Godfire

by Cara Witter

  Not in front of General Dektrian, of course.

  “He lied to us,” the general said. “Hid his identity, pretended to be my brother-in-arms. All the while working against us.”

  Perchaya sat up straighter. “That sounds more like Lord Diamis to me, General.”

  His eyes narrowed, and the danger implicit beneath his every movement suddenly seemed close to the surface. She fought the urge to shrink against the wagon wall.

  He didn’t strike her, though, or even make a motion to do so. “Don’t pretend you know anything, Drim.” He flicked a glance outside. “We’re almost there. Better get you ready.”

  Her pulse quickened. Ready?

  He drew a long strip of cloth from his belt and she flinched back as he forced the cloth into her mouth and tied it tightly against the back of her head, hairs tugging painfully into the knot.

  She panted against the gag, trying uselessly to push it looser with her tongue.

  The general sat back down, a smug expression back on his face. “Be good and you might get out of this alive. While under my protection, anyway. I can’t speak for Kenton’s.”

  Perchaya refused to give him the dignity of even meeting his eyes. The general didn’t matter, nor did anything he said about Kenton.

  She turned her focus back to planning her escape.

  Sayvil perched on the rooftop of the large stable, trying not to hold her nose against the stench. Whoever was keeping these horses wasn’t doing a sanitary job of it—but he also wasn’t frequenting his place of business nearing the midnight hour.

  Sayvil crouched, moving lower on the roof to see farther down a side street. From here she could see the whole of the dwelling Kenton had rented up the block. The height of the stable, allowing for the hay loft, gave her a good view of the surrounding streets in this squat part of town. The buildings in Peldenar were a motley mix of shapes and sizes, but most of them were made of timber and wattle and daub. They weren’t as nice as the tall, white kingstone buildings of her neighborhood in Drepaine, though she supposed she might be biased.

  Further down the street, Sayvil could see the resistance archers crouching behind the peak of a rooftop, the upper limbs of their shortbows sticking out above the thatch. She’d seen one of the men before, but none were those she’d traveled with from Drepaine. Kenton had recruited them through other means, and Sayvil couldn’t help but wonder which of the other resistance targets was now down three archers.

  Not that she didn’t appreciate the backup.

  Sayvil turned back to surveying the streets in the direction of the castle. The stable’s position between the rented house and Diamis’ stronghold made the building perfect for their purposes; Sayvil would be able to see the soldiers as they approached, hopefully carrying Kenton’s friend with them for the exchange.

  Or the pretended exchange, as it were. At this moment, Daniella herself lay in a casket in a wagon outside the city wall. Probably scared out of her wits in the dark, despite the calmweed, waiting for Kenton and Sayvil to join her so the lot of them could get out of town.

  Sayvil also had a clear view of the streets Kenton would take if he were to betray them both and sneak back to turn Daniella over to Diamis, which she intended to keep an eye on as well.

  Perched at the edge of the roof, Sayvil looked up at the moon, partly covered by clouds. I hope you know what you’re doing, she thought. Gods know I don’t.

  The words felt heavy in her mind—not in the least because she’d referred to the goddess in epithet in the middle of a prayer. Once, she’d prayed daily, walking the perimeter of the temple in Drepaine every night, waiting for Arkista to grant her and Quinn a child.

  The so-called goddess of fertility hadn’t answered her then, and she had no faith that she would now, no matter what language she used. If Sayvil was truly the bearer of Arkista, she had to wonder what the goddess was thinking. Surely she should have chosen a priestess from the temple, someone devout, or at least someone who did anything resembling worship. Sayvil had spent most of the last ten years believing the gods had never existed at all.

  Motion caught her attention on the street. Soldiers in uniform, advancing on them from the direction of the castle. A line of six of them marched in formation in front of a wagon, pulled by two large quarter horses. Another contingent followed behind, though Sayvil couldn’t tell how many.

  Only that it wasn’t nearly as many as she’d expected to see.

