by A. H. Lee
He would die when Roland did that. People bled more quickly once you removed something like a sword from their abdomens. But the pain would stop. Roland got a good grip and jerked hard.
The sword came loose from the wall and slid out of Sairis’s body, along with another gush of blood. His head dropped heavily onto Roland’s shoulder, his glasses pressing against the side of Roland’s neck. Sairis’s trembling arms went slack.
Roland dropped the sword and wrapped both arms around Sairis. He crouched. Gently, he laid Sairis on the floor. Roland touched his pale cheek, ran his fingers along his jaw exactly as he had last night. As he’d wanted to do again. “I would never have put a collar on you and cut your fingers off,” he whispered.
Then Roland stood up and snarled at the world through his tears. He raised the sword, still slick with Sairis’s blood, and jumped into the fight.
* * * *
Sairis sat on the banks of the Styx. It was peaceful here. It was home.
The twilight wood stretched all around him, quiet, but for the sigh of the River. The water was not wet. It ran dry as sand over Sairis’s feet.
He realized he was naked. Or not quite naked, but not quite clothed, either. When he looked down, his body was an indistinct shimmer. I’m not spirit-walking. My ghost is really here.
Other shimmers flickered past. A few were fighting the current, but most shot downstream with purpose. Sairis could feel the River’s hypnotic pull. It was difficult to look away from the water.
He looked anyhow.
Upstream lay Faerie. The River turned into the Lethe in that direction. It was a place of forgetting, a place to lose yourself forever and perhaps to be reborn again as something else.
Downstream lay Death. No living person could pass those gates, no matter how loosely tethered to life. What lay beyond was the great mystery. The last adventure. Or maybe the first. Maybe the only true adventure.
And then there was the forest—the place between. Sairis was surprised to see what looked like a stone tower a little distance away between the trees. What on earth is that? His curiosity flared, swallowed immediately by the tug of the River.
“They say necromancers are bad at dying.”
Sairis laughed. I might manage it this time.
A man stumbled out of the trees—a ghost. His shape was indistinct, but Sairis thought his aura looked familiar. One of the guards from the strategy room. He plunged into the River and turned into a silver streak, heading downstream.
Sairis felt a jolt and shivered. Karkaroth’s voice from long ago: “Power comes from phase transition, Sairis. Just like any form of energy. You can turn a log into ash and use the heat to cook your dinner. You don’t need magic to do that. There is no greater transition than the one from life into death.”
Another ghost stumbled out of the woods, another guard. Two ghosts that Sairis thought were Hastafel’s warriors followed, then more. Sairis couldn’t tell what side they were on, now, only that there were a lot of them.
He remembered the number of mirrors in the palace. If Hastafel had a way into one mirror, why not others?
* * * *
Roland was halfway down the hall with Daphne and four surviving guards before he realized the true gravity of their situation. He caught the tramp of feet on the stairs moments before another wave of soldiers burst into view. They weren’t wearing colors of any kind, and that was telling. One of them raised a crossbow and let loose a lucky shot that caught the guard beside Roland in the face.
The man went down with an agonized choking sound. Daphne, who’d kept an admirable composure throughout the fight, screamed. The remaining guards looked like they wanted to scream, too. Their leader was dead and their chain of command unclear. They were not hardened military veterans, just palace guards accustomed to dealing with civilians. Hastafel’s troops were coming straight from the pass, thanks to whatever devilry he was using.
“Fall back to the strategy room!” barked Roland. “Barricade the door, put out the fire, and wait for reinforcements.”
It was the best plan under the circumstances, but easier said than done. The fire had caught on the map wall, blossoming in a bright rush each time it encountered an oil lamp. It was licking up the dry wood and paper with a startling degree of heat and a hungry popping sound. His men—they were his men now—had no sooner barred the door than something hit it from the far side with a sound like an axe.
Gods damn it! The room was tremendously hot, the smoke growing thicker.
