The room fell silent, except for the fire in the fireplace making little pops, as they each consulted with their demons.
Destra asked, “If the Jutters could be rescued, would your army agree to let the Oros escape?”
Thalen toyed with his knife. “I believe … I believe that I could persuade them.”
“Did Granilton ever assign you a book—what was its name?” Destra felt her fatigue fogging her mind. “It was about methods of persuasion.”
“Aye.” A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips. “I can’t wait to tell him how useful that one has been.”
Destra’s face fell. “I miss him so much. He used to write me every week or two. I have received no news of him since the invasion; he would have written if he lived.”
Thalen hit the table with his fist. “Damnation! Somehow, I imagined if I could just return to the Scoláiríum, everything would be as it was. Granilton and I would discuss histories or cultural development; Gustie and Quinith would sit across the table from me at the refectory.… I would be the student who had never killed anyone and had never sent others to their deaths.”
Abruptly, he stood up. “I need to check on the wounded. And if they, who have the most right to revenge, agree just to get those scum out of our country, then I will be able to manage the others.”
As Thalen and Destra crossed the farmyard, she noticed that the sky was lightening. They had talked the night away.
Thalen commented to her, “Peddler really drives a peddler’s wagon. Do you actually spin thread?”
“Oh, gracious no! I’ve never so much as touched a spinning wheel and wouldn’t know how to work one.”
The barn door was propped open to the summer air. The commander moved amongst the wounded who were awake, praising them, comforting them, conversing with their healers in a soft voice. He even pulled away bandages and looked at wounds himself. Both the casualties and the healers appeared to draw sustenance from his approval and attention.
Destra couldn’t mix amongst the patients with as much equanimity and reassurance as he possessed; blood and gore distressed her. She leaned against the barn doorframe, her legs stiffening and aching after such a long ride.
She was not worried about Thalen’s skepticism, because Mìngyùn, she now understood, differed from Lautan and even from Vertia. The Spirit of Fate asked for no sacrifices, libations, or baskets, expected no reverence, and cared not a whit whether humans “believed” or remained incredulous. Mìngyùn weighed and judged the quality of men’s souls, not their spiritual devotion.
The commander rejoined Destra. “They desire their city, their country, and their lives back. Revenge doesn’t rank.”
“Then we are agreed?” she asked him.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you need to convince me your plan will work. You haven’t told me how you are going to make this miracle happen.”
“’Tis no miracle,” answered the former magistrar. “The answer lies, as so many do, in a network of alliances and in finding shared interests.” And she told him her plan.
* * *
Destra slept a few hours in one of the farmhouse beds. While she rested, women washed and ironed her shirt and beat the dust out of her riding habit. At midday she watched as the commander, mounted on a farm wagon, spoke to his followers, asking their permission for this new approach.
A contentious argument broke out, with people shouting out the names of kin that had been killed.
“What about my boy!”
“My daughter—they took my daughter from me!”
“They burned my family’s farm!”
“We must have vengeance!”
“I came to kill the bloody Oros, not set them free!”
“I want revenge!”
Thalen allowed this airing of grief and grievances and then repeated, “More of us will die or be maimed. Will that bring back your family?” When some of the crowd started to listen, he shouted, “I could water the Jutter Plain with blood—but how will that ease your hearts?” When fewer holdouts remained, Thalen’s tone grew steely. “I will not lead you into a battle in which you will be slaughtered.”
One man from the back—a burly figure with a dark beard—then a woman in a healer’s apron, and finally others in the crowd took up the chant, “Get them gone. Just get them gone.”
Twelve hours later, the commander waited with her on the city side of the barricade at Kings Bridge. Thalen’s troops had set up torches at regular intervals, throwing jumpy shadows. Tristo, his adjutant, had rustled up a black stallion for Thalen (with warnings that the good-looking beast was actually wind-broken and couldn’t move as fast as a mule), and had tied black-and-white patterned ribbons to his harness that fluttered madly in the summer breeze. Astride the steed beside Destra and her mount, the tall commander, bareheaded but in a long black coat pinned to fit him, looked imposing. The two waited without speaking, both occupied with their own fears, while their horses shifted restlessly and the time slid toward midnight, the time they had requested for a parley.
