Godfire

by Cara Witter

  The mustached man settled in next to her, watching her with narrowed eyes. Malina remained standing, and Perchaya couldn’t help but think it looked like the woman had grown several inches since the last time she’d stood over her.

  “You are enemies of Diamis,” Perchaya said, as firmly as she could manage. “As am I. We’re all working toward the same purpose.”

  The mustached man snorted, and Perchaya startled at the unexpected sound. “Drim don’t work towards any purpose but their own.”

  Perchaya looked up to see Paulus standing in the doorway, chewing his lip with worry. Kenton had said that his friend likely suspected who he was—or at least knew of the accusations against him. Paulus was no fool, and he’d harbored an accused Drim while smuggling him books on the subject.

  But he wasn’t speaking up in her defense. Perchaya’s fingers twitched, and the collar of Bridget’s muslin dress suddenly felt tight against her skin. She forced herself to breathe through the fear and turned back to Malina. The others seemed to be taking their cues from her.

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” Perchaya said, though by the way she was shaking like a hare, that much should be obvious. Still, the things people believed about the Drim . . .

  “Don’t we?” Malina said. “Harboring a Drim is a death sentence. Isn’t it, Paulus?”

  The red-haired man raised an eyebrow. “What was it you were doing with her friend, Paulus? Isn’t he the one who was reading all those books?”

  Perchaya’s panic flared at the mention of Kenton, that they’d made the connection with him as well. The books about the Drim. Perchaya herself had read a few given to her by her father, but always histories, detailing their rise to power, their methods, and their atrocities. Books no one would look askance at. Never books written by the Drim themselves.

  Everyone’s eyes turned to Paulus in the doorway, and he gave a solemn nod. But Perchaya saw the twitch of his fingers against his night-robe. “I would never knowingly—”

  He cut off as the red-haired man leapt from his chair with the kind of speed Perchaya had only guessed at before, his hand on the hilt of one of the knives at his belt. “I helped you get those books! And he’s one of them? I’ve been risking my life for a Drim?”

  Perchaya froze in her chair. She knew she ought to run, but her body felt bolted in place.

  How quickly they jumped to conclusions; how ready they were to believe the worst. Of course they were. Many of her kind had died this way—and others still died, though the main lines of Drim had been wiped out years ago. So many dead who were innocent.

  Paulus’ startled expression hardened into anger. “You’ve been risking your life for the money I’ve been filling your purse with, Toma, and don’t act for a moment as if it’s otherwise. I wouldn’t work with a Drim, had I known, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation otherwise.” His glare turned from Toma to Malina.

  He wouldn’t meet Perchaya’s eye.

  Toma was right; he had knowingly harbored Kenton. But now that others had discovered it, he’d sell them both out before he would risk his own hide.

  Toma eyed him carefully for a moment longer, then stepped back, his hand still stroking the hilt of his knife. Perchaya’s breathing grew rapid, shallow.

  She had no one on her side.

  “So we keep her here until the mission’s over, and then we can decide what to do with them both when the other one comes back for her.” Toma slumped back into the chair as if he hadn’t just threatened one of his own.

  “But we can help you,” Perchaya said, desperation pushing through any rational thought. She couldn’t let them use her as bait to lead Kenton back here She had to figure out some way to make them trust her and—

  “I think you can, dear,” Malina said, cocking her head to the side, considering. She blinked, then nodded, as if it had been decided. “You want to help us fight Diamis? Well, I think you’d be the perfect distraction, take some of the heat from our people inside. Diamis can always spare soldiers to deal with Drim. Even drawing off one or two might increase our odds.”

  “It would be nice,” Toma said, “to have a trial going on these next few days.” He looked sideways at Perchaya. “And a hanging.”

  Perchaya’s throat closed up. “I-I know too much,” she managed. “You can’t turn me in, or I’ll tell them you’re part of the rebellion. They’ll search your house, and they’ll find—” What? Smuggled books, no doubt. Maybe some of those drugs Kenton had apparently been peddling. There had to be evidence here that these people were working against Diamis. Perchaya didn’t want to be responsible for their deaths, but if she could use this as leverage—

  “It’s your word against ours,” Toma said.