Roland cursed the caution that had made his ancestors forego windows here. He wondered if the whole castle was being overrun, if the entire army from Mount Cairn was emptying into the halls of his family home. Perhaps they were stepping out of mirrors all over town—every reflective surface, from the smoky glass of the Tipsy Knave to the polished sheen of the university dean’s office door. Hastafel gave us his terms, and we rejected them. Now his threats are coming true.
The door buckled, then collapsed. It really was an axe that Roland had heard. The man holding it was dressed in furs and leather—definitely not clothes for lowland Mistala. He roared at Roland, his face lit with an unearthly glare of firelight. Soldiers poured in behind him. The crossbow twanged again, and another of Roland’s men went down. Roland backed up with the two remaining guards, Daphne behind them, as more of Hastafel’s troops pushed into the room.
This is the part where you demand that we yield, thought Roland, but nobody suggested any such thing. They haven’t come to kidnap a queen. They’ve come to kill her.
Roland caught a movement on the floor. A sprawled body twitched. Then, in one strangely fluid movement, it stood up.
For just an instant, Roland’s mind could not process this. The body was a Mistalan guard with half his head missing. There was no possibility that he was alive. Then another stood up. And another.
The Zolsestrian troops pulled a little closer together. They did not break, but they did pause. Roland risked a glance at the wall to his right.
Sairis was standing. He was gripping the refreshment table for support, swaying a little. The entire front of his shirt was a mess of blood and gore. His skin looked ashen. His eyes were like holes into hell.
One of the attacking soldiers whispered, “Witch.”
Sairis raised his hand and the corpses moved, stumbling towards the Zolsestrians. They did not try to pick up weapons. Roland remembered dead hands reaching for him. He remembered the way they clenched in clothes or flesh or fur, the way they never let go. He wanted to run.
A beam from the ceiling collapsed, and the room was suddenly full of smoke and flying sparks. Men were shouting, screaming. It was impossible to see what was happening. Roland coughed uncontrollably.
“Roland!” It was Daphne, grabbing his arm from behind. “Roland, down! Now!” She dragged him to the floor. The smoke was a little thinner here. She thrust a napkin into his hand, soaked with what smelled like tea. Roland held it over his nose and mouth, and that helped a little. A body landed beside them—a Zolsestrian soldier with the hands of a corpse locked around his neck. The living man was red and struggling, the dead man pale and calm. Roland felt frozen with horror.
Daphne was tearing at the rug. She shouted into Roland’s ear. “Help me pull this back! There’s a way out!”
They managed to fling back part of the rug without scalding themselves. Daphne flipped a catch and Roland understood. A trap door. There was an entire system of secret passages in the palace. Roland knew about some of them, but he had not known of this one.
Part of the roof collapsed in a roar just as Daphne dragged Roland through the trapdoor and down the steps. “Shut it!” she barked, but Roland hesitated, staring through the slit at the burning strategy room. The smoke was so thick he could see nothing. “Sairis!”
Roland felt Daphne hesitate. She let him call one more time. “Sairis!”
Then she gave a hard jerk on his hand. “Now, Roland. Shut it. That is an order from your queen.”
Chapter 13.
Betrayed
Roland wasn’t sure how long they walked in the dark, hand in hand, like children. Daphne moved with intention, and Roland let himself be six years old again, exploring the crypts with his big sister, utterly confident in her sense of direction. He didn’t realize he’d been making a noise until she said, “Roland, please, I’m trying to think.”
He licked his lips and tasted salt.
“I should have brought you home when Marcus died.”
Where did that come from? His voice came out rough, and he had to clear it. “That was Father’s call.”
Daphne sighed. “I should have insisted.”
Roland wasn’t sure what they were really talking about. “That was when Uncle Jessup put me in charge of the Rim Fort. I knew the land by then; they needed me.”
Daphne said nothing. She stopped walking and they stood still in the darkness. “Gods.” Roland heard the shudder in her voice. “Be still a moment. I need to think.” He was sure she was wondering the same things he had. Were they already overrun? Was the whole palace on fire? Were all their guests dead? Was the city taken?
