He gestured at Emma. She opened her mouth, not certain whether to say anything. Harivor had counseled silence on her part while these leaders reunited for the first time in six months. The reunion always hit a few potholes, Harivor had said with a wet cough, each one mirroring the bumpy ride of the long carriage rides that it took for the magnates to reach this capital city.
Luckily, the decision was made for Emma as Iolen strode through the double doors, flanked by his usual escort of pasnes alna and black cloaks. The drafty room was suddenly becoming quite crowded.
“My apologies, my lords and ladies, for my tardiness,” said Iolen with a small bow. He was clothed as Emma remembered him from the Plateau, in the plain, maroon robes of a Savant. His simplicity almost seemed outlandish among this crowd.
“You weren’t invited,” muttered Lord Rential, his lined face dark with disgust.
“I invited him,” Unael said, lowering himself back into his seat with much more effort than he’d needed to rise. “He’s not likely to spew fire this time around, and he has insight into this unique threat.”
“As does the Lady Breen.” Iolen nodded to Emma. “You have knowledge at your disposal from both sides of the conflict. I would advise that you not waste it, as is your wont.”
General grumbling ensued. Iolen, ever the politician.
“Now, can we move to the topic at hand? Our own intelligence has confirmed that the Ardian military is still mobilized. In fact, the army has nearly doubled in size from their conquered territories and the addition of the Drastoners. They are currently massed near Hunesa, with a smaller but still sizable force near Draston.”
“Yes, establishing order and consolidating their hold on the duchy. Not massing to attack,” Rential said.
“Does it take thirty thousand soldiers to maintain control of a broken city?” asked the young noblewoman, Lista. She twirled her auburn hair in a ladylike way, but spoke with the confidence of a general.
“It is easier to flex a muscle than to use it. It is simply a tactic to stop any rebellions before they begin. You should know more than anyone, Grand General.” Lord Lintael was obviously still smarting from before.
“If I might interrupt,” began Emma, looking to Unael.
Unael was almost pleading as he answered, “Please do.”
Emma had been thinking about this moment for weeks. A chance to address the leaders of the nation, gathered in haste via pigeon messengers. Jecusta was technically run by this democratically-elected council, though in reality all votes were bought and sold like any other commodity. Unael held his position through his immense popularity with the military, while most of the others simply tended toward being the wealthiest and most historically powerful individuals from their regions. As such, trying to get the rich and the powerful to agree was like getting an irate mule out of the stables.
However, they were bound to attend a war council, lest they miss a chance to issue their vote regarding the war plan. Though Unael held absolute power in times of war, the council could declare peace, or put to question whether war was ever even declared. Given that no true blow had been struck against Jecustan flesh, that was a very likely outcome of this meeting.
So, Emma had a brief chance to convince these magnates of the peril represented by the Ardians.
However, her tongue stuck to the roof of her desert-dry mouth as she attempted to swallow. Maybe a sword-wielding warrior woman could not make her feel fear, but addressing this august crowd, with all of her hopes of revenge, of her future, on the line, transformed her blood into ice.
She took a deep breath and steeled herself, placing her mask firmly into place and obscuring Emma, the handmaiden. Emma, the spy for her mistress. Emma, the lover of stupid, brutal men. Emma, the frightened, lost, lonely woman.
Instead, she was every inch the Lady Emma Breen, the woman who’d once led an army to a decisive victory against a well-organized superior force with barely a casualty. The woman who’d kept an army together with her strength of will, and a bit of brutality. The woman who could face down lords and ladies, who could convince people with her words. The woman who’d once been called a friend by Lady Escamilla Breen.
“My lords and ladies. Most of you do not know me, and you would have no reason to. I am Lady Emma Breen, recently fallen into this role, the leader of the homeless thousands of soldiers currently residing within your great city. Some will tell you that I came from nothing. Some will tell you that I am still nothing. I say to you, what I am doesn’t matter.”
Emma surveyed her audience. She barely had their attention. Lintael was simply drinking, with Rential fingering a filigreed dagger hanging from his belt. Even Unael seemed distracted, muttering something to himself.
“Rather, I am a messenger. I have seen what awaits Jecusta, should the country be taken unaware by the Ardians. By those who control the Ardians.”
Harivor had emphasized—she must be a lady. Use her shimmering hair to her advantage. Convince them with her smile, her pliability. Pretend to be in distress. That was what these men responded to. In Jecusta, ladies influenced through manipulation. Being direct and forceful—like Escamilla and other successful women in Ardia—would not be well-received here. Rather, feminine subtleties were needed.
