“The moment they move upon this town Mortain will draw his blade across Brandyn’s throat. He is only valuable to our enemies now, when he can talk, and Brandyn willnae talk. As long as he refuses to give up what he knows, Mortain needs him alive. He isnae no longer so valuable when he can be recovered to lead a Reach.”
“What can Brandyn tell him that he doesn’t already know? If he knew about us, he knows your men come from the south.”
“I donnae, girl, but if he wanted Brandyn dead, he would’ve had the men take his head at the camp.”
“He could already be dead.”
“You’d see his head lining the pikes. Prizes are for display. And do ye think he’s dead?”
“No,” Storm said. “But Mortain’s reason for delaying the deed has as much sense as you not ordering the men to attack and end this.”
“Do his reasons matter, girl? Nay, and they willnae matter more if we debate them over Brandyn’s grave, neither. Once my men take Whitechurch, the sorcerer will take what he can from us before we bring him down.”
“You assume too much. You assume he does not already have what he needs from Brandyn. We stand here, assuming, while Brandyn could be dying!”
Khallum set his mouth in a tight line. The girl was right. He’d not give her the satisfaction of the confirmation, though. “We’ll find a way in ourselves, then.”
“We’ll never make it inside alive.”
“I thought you weren’t afraid of death, girl?”
Storm scoffed. “I’m not.”
Khallum snickered. “Right.”
Storm stepped in front of him. Her dark eyes burned hot. “I’m not afraid to die, Lord Warwick. Only afraid it will happen before I can save him.”
Khallum grunted. He pushed her aside, handling her more gently than before. “Aye.”
“Every moment we wait doing nothing is a moment Brandyn could be dying, alone.”
Khallum said nothing.
“Do you trust him? Truly?”
“Oakenwell?”
Storm nodded.
Khallum sucked in a hard breath. “He takes off his helm anywhere near Whitechurch, he’s a dead man.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s on our side.”
“He’s never been on our side, girl. He’s just smart enough to use one enemy to defeat another.”
“We could use him.”
“Eh?”
Storm lowered her daggers. “We could use him, Lord Warwick. To get in.”
“Speak plainly, girl.”
“Those two guards over there? The ones pacing the station? I could take them. Take their armor. For us. It will be big on me, I suppose, but will fit you fine, and we only need it just long enough to move freely until we make it to the bridge. When Oakenwell returns, I take him prisoner and use him to distract Mortain and Waters. They will want him back. They will come to see the biggest traitor in the Easterlands returned. There was no one closer to Lord Quinlanden, and his capture will grow their power when they show the people he’s in their hands now.”
“And me? What role do ye have me playing in this fantasy, girl?”
“You slip in, wearing their own armor, and go find Brandyn.”
Khallum raised his brows. “And what of Oakenwell, then? They’ll kill him.”
Storm shrugged. “Treason is a dangerous business.”
* * *
Darrick stumbled against Tyndall as the Saleen came into view. He reached for something to steady himself, but there was nothing but his utter disbelief.
He didn’t know what he was seeing, not at first. It seemed as if the forest itself had shifted, the flora becoming something unknown to him. A sea of color that did not belong to this world, the vibrant blues and violets and greens merging into a tapestry of wonder.
Tyndall dropped to his knees. “This is so much worse. So much worse than anything I could have ever imagined in my darkest nights.”
Darrick laid a hand on his shoulder. There was nothing to say. No more words for the horrors that unfolded as they looked further, into this unnatural wave of color and muted life, the endless, dazed wandering of a people more ancient than anything, man or beast, that had ever walked these lands.
Joran’s message earlier that morning left a hole in Darrick’s belly. On their way to the abbey, they’d caught Grand Minister Tyndall riding hard, Whitechurch at his back. What he’d seen, he had no words for. Pale-faced, he begged them to follow.
We must join Lord Warwick and the others at Arboriana, Steward James countered, as Darrick mounted his horse.