Moments ticked by and Roland did not intrude upon her thoughts. He could still feel the wiry press of Sairis’s glasses against his cheek, the prickle of his short beard, the warmth of his breath.
Was he even alive at the end? When he stood up, was that...?
Some said that practicing necromancers were never alive—that they traded their vital spark for power over death. But that’s not true. He was alive. I know, because I felt him die. He died in my arms, just like...
Daphne hugged him. She spoke softly. “It is hard to listen to you cry, little brother.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”
“Did you know him? Sairis?”
Roland went rigid. He wished his sister were a little less perceptive.
“There was something between the two of you. At first I thought you just didn’t want to work with Karkaroth’s apprentice, but it was more than that. Had you met before?”
Roland swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
Daphne gave him a squeeze. “Alright.”
She stepped away from him. Roland heard her straightening her clothes in the darkness. “This is what I’m thinking: if the city is taken, our only hope is to get out undetected. We could join Uncle Jessup in the pass or reach a border garrison.”
“We’d need a lot of luck,” said Roland, “but we might make it.”
“Yes. However, I have a hunch, Roland. I don’t think the city has fallen. I think...” He could almost hear her chewing her lip, choosing her words carefully. “I think the attack was a fairly straightforward assassination attempt. I think we were betrayed.”
Roland considered.
“Sairis was telling me about the mirrors when you came in,” she said. “He didn’t think Hastafel could have created a portal. A gate, he called it. He said the mirror had to be magically prepared on our end for that to happen.”
Roland sucked in his breath. “Someone on our side prepared the mirrors?”
“Yes,” said Daphne. “And I doubt they prepared mirrors all over town. Probably not even all over the palace. Roland, did anyone see you come back up to the strategy room?”
Roland shut his eyes. His journey back up the stairs seemed like ancient history, although it must have been less than an hour ago. “I don’t know, Daph.”
“I only ask because if I die...”
“Oh, gods.” Roland rubbed at his face. “Surely someone would not have conspired with Hastafel just to put me on the throne.” He hesitated. “Although Uncle Winthrop did tell me that I’d make a great ruler. I thought that was an odd thing for him to say. But betray us to Hastafel?”
“It seems unlikely,” agreed Daphne.
“Uncle Mani thought we should ask for terms,” said Daphne in a flat voice.
Roland recoiled.
“He pointed out that we have a long history of hostility with our neighbors, but not with Hastafel. He thought we should trust the sorcerer before Lamont and especially before Falcosta.”
Roland grimaced. “Did you point out that Hastafel’s subjects are fed upon by his demons? And that the university magicians think Hastafel himself may be possessed?”
“I did. Uncle Mani said we don’t know what any of that actually means. I said that by the time we find out, it’ll be too late to go back.”
Roland shook his head. “Even if he disagrees with you, surely, Uncle Mani wouldn’t...”
“Surely,” agreed Daphne. “But speaking of Falcosta, it seems infinitely possible that Norres would sell us in exchange for better terms, especially if he thinks Hastafel’s victory is inevitable.”
“Norres was certainly the most unlikeable person at that conference,” said Roland. “But I don’t think you should discount the possibility that Anton could have done the same thing. Lamont is more directly in Hastafel’s path of conquest along the Shattered Sea.”
“It wasn’t Anton,” said Daphne firmly.
Roland gave a long-suffering sigh. “You seem awfully attached for someone who’s met him twice.”
“We’ve exchanged many letters.”
“And no one has ever been betrayed by a correspondent.”
Roland could hear the smile in Daphne’s voice. “He raises short-tailed cats and plays the lute.”
“You’re right. His loyalty is unassailable.”
“He wrote me a song,” said Daphne sweetly.
Roland snorted a laugh. “Dear gods, this is serious. You do realize that he closely resembles a stork when he removes his wig?”