A man called down from the bridge tower, “They’re coming!”
Archers in the tower and on the barricade protected them, but when eight columns of Oros came marching into view, Destra still felt exposed. The Oros were moving stiffly and unnaturally. As they came closer into the torchlight she could see that each one of them had a child or a baby tied to his chest and a dagger in his hand.
The sight chilled Destra. She felt faint.
Mìngyùn, help me. I am no soldier. I am out of my depth here.
The commander sighed, but he did not appear as rattled as she felt. He spared a glance at her. “Take a breath,” he said. “Forget about the weapons. Treat this as no different than a negotiation in a council chamber. We know our lines and play our roles.”
The company halted approximately twenty paces in front of them. The lines of Oro soldiers parted to let a mounted officer and his adjutants ride to the front. An officer, made even more imposing by his helmet with red plumes, rode up to within ten paces of Destra and Thalen. “Are you in command?” he barked.
“Yes,” said the commander, his voice level. “And you?”
“I am Fifth-Flamer Lumrith, assistant to General Murnaut, head of the Oromondo Force.”
“I am Thalen of Sutterdam. At my side is milady Destra of Jígat.”
The fifth-flamer ignored Destra—not even sparing her a glance—but he reacted to Thalen’s name. His nostrils flared as he glared at the commander.
“Yes,” Thalen said. “I am the one who burned Femturan to the ground. I am the one who sent all eight of your Magi to your Infernal Flames while you ‘Protectors’ sat here on your fat asses. Or terrorized children.”
The officer made a move to reach for his sword.
“Fifth-Flamer Lumrith,” said Destra in a soft voice, “thirty archers are aiming at you. Wouldn’t you rather see the dawn?”
The officer halted his movement. “If you shoot me, if you don’t follow my orders, we will cut the throat of every one of these Free States brats.”
“You could do that,” agreed Destra, nodding, “but that won’t gain your soldiers any food.”
Commander Thalen spoke. “You know of me. You know I am capable of burning down a city; do you think I will bring down my barricades for the sake of some kiddies?”
“You talk boldly,” said the officer, “but Free Staters are soft. You asked for a negotiation?” He barked a command, and a nearby soldier ran up beside him. The soldier’s human shield was a thin, terrified girl of about six summers. Destra steeled herself to meet her petrified eyes.
“We do not negotiate with rabble. You will begin dismantling this barricade now and move aside or the Protector will kill her,” said Lumrith, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light, certain that the Free Staters would respond to his threat.
The vitally important element, Destra had insisted to Thalen earlier in the day, was to show not the slightest hesitation or remorse over the hostag
es. “We must remove them as a bargaining point,” she’d warned him.
So now, Thalen raised his right arm. “I will save you the trouble,” he said, snapping his fingers.
At this prearranged signal, an arrow twanged through the night. It was fired with such force that it pierced the girl’s body and hurtled through the chest of the Protector holding her. They fell to the ground; the girl with a shriek, the soldier with a groan and an exhalation.
The fifth-flamer watched them both fall, stupefied. Behind him, one of his assistants’ horses reared, and its rider fought to bring it under control. The Oro foot soldiers shuffled uneasily. A cold stillness followed.
The Oro officer barked another command, and a squad of eight more soldiers ran up to the light of the torches.
“Cut their throats,” said Lumrith.
Thalen smiled. “Say your prayers, boys. Your Infernal Flames nip at your heels.” He raised his hand in the air again, ready to snap his fingers.
