certainly. Winter recognized the long brown leather coats and wide-brimmed hats. It was said that, among the clans, even female tiellans wore the wide-brimmed araifs. The riders were now close enough for Winter to see the truth behind that claim. A good portion of the approaching riders were women, and all were heavily armed. Another reason for Ghian and the Druids to consider enlisting women into the Rangers.
Each rider carried a bow and arrows, a short throwing spear or two, and long curved swords.
Winter’s Rangers outnumbered the clan riders, but from all Winter had heard, the clans spent as much time warring with one another as they did doing just about anything else; every clan rider was a warrior in his or her own right. Winter’s Rangers had seen one victory in battle, but they were still green. As was Winter herself. She had her psimancy, of course, but if they could win the support of the clans without a battle, all the better.
A group of five riders broke off as the others slowed to a stop. The five continued forward, towards Winter, Urstadt, and Selldor. Winter took a frost crystal from the pouch at her belt. Better to be safe.
“May we all be blessed,” one of the clan riders said, a man, as the five neared Winter.
Winter inclined her head, unsure what to say. “Good day to you all,” she finally decided, painfully aware of how stupid she sounded. Like she was greeting a group of nobles on the street in Cineste.
The five riders exchanged glances with one another. Clearly Winter had not given the expected response.
“Under the sun and moon,” one of the riders said slowly.
The five riders did not remain still. Their horses trotted to and fro, sometimes in circles, and every once in a while one of them would move at a gallop for a moment, only to slow and return to the group.
“We are wondering why you have come to the great plains,” another rider said, this one a woman, her wide-brimmed araif pulled low over her face, long brown hair protruding beneath.
“My name is Winter. Behind me are a group of Rangers from Cineste.” She felt the dull fire of faltira beginning to take effect within her.
All five of the clan riders burst into hearty laughter at the mention of Rangers. Winter frowned. Perhaps she should not have used the word. She tried to ignore the laughter, and continued. “We have traveled east to escape the human persecution in Khale, and to seek the help of the tiellan clans.”
It took a moment for the riders’ laughter to die, but when it did, they fell quiet for a moment, their horses fidgeting and trotting distractedly. Winter wondered how they could stand it; if her horse were so restless, she would hardly be able to focus on anything else.
“You say you have come escaping the humans,” another rider said, “but you are in the company of one. Why did you bring what you are trying to escape?”
Winter glanced at Urstadt, who remained stone-faced next to her.
“Urstadt is different,” Winter said, very aware of how lame her explanation sounded. “She is my friend, and she is loyal. She has sworn to serve me.”
A few of the riders murmured at that, but Winter could not make out anything specific they said.
“Many hundreds travel behind you,” another said. “They are yours?” There did not seem to be a specific commander, at least not among these five. It was a strange dynamic; there seemed to be no order in which they spoke, and it mimicked the controlled chaos of their restless horses.
“We are part of the same group, yes.”
“And are they also Rangers?” Another round of laughter from the clan riders accompanied the question.
“Some of them, yes.” Winter could feel her face turning red. She tried to keep her breathing even. It would do no good to get angry, just as it would do her no good to be embarrassed in front of these people. What was said was said.
“And you command this army?” asked another rider.
“I do,” Winter said.
“And you wish to challenge us for control of this area?”
“No,” Winter said emphatically, “not at all. We desire your help.”
A few of the riders once again exchanged curious glances.
“You desire our help, but do not wish to challenge our power?” The brown-haired rider asked the question as if the two concepts were intertwined.
Winter glanced at Urstadt, but the woman did not return her gaze. She stared at the clan riders intently.
“We see that she does not understand our ways,” one of them said.
“Then we must teach her,” another responded.
More quickly than Winter could have imagined, the brown-haired rider drew her bow and had an arrow nocked and aimed at Winter.
A tendron burst forth from Winter, latching onto the bow, and Winter shifted the arrow’s trajectory just in time for the arrow to fire at an awkward angle, thudding lightly into the grass.
The other riders turned to look at the woman who had fired the arrow, their eyes wide in surprise. Then, they turned back to Winter, and suddenly five tiellan warriors at once were nocking arrows aimed directly for her.
Winter was ready this time, and sent tendra out to each one, plucking the bows from the hands of each rider. She kept one eye on the clan ranks in the distance, about fifty rods away, but the riders remained relatively still, watching the exchange. Winter dropped her reins and raised both hands, telling Urstadt and Selldor to give her space. They obliged, reining their horses back a few strides.
