“Get him on the team if you can,” the king said.
“The team for what, exactly, Sire?” Ort asked.
“Zirkander and the necessary pilots will fly Therrik and two of his best men—” the king nodded toward Captain Nowon, “—into Cofah territory to infiltrate this research facility. I want the dragon blood destroyed or brought back, and I want any progress they’ve made likewise destroyed. I also want to know where that blood came from in the first place.”
“Who’s in charge of the mission?” Therrik asked, his face cool as he regarded Ridge again.
“You are, Colonel.” The king pulled a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and pushed it toward Ridge. “These are the coordinates for the secret facility.” Turning back toward Therrik, he continued, “Zirkander and his people will get you and your men where you need to go and wait for you to return.”
Ridge scowled—he was being assigned rickshaw service?—at the same time as Therrik issued his first smile. It was an alarming thing, like a wolf curling its lips.
“That’s acceptable, Sire,” Therrik.
Ridge opened his mouth, and Ort kicked him under the table again. Ridge scowled at him. It was worse than having dinner at a girlfriend’s parents’ house with her stomping on a man’s foot to ensure he delivered the proper responses. General Ort utterly lacked any of the girlfriend qualities that would have made such interference bearable.
“I must respectfully object to Deathmaker’s inclusion on the mission, Sire,” Therrik added. “He can’t be trusted. Why can’t he just study the dragon blood when we bring it back? And I assure you, we are good enough to bring it back.”
The captain’s eyebrows twitched ever so slightly at the word we. Ridge wasn’t sure whether it indicated doubt as to the colonel’s abilities—probably not—or doubt as to whether the colonel was needed at all. Maybe this had originally been Nowon’s mission. He was the one who knew about the spy and had decrypted the message, after all.
“If there’s anything more troublesome than samples of blood in vials, you may need his help,” the king said, giving Ridge a nod.
Ridge had been the one to explain how Tolemek had destroyed a device full of a deadly toxin to save the city. He hadn’t been able to mention Sardelle’s role in the event—or rather her sword’s role—so Tolemek had received full credit. Ridge didn’t resent that exactly, but it rankled him that he couldn’t speak openly about what Sardelle had done to help defend their homeland. It rankled him even more now that Ridge had learned that the pirate’s infamous potion-making abilities weren’t entirely mundane.
“Speak to him and come to an understanding ahead of time if necessary, but plan on taking him,” the king said, staring steadily into the colonel’s eyes.
“An understanding.” Therrik flexed his fingers, then curled them into a fist. “Yes, Sire.”
Therrik planned to beat Tolemek into loyalty? Oh, yes, that would work well.
“Zirkander, choose three good pilots to take with you. You’ll fly the two-seaters and each take one of Therrik’s three-man team, along with Deathmaker, if he’ll come. Therrik, you can decide whether he’s going into the compound with you or not, but I urge you to take him so he can help identify what’s worth taking and what’s not.”
“What can kill you in the blink of an eye and what can’t,” Nowon murmured. He obviously knew a little more about what was going on in those Cofah facilities than what was on the note.
“While you men complete your mission,” the king went on, “The pilots will wait in a safe area with the fliers camouflaged. It probably goes without saying, but my preference is to have you all in and out without ever being seen. The repercussions might be less harsh if the Cofah can’t prove we had anything to do with their missing samples.”
“We understand, Sire,” Therrik said.
Ridge nodded, though he still hated the idea of having Therrik in charge of this. He supposed the colonel couldn’t be too much of an ass on the mission, not when Ridge’s team would be his only way home.
“Dismissed,” the king said.
Ridge pushed back his chair, as did Ort and Nowon.
“May I have one more word with you in private, Sire?” Therrik asked, glancing at Ridge.
The king nodded. Ridge didn’t like that quick glance, but he walked away with the others. He did, however, dawdle, pausing on the other side of a large shrub to prop his boot on the pot and tie the laces.
“What is it?” Angulus asked.