“Fifth-Flamer Lumrith,” interrupted Destra, knowing this was exactly the right moment. “More arrows will fly, killing your soldiers. Those would be needless deaths. And,” she lowered her voice, “you might spook the rest of the platoon behind you on the bridge. I have no doubt that you are very brave, but will your general be pleased if all your men die tonight and you have nothing to show for the sacrifice?
“I can offer you a way out of this difficult situation. On my signal a fleet of Green Isles ships, crewed by Green Isles sailors, will sail around the headlands. I understand that it might take some hard work to clear the harbor so that they can tie up. But each ship is loaded with food, enough for your men to eat on the voyage and enough for you to return as saviors to Oromondo, bringing supplies to your hungry country. All your soldiers have to do is march onto these ships.”
“What?” he said, turning his attention to her for the first time.
Destra repeated the offer.
“There’s some trick here. You will sink the ships once we are out at sea.”
“No. Think a moment: the sailors have no wish to drown themselves.”
Lumrith stared at her, calculating; glanced at Thalen; and looked over at his junior officers.
“There’s some trick here. We will take the children with us as hostages.”
“You will not!” said the commander authoritatively, though he was improvising past their script. “The sea captains have orders to pull up their gangplanks and sail away if you try to load hostages.”
“Fifth-Flamer Lumrith,” said Destra, her voice athrob with reasonableness. “Please, consider. I’m afraid Commander Thalen will never tear down these barricades, no matter how many hostages you kill. He’s a hard man, a brutal man, a man thirsty for blood. You heard about his mad dash over Electors Bridge almost to the walls of Jutterdam? You see that now. He will hold the barricades while you, your men, and every captive in Jutterdam starves.
“But I beg you to consider—why should you starve to hold Jutterdam? What good does it do you? The rest of your soldiers have returned to the Land you love while you are marooned and forgotten here, without reinforcements, unable to control the Free States or use this country to provision your own. Here I offer you a way to go home, with the honor of bringing desperately needed provisions. All you have to do is clear the harbor and board the ships. Such easy tasks.”
“Where are these ships?” he asked.
Destra knew she had him.
“As I said, they anchor around the headlands. They will sail into Jutterdam on my signal.”
“What is your signal?”
She reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a cylindrical object with a fuse.
“This is a powerful rocket that explodes in the air. When I set it off from the rooftop of the Jutterdam Council Hall, the ships’ lookouts will see it.”
The fifth-flamer regarded her closely for the first time. “Who are you, woman?”
“She is a minister of the government of the Free States and must be addressed with respect,” snapped Commander Thalen.
Lumrith conferred with his junior officers for a few moments.
“You will come with us and set off your signal,” said Lumrith.
“No,” said the commander, resuming his part of the play. “I can’t allow her to go with you. You would harm the only person in this country who is trying to save your worthless necks.”
The Oro officer considered. “I give you my sacred pledge that this female minister will not be harmed.”
Thalen shook his head.
“I swear by Pozhar.”
Thalen spit to the side.
“Perchance,” said Destra brightly, as if the thought had just occurred to her, “if your men would cut down the children they bear, this would be a sign of good faith Commander Thalen would accept.”
Lumrith nodded and shouted orders to the men behind him. The children shrieked when the knives moved, but in each case their captors only cut their bonds. They fell in pitiful, mewling heaps on the road.
“Well, Commander Thalen,” said Destra. “Isn’t that enough? You don’t really want to burn Jutterdam to the ground too, do you?” She glanced at Thalen with a look that suggested he was a dangerous madman.
“Let’s ride into the city, Fifth-Flamer, before this bloodthirsty man changes his mind. The sooner I light this rocket, the sooner you set work crews to clearing the harbor, the sooner you and your men will be on your way back to your homeland.”
She rode beside the officer through the ranks of Oro soldiers down the dark road. Torches on the Jutterdam wall showed the city looming ahead of her.
Mìngyùn, tell me that she lives.
The Spirit answered in her head, Spinner, I will forgive this one impudence. Thou must never doubt that I choose if the Thread of Life is snipped. The child was under my protection. The arrow missed all her vitals and pierced the heart of Pozhar’s filth.