  And when Perchaya looked up at Paulus, she found him shaking his head. “We just launched a raid on the castle,” he said. “You don’t think I did that without cleaning house. They’ll find nothing here but an old man and his dog. And what evidence will you have? The word of a Drim.”

  There was the briefest flicker of guilt on Paulus’ face, gone so quickly she thought she must have imagined it.

  Malina smiled the same warm smile she’d given Perchaya before, only now it twisted Perchaya’s stomach to see. Perchaya tried to jump up, but Toma grabbed her arms and pinned them against her body.

  “Now, Toma, no need to be hasty. Let’s give the girl a bite to eat before she leaves. She may be going to Diamis, but no sense in having an empty stomach.” Malina said, her voice bright. “After all, she’s only going to be helping our cause.”

  Twenty-one

  Daniella sat in her favorite reading chair and swirled the tea with her spoon, watching steam dance from the eddies of cinnamon and green flecks of impis leaf. She stirred longer than needed, breathing in the heat, letting it fill the emptiness in her chest.

  The scent reminded her of days when she used the tea daily—when she and Erich were lovers, when that word meant something to her. She remembered sipping it one morning while lounging in bed beside him, looking down at him, his face as soft and tender while he slept as it had been when he’d first told her he loved her. Back then, she’d daydreamed about someday bearing a child of his, dark-haired and serious. Now the thought made her stomach turn.

  She sipped at the tea, wrinkling her nose at the taste. Even the sweet cinnamon and tangy orange flavor couldn’t mask the sour herb.

  Still, it was necessary—she wasn’t going to risk becoming pregnant. Erich hadn’t come after her yet, but he would. He was a man who kept his promises and, more to the point, enjoyed making good on his threats. Unfortunately, escaping this prison of a castle was proving impossible. She couldn’t use the passageways. She’d tried, but they wound inside the castle like snakes, never bordering the exterior walls. She wasn’t allowed to go into the city—she never had been, even with an escort—unless it was at the bidding of Diamis himself. The castle walls were too high for her to climb, and guarded besides. Guards looked intently into the faces of every soul that came and went, no matter what hour of the day or night.

  From a high balcony, Daniella had spent hours watching the comings and goings at the gate, waiting for some way she might hide and be transported away, but every shipment was combed over, every carriage invasively searched. As if her father expected her to steal from the castle, though she imagined it was other things he was worried would go missing. A man with secrets like his couldn’t forgo any precaution.

  Daniella’s maid, Lyn, bustled about in her bedchamber, preparing her bed for the night. Turning back the blankets, pounding the pillows. “Your bed is ready, my lady,” she said, walking back into the sitting room, “and I’ve built up the fire, as you asked.”

  “Thank you, Lyn.” Daniella tried to sound warm, but it was hard when she felt so cold inside. Lyn dropped a small curtsy and left.

  The light of the nearly full moon filtered through t
he window, bathing the sitting room in a silver glow. It was late, and she knew she should go to sleep after finishing her tea, but she didn’t want to lie in bed again and worry that tonight might be the night Erich returned.

  And so she was still awake when the first shouts sounded down the hall.

  A pounding at her door came seconds later. Daniella jumped to her feet, knocking the empty, orange-stained teacup to the stone floor, where it cracked in half. She scrambled back against the wall, grabbing a letter knife to defend herself, but the door swung open, and two guards rushed in, swords unsheathed.

  “My lady, you are to come with us immediately. It is a matter of your safety.” The man who spoke had large teeth that made him resemble an aging cart horse. Daniella knew better than to go with uniformed men she didn’t recognize. She’d learned that lesson at a very young age. But the slighter, red-cheeked fellow beside him was one of her father’s personal guards. These were no Drim in disguise.