  She moved silently over the rooftop, checking the other side streets, but all were empty. Lord General Diamis should have sent several times that many soldiers to recover his own daughter, not to mention two Drim.

  Unless. Sayvil approached the crest of the roof again, ensuring she’d been right about the number of soldiers. Yes, she could see the rear guard, now, and the total number of soldiers outside of the wagon was only thirteen. Farther up the street, she caught sight of another contingent following several wagon-lengths behind.

  But they were also few in number. The blocks around her rooftop remained otherwise empty, save for a few stray dogs loping by to the west. Why would Diamis send so few? Did he already know he was going to be attacked tonight in other places? They’d all known it was a risk—any plan that required so much coordination also required putting dangerous knowledge in the minds—and potentially the mouths—of many people, any one of whom might—

  Sayvil’s throat closed up. Talk.

  As she had.

  She glanced once toward the house to where Kenton was hiding. Kenton had said he meant to use the attacks as a distraction to cover their escape, to cause the soldiers to pull back before they were captured.

  But he must have lied. He’d tipped Diamis off to all the plans Sayvil had given him, and he’d done it to cover his own ass.

  Sayvil stared at the house. Kenton would be waiting on the other side. He’d lied to her, set her people up to die. She could deny him the signal, steal from the roof, abandon him in the night to fend for himself. She could easily make it back for Daniella, and together they’d be rid of the meddling Drim and his demands.

  The wagon came still closer. If Sayvil hesitated a moment longer, she’d as good as betrayed him.

  But there was a woman involved—a friend of Kenton’s, yes, but someone whose life depended on Sayvil performing her part in the plan. And as angry as it made Sayvil that her friends might be dying even now because of the information Kenton had given away, she had been the one to give it to him. She was the one who betrayed them.

  Which meant she’d caused enough death for one night.

  Sayvil moved to the opposite side of the roof, out of sight, and drew on the light of Arkista—she’d always thought of it that way, she realized now, even while denying the goddess’s existence—and directed it at a small mirror in a steady beam. Like the moon itself, Sayvil didn’t create the light, only reflected it. She held the beam for the count of ten, and then followed with three short bursts.

  On the other side of the rented house, Kenton would be waiting, watching, and if the gods had any mercy, remembering their agreed upon signal. They’re coming, Sayvil had told him. Three streets clockwise from the north. If anything had looked amiss, she would have followed the directional signal with another long blast of light as warning, but if Kenton wasn’t expecting a group of soldiers, then he was both crazy and daft—a possibility Sayvil had considered frequently over the last day.

  Still, something about his confidence, about the way that he made decisions and charged ahead, Diamis-be-damned, made her want to have confidence in him.

  He would have been a valuable member of the resistance, Drim blood or no.

  Kenton watched the flashes of light in the signal mirror. The soldiers would be coming from the street to the southeast, then. He held his breath, waiting for the long burst of light at the end, which would tell him that things had already gone wrong, but n
one came. Perhaps tipping off Diamis about the resistance attacks had worked, and Diamis had only been able to spare a manageable number of soldiers. With any luck, the resistance would still be able to do some damage to Diamis before being driven from their targets. It was the best they could have hoped for anyway.

  And if they helped Kenton get out of the city with both Perchaya and Sayvil, they’d have helped fight Diamis in ways the resistance could never imagine.

  Kenton stepped toward the street, still hiding in the shadow of the house, which was empty and abandoned. He heard the clatter of hooves on the stones up the street, followed by the unmistakable marching of boots. Once, Kenton would have been one of those men, trotting to that beat, aligning his heart to the empire.

  But tonight, all he wanted was to pull Perchaya safely from its clutches, so they could get about this dirty business of saving the world.

  Kenton flattened himself against the wall of the house as the wagon pulled into view, so he could get a look at the contingent before they saw him. There were thirteen of them, all wearing armor in addition to their regalia, shined helmets making it difficult to distinguish one from another. All carried swords, and Kenton noted several crossbows hung on the back of the wagon. More footsteps came from farther up the road—more soldiers were following.

