Barrow gave him a measured look. “I’ve eaten my fill, Lord Morrow. This gesture was a rich gift, but unnecessary. Lord Hart and I are here only to collect what you owe Conatus. Now that your daughter is here, we should be on our way.”
A chill crept over Ember’s skin. What you owe. Was that all she meant to Conatus? A debt to be paid?
She felt even colder when Alistair stepped forward, gaining her father’s attention.
“The Circle bade me remind you, Lord Morrow,” Alistair said slowly. “One life for another. These are the terms.”
Agnes’s fingers dug into Ember’s skin, but Ember didn’t flinch nor did she speak, even when her sister began to cry softly.
Their father paled. “Mercenaries you are. Cruel and demanding.”
“One life for another,” Alistair said again. His gaze fell upon Ember’s mother. Ossia’s lip quivered, but she laid her hand atop her husband’s.
“You cannot forswear your oath, my lord,” she murmured.
Edmund snatched his hand from hers and stood. “No. I shall not forswear myself. But I shall journey north with you. We all shall.”
Agnes threw a pleading look at her mother and sniffled. “But my wedding . . .”
Ossia nodded, turning to her husband. “My lord, our daughter is but a month from her sea journey.”
“Her trunks can be packed by servants.” Edmund snorted. “She needn’t be here. Our house travels to Tearmunn on the morrow.”
Barrow coughed. “Lord Morrow. My orders are to bring the younger lady Morrow to Conatus today.”
“Tomorrow is as good as today.” Edmund glowered at the knight. “You shall not further offend me by refusing to share this feast and spend the night as guests in my home. We will leave at dawn.”
“If you insist on making this journey north,” Barrow said, with a slight shake of his head, “we will depart within the hour.”
Edmund’s face purpled. “You dare to command me in my own house.”
His warriors ruffled at the exchange. Ember felt as though someone had grabbed her by the throat when she saw several of her father’s men reach for their weapons. She could feel Agnes trembling.
“Father, please.” Ember started forward, but Alistair put up his hand, signaling for her to keep still.
“Just wait,” he murmured.
“I do not command you,” Barrow told her father quietly. “But I will not fail in my own duties. I take your daughter to Tearmunn today. If you travel with us, you will already slow our progress. Three riders would make the trip quickly. The entourage you seem to be suggesting will make our journey longer by days. Delay is simply untenable.”
Ember was holding her breath, her gaze locked on Barrow. He towered over her father with shoulders set, face calm but unyielding. She couldn’t look away from him. No man had ever spoken thus to her father. Without fear. Without apology. Her pulse rippled with anticipation. It was marvelous.
Ember’s father puffed up his chest. “I will not suffer this humiliation. Nor will I send my daughter off on a horse with two men like some common woman. She shall arrive at Tearmunn with her maids and her belongings.”
Barrow glanced at Ember. “The lady alone will return with us today. You may send her things to the north as you wish. There is no place for her maids at Tearmunn.”
“Enough!” Edmund brought his fist down on the table, the force of the blow toppling several platters and overturning cups. “I will hear no more of this.”
“Perhaps we can resolve our differences another way,” Barrow said quietly.
Red-faced and huffing with fury, Edmund scowled. “And what way would that be?”
“Pick your best men.” Barrow waved at the cluster of warriors in the hall. “If they can defeat me in combat, we’ll depart tomorrow.”
Edmund squinted at Barrow. “Did you say men?”
The warriors guffawed, trading grins. Edmund raised his hands and the hall fell silent.
All traces of Ember’s father’s rage had been wiped away. With a hearty laugh, he said, “I’m tempted to hold you to your words, knight. And guarantee myself victory.”
“I didn’t misspeak, my lord,” Barrow answered without hesitation. “Your best men. Name them.”
The chortling of Lord Morrow’s men quieted and soon became angry rumbles.
“A bold challenge,” Edmund said, his smile hard. His gaze swept over his men. “Hugh! Gordon! Felix!”
Ember drew closer to her sister as the three warriors eased their bulk from their chairs. Her father had picked well. Not only were these his most seasoned knights, but they were among Ember’s least favorite. Hugh wasn’t horrible, but when she was a girl, his scarred face and missing teeth had frightened her. Gordon and Felix had a habit of leering at Ember and her sister when they passed in the hall. Even worse, Felix had a reputation for cruelty to both the manor’s servants and his hunting dogs. These men would fight hard and, if given the chance, wouldn’t hesitate to seriously injure Barrow out of spite.
Barrow nodded at the three men. “My lords, choose your weapons.” He turned to Ember’s mother. “My lady, I would not sully your home with combat. Might we move into the courtyard?”
Ossia nodded, taking her husband’s arm. Edmund led his wife from the room, beckoning his chosen champions to follow.
The buzz of anticipation in the hall broke into a low roar. The men-at-arms surged after their lord, leaving the hall and barreling to the courtyard. Alistair hung back, offering his body as a barrier between the rabble of men and Ember and Agnes.
Watching the tide of warriors ebb from the room, Ember jumped in surprise when a low voice, very close, said, “I apologize for this spectacle, Lady Morrow. I hope I haven’t given offense.”
Barrow had appeared suddenly out of the mob, standing at her shoulder. She looked up and found him searching her face intently. What he was looking for she couldn’t say, but her own gaze was caught in the dark blue-gray of his eyes, their shade like that of a storm-ridden sea. Unable to find her voice, Ember simply shook her head.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” Alistair asked Barrow.
“Lord Morrow is in need of a lesson,” Barrow answered.
Alistair frowned. “Perhaps. But Ember’s father will like us even less afterward, which will hardly please the Circle. Also, I know those men. You’re in for a dirty fight.”
“Don’t worry about me.” A smile flickered over Barrow’s mouth. He shrugged off his cloak and handed it to Alistair.
Alistair sighed, muttering, “I wonder if Kael could have avoided a fight.”
“Your mentor in the Guard?” Ember asked, remembering the name from one of Alistair’s letters.
“Yes,” he said. “He has a lighter touch than Barrow—but our commander didn’t think a cheerful countenance would persuade Lord Morrow.”
“Your commander is probably right,” Ember said, and Alistair’s only answer was a rough laugh.
As Ember and her sister hurried to match the long strides of the two Conatus knights, Agnes whispered, “How horrible! Can’t you stop this?”
Ember glanced at her. “How could I stop this?”
“They’re fighting over you,” Agnes said. “Alistair has been our friend since we were children. Plead your cause to him. Surely he’ll convince Lord Hess to release you from Father’s promise. You were but a babe and our father was desperate. This burden shouldn’t fall to you.”
Gritting her teeth, Ember said, “You know how dear you are to me, Agnes. But I have no desire to be released. I want to go with them.”
Agnes sighed. “You say that now, but what do you know of Conatus?”
Ember pulled her gaze away from her sister’s worried face, frustrated by the truth in her words. Conatus was shrouded in mystery—an order of knights sanctioned by the Church, but one whose tasks were known only to its members.
“You told me that Alistair’s letters spoke of vows.” Agnes stared at Alistair’s back as she spoke. “Vows wh
erein you would forsake a life of your own.”
“My life now is not my own,” Ember hissed through her teeth. “If I stay here, I am but Father’s to give to whatsoever noble he chooses.”
A mewling sound of sorrow emerged from Agnes’s throat and Ember put her arm around her sister.
“Forgive me, Agnes,” Ember said, cringing at her own thoughtlessness. “I should not say such things.”
“I know you look upon marriage with scorn.” Agnes kept her eyes on the floor as they walked. “But it is only because you haven’t been struck by love’s arrow.”
Ember would have snorted, but she’d already hurt Agnes enough. “I hope you find the love you seek in France.”
Agnes glanced up, but at Alistair rather than Ember. “So do I.”
Bright sunlight made Ember squint as they emerged into the courtyard. Her father’s warriors had already formed a ring in the open space. Within the circle Hugh, Gordon, and Felix brandished their weapons. Hugh bore a short sword and had a shield strapped to his left arm. Gordon carried a halberd and Felix a spiked mace.
Lord Morrow’s men stepped aside to let Barrow enter the ring. Alistair led Ember and Agnes to a nearby slope where their parents stood, overlooking the ring. Barrow had drawn his sword. Unlike Hugh’s thick, squat blade, Barrow’s sword was sleek and curving. The men about to fight bore as much resemblance to one another as their weapons did. Like Ember’s father, the three warriors he had chosen to face Barrow were thickly muscled with an impressive girth of chest and shoulders. Their hulking bodies were built like piles of large stones. By contrast Barrow was tall and lean, his form drawn in long, taut lines.
Barrow searched the courtyard until he found Edmund. “My lord?”
“Whoever does not fall or does not yield,” Edmund shouted. “My men or this knight of Conatus shall be declared the victor!”
Brutish hollering rose from the ring of warriors. Agnes shuddered, pleading with her sister once more: “How can you bear this, Ember?”
Ember barely heard her sister’s question. Her blood was roaring in her ears, her heart drumming heavy against her ribs. Her hands moved restlessly, fists clenching and unclenching. She wished she could hold her sword, even if only to mimic the exhilarating match that was playing out before her.
Barrow raised his sword in salute to his trio of adversaries. They grunted and shrugged in reply. Hugh and Felix exchanged grins, signaling their anticipation of an easy win.
As the warriors around them roared for blood, the men within the ring began to move. Barrow kept his sword low, watching his opponents. Gordon bellowed, rushing at Barrow, his halberd aimed to impale. Barrow sidestepped, letting Gordon’s spring carry him past the point of attack. As Gordon blew by him, Barrow twisted and brought the flat of his sword down on Gordon’s skull. The crack of steel on bone made Agnes shriek.
“I can’t watch!” She buried her face in Ember’s shoulder. Ember didn’t blink. It was as if she could feel Barrow’s muscles tensing and exploding into action as he fought. Her body hummed with his strength and grace. She’d never felt more alive.
Gordon crumpled and lay unmoving. With Barrow’s back turned, Felix and Hugh were already on the attack. Felix leapt at the knight, swinging his mace in a broad arc, while Hugh darted around their adversary, keeping his shield up but his sword low.
Barrow dove, rolling in the dirt as Felix’s mace whistled past his ear. Hugh struck as Barrow lay on his back, but the knight managed to kick Hugh in the stomach with both feet. As Barrow sprang to his feet, Felix brought his mace around. A cry of warning rose in Ember’s throat, but Conatus’s champion spun around, his blade sweeping up to meet Felix’s mace mid-blow. Metal clanged as they struck over and over.
Recovering from having the breath kicked out of his lungs, Hugh scrambled from the dirt to rejoin the fight. He tossed aside his shield and threw himself at Barrow’s unguarded back. As Felix swung his mace, Barrow dropped to the ground flat as a board. Hugh tripped over Barrow and fell forward. Bone crunched, and a groan rose from the circled warriors when Felix’s spiked mace buried itself in Hugh’s shoulder.
Hugh screamed as Felix swore and wrenched his weapon free. Blood poured from Hugh’s wound and his left arm hung limply at his side. Barrow had already rolled away from them and was on his feet again. Without pause he darted toward Felix, his curved blade flicking through the air. Gashes began to appear on Felix’s arms and shoulders. Felix winced, stumbling back. With a strangled cry he wheeled around, flailing as Barrow continued his relentless strikes. Felix’s shirt was in tatters, his chest covered with cuts that looked like whiplashes. Breathing hard, he dropped to one knee. Only then did Barrow’s blade pause.
“I yield,” Felix rasped, his head bowed.
Barrow nodded. He turned to face Hugh, who though bleeding and groaning in pain was still standing in the ring.
“Do you yield?” Barrow asked him.
Hugh spat on the ground just short of Barrow’s feet, but he nodded. As Barrow sheathed his sword and turned to leave the ring, Hugh began to laugh. Felix had risen from the dirt, his eyes bulging with outrage. Without a battle cry, Felix lunged at Barrow, bringing his mace around in a high arc so it would smash into Barrow’s skull.
In a movement eerily similar to Felix’s submission, Barrow pivoted and dropped to one knee, but his hand was moving, sliding his blade from its sheath and slashing the air. He easily met Felix’s swing, but Barrow hadn’t aimed his blow to block Felix’s attack. A shriek pierced the air as Felix’s mace and his forearm dropped to the ground, hewn from his body by Barrow’s sword.
Felix fell to the ground, still screaming and holding the bloody stump of his arm. Without looking back at the fallen warrior, Barrow left the ring. He didn’t break stride until he stood before Ember. The slight incline upon which she stood put them face-to-face, and she found she couldn’t breathe.
Ember stared at the tall knight. Every muscle in her body was taut as if she’d been in the ring herself. Her gaze lingered on his arms, his chest, the muscles of his thighs. Ember had seen dozens of men fight in her sixteen years at her father’s estate. She’d never seen anyone move the way Barrow had.
Though she couldn’t fathom why she would merit such a gesture, Barrow bowed to her.
“My lady.”
She was still shaking when he turned to her father and said, “We leave for Tearmunn in an hour.”
Edmund Morrow, pale with rage, answered. “An hour.”
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New York Wildlands, Amherst Province, 1816
1.
EVERY HEARTBEAT BROUGHT the boy closer. Charlotte heard the shallow pulls of his breath, the uneven, heavy pounding of his footfalls. She stayed curled within the hollows of the massive tree’s roots, body perfectly still other than the sweat that beaded on her forehead in the close air. A single drop of moisture trailed along her temple, dripped from her jaw, and disappeared into her bodice.
The boy threw another glance over his shoulder. Five more steps, and he’d hit the tripwire. Four. Three. Two. One.
He cried out in alarm as his ankle hooked on the taut line stretched between two trees. His yelp cut off when his body slammed into the forest floor, forcing the air from his lungs.
Charlotte lunged from her hiding place, muscles shrieking in relief as they snapped out of the tight crouch. Her practiced feet barely touched the ground and she ran with as much silence as the low rustle of her skirts would allow.
The boy moaned and started to push himself up on one elbow. He grunted when Charlotte kicked him over onto his back and pinned him against the ground with one foot.
His wide eyes fixed on the revolver she had aimed at his chest.
“Please,” he whispered.
She adjusted her aim—right between his eyes—and shook her head. “I’m not in the habit of granting the requests of strangers.”
Charlotte put more weight onto her foot, and he squirmed.
“Who are
you?” she asked, and wished her voice were gritty instead of gentle.
He didn’t blink; his eyes mirrored the rust-tinged gleam of the breaking dawn.
“I don’t know.”
“Say again?” She frowned.
Fear bloomed in his tawny irises. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” she repeated.
He shook his head.
She glanced at the tangle of brush from which he’d emerged. “What are you running from?”
He frowned, and again said, “I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know, then why were you running?” she snapped.
“The sounds.” He shuddered.
“Sounds?” Charlotte felt as though frost had formed on the bare skin of her arms. She scanned the forest, dread building in her chest.
The whistle shrieked as though her fear had summoned it. The iron beast, tall as the trees around it, emerged from the thick woods on the same deer trail the boy had followed. Imperial Labor Gatherers were built like giants. The square, blunt head of the machine pushed through the higher branches of the trees, snapping them like twigs. Two multijointed brass arms sprouted on each side of its wide torso and its long fingers were spread wide, ready to clutch and capture. Charlotte’s eyes immediately found the thick bars of its hollow rib cage.
Empty.
“Who sent a Gatherer after you?”
His voice shook. “Is that what it is?”
“Are you an idiot?” She spat on the ground beside him. “You must know a Rotpot when you see one! Everyone out here knows how the Empire hunts.”
The screech of metal in need of oiling cooled Charlotte’s boiling temper. A horn sounded. Another answered in the distance. But not nearly distant enough.
She didn’t have time to mull over options. She lifted her foot from the boy’s chest and offered him her hand. The only advantage they had over the Rotpots was that the lumbering iron men maneuvered slowly in the forest.
“We need to leave this place. Now.”
The boy gripped her fingers without hesitation, but he shot a terrified glance at the approaching Gatherer. They were partially concealed from view by a huge oak, but the machine was close enough that Charlotte could see its operator shifting gears from within the giant’s iron skull. She watched as the man reached up, pulled down a helmet with telescoping goggles, and began to swivel the Rotpot’s head around.
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