  “My safety?” Daniella drew her arm around her chest, conscious of her thin nightdress. She felt her face flush. “By whose orders? My father’s or General Dektrian’s?”

  She heard shouts coming from the hall, louder than before. Her anger slipped into trepidation.

  “Protocol, my lady,” the red-cheeked guard said, stepping forward. “Our orders are to drag you to safety if we must.”

  The other looked anxiously over his shoulder, back down the hall. Daniella thought she heard a woman’s shriek.

  “Of . . . of course,” she stammered, her heart thumping as she looked around for a robe to cover herself. “What’s happen—”

  A man’s yell echoed down the hall, the words too indistinct to make out.

  “Now, my lady,” Horse-teeth barked, beads of nervous sweat glistened across his long forehead. He grabbed her just above the elbow and pulled her forward. Red-cheek led the way down the hall at a jog. Daniella followed as best as she could in her loose slippers, preferring to keep pace rather than be dragged along in the guard’s bruising grip.

  “Are we under attack?” She couldn’t imagine a more ludicrous thought. Peldenar was a fortress, and she had always felt safe within its walls. From outside forces, anyway.

  They didn’t answer. Another guard waiting at the end of the hallway fell into step silently, a few paces behind. Were they taking her to her father? To Erich? Either option sounded horrific.

  Shouts sounded from seemingly all around, along with the unmistakable ringing of steel. Gods. Had the resistance somehow managed to breach the walls?

  She saw one of the rune-stones as they hurried past, barely visible in the flickering torchlight. If she could slip away from the guards, she could hide herself more safely than any storage closet they were planning to secret her in. She might even find a way to escape the castle in the commotion. But slipping away from Horse-teeth’s iron grasp felt about as manageable as turning invisible.

  They were just outside the library when a young guard ran up the stairs across the way. His fair, boyish looks were marred by a deep gash across his left cheek. Blood dripped down his jaw.

  “Sir,” the young soldier began, “the men at the south gate were blinded. I think they have a mage—”

  Horse-teeth scowled. “Why in all hells hasn’t the alarm been sounded?”

  “The ropes, sir. They’ve been cut. Kem and Jonath are working on climbing the shaft.”

  Red-cheek swore. “They must have had someone inside.”

  “Keep moving,” Horse-teeth growled, and they started toward her father’s chambers. Daniella’s heart pounded so hard her chest hurt. Down an opposite hallway, men screamed and weapons clattered to the ground. The small group began to run, Daniella’s slippers sliding as they turned the corner towards her father’s study.

  Gods, was he going to hide her in there, in that chamber? Is that where he was, even now?

  She heard the clang of steel as figures rushed them from the side, and Red-cheek yanked her behind him with enough force that her legs buckled. She dropped to her hands and knees, and he lunged forward to join the battle.

  There were four—no, a fifth lurked in the shadows. Black-clad men armed with slim swords that rang against the Sevairnese guards’ heftier blades.

  A hot tear burned a trail down her cheek, though she hadn’t felt herself start to cry. The silent soldier who had followed behind her took a blade to the side with a hoarse gasp and a sickening squelch, just as the young guard with the cut on his forehead hacked into an attacker’s shoulder.

  She tasted sour bile but choked it back, crawling forward in the opposite direction from the study. If she could only reach a rune wall . . . She stopped at a sound, a different clang of metal than the ringing swords—loud, echoing.

  The soldiers in the tower had reached the bell. Help would be coming.

  Relief consumed her, but only briefly, before the next realization occurred to her. She might live, but to what end? To be Erich’s whore and Diamis’ slave. His weapon.

  She had to find a way to use all of this to her favor. Those who would dare attack her father—would they help her get out of the castle? The rebels in Drepaine had tried to kill her, but if they couldn’t even recognize the color of her hair, they must be loosely organized at best. These rebels would most likely be Sevairnese, not Andronish, and regardless, they’d have to recognize an asset when they saw one. Would they accept her if she pretended to join them? At least long enough to get her out of the castle, so she could escape?

