“Women generally avoid getting close to me a second time,” Fenrir said, slurring his words. He rolled to his side and gave her a bloody smile. “Sergeant.”
Ingla squatted for another moment and regarded him. Fenrir braced himself for another kick, but she instead twisted to her feet like the titular blue adder. “That will be all for today. Clean up. You are free to walk the grounds until evening. Do not try to leave.”
Ingla turned without warning and strode off. Such a strange and painful woman.
Fenrir did not immediately rise. There was no real rush, after all. He had nothing to do, nowhere to be. The sun was at its zenith although the day was cold—in the past weeks of his torment, Ingla had typically kept him busy until at least midafternoon before he’d be escorted back to his cellar-bedroom. Which had been fine with Fenrir—the training generally destroyed him so utterly than he could do little more than lie on his cot, twitching and wishing for death. The Spike would have been preferable.
At first, his torment had just been exercise. But, after losing his strength as a captive, and honestly not being in the best of shape to begin with since losing his job at the Plateau, exercise was the worst kind of torture. Running laps around the de Trenton compound before the sun came up. Swimming in the Fullane against the current. Lifting and carrying rocks from one side of the compound to the other. Whenever he slacked or started to slow, Ingla’s fist or foot was quick to follow. Avoiding blows was his only motivation to keep moving.
Then, exercise had become punctuated with battle training. First, weapons training. Fenrir had expected that Ingla would be skilled—Blue Adders were the best. But, he wasn’t bad with a blade. He’d typically placed high in guardsman tournaments at the Plateau, and he’d proved himself a warrior against those monsters in the ruins and in raiding the duke’s inn stronghold. But, he’d either overestimated his own skill or he’d underestimated the training of the Blue Adders. Probably both. Ingla had made a mockery of him.
When fighting with thankfully-blunted swords, Ingla could disarm him in two passes. Fenrir had fought men who were about his size (or preferably somewhat smaller), but never someone so short. When he swung at chest level, the sword would glide over her head as she easily darted inside his guard. And, she was quick! Fenrir wasn’t exactly young anymore, but she made him look like an arthritic shell of a man, a malnourished grandfather left to live in the streets.
It was worse with spears—he’d never mastered that weapon. And, bare-handed? That was just embarrassing.
Fenrir labored to his feet and glanced around. As always, the Blue Adders’ barracks were bustling with activity: training, equipment and supplies being delivered, the blacksmith mending armor and forging swords. Adders, in their signature de Trenton-blue leathers and breastplates, prowled instead of walked, every one of them bristling with effortless martial prowess. As he watched, two Blue Adders sparred amidst a circle of calm onlookers, one wielding a great hammer and the other two thin swords. The hammer-wielder was a giant of a man, his skin as black as night. His opponent was tall and skinny, heritage indistinguishable beneath his shaggy black hair as he danced around with his two short swords. The hammer-wielder spun the giant gavel with bone-crushing force, and yet he could not land a blow. The raven-haired warrior dodged and parried, somehow knocking aside the oversized hammer with rapid, brutal blows. He seemed the superior warrior, until the black man—a Rafón native, it seemed—struck him down with a sudden blow from the handle of his hammer. And then his great weapon descended, raising a cloud of dust and denting the ground as it struck inches to the left of the shaggy-haired man.
There was a small cheer from the crowd of Adders as the Rafónese man offered his hand to the fallen warrior, who twisted up and bowed to the winner.
Meanwhile, Fenrir had just sucker-punched his own opponent, and felt great pride in having managed to do so. He hurriedly looked away from the scene of this training match.
The de Trenton estate was the largest compound in Rostane, consisting of over two dozen sprawling buildings. The Blue Adder barracks—the Adder’s Nest—accounted for only a small portion of this, and it housed over four hundred of the elite warriors and their families. Like most buildings in Rostane and within the de Trenton estate, it was constructed of gray, Tulanque bricks. But, the four-story barracks were obviously of a higher quality than the rest of the city, though lacking any embellishment. Like every construction that Darian de Trenton payed for and authorized, the Adder’s Nest was austere and eminently defensible. Darian always built for the worst-case scenario.