The five riders reacted quickly, reaching for spears, but Winter was ahead of them. She’d already taken each of the spears, and with one quick strike slammed the butt end of them into the faces of their respective riders.
A couple fell from their horses, but they were on their feet quickly. All of them drew their swords.
Goddess, they’re just going to keep coming. She had to be more emphatic. The clanfolk had said she did not understand their ways. That much was true. But they did not have to teach her.
She would make them understand hers.
She stabbed one of the spears into the neck of the brown-haired woman. She fell, gurgling.
“I will accept your surrender whenever you wish to offer it,” Winter said loudly, her voice hard.
The clan riders looked at one another, but continued advancing on Winter, three on horseback, one on foot, all with swords drawn.
Winter attempted to drive another spear through the neck of another rider, but the man parried the thrust with his sword. He didn’t see the other spear Winter had raised behind him. Winter stabbed the weapon into his side, and he fell from his horse, groaning.
“No more of you have to fall,” Winter said.
The three remaining tiellans continued advancing, faces grim.
Winter took the swords from the dead riders with two of her tendra, and attacked the tiellans still on horseback simultaneously. They parried and fought their invisible foes, but as Winter added more tendra and weapons to the dance, both fell quickly. Now only one clanswoman remained, on foot.
“Submit to me, and this will end,” Winter said, looking down at the woman.
Slowly, the woman lowered her sword, and looked up to meet Winter’s gaze. Winter saw dark black eyes staring up at her from beneath the woman’s araif, eyes that looked very much like her own. The fabric of her siara was light, almost transparent. The woman took a step towards Winter, and both Selldor and Urstadt flinched, but restrained themselves. They both knew by now that Winter could handle herself.
The warrior took her sword in both hands, placing the flat of the blade in her palms as she raised it to Winter.
“You have defeated my four chiefs,” the woman said. “I submit myself, and my army, to your power.”
Goddess rising, you could have done that from the beginning.
“Thank you,” Winter said. “Are you a chief? What is your name?”
“I am Rorie, of the Black Hills clan.” The woman’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “And you are my chief now, Winter.”
18
Kirlan
THE NIGHT WAS DARK and the moon new as Astrid moved through the shadows of Kirlan. The bumbling, emaciated man she’d recruited to help her, however, was significantly hindering her usual stealth.
“Is it much farther?” the man asked as he stumbled around a corner, more or less tracing Astrid’s footsteps.
“You can’t possibly have somewhere to be.” Astrid didn’t look back at the man. She was annoyed at even having to bring him along, but he was necessary. She’d found him in an alley, more alert than most but still completely desperate. When she’d tossed him a silver coin, promising more if he followed her for an hour or so and did as she said, he immediately stood and began walking after her. She’d woven a glamour for herself, so the man did not see her claws, fangs, or the color of her eyes. She hoped there would be no need for those.
“Just keep close and keep quiet,” Astrid said. “We’re almost there.”
It was late, past midnight, and the streets were all but empty, especially in the residential area of the city. Tower-houses rose above her, but she slipped through the alleys between them. Astrid did not know the city well, but she had been in this area once before. She knew exactly where she was going.
The Cantic chapel where the Black Matron had taken her.
Astrid crept past dark windows and closed doors, the man trailing behind her, until she saw one side of the carved stone chapel ahead.
Kirlan was home to three Cantic chapels. The largest was close to the city center, while another was located near the tiellan quarter. This one, the one Astrid sought, was in the middle of the residential quarter, where most nobles, high-earning merchants, and government officials made their home.
The residential area consisted of three long parallel roads, and the Cantic chapel sat in the center of them, cutting the middle road into two segments. Though tall, the chapel did not reach the height of many of the tower-houses in the area, some of them five or six stories high. Such houses were common in central and southern Khale, whereas manor houses and castle keeps were still the norm in the north.
Astrid stood on tiptoes, barely able to get her eyes to the very bottom of the stained-glass window. The place was empty and dark. That was good.
She relaxed back onto her heels, and then moved away, the man staying close and blissfully silent. When she had crept around the entire perimeter of the building, keeping as close to the chapel wall as she could, she began to think that her idea might not have been all that bright.
Then she felt it. A sickness, gently churning her insides at first, growing slowly stronger as she moved.
Nightsbane.