“Captain Nowon’s people handle external intelligence gathering,” Therrik said, “but my old unit handled internal, and I’ve been made aware of some interesting developments of late.”
That might explain how the colonel knew about Ahn and Tolemek’s relationship, something Ridge hadn’t thought would be common gossip outside of his squadron. He lifted his other boot to retie the laces.
“Your point?” the king had moved away from the table, and Ridge barely heard the words. He parted the branches of the shrub. The men were walking toward one of the windows overlooking the garden.
“Zirkander’s witch,” Therrik said, and Ridge’s heart nearly stopped. “Are you sure we shouldn’t—”
“Colonel,” Ort hissed from the doorway. “What are you doing?”
Ridge wanted to wave him away, to shush him so he could hear the rest, but the king and Therrik had moved out of earshot, anyway. Damn, he needed to know what they were talking about.
Ridge raced toward the doorway, almost knocking Ort aside as he blurted, “I’ll meet up with you at the hangar, General. I need to piss.”
He glanced back, catching Ort giving that potted plant a long, concerned look. Ridge ran through the hallway, but instead of racing toward the front door, he ran in the opposite direction, then swung into a narrow staircase that led down to a door to the gardens. He vaguely remembered indoor latrines somewhere in that direction and thought his excuse might be plausible. Even if it wasn’t, he would risk demerits from Ort. He had to know what they were saying about Sardelle. It wasn’t surprising that the intelligence department had put the pieces together—just because he hadn’t mentioned her role in the battle back at the mines didn’t mean there hadn’t been witnesses and that the truth would come out—but if someone like Therrik knew about her, how many other people might know? And what did the king think?
The side door was thankfully unguarded. Ridge charged out and hopped the fence into the gardens. Despite the day’s sun, three inches of snow blanketed everything. He ran through the melting stuff, following the side of the building, forcing himself to slow as he neared the first open window on the greenhouse balcony above. He hugged the wall so nobody looking out from above should see him. The sounds of birds chirping floated out, but he couldn’t hear voices. He crept to the next open window. A shadow moved behind the glass. The king? The faint murmur of a conversation reached his ears, but he couldn’t make out the words.
The skeleton of a vining plant, its leaves shed months ago and snow blanketing its brown limbs, snaked up the brick side of the building, passing the window and reaching all the way to the roof of the greenhouse. Ridge had no idea if it would support his weight—the center trunk was about three inches thick, but didn’t look very hale beneath the snow—but desperation drove him to try.
He gripped the plant and pulled himself off the ground. The trunk shivered, and snow splatted down his shoulders, but it didn’t crack or pull away from the wall. He hoped the two men inside were too engrossed in the conversation—about Sardelle, damn!—to notice branches shivering in the utter lack of wind.
Ridge stopped before his head drew level with the bottom of the window. Besides, the trunk had dwindled in thickness from three inches to two, and it was starting to slump. His boots were pressed into the plant below him, but they kept slipping. Dry wood and cold snow pricked at his fingers. He should have put on his gloves before jumping onto the vine. His efforts were rewarded, though, for he could hear more than chirping birds
this time.
“—told me,” Therrik was saying. “The officers in my old unit don’t miss much.”
“I suppose it’ll be all over the city before long.” The king sighed.
“I can’t understand why you let her into the city in the first place, Sire. Why wasn’t she shot as soon as someone figured it out?”
Ridge gritted his teeth, in part because a piece of the vine had snapped away from its anchor on a post above his head, and in part because he wanted to lunge through the window and strangle Therrik.
“I believe she was shot any number of times during the battle with the Cofah,” the king said dryly. “A sorceress isn’t easy to kill.”
Sorceress. He hadn’t called her a witch. Could the king know everything? Intel must have interviewed that research-happy Captain Heriton from Magroth.
“Not when she’s awake, likely not,” Therrik said. “We have snipers. One of our men could take her out in her sleep.”