  Not if they cut her down without allowing her to speak. If she stole into the tunnels, she might be able to locate a group closer to an exit, one less mired in the throes of battle, who might listen before striking, if she spoke quickly enough.

  Daniella kept crawling away from the shouts and hacking swords, away from the blood seeping into stone cracks. More tears fell as she heard a gurgled cry cut off suddenly, and as she rounded the corner from the hallway, she sat back against a wall, breathing shallow gasps. The bell continued clanging, the sound shivering through her with each beat.

  And then Daniella scrambled to her feet, and without sparing a glance behind her, she ran.

  As Sayvil ran through the corridors of Diamis’ castle, keeping to the shadows as much as she could, she had only two thoughts in her head. The first was that she had to find the gods-damned way out of here. And the second was that her instincts had betrayed her.

  She should never have come to Peldenar.

  Hearing a clatter of swords and shouting ahead, Sayvil ducked into an alcove, the type that seemed as if it should have housed a statue, but in Castle Peldenar most of these were empty.

  She toyed nervously with the end of her long dark braid. They’d started with advantage, seizing the element of surprise, with several of their own people in Diamis’ ranks to help them get in. Sayvil herself had aided as she usually did, reflecting the light of the moon into the eyes of the guards, bouncing it off helms and breastplates, generally creating chaos and distraction.

  A lot of good it did her here, deep in the castle. All these bloody halls looked the same, and Sayvil had no idea where to find the stairs to take her back down. The men she’d come in with were supposed to know the way, but each of them had been cut down by the sword. She’d come because she had to, because otherwise, the resistance would have talked her husband, Quinn, into going, and he would have been the one dead inside these walls.

  Quinn was going to kill her when she returned, but at least he’d still be alive to do so.

  Sayvil reached into the pouch belted at her waist. She had one thing in there that might help her—a jar of sleep dust, favorite of surgeons, rapists, and common thieves. Sayvil was none of these, but she suspected over the years she’d sold the dust—ground from dried buds of dandel flowers—to all of them, though she had no way of knowing for sure. To use the powder, she’d have to get closer to a guard than
she would have liked, but at least she had more training with and knowledge of the stuff than she did with her knife.

  The noise ahead quieted, and Sayvil heard boots running in the opposite direction. She wished she had any way to tell if they were heading in to protect the Lord General or out to defend the castle or make an escape.

  No use staying here in the alcove like a terrified mouse. Soon enough a group of guards would pass, and the alcove wasn’t deep enough to hide her then. She moved down the hallway, keeping her footsteps as soft as she could, made easier by her soft-soled, calfskin shoes. The corridor ahead was dark, and Sayvil listened, hearing very little. Then she broke out into the empty hallway and ran.

  She heard only a soft pattering to her right, just after stepping out into a dark intersection of hallways. She was far enough from any of the iron sconces in the hallways now that her eyes were entirely consumed by the dark. Sayvil lifted her foot to take a step back into the hallway from which she’d come, at least until she could determine the source of the noise.

  And was nearly knocked off her feet by a blow to her side.

  Right in her ear, she heard the shriek of a terrified girl, which stayed Sayvil’s hand at her belt. She reached out and gripped the person who had slammed into her, feeling not steel bracers but thin cotton.

  “Please,” the girl whimpered. “Don’t hurt me. I need help.”

  Sayvil located the girl’s arm and hauled her toward the closest sconce until they were near enough to see.

  Before her stood a girl a decade—or maybe two decades—younger than Sayvil, barefoot, and wearing a thin, pale-colored nightgown that ended in lace trim at her ankles. Her hair hung in long, tangled curls over her shoulders, some strands of it stuck to her forehead with sweat. Clearly she hadn’t come in with the resistance. And in the flicker from the firelight, Sayvil could just make out the shade of her curls.

  Her hair was deep red.

  By the gods. She was Daniella Diamis.

  Sayvil stumbled back, waiting for the girl to identify her as resistance and call out for the guard.