Where we go is Arboriana, Tyndall insisted. In the woods beyond it. It’s a way in. Better than any others I could find, but... but...
But what?
I have no words for the horrors, Your Grace. Only with your own eyes will you understand. For this, we have ridden across the kingdom.
They’d followed the Grand Minister to the woods beyond Arboriana, and there it all was, just as he’d said, both with his words spoken and ones lingering behind his beleaguered eyes, unsaid.
“We’ve come to end it,” Law said, stepping next to Darrick. “Donnae lose yourself to what was. Look to what will be.”
Darrick broke free of the other men and moved toward the mass of Saleen swaying in haphazard unison. He ignored Rutland’s call to come back. He would answer to these men in some matters, but not this. This had happened because he hadn’t been wise enough to foresee the depth of Eoghan’s jealousy, underscored by a surfeit of childish ignorance. This had happened because he’d let the fight be kicked out of him. Because he’d forgotten who he was, retreated somewhere he could feel contentment in surrender; where he could willfully mistake the burning in his belly for hunger and not something greater, greater than himself.
He moved down the hill, closer still. He could see now, milling with the same mindless commitment, the familiars of the Medvedev. Foxes and hawks, wulves and ravens, pacing, circling. If he were to wander down to the sea, he would witness more of the same in the crabs, turtles, and fish separated from their companions for far too long. They were not as easily subdued, it seemed, but their power had been neutered when their companions became property of Mortain.
Darrick didn’t slow his pace as he stepped into the throngs of the enslaved Saleen. They regarded him with empty eyes. No curiosity flickered behind them. No thought to why this strange man was here now, among them. With a snap of the right finger, they would turn on him, and if they did, so be it. If Mortain saw him in his mind’s eye and used this moment to end him once and for all, then it was the death he’d earned.
There were no guards. No soldiers. They weren’t needed here.
He looked up toward the tiered castle in the trees, Arboriana. How many had stood upon their perches and balconies, gazing into the sea of Medvedev that evil wrought? Done nothing? Said nothing?
Darrick tried to imagine Eoghan stewing in the aftermath of the terrible choices made in his criminal inexperience. He tried to stir within him some latent love for a brother who had used what little energy he had to spin hatred into ephemeral power.
The remaining threads of empathy Darrick had for his twin brother died as he regarded the hollow gazes of a hundred thousand Saleen.
They’d come back here, before the end. Free every last one, even if it took years to see the tightly wound magic unspun.
Then, all at once, the Saleen began to move.
* * *
Hamish pushed the stew away. The bowl toppled over, spilling the cooled contents into the dirt. He wasn’t hungry. His hunger had crawled up into the shadow of his bowels, hiding away. This was the way of it on the eve of battle or business, and he knew, even before the messenger had come from Lord Warwick bidding them extend camp to the town border, that today they would fight. He just hadn’t seen it coming so fast.
He stayed seated while the men around him stirred from the laziness of morning. They would strike before the full sweep of dawn, to whatever end.
“We’
ve waited long enough. I kenned Lord Warwick’d be joinin’ us, seeing as he’s been awaiting this day since he was still on the teat. But if we wait any longer, we’re defying orders,” Garrick said, spitting a mouthful of stew inches from Hamish’s boot. “A shame.”
Hamish moved to his feet. The rest happened fast. He raised a hand to point just as others all around him did the same. “Look. They... ain’t even formin’ a line. They’re just comin’.”
Garrick put a hand over his brow, squinting. “Where’s the messenger? Can they not wait for the proper battle, then?”
“Go, assemble your men. Send word to the others. There’ll nay be negotiation, nor proper battle today. This is a massacre,” Hamish barked. He reached for his helmet and stormed away.
He felt Garrick’s derision long after he’d left him by the morning fire, but they had no time for old rivalries. Hamish stepped into the row of tents, screaming, “Into formation, men! War is upon us!”
One of his top lieutenants, Carlisle, ran beside him as he chanted the words. “What happened? What’s going on?”