If Ridge had disliked the colonel before, he was ready to hurl the man into a volcano now. His shoulders flexed, and he caught himself climbing another foot on the vine with an image in his mind of leaping through the window, repercussions be damned. But another limb snapped away from the wall overhead, and he found his perch sagging a couple of inches away from the window. He gritted his teeth and eyed the ledge. He might be able to make the lunge…
“That would be a poor reward for Zirkander’s years of loyalty,” the king said, his tone still dry.
Therrik snorted. “If you want to reward the man, give him a medal, not a witch. Sire, do we even know he’s voluntarily housing her? She could be using him—controlling him—without him even knowing it.”
Not that idiotic argument again. Everyone seemed sure Ridge had a mind feebler than that of an eighty-year-old amnesiac.
“I’ve read her record,” the king said. “If she had been one of the rogues from her century, she would already be dead. She was a healer who worked with the army.”
Huh, the king’s research had been even more thorough than Heriton’s, it seemed.
“Her… century, Sire?” Therrik asked.
“Never mind.”
“Please, hear me, Sire. I don’t think Zirkander’s a suitable guard dog for a witch, especially not if he’s sleeping with her. Besides, he’s not even here half the time, and she’s free to roam at will.”
“I have people watching her. If it becomes a problem… I’ll reassess the situation.”
People watching her? Ridge swallowed. And here he had joked at Sardelle’s assertion that she didn’t feel safe doing her work on base. Maybe the grandmother next door was keeping an eye on her.
“This is a bomb waiting to detonate, Sire. If you don’t do anything about her, you can trust that someone will. A lot of people are very afraid of magic.”
“I’m aware of that, Colonel,” the king said, his tone cooler now.
Sardelle is in trouble! The words and an image of the old archives building in town blasted into Ridge’s mind like a foghorn, startling him so that he lost his grip.
He tried to catch himself, his fingers wrapping around a branch, and he thought he might have saved himself, but the brittle limb snapped. He plummeted to the ground. He bent his knees, trying to soften the landing and keep himself from making a lot of noise, but one of his heels struck something slippery. His leg flew out from beneath him, and he landed on his back. He rolled and came up in a crouch, ready to flee away before anyone could look out the window and spot him. With his first step, he almost crashed into General Ort.
“Are you insane?” the general whispered, glancing up at the open window and keeping his voice low. He grabbed Ridge by the arm before he could answer, dragging him toward the garden gate. “Are you trying to throw away a twenty-year career?”
“No, sir,” Ridge responded, but his focus was inward. That had to have been Sardelle’s sword that had yelled into his thoughts. It had never spoken to him before, but he knew it communicated with Sardelle, and apparently it had done so with Tolemek, as well. Another time, the telepathic intrusion would have made him as uncomfortable as ants crawling on his skin, but the content of the message was more important than the fact of it.
What do you mean? he asked in his mind, having no way of knowing if the sword could hear him. What kind of trouble?
“Don’t tell me you were looking for a place to piss in the garden,” Ort growled. “I’m sure there’s a rule on the books somewhere about leaving yellow snow on the castle grounds.”
Ridge shook his head, hoping for clarification from the sword. But nothing came.
“I wasn’t thinking, sir. That’s all. If this mission starts tomorrow, I have to run to the hangar, select my team, and make sure everyone and everything gets packed and ready today.” By now, they had reached the main courtyard, with its guards stationed all around. Ridge couldn’t have gone back for more spying, even if he dared. It didn’t matter. Sardelle was in trouble. He quickened his steps. “I’ll report back to you at the end of the day, sir.” Not waiting to be dismissed, he broke into a run.
“You better,” Ort called after him.
Ridge raced through the castle gate with little more than an acknowledging wave. He sprinted down the icy street, ignoring the startled looks he inspired from passersby, and headed for the archives building.
