Tala shepherded the group into a smaller room hidden behind a pillar just off the main entry. Some sort of receiving room—a place fitted with bowls of water and linens to wash away the marks of a hard day spent in the Torrent.
Luca was uninterested in such luxuries. “Tala, forgive my questions, but I have many.”
“Me too. First, I would like to know why Guille did not announce his intentions before attacking Luca,” Ula said, referring to the ghost—the man he and Amarande had encountered at the Hand. “He threw a knife at Luca, and I don’t want Luca anywhere near him.”
“I don’t remember a knife fight with Guille,” Urtzi ventured, perplexed.
“That’s because you didn’t have one,” Luca explained. “He came upon our camp after Amarande rescued me from you and, knowing that my three kidnappers were two pirate boys and a girl he called a ‘savant with a sword,’ he believed the girl had killed her partners to keep me for herself.”
Ula’s mouth dropped open. “He what now?”
“It was a reasonable guess,” Luca continued, “given Amarande’s nature.”
The look in Ula’s golden eyes could etch glass. “Men always think so little of women. I do not like him.”
From across the room, Osana chuckled—she was the only one of the crew taking a chance to freshen up. “He called you a ‘savant’ … I mean, that’s a compliment.”
“Not as given.”
“Guille is a watcher—the Warlord watches us; we watch her,” Tala explained. “Among other things, we watch for prisoners she has special interest in. So, when the Warlord sent men to intercept a prisoner at the Hand—we did not know it was you at the time, my Otsakumea—we sent Guille. And though his injuries from that fight have ended his watch, it was lucky he recognized you. By identifying the Otsakumea the way he did, all of you avoided sleeping darts to the neck.”
Ula squinted at him, still unmoving. “Like the dart on Erfu’s body?”
“Yes, it’s part of our protocol. We use similar methods as the Warlord does—imitation is part of our survival. Though Erfu was the Warlord’s work, the technique is almost indistinguishable.” The old man put a decisive hand on Luca’s shoulder. “Now, shall I give you the tour? Show you how we grow our food and store it? Our drying room is quite spectacular.”
A pang of frustration dropped in Luca’s empty stomach.
He was the last piece—what they were waiting for, yes, but he was a piece.
“I am sure it is, Tala, but the first and most pressing question I have cannot wait.” Luca faced him. They were nearly the same height, this man was once as tall as Luca, before age stooped the line of his shoulders. He was as stubborn and spindly as the trees in the forest where Amarande rescued him. Likely harboring venom as deadly as the asp’s, too. Tala’s eyes were as golden as his own, but hooded and lined—they did not glance away. “What is the plan?”
* * *
TALA ushered Luca, Ula, Urtzi, and Osana down yet another tunnel, into the strategy room. Torches in sconces lit the space, and moonlight peeked through at the crest of the vaulted ceiling, yet another man-made glimpse into the world above. The floor was a patchwork of stitched-together pelts. Large reams of parchment were rolled upright in canisters along the walls, and books—bound in careful leather binding—lined narrow wooden shelves drilled into the bedrock.
A spread of wooden platters sat in a constellation at the center of the rug, the heady scent of rosemary and thyme wafting as steam escaped from under domed lids. Clay cups marked each place setting, brimming with cool water.
“Please eat, my Otsakumea. You and your companions must be famished.”
All eyes swung to Luca. His stomach grumbled, but Luca held up a hand. “Thank you for this meal. Please do not wait for us to finish before detailing the plan. The lines of communication have collapsed and the Warlord could be on the move this very moment.”
“I assure you, we know exactly where the Warlord is headed and it is not here.”
Another pang of frustration clawed at Luca. “That is a relief, as I have spent all day expecting assassination. Where is the Warlord headed if not here, guided by watchers? And what is the plan?”
Tala stood and pivoted toward the canisters along the wall. “Please fill your plates, and I will set the stage.”
Luca gestured to the others to serve themselves first. Beneath the domed lids was a feast indeed—goat stew, roasted carrots, potatoes smothered in butter and a patchwork of herbs. Large rounds of unleavened bread lay stacked under a warm blanket of muslin, weeping more butter and begging to be dipped in the stew.