“I cannae guess, but I willnae die trying to sort it. Armor up, or we die here, today.” He squeezed his arm and continued on. “This is it. This is what we’ve come for. War! War comes to us this day!”
All around him men stirred to action quicker than he could have hoped. They’d come here for this, waited for it, and now were ready for it. Or so he’d thought. None were battle tested. Not even him.
Hamish pushed through the mud, back toward the front. The advancing men continued on, making no indications of pausing to form a line. There was no practiced formation that he could see. No...
“Aye, ye see that? The poor bastards are on foot. Nay a horse in sight. Are they even wearing armor?” Hamish mused as he swung his fat legs over his saddle.
Carlisle drew his sword and mounted his horse. He raised it, calling his men. Down the line, thousands of Southerlanders raised their own swords in unison as each lieutenant followed suit. Hamish strained to see the end of it, and when he could not, a swell of pride, of absolute perfect joy swirled within him. At last. It would end here, at the ends of their swords, hundreds of years bringing the Southerlands to this moment, this place.
A fear that something was wrong, very wrong, caught in his throat. He choked it down, pounding his fist three times against his armor to bring himself to the height of the moment upon them.
“Ride! Ride hard! For the Southerlands! For the realm! For death, for life! For victory!”
Hamish couldn’t see who shouted the words, for he was carried forward by the momentum of thousands of horses flying through mud and grass.
He spurred his own warhorse to life and charged forth.
A Fire to Stoke or Starve
46
Langenacht
Oldwin hovered behind Eoghan as they regarded the young king’s reflection in the looking glass. Oldwin had stopped pretending. His eyes conveyed his disdain, his smile no longer sufficient to perform the job intended. It was Eoghan now who feigned joy; who was desperate to convince the sorcerer that he could be agreeable.
How had it all changed? Eoghan asked this question of himself, of Correen, but the effort was needless for it had never changed at all. He had never held any sway over the sorcerer, not even when the creature stood before him in chains, pathetic, awaiting freedom. The chains had never been enough to hold him. The cell was no more than the set of a playactor awaiting his big scene.
Eoghan had no allies to consult. Oldwin had taken them before he could find them, dividing his kingdom in the name of the crown. Oldwin had done all these things under Eoghan’s nose, often with his permission and encouragement. His smooth handling of Eoghan had been subtle and swift, leaving Eoghan to question his own beliefs, challenge their origins.
“Ahh. Look at you,” Oldwin cooed from behind him. “That blue becomes you, Your Grace. You’ll make a fine groom. Ravenna and Esmerelda will discover themselves the most fortunate in the realm, when they lay eyes upon you later today.”
Correen appeared in the reflection, rolling her eyes. “Eoghan knows what he has and what he doesn’t. Filling his head won’t do at all, Oldwin. He’s anxious enough.”
Oldwin pretended to be aghast.
“Correen’s right,” Eoghan said. He set his crown aside. It was heavy; it cramped the back of his neck until the muscle seized, refusing to behave. “I am no prize as a man. What I offer is a lifetime at the side of a king.” He turned to the right, where Assana sat in the corner. “Have you met your new sisters in marriage?”
Assana’s face was unreadable from the shadows. “Esmerelda is my cousin. I’ve never had the pleasure of acquainting with any Ravenwood.”
“You’ll be drowning in that pleasure soon enough,” Oldwin quipped.
“I look to you to get them settled and oriented. When they are moved from the dungeon to their own chambers tonight,” Eoghan said. He shifted in the uncomfortable chair. Every bone in his body ached today. It was going to be one of his bad days. “As my first wife.”
“Tonight? But it is your wedding night, Your Grace,” Assana insisted.
“The Langenacht will satisfy my day’s energy.” He looked up at Oldwin’s reflection. Loathed the way he inwardly cringed before he said words he knew Oldwin would not like. “I’d like us to reconsider engaging in such archaic traditions here in Duncarrow. That is not our way, and Ravenna joins our world, where she must learn to adapt, not the other way around.”