  Kenton watched as the wagon stopped and a man climbed out from under the tarp. He was dressed in the full sash and epaulets of a general, and the other men straightened around him. Even beneath his helmet, Kenton could see the tips of his dark hair, the slight roundness of his face, and above all, the unwavering, unfaltering expression of confidence.

  Gods. Diamis knew he couldn’t send a battalion and still defend himself, but he’d done Daniella one better. He’d sent General Erich Dektrian.

  Erich looked over the house, but Kenton stood pressed in the shadows in the corner of the modest porch, obscured in the darkness, and Erich’s eyes didn’t stop on him as he took in the building and directed his soldiers to surround it. Erich hadn’t changed much—he still had that boyish hint to his features even after ten years had passed. If things had been different, Kenton would have been at Erich’s side when the famous Dektrian’s Riders took the Oresh bridge and with it the whole of Andronim.

  Kenton took a deep breath. Tonight was about Perchaya. Kenton knew Erich; he could deal with him.

  And maybe while he was at it, he could educate Erich about the cause to which he’d dedicated his life.

  Twenty-eight

  The moment the soldiers closed and latched the wooden wagon gate behind General Dektrian, Perchaya got to work trying to untie the knots, even though she could tell almost instantly that they were too tight to loosen with her bare fingers. The soldier who had bound her had done an unfortunately good job.

  “Ah,” came the general’s voice from outside the wagon. “I wish I could say it was a surprise to find you working with the rebels. Quite a reversal from the old days, isn’t it?”

  Perchaya stiffened, her fingers freezing on the knot.

  Kenton was out there, trying gods-knew-what to rescue her, even against so many soldiers. Her fingers moved to the wooden edge of the bench, trying to find a corner sharp enough to saw the ropes.

  “And yet it’s not a surprise to find you still licking the heels of Diamis like his favorite lapdog.” Kenton’s voice sent warmth threading through Perchaya’s fear. Kenton didn’t sound intimidated by the number of soldiers he now faced, or by the general himself.

  An act, she guessed. Although if there were anyone who wouldn’t have to fake calm in a situation like this, it would be Kenton. She wished desperately she could see him, but the leather covering blocked her view.

  Her fingers continued to seek a sharp edge in her limited reach. No luck, though there was the tiniest sliver of a gap between one nail head and the wood frame into which it was pounded. If she could get the nail free, she could use it to poke through the knots and loosen them.

  “Where is she?” the general demanded.

  She? Surely Kenton wasn’t going to bargain the bearer of Arkista for Perchaya. She cursed under her breath as her fingers slipped from the nail. It was still too close to the wood, she could barely get a fingernail under the head.

  “I need to hear from Perchaya first,” Kenton said, and Perchaya sat up tall enough to brush her head against the covering, wondering if she should cry out through the gag or keep silent or—

  “I’ll do better,” General Dektrian said, and suddenly the cover was thrown back, and Perchaya blinked against the rush of fresh air and the sudden appearance of the star-strewn night sky. “You can see for yourself she’s unharmed, if unable to talk much at the moment.”

  Perchaya sat up as much as the ropes tying her hands to her feet would let her, and she saw them there, the General standing in front of a narrow house, his hand gripping the hilt of his as-yet-undrawn sword.

  And Kenton standing on the porch in front of the door to the house, his arms folded across his chest. Their eyes met, and her heart beat loudly in her ears. He dipped his chin towards her, the barest hint of a nod.

  Like he wanted to tell her that she’d be okay. That he had a plan.

  Perchaya settled back down on the bench. She needed to be free to be as useful as she could to that plan. Or to escape if it went horribly awry.