Emma did not like that approach.
“Blood, my lords and ladies. Death. Men and women raped and tortured after seeing their children slaughtered. Villages and towns burned, the ashes scattered to the wind and covering the land with a pallid fog. And that is before they unleash their demons.”
Now, Emma had their attention.
“The Feral came at us in the night, with a shrill howl that will make any one person realize just how insignificant they really are.” Even through her mask, Emma shivered. She remembered the night she’d first heard the Feral, down in the ruins beneath the Plateau. She recalled the blood washing over her in the deepest dark.
“They tore through our soldiers with unparalleled violence. They killed men in their tents and bedrolls, ripping off faces with their bare hands. Tearing through flesh with their teeth, and leaving men—the few who survived a wound, that is—with gaping holes in their bodies. Other Feral wielded weapons, striking with the strength to leave men’s hands numb, to send seasoned warriors’ weapons spinning into the night. Even pierced by steel, the Feral would continue coming. It isn’t that they do not feel pain. It is that their rage and hate is stronger.”
At this point, even Linael had set down his glass of wine to watch her. Evina, standing behind him, gave Emma a grim nod. Keep going.
“These Feral killed six times their number during that attack, putting down trained soldiers who were high on recent victory. And not just soldiers were killed. Camp followers—launderers, cooks, messenger boys—were found torn to bits. Only a few hundred Feral did this. You could discount this as rumor or the ravings of a mad woman. But, I know you have interviewed my soldiers. All tell the same story. You cannot deny the fear still in the eyes of these men. The Feral are real,” Emma said, her voice holding a solemn finality.
“Let’s say that these Feral are real,” Rential remarked, with some skepticism. “If your reports are accurate, then you already killed them all. What is left to fear?”
“‘Why grasp with the hand when a finger will do?’” quoted Opine, likely from some obscure military story. “The enemy only needed a few hundred of these Feral to scatter our army. We would expect that they have many more at their disposal.”
“Speculation,” Ervis said, his twisted face betraying scant emotion.
“Even if their reserves are a matter of speculation, we would expect that the Rostanians could always create more. As our distinguished Savant has informed us, the Feral are created by pasnes alna, leeching people dry of what makes them human. A forbidden rite, it seems, but one which is condoned by those who entreat with the Rostanians.” Emma folded her mangled hand with her good one, drawing the gaze of some of the rulers at the table.
“What do yo
u mean by ‘those who entreat with the Rostanians?’”
The obvious question had been asked by Rential, who eyed Iolen with mistrust.
“The night that Escamilla was killed…. The night that the black cloaks were misled and my forces were betrayed, I met her killer. I spoke with him.”
Unael raised an eyebrow at this. Emma had been quite reserved about that meeting, telling him very little and giving no excuse for why she’d been spared when two men lay dead and the third crippled.
“He commanded terrible powers, blinking in and out of the shadows and wielding a terrible burning sword. You saw the results of that blade all too clearly.” Nail shifted behind her on his prosthetic foot. “The killer summoned a spear of black power to kill… to kill the Lady Escamilla. It sapped her life away, and she had to be given to the fire.” Emma’s lip betrayed her, quivering for a moment.
Luckily, a group of servants entered the room bearing covered trays of food, the clang of the servant’s door drawing the eye. Unael waved them away for the moment, but Emma had attained the cover needed to recover her composure.
“What did this man say to you, Lady Breen?” Evina asked, speaking out of turn. Her husband looked miffed, chronically so, but no one else seemed to mind. Evina was the real power—unfortunately, Clem had insisted on making this trip anyway.
“He spoke… erratically. His emotions were barely under control. But, he spoke of a power behind the Rostanians, something called Recherche Oletta.” Evina looked up sharply, and Lord Ervis narrowed his eyes. His eye, rather. The name was familiar, then. “He implied that he answered to a higher authority, as did this Recherche Oletta. And that whoever commanded him was coming… coming for us all.”
There was a hush in the room at those last words. Unael was grim, and Ervis seemed thoughtful—though it was difficult to tell with that face. Clem Linael, for his part, had forgotten to shut his mouth, while Evina smiled a small, prideful smile. Rential, though, continued to finger his filigreed dagger.
“And since when do we trust the words of our enemy? It would certainly behoof