Fenrir took a long swig of water from a nearby tap, and then he spat blood. He left the area of the Adder’s Nest and began to wander the compound, no real goal in mind. The entire place had a sickening tang of familiarity, like the taste of rotten fruit stuck to the roof of his mouth. Gods, he hadn’t lived here for more than twenty years, and yet it still held some power over him. He felt the urge to hunch his shoulders and stay to the shadows, like when he’d been a kid. Hiding from his father, whenever he was around. Hiding from his brothers. But, in a small rebellion against his own tendencies, Fenrir kept to the center of the lanes, holding his head high and making strong, direct eye contact with those servants and workers, artisans and scientists, who huddled together and stared as he passed.
He knew what they were thinking. The failure son of the Principal, wandering the estate? What value could this criminal have here? Shouldn’t he be dead?
Fenrir walked a little taller and fought his limp as he stared down any who glanced his way.
Almost without realizing it, Fenrir wandered to the main residence. The austere structure was the only one built solely of wood—an oddity in Rostane, a city built in homage to the nearby Tulanques. He’d never been certain why the house was so large; while he’d grown up there, it had been only him, his two brothers, his father (who was rarely around), and his mother, Astora. The place was cavernous, though, intimidatingly so to a child. But, it at least offered a host of hiding places, and Fenrir knew those places well.
Perhaps his father had built the structure simply to awe and impress his competitors. It was certainly large enough for several families. Or, maybe Darian actually had a soft spot. Maybe Darian had expected and hoped that his sons would marry, have children, and live together in this manor. Happily running the mercantile empire together, slowly choking out competitors as a family.
And here Fenrir remembered bashing in Aiden’s skull as his brother had stood over Ethan’s body.
No, there would be no families haunting these halls.
“Astora, come away from there!” came a shouted, authoritative voice from just ahead, cutting through his dreary thoughts. Cutting right to the bone.
Fenrir froze, his muscles turning to ice and then melting into water. He was covered in dirt and bruises, his collar ringed in drying blood. He hadn’t shaved, and his hair was unbarbered and askew. His eyes were tired, as well, and he barely had the strength to stand still without his legs trembling in exhaustion.
And, Fenrir was simply not ready for this. He felt more prepared to face a horde of angry husbands, or a single Emma, than his daughter. He made as if to adjust his shoe and then ducked behind the stone, knee-high wall that ringed the yard of the main residence.
A coward, he was. A fucking, spineless coward. Punching unsuspecting women and hiding from girls.
“I need to harvest a bit of farelawn flower, first! It grows along the wall,” came a young voice. A maturing voice, really, somewhere between a girl and a woman. Fenrir hunched lower.
“The Yarways will be arriving shortly for dinner. You must prepare to receive them.” A tutor, maybe? A governess?
“The Yarways are dried-out old crypt keepers with less personality than the bodies they preserve.” A smile tugged at the corners of Fenrir’s mouth.
“Death is a lucrative profession, especially during wartime. Relationships must be forged; bonds must be solidified.”
“And my
daintily eating of a bit of bread nearby as the adults talk will forge those bonds? Pah.”
“Nonetheless, you have duties, Astora. Duties that shall not be neglected because you would rather pick flowers.”
“Flowers that, when mixed with warvine, will help me with the headache that you are rapidly giving me, Pona.”
Fenrir caught himself grinning. He’d sometimes pushed his own tutors, though he’d been beaten for his insolence. Depending on the day, it had been worth it. Perhaps this girl was similar to him, after all, despite lacking his dubious influence in her life for the last ten years. Funny, how heritage worked.
There was a pregnant pause as the tutor collected herself. People wandered by, giving Fenrir strange, suspicious looks as he crouched and listened, but he made no move. His knee was screaming at him, but he didn’t shift. Gods, he couldn’t be seen.