  Erich stepped up to Kenton, hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. “You’ll let me pass now,” he said. “And if even one hair on Daniella’s head is damaged, I will personally see to it that you and your men die a slow, painful—”

  Kenton gave an easy smile, one that Perchaya could only imagine took effort to summon. “One hair, eh?” he said. “Too bad I already sent a few of those to her father. If I’d known that was so important to you, I’d have cut them all. You’re in luck, though. Hand over Perchaya, and Daniella is yours.” Kenton paused, and Perchaya stared at him, wide-eyed.

  He’d kidnapped the bloody princess of the Sevairnese Empire?

  “At least, whatever parts her father will let you have,” Kenton continued. “Is he aware of your interest?”

  “Your Drim friend isn’t going anywhere until I see evidence Daniella is here,” the General said.

  Kenton stuck out his chin. “She’s in the house. But you’ll turn over Perchaya before you go in. I have men in there who will kill her at a word from me, so if you want Daniella back alive, you’ll do exactly as I say—no tricks.”

  The General gave a bark of a laugh and shook his head. “It might be amusing to watch them try. You have no idea what you’ve kidnapped.”

  Perchaya stared at the back of Dektrian’s head. The general thought it would be amusing to watch men try to kill the princess?

  That appeared to throw even Kenton off his game. It had to be a ruse, on both their parts. Either way, Perchaya couldn’t afford to dwell on it.

  She had to get that nail free.

  Kenton stared down Erich, whose hands hung at his sides in a pose that was calculatingly natural, though it was clear to Kenton he just wanted easier access to his sword.

  You have no idea what you’ve kidnapped.

  Gods. Did Erich know? He’d been as idealistic as Kenton back in their days of service together, but Kenton had no way to know what had happened in the intervening years. The Erich he knew would have died rather than work for a blood mage.

  “Enough,” Erich said, more to his men than to Kenton. Kenton reached for his sword, but instead of drawing his own, Erich pulled a small metal rod from his belt pouch.

  Kenton tried not to visibly react. He’d seen those before, though he didn’t have the talent to use one—a Vorgalian paralysis charm. Aimed at a subject and powered by a mage, it could reduce a man to a statue, prevent him from defending himself.

  Kenton drew his sword and advanced down the creaking wooden steps toward Erich. The general was no mage—Vorgale require
d its students to study for years, not pop in to learn a trick or two—so he wouldn’t be able to use a charm that powerful. But Kenton had moved no more than a step toward him before he felt his limbs lock, his muscles twitch and seize.

  Erich raised his free hand, signaling to his soldiers. “Secure the wagon. Put him in chains, as well as anyone inside. We’ll drag the whole lot of them back and let the Lord General decide what to do with them.”

  Kenton heard the pounding of boots as the men advanced on the house, from both the front and the back. From somewhere over their heads, a bright light shone into Erich’s eyes—Sayvil, no doubt expecting Kenton to take advantage of the moment and make his attack.

  As Erich flinched and blocked the light with his arm, Kenton tried to order his muscles to move, but they couldn’t. Magic that powerful—it couldn’t be bought. It had to be powered by a mage in person.

  Which meant Erich must have one lurking in the shadows.

  Kenton looked up at the rooftops, where the resistance archers he’d had Paulus assign to him awaited his signal. He fought against the paralysis, succeeding only in causing his muscles to spasm erratically. He couldn’t fight—couldn’t even speak.

  Erich advanced on him, and Kenton succeeded only in rocking his body back and forth. He couldn’t bring his eyes to focus on the archers, couldn’t shout.

  Fire, fools, he thought at them.

  Erich stepped up on the porch, hand on his sword, a smug smile on his face.

  Kenton gave one more mental tug on his leg muscles, causing a final spasm, throwing his stiff body off balance. He tipped, falling backward onto the porch, a jolt of pain piercing his head where it hit the splintering wood.

  While it wasn’t their official signal, it was one that the archers couldn’t possibly miss. An arrow twanged through the air, missing Erich’s shoulder by a hair and thunking into the wall of the house behind them.

  Erich ducked, moving around the corner of the house and away from Kenton, out of view of the archers.

  And if he could have moved his face, Kenton would have smiled.