Destra had enough presence of mind to register the Spirit’s disdain toward the Oros. A little giddy with relief, she dared to tease, “Pozhar’s filth?” Mìngyùn, I understood that the noble route was to renounce vengeance?
The voice in her head roared, Don’t bandy thy intelligence with me, Spinner. I am the One Who Judges.
* * *
It had been Wareth who pulled the bow.
Wareth had just average skill with archery. But among the choices that night, he was Thalen’s oldest companion and one of the original survivors of the Rout, which had once included Tristo (who was maimed) and Codek (who was dead). Dalogun was the stronger bowman, but Thalen couldn’t ask that innocent boy to shoot a Free States child in cold blood. No, that was a burden he could only lay on Wareth.
Milady Destra had promised that the hostage would live, though how she could possibly know this was obscure. But even if this were true, when Thalen assigned him the task, both he and Wareth knew what it would cost.
Forever after, Wareth had to live with the knowledge that he had the wherewithal to shoot a Free States child in the chest.
Forever after, he would carry the secret pride that when Thalen had needed a friend to make such a sacrifice, he had chosen him.
The arrow sprang from his bow with an aim and speed Wareth realized he had not given it. He waited, hands covering his face, while the confrontation played out below; then he registered the sounds of the Oro column marching away, the bustle of the Defiance fighters opening the barricade, healers rushing to the girl, and more people running to the other freed hostages.
Cerf carried the injured girl to the other side of the barricade, calling, “She’s still breathing!”
Wareth opened his eyes in amazement and peered down from his perch in the tower. Free Staters held torches as Cerf and Dwinny worked on the girl as skillfully as if they had been a team for decades. Dwinny’s knife cut the arrowhead from the girl’s back, where it had pinned her to her captor. Cerf pulled the arrow out from her chest. They had bandages at the ready to stanch the bleeding from both the back and t
he front. Cerf felt for her pulse at the neck, while Dwinny opened one of the child’s eyes to look at her pupils.
“Hullo there, moppet.” Wareth’s straining ears heard Dwinny’s familiar voice. “Everything is going to be all right now. No one will hurt you anymore.”
Thalen rode his black horse through the barricade, dismounted without caring if the horse was caught or tied, and climbed the bridge tower.
“I think we’ve done it,” he said to Wareth in a raw voice. “We’ve freed our country of the invaders. So much loss, so much pain, but the Free States will be free again. Your sacrifice—her wounds—should be the last injuries.”
Wareth began to weep. These tears escalated into body-shaking, choked sobs. Thalen patted his back, but when Wareth glanced at Thalen he saw that the commander’s own eyes burned dry and haunted.
PART FIVE
Reign of Regent Matwyck, Year 14-15
EARLY AUTUMN AND WINTER
33
Salubriton
Cerúlia could understand why Dame Tockymora protested against Whaki’s presence the next morning; he was large enough to be frightening, and he scarfed down food as if they were about to steal it away from him. But like all the other residents of the recovery house, their landlady was charmed by the lapdog that Damyroth had smuggled home, tucked inside his shirt. Hope named her “Puffy.” Puffy wandered from one person to the next, showing off her tricks and winning endearments and treats from all the guests.
Whaki, by contrast, paid little attention to the other patients. With the click of nails striking the tile floor, he followed Cerúlia from room to room. When she sat on the ground in the central courtyard, he would press his head and as much of his body as possible into her lap and push at her arms with his nose until she stroked him. The princella hugged him close, absorbing the smell of dog, his silky fur, his little whimpers and noises, and the way he licked her ear.
Keeping Whaki hidden in the recovery house could not remain an option for long. The big dog needed exercise to restore his muscle tone and burn off his anxiety. But the princella couldn’t walk him out-of-doors, attracting attention and disgust. Moreover, that mysterious archer might be searching for her.
A Broken Queen Page 26