She was near the northeast corner. The main entrance to the chapel was on the west face of the building, but there was a smaller private door on the northern wall. Astrid made her way around to the smaller door, looking in each window she came across hesitantly. The green glow of her eyes was a nuisance; if there was someone inside, they surely would have seen her peeking in by now.
But Astrid had seen no movement, and that was enough for her. The priestesses must all be in their quarters tonight. No one up burning the holy oil.
Astrid broke the lock on the side door with a quick twist of her wrist.
The thin man behind her made a low groaning sound. “I… I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
Astrid looked back at him. “If you want more silver, stay here and wait for me. Soon, your job will be over.”
When the man nodded, Astrid gently pushed the door open and walked inside.
Moonlight filtered faintly through the stained glass into an otherwise dark hall. Astrid’s eyes provided the brightest source of light by far, illuminating the decorative carvings and paintings wherever she looked. In one corner of the chapel was a sculpture of Canta herself, her long, back-length hair sweeping out behind her, as she reached upwards for something, a look of concentration or pleading on her face. Rare to see such a sculpture at all, really. While the Denomination did not forbid depictions of Canta, they were certainly uncommon. Most statues and paintings focused on the Nine Disciples and their works after Canta’s death.
Against her better judgment, she found herself walking towards the statue of the Goddess. It was not quite life-size— Canta was maybe Astrid’s height in the depiction—but the Goddess stood on a pedestal that rose roughly to Astrid’s waist. The sculpture was carved from marble, but unlike many of the worn statues Astrid had seen in chapels and cathedrals, this one looked pristine.
Slowly, Astrid reached across the pedestal to the foot of the statue. She did not know what she expected; no flash of light, no voice from the Praeclara, but she did hope for something. As her fingertips brushed against Canta’s feet, Astrid felt only the cool touch of marble.
Astrid looked over her shoulder, scanning the chapel to be sure she was alone. Satisfied, she turned back to the sculpture, two fingertips still gently touching the Goddess’s foot.
“Don’t know if you can hear me,” Astrid whispered, looking up into Canta’s face, “or if you’re even there at all…”
She hesitated. She had not expected to say anything, and she was suddenly unsure of what else to say. She stood there for a moment, the marble perpetually cool against her fingers, which had no heat of their own to offer.
“I need your help, I guess,” Astrid said after a moment. “Things aren’t good, and…”
The Black Matron is just using me, for one. Knot will probably never forgive me, even if he says he does. I don’t know if I’m worth forgiving, anyway. I just…
“I need your help,” Astrid said again. That was, she realized, all she was prepared to say.
; Then, the chapel around her shifted.
Slowly, she realized, she was once again standing on the bow of a ship.
Calling it a ship would work, she figured. It seemed slightly too large to be called a boat, despite Astrid once again being the only person on the vessel. It was the same ship as the strange vision she’d had before. Its sails swelled, full of wind, driving the ship forwards, once again in the direction of a bright sunrise. Astrid looked over her shoulder. Behind her, the sky was still dark and full of faintly twinkling stars. The night sky in her wake faded into the blue-gray-violet of daybreak directly above her, which in turn warmed into the rosy orange hues straight ahead as the sun broke the horizon. The ocean was so still that it offered an almost perfect reflection of the sky above. Black water behind, blue-purple water to either side, and gleaming pink and orange water before her.
The gentle heat of the rising sun’s rays washed over her face. Just like before, there was no fear. The sun did not burn her; instead, it made her whole. In an instant, all the darkness was gone, and a bright golden light ignited across the sky and sea around her.
The ship took an unbidden turn into a great fjord, tall cliffs rising on either side of the still water. Once again, Astrid knew exactly where she was going. The word rang in her mind like the tolling of a great bell. Home.
She was going home.
Then, her surroundings shifted again, and Astrid found herself standing in the chapel in Kirlan once more.
“Was that… you?” Astrid asked the statue before her. “What does it mean?”
No feelings, no thoughts or voices or otherwise, came in response.
“Why a ship?” Astrid asked. “And where am I going?” Or where was I going? For all she knew, it was a memory.
The empty chapel responded in silence.
Astrid sighed. She retracted her hand, and turned. She had come here for a reason, after all.
Slowly, she approached the northeast corner of the chapel. This building, like most chapels, consisted of a large central hall, leading into a warren of smaller rooms and offices. A few rooms occupied the northeast corner of the building. Based on what Astrid had felt, the nightsbane would be in one of them.
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