“Astora, this is enough of your willful behavior. I am tasked with your education and the… polishing of sharp edges, but I will not be disrespected. I will not! Would you like the Principal to hear of your recent coarseness? Do you want the Principal to find you yet another governess? As it is, I understand not many wanted the job.” A consistent troublemaker. His daughter indeed. “There are certain boarding schools that might be more appropriate for a young woman like you. Aron Academy, for instance, back in Draston.” Fenrir hadn’t heard of it, but Pona’s tone was predatory.
A small sigh. “I’m sorry, Pona. I truly do have a headache setting in. Would you please allow me to gather a bit of farelawn before I prepare for the event?”
“You may.” Pona’s voice held a tinge of victory, though it was Astora who’d gotten her way.
Just on the other side of the wall, scant feet from his too-public hiding place, Fenrir heard scratching and shuffling as his daughter gathered her flowers. He didn’t know anything about herbology—that was just another topic he’d ignored when growing up—but Astora’s story sounded sketchy. It seemed unlikely that the farelawn flower, considered a weed by most, would have restorative effects. She was likely just pushing her tutor for the sake of pushing, playing the subtle and stupid power games that teenagers played. A beta dog seeing what it could get away with while the pack leader was watching.
The scratching grew closer, and Fenrir felt a cold bead of sweat running down the center of his neck.
“Come along now, Astora. You have quite enough. As it is, by the time we wash the dirt off your hands and knees, we will be late.”
“Perhaps, by then, the Yarways will have died of old age,” Astora quietly muttered, out of earshot of her governess but not her father. “Yes, Pona. I am coming.”
Dry grass crunched as she moved back toward the house.
Sometimes, a man will do stupid things, knowing full well that they are stupid. Fenrir knew he should remain crouching, lest he be seen. But, he felt an instinctual, primal urge to behold his offspring. By Ultner, he’d spent years ignoring the fact that he had a daughter. Forgetting about her existence. Training his mind to avoid wandering down that particularly muddy path, which had been a real challenge when his primary mode of distraction during long shifts was thinking. But now, with her so close, he wanted to see her. He needed to see her.
So, knowing full well he was acting out of stupidity, Fenrir pulled himself up with a grimace as the bones continued to grind his kneecap into dust. With a catch in his throat, he looked across the yard toward his once-home. A tall, slender girl walked barefoot across the grass toward a severe-looking woman in her forties. The girl was dressed in a daffodil-yellow dress, which hung to just above her pale calves. Her hair stretched to below her waist in gentle waves, a chestnut color that Fenrir hadn’t expected. Last time he’d seen Astora, she’d been clinging to her mother’s shirt, no more than six years old, blonde hair blowing in the breeze as their wagon left for Draston.
All these years, when a stray thought of his would land on Astora, he’d pictured a blonde kid running about, hair the color of his own mother’s. Time had darkened her hair. His archetype of Astora had been wrong for years, and it was dizzying.
“Move along, vagrant. I do not know how you entered the compound, but the Adders will not tolerate your presence for long. I would recommend that you find your way out of here before you get skewered.” Pona stood tall fifteen yards away, raised voice oozing with disdain.
Fenrir turned to go, but not before Astora glanced over her shoulder.
Her eyes, even at this distance, were a clear, cool gray. The eyes of her namesake, Fenrir’s own mother. He locked eyes with the girl, feeling his fists clench and his stomach twist into a sour knot. Astora’s face was inscrutable. Was there recognition? Hatred?
Or was there nothing at all?
Regardless, Fenrir tore himself away from her gaze. With a strength he didn’t feel, he strode back toward the servants’ quarters.
Chapter 19
“And where were your men?” Emma screamed, advancing toward Captain Ezram, poking him in the chest with her mangled hand. She had to clench her teeth to keep from raising her voice even higher.
Ezram backed up against the wall of his sparsely-furnished, narrow chamber in the Sentael estate. He was half a foot taller than her and twice as wide, but he shrank back from her anger. It was an honest fear—the fear of a man who was avoiding being bitten by a wild animal, or standing too close to the edge of a cliff without a rail. It was not the fear of a man who had something to hide, and certainly not anything as dark as a betrayal of Lady Escamilla.