Chapter 2
Sardelle hunkered on her hands and knees in a corner as books and pieces of the ceiling continued to fall onto the shield she had gathered around herself. Her lantern was buried, and she couldn’t see a thing, but she sensed two people at the top of the stairs leading to the basement. They were armed. Somehow, she doubted they were patrons of the archives, simply curious about the noise. Rubble blocked the doorway on her side, so they wouldn’t be coming to investigate soon. She muffled a cough—some of the dust flooding the basement had gotten to her before she had formed her shield—not wanting to make noise, regardless. Let them think her dead.
When the final book fell, she risked lowering her shield, so she could create a light. A soft orange glow filled the space, its influence dimmed by the haze in the air. It didn’t matter. Her other senses had already told her the story. She was blocked in until she cleared that doorway—or someone else did. Going out that way might not be wise, anyway. She touched the wall behind her, stretching her mind out in that direction, wondering if there might be more than dirt and earth out there. In a city this old, one expected layers upon layers of civilization.
Hm, yes, there was a passage out there. Or, more likely, a sewer tunnel. Either could offer her an alternative exit. The mortar holding the old, chipped bricks together was already crumbling. It shouldn’t take much effort to tear away at it. She let go of the light—maintaining two ongoing forms of energy was always a challenge—to reestablish her shield, in case her architectural deconstruction resulted in a cave-in. Another one.
She could have pulled down the wall in one quick move, but she didn’t want to make noise. The people on the steps were still there, waiting like snipers. They might decide to close in if they thought she was escaping. Sardelle didn’t know who they were, but she didn’t want to deal with them.
The bricks slipped free with soft clunks and thunks. Of course, there was another layer of bricks behind them. Time ticked past as she removed the puzzle pieces one by one.
A soft rattle came from the other side of the rubble pile, someone trying the doorknob. Her snipers had grown tired of waiting. The door opened inward, so she ought to have more time before they could clear a route.
“No,” came a distant, shrill command from the stairwell. “No more explosives. Not in my building.”
Sardelle recognized the archivist’s voice—and the fact that she might have run out of time. She pulled down the bricks more vigorously, wincing when they banged and clanked as they landed. A musty scent wafted in along with a cool draft. It didn’t smell like a sewer. That was promising.
“—hear her,” someone said on
the other side of the door.
They heard her. Not someone. There was no question for them as to who their trapped prey was. Well, Sardelle wouldn’t be trapped for long.
Judging the hole large enough, she started to squirm through. She halted in the middle, her stomach draped across bricks, remembering the scrolls with the genealogical trees. She created her light again and stumbled across the rubble to the spot where she’d last seen them. A broken table lay across the bin of scrolls. She flung debris aside, no longer worrying about making noise, and yanked out the red-banded ones.
“Hurry,” someone urged on the other side of the door.
Sardelle didn’t hear or sense the archivist. She must have been ushered away somehow. Who were these people, anyway? Government spies with orders to get rid of her? She had sensed people watching Ridge’s house—watching her in the past weeks—but they had never approached her.
A question to answer later. With the scrolls unceremoniously stuffed into her satchel, along with the books she had grabbed earlier, she climbed across the bricks. She was about to crawl into the space on the other side, which turned out to be tighter than she had estimated, when a boom sounded behind her. Whoever wanted her didn’t care a whit about destroying public property.
Sardelle used the noise to bring down more bricks and hide the hole she had made. They would find it eventually, but not right away. She hoped.
She pulled herself upright in the passage outside of the basement and found she couldn’t walk through it, not without scraping her hips and shoulders into a pulp. The floor was uneven and littered with rocks and sticks or some other type of debris she didn’t bother to identify. She didn’t bother with a light, either—she wasn’t certain how effectively she had covered that hole and didn’t want any rays seeping back into the basement for those two people to see.
Turning sideways, Sardelle shuffled along, her heavy satchel bumping against the walls, impeding her progress. When she checked to see if there might be a room on the other side of the crawlspace, she found nothing but filled-in earth for several meters. At least she was heading in the direction of the street.
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