When all their plates were full—and Urtzi was unsurprisingly already on his second round—they cleared the serving dishes, allowing the middle of their circle to be bare. Tala unrolled a large parchment map so that all could see. “The plan is simple. We lay a trap before the Warlord does.”
Luca and the others bent over the map—one solely of Torrent and rife with detail. While Mannah did her farm chores, Luca had spent several hours with a map like this one. All the major landmarks were marked, as were the locations of each of the Warlord’s fire pits, dotting the landscape like pox. They stood where former cities did, a testament to the Warlord’s power. A former civilization destroyed, and from its ashes more pain as the Warlord lit one pit a night with flames spawned by human kindling.
But there was more, too—lines marking tunnels like the one where they currently sat spidered off in arteries and veins from certain locations. The tunnels weren’t completely connected, but they were extensive. Years in the making. Some were marked through with ink—damaged, dangerous, or discovered.
Tala gestured to a fire pit to the north and east of the spindle-treed forest that had sheltered Luca and the pirates the night Amarande had rescued him. “The Warlord is here, and moving west. Tomorrow, all caravans will convene at the Hand.”
Luca followed Tala’s fingers, his mind picturing Koldo’s stern face frowning over similar maps in the Itspi library as she tutored Amarande in military strategy. “If we are laying a trap, do we arrive before the Warlord does? Be in position and ready?”
Luca thought of Amarande—how long would it take to get word to her? How long would it take her to get here with or without her army? Surely more than a day.
Tala shook his head. “That was the plan, but this is exactly where your timing has proved to be excellent, my Otsakumea, and our plans have shifted with another advantage. There is a new Warlord—it is a passing title, and we believe it changed hands recently.”
The sentence hung for barely a blink before the first stunned question came.
“How new?” This from Osana.
“As of a few days ago. In our position, it is difficult to be precise with timing.”
Luca’s mind raced. It was almost too much of a coincidence to believe that Amarande’s mother was installed as the Warlord on the night she and Osana were prisoners in the Warlord’s camp. Yet, Amarande was sure the woman in the tent was Geneva. Perhaps her mother wasn’t installed, but on her way out—and if she were leaving why then and where was she going? Of course, it might not have been that night that the title changed hands. Or, her mother might not have been there at all—Amarande’s sighting of her a figment of the princess’s feverish escape.
“This new Warlord has ordered all other caravans within the Torrent to join hers—within two days, no exceptions.” Tala pointed to the Hand. “Those who don’t report will be hunted down and pay the price—in the fire pits.”
Osana sighed. “This new Warlord is looking for protection—”
“In the form of innocents,” Ula muttered.
Tala did not assuage their horror. “Burning all dissenters in the fire pits is a punishment the second Warlord instituted. The first Warlord created the caravans as a means of control—never letting the people settle down, keeping them forever on the move and starved. A hungry people can raise no rebellion. When that didn’t work and some rebelled, the second pu
nished them in the most horrifying way. The third demanded an added penance for autonomy. The fourth, it seems, does not believe penance to be enough to prove loyalty.”
That was a terrible sign—it was no secret what those with royal blood would do to maintain a tenuous hold upon power in the Sand and Sky; it was something else entirely to navigate the right to rule on someone else’s stolen power. Luca licked his lips. “One who will likely try to make a big statement for perceived legitimacy.”
“Or one who knows we will attack and is preparing,” Ula charged. She exchanged a long look with Luca before turning to Tala. “How do we know which it is?”
The old man did not so much as blink before answering, “We don’t. Though the reasoning does not matter as long as we stop it. And use it to our advantage.”
Luca nodded. “Hundreds, maybe thousands, are required to enter camp at once—and we enter with them.”
Tala nodded. “Yes.” He pointed to a location about twenty miles from the Hand. It was drawn as a tight web of tunnels just south of the forest where Amarande rescued Luca from the pirates when they were all on opposite sides. “Get in position here. Infiltrate with a small reconnaissance group to verify the watchers’ reports, and then, after midnight the second night, we attack.”