Oldwin tilted his head with a thoughtful look. “She is no mere bride from the Reaches, Your Grace. She comes from another world, like us. From Beyond. If we are to join these worlds and make them one, we must give her some familiarity, as it were. Something to show her we welcome her and those things she holds dear.”
“I refuse to believe that girl lost a moment’s rest over not having to lay with half her blood in one night,” Correen said. “No wonder she ran.”
Oldwin flashed her a patronizing look that could have shattered the glass. “And what would an old maid know of the longings of a young and beautiful priestess?”
Correen was unfazed. “More than an old sorcerer who has likely never had a woman come to his bed willingly.”
“Enough,” Eoghan barked. He enjoyed Correen’s bristling, but could not be seen to indulge it. Not anymore. “I still don’t like it, Oldwin. All those men. How can I face the court with a woman who has been bedded by everyone I know? How can I face those men in the halls when I know they’ve lain with my wife?”
“With the pride of the king who won her hand,” Oldwin answered smartly. “What they have only tasted will become your feast.”
Correen made a gagging sound.
“Yes, but...” Eoghan would lose this battle. He would lose not because Oldwin was better matched to his wits than him, but because he did not understand Oldwin’s tactic of forcing Ravenna into an orgy on her wedding day. This was not about tradition. But if not that, then what? “I cannot have a bride, Oldwin, who carries the child of another man in her womb. And we can never be certain that any child born of this ceremony will be mine.”
Oldwin clapped both hands on Eoghan’s shoulders, so hard the king winced. “Ahh, is that your worry, Your Grace? Never mind that. I’ve already blessed your seed so that it will be yours and yours alone that bears fruit on this blessed day.”
“Blessed his seed?” Correen repeated. “I do not care to know what that entailed.”
Eoghan glared at her for the implication. “And what of the Warwick bastard growing in the womb of my other wife?”
“Do not let it trouble you. I’ll see that, upon its birth, it’s returned to the Southerlands, where it belongs.” Oldwin grinned. “In the same box Lord Warwick’s head has lain rotting for weeks.”
* * *
Ravenna paced the cell. It was a short, unsatisfying walk, but she couldn’t make herself sit still. The guards would come for them, soon. They’d come for her first. She would sum
mon her courage, as she had the night before, and do what was required. Had she only done what was required in Midnight Crest, she would not be standing in the cold cell of a dungeon, awaiting the “blessing” of bedding a dozen men before marrying the worst of them.
“Where were you last night?” Esmerelda asked. She neatly folded the blanket; a gesture that conveyed her innate need for decency, even here.
“Last night? Here. With you.”
Esmerelda set the blanket on the bed and approached her. “I beg of you, don’t lie to me. Not you, Ravenna. Not now.”
Ravenna sighed and looked away. She was a fool for thinking she could protect Esmerelda from the truth. “I went to Oldwin. To see if... it doesn’t matter. I was wrong. He is no man. He already knows what he will do. He’s known all along.”
Esmerelda touched her arm. “I won’t make you feel any worse than you do already. What you did took courage. Your inability to find his humanity is his failure, not yours.”
Ravenna looked down at Esmerelda’s hand. She covered it with hers and tried to smile. “Never surrender, right?”
Esmerelda laughed through fresh tears. “We must be brave today, and all days thereafter. It will not do for them to think they’ve broken us.”
Ravenna pressed both hands to Esmerelda’s face and laid a gentle kiss upon her lips. “What has been broken can be remade.”
Esmerelda pressed her forehead against hers. “Like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of its destruction.”
“Have you ever seen a phoenix?”
Esmerelda shook her head. “They’re not real. Creatures of myth only, like dragons.”
They both jumped as the cell door slammed open. A dozen guards swarmed in, surrounding Ravenna as they jerked her away, dragging her toward the door.
“You need all these men to subdue one woman?” Esmerelda laughed. “Perhaps you’ll discover soon that even that won’t be enough!”
To Ravenna, Esmerelda mouthed, courage.
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