Ezram held up an arm as if to ward off a blow. Emma only sighed, anger seeping from her as quickly as it had appeared. Ezram was not her man.
“I, erm…. My lady, I have no knowledge of the changes to the orders. I certainly did not approve any change, and my lieutenants didn’t, either.” Ezram’s eyes flickered to just over her shoulder.
Nail leaned on a crutch behind her, a reassuring presence despite the fact that he relied heavily on his support. The heat from Disorder’s sword had cauterized the stump of his foot, and he had lost little blood. He insisted on being by her side now, though it had been mere days since his brother’s death and the loss of his foot. He had barely spoken since, and his usually jovial face was filled with a chill, stony anger.
Havert hovered at her other shoulder. She’d recently promoted the dusty-skinned Sestrian to her personal guard as an Apple Knight. He lacked the swordsmanship of most knights, but Escamilla had trusted him, so Emma did, as well.
“I need you to launch a full investigation within your battalion, Ezram. I want the name and rank of everyone who has touched those orders. I want each one under observation. Any man who shows a hint of treason or treachery, or any suspicious behavior, will be immediately detained for questioning.”
The five depleted regiments of her army had alternated as an honor guard for Lady Escamilla, sharing the duty with the Apple Knights. Each captain, and the men themselves, had wanted to hold vigil close to her side—a macabre escort to her grave. The logistics of the arrangement had been handled by her captains and their aides, and Emma had given it little thought. For who would attempt to assassinate a dying woman? But, somehow, the orders had been altered, for each regimental captain had thought that one of the others had had the duty at the time in question. The trail led in circles. The fact was, though, had twenty men been there on the night of Disorder’s visit, Escamilla may have been allowed to pass quietly.
“The men won’t like the investing—”
“I don’t care what the men like!” Emma’s anger resurfaced in an instant. “You will do as you are ordered or you will be stripped of rank and imprisoned. I’m certain Lord Unael would also like to know who betrayed us all.” A fire in one of the stables had pulled his black cloaks away from their patrols in the tunnels beneath the hold. Unael was red-faced furious that his soldiers had abandoned their posts, but the stables being ablaze had been so unusual that word had spread quickly. Curious black cloaks had come running, all of whom were currentl
y being sent to the Alganian borderguard for punishment after receiving a half-dozen bloody lashes. “And, I would expect that Unael would be less gentle.”
“Yes, my lady.” Ezram’s expression was one of resignation.
Emma nodded to him, spun on her heel, and marched out of the room with an authority born of righteous anger more so than actual power. Some traitorous bastard in her army—and maybe Unael’s retinue—had conspired to leave Escamilla defenseless, and she would find this person.
She would make them suffer.
***
“In any war of faith, there will be casualties,” Ignatius Pender began, his hands resting on a podium that was too skinny to conceal his bulk. “We hope and pray that such causalities will be experienced by those who side with Pandemonium—the Rostanians and those who serve them. But, those who serve Harmony are not immune to tragedy. They are not immune to the dark powers that so often work to destroy us, both in overt and subtle ways.”
His well-practiced sermon voice boomed across the Trins Grand Chapel, the seat of Yetranian worship in Jecusta. The opulence of this place was overwhelmingly hypocritical. The money to heat the great, vaulted ceilings could have fed hundreds over the course of the winter. The delicately-painted murals on the walls and stucco ceiling must have cost thousands upon thousands of hours of labor, which could have instead been used to build homes for the poor. A single, golden candelabra—of which there were dozens—would clothe half of the Farrow Hold’s destitute.
But, in Emma’s experience, that was always the way of religion.
She shifted in her seat, unable to get comfortable. Her head ached with a low buzz that hadn’t left since that night in Escamilla’s chamber, as if a hornet had built a nest inside her skull. She could barely think straight at a time when she needed her head to be clearer than ever. There was no time to mourn, after all, until she found the traitor.
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