Luca nodded. “Stage one is to head to the secure location?”
“Yes—the staging area.” Tala tapped the spot. “Everything is currently being packed and prepared for movement. Stage two is to infiltrate; stage three is report; stage four is attack.”
Luca’s heartbeat quickened. He’d thought perhaps it would take weeks or months to raise what was needed to strike. And somehow it was here. Immediately.
“How is that for a plan, my Otsakumea?”
It was decisive, made use of previous planning and unique circumstances, and it wiped away the present threat brought by the dead raiders and the Warlord’s obvious knowledge of them.
The only thing the plan did not do was give Luca ample time to warn Amarande. If she made it back to his side in time, it would be by the greatest luck. Still, he’d promised to send word. Luca drew in a breath so deep his stitches pulled. “Tala, before we leave, I do have a request.”
“Anything, my Otsakumea.”
Luca felt a twinge of guilt that he’d decided to take advantage of his newfound title. “I promised Princess Amarande I would send a message as soon as I connected with the movement. She plans to fortify our fight with her power and her soldiers.”
Tala’s sun-worn face drew tight. “I am hesitant about this, my Otsakumea.”
“Why, Tala?” Then he added, “Be direct. Please.”
The old leader scraped a hand through his graying hair, gone white at the temples. “For the people of Torrence, there is much distrust of Ardenia.”
Luca’s first conversation with Ula about the underground movement whispered from the recesses of his memory. Lifelong loyalty to the Ardenian Crown tugged across Luca’s gut. “Because King Sendoa did not turn his army on the Warlord.”
Tala’s lips twisted. “Yes.”
“But”—Luca’s brows knit together—“there’s more. Isn’t there?”
Tala answered, his voice low and forceful, his dark eyes piercing.
“We learned very early on after the fall of Torrence that Ardenia didn’t just ignore our plight—it created it.”
CHAPTER 15
THE sounds of Ferdinand’s coronation were loud enough Amarande was somewhat glad she hadn’t gotten the chance to break the stained glass.
Of course she wanted to hear happy sounds from her citizenry. Of course she wanted them to feel stable, secure, safe. But it was tricky to be pleased when it cost her the balance of her freedom. This cell was not that much different from the prison she would have enjoyed in the Bellringe while trapped into a marriage with Renard.
Not really, not where it mattered.
Though the food might have been better in Pyrenee’s gilded cage. As the outdoor hum thinned and darkness descended through the barred windows of her cell, her single meal of the day arrived. Porridge, delivered in a wooden mug that was barely watertight.
Amarande was driving the mug into the stone floor repeatedly, aiming to make a shiv—though the wood was too wet, and therefore bending rather than splitting—when a whisper of sound came from beyond her door.
She immediately dumped the mug’s misshapen carcass onto the floor beside her. There was no use in hiding it. She had no shiv, and tomorrow the guard would watch her eat, just as she had the first day. Perhaps, if she caused too much trouble, they’d free her. Or simply kill her. It was a toss-up.
Pualo entered and collected the mangled mug without a word. As she exited, another guest stepped forward, momentarily blocked by the retreating guard. Amarande had hoped for Koldo but expected the medikua, given Ferdinand’s promises. Instead, her visitor was another surprise.
Her mother.
Geneva wore a dress that the princess was sure was her own. Garnet lace through the bodice and sleeves, overlaid with gold touches woven into stripes that swept on the diagonal to a point, a tiger’s head broach gathering them at the shoulder. The skirts were gold and shimmered in the low light. In one hand she carried a small woven basket but she did not appear to be armed.
“I have come to tend to your wound.” Geneva set the basket on the floor and sank to her knees. “Medikua Aritza is unavailable.”
Unavailable? That was strange—Amarande could never remember a time when the medikua had been absent from the castle. “Where is she?”
“Wherever the coin is, I suppose,” she answered, fussing with the contents of the basket. “Your father paid her well to make her residence within the Itspi. A dead benefactor cannot pay—she left right after the funeral, I’m told.”