“You do realize that Sairis closely resembles a ferret?”
Silence.
“I’m sorry, Roland, I shouldn’t have said that.”
Silence.
“I doubt he’s dead.”
“He is dead, Daph.”
“Roland, he was on his feet. He was closer to the door than we were. And they say necromancers are hard to kill. Do you know how hard Father tried to kill Karkaroth—?”
“Daphne, please!” Roland hadn’t meant to shout. He flinched, wondering how close they might be to other people beyond the passage wall. “He had a sword through him. And besides...” Besides, he died in my arms, and I’m familiar with the sensation. Aloud he managed, “If by some miracle he staggered out of the smoke, who do you think will be blamed for betraying us with magic?”
Daphne reached out and took Roland’s hand.
“Anyway, he didn’t,” continued Roland. “He died, because that is what people do when they are run through with a sword. I’m a godsdamned expert on the phenomenon.”
Daphne spoke gently. “What I was trying to say about Anton is that he’s...in a difficult position at home. I don’t feel at liberty to discuss the specifics, but I have reason to believe he would not burn bridges. When he says he wants to rule our kingdoms jointly, he means it. He needs some help, and it’s unusual for a prince to meet a woman who could be his partner in statecraft. He has trusted me a great deal to share the things he’s shared.”
Roland listened in surprised silence.
“I would stake my life on the fact that he wouldn’t harm me,” finished Daphne.
“Well, we may end up doing just that. Is Anton the person you want to contact? Shall we hide with his people until we figure out who betrayed us?”
Daphne paced up and down the dark passage. “It would be better if we could get our bearings first. Roland, do you know of anywhere we could go? You sneak around a lot. Or you used to. You were out somewhere last night. Do you know of a place that couldn’t be traced to either of us? Somewhere that would take us in without asking questions?”
Roland hesitated. “I...might know of a place.”
Chapter 14. November
November Mackentier was not the sort of person whom most would have identified as the proprietor of a gentlemen’s club. She was in her mid-thirties, about ten years older than Roland. The first
time he’d met her, she’d been dancing on stage with a couple of young men, and he’d mistaken her for one of them.
The story went that November had been ejected from the home of her merchant father in Kotos after she’d been caught in bed with the nanny—a young woman no older than herself. November was the offspring of an earlier, failed marriage, and her father wished to please his new wife by making her children his sole heirs. The seduction of the nanny had created an easy excuse.
November had been cast into the streets with nothing but the clothes on her back. She’d quickly learned that dressing like a boy kept her safer. Like many young people in similar situations, she’d turned to prostitution to survive, but she found the attentions of men like Roland more tolerable than those of the average whore-seeker. Trouble was, she was often ejected from their favorite haunts when her true sex became known.
Toby Mackentier of the Tipsy Knave saw things differently. He offered November a job—first waiting tables, then making drinks, then keeping the books. Toby was not a pimp. If November wanted to dance on the tables and flirt with the patrons, that was her affair. If she wanted to blow them in a backroom, that was her affair, too, whether money changed hands or not. Anyone who got angry that she didn’t have the right parts under her trousers would soon find himself outside on the pavement.
By the time Roland met November, a scullery maid was known to be sharing her bed. She still danced on tables sometimes, and she still felt more comfortable in men’s clothes. She’d adopted Toby’s surname. A year after Roland left for the border, he’d heard that Toby had succumbed to a long illness and November had inherited the Knave.
They’d been friendly enough in the past, although Roland had always been afraid to get too personal with people from the Knave. He wasn’t sure whether November knew his true identity, and he didn’t know how she would react if he showed up at her doorstep in need.
She might turn him away. However, Roland was absolutely certain that November wouldn’t sell him out. People from his other life had each other’s backs. Even when they disagreed, even when they came from different social strata, even when they broke each other’s hearts, there was an honor code. The Tipsy Knave had sheltered men from raids and helped them get out of town ahead of a noose. November Mackentier knew how to keep a secret if anyone did.