Amarande was suddenly very thankful she hadn’t relied on a quick return to the castle to heal Luca from his poisonous asp encounter. Without the medikua and her potions, he would’ve been dead had she made that choice.
Geneva cocked a brow at her daughter. “Don’t look at me like that; I know what I am doing with these tinctures—I am more capable than this gown suggests.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you are capable.” Amarande swallowed. “Do you not have some big feast to attend to celebrate your new king? Hands to shake? Speeches to give? Groveling to accept?”
Geneva sighed and a tight smile hardened across her face. “Given the instability of Ardenia’s present situation, we thought it best to postpone our coronation gala.” She shoved the basket toward Amarande, setting the contents rattling. “Go on, investigate. I will only use the bottles you select.”
She sat back on her heels, waiting. After a few moments, Amarande bent forward over the basket, her uninjured hand skimming over the pouches of herbs, the bottles of tinctures, and small pots of paste. Clove oil. Basil oil. Sagardon. Turmeric paste. Honey. Garlic bulbs piled into a small-but-sturdy mortar and pestle.
Amarande’s fingers paused for the barest of moments atop the handle of the pestle. It was marble, club shaped, and just the right size to effectively remove an eye with one good thrust. With a hard enough blow to the temple it could render the victim unconscious, if not kill them outright.
“Before you act on your impulse to kill me, know that everything I ever did for you was out of love.”
Amarande froze, the pestle cool against the tips of her fingers. Her eyes flashed up to her mother’s, her mouth set in a sour line. “I find that hard to believe while chained to a wall.”
“Trust is something you do not give easily, I see.”
“Would you? In my position?”
“I didn’t, when I found myself figuratively cuffed to the wall. No.” She let that hang between them without explanation. Amarande recognized the bait and did not take it. Geneva continued. “I hope you’ve made your decision. It’s been more than a day since your injury and infection has likely already set in. Let’s hope you know your antiseptics. Well, what will it be?
”
Amarande slowly let go of the pestle and plucked out two bottles—sagardon to kill the infection, and clove oil to add more antiseptic powers while sealing the wound. Clove wasn’t necessarily better than basil, but it reminded her a little of Luca and that was no small thing.
Her mother accepted the bottles and moved the basket out of the princess’s reach. But Amarande estimated that at the chains’ full length, she could reach it with her foot if she stretched far enough. Heel strike to the jaw to send Geneva sprawling, then an easy loop of outstretched toes. Bottles tossed and smashed as both offense and distraction, then thrust the incapacitating blow with the pestle. Even with her right hand damaged, she had options.
And yet the princess didn’t move.
Her mother drew closer, taking Amarande’s injured appendage in hers, and inspected the wound. Ferdinand’s handkerchief had helped, yet blood plated in a thick crust over the vertical wound, perfectly situated between the tendons that ran across the top of Amarande’s hand.
The princess had examined it much in the long hours since Ferdinand’s visit. A smidgen to the right or left and she could have lost the use of her hand. And yet he’d purposely kept her tendons intact, and her hand functional. He was younger than her by a year, but her brother was clearly coolheaded enough, mature enough—or merciful enough—to avoid inflicting permanent damage in the heat of battle.
Amarande didn’t know if she should be impressed, relieved, cynical, or all of the above.
Geneva seemed to admire her son’s handiwork as she applied the sagardon. Tears flooded Amarande’s eyes as the liquid burned through any infection under her skin, but she didn’t say a word. Her mother applied another round of antiseptic and Amarande tried to ignore how much the woman’s hands looked like her own.
“Ferdinand said you asked to speak with General Koldo. Is that true?”
Amarande didn’t move. Her mother lifted a brow and corked the sagardon. The clove oil was next. “I understand why you want to speak with Koldo—you feel betrayed. I know. But don’t expect her to come and comfort you—or to apologize. You know soldiers, always compartmentalizing their emotions. Assuming Koldo has any to speak of.”
The Queen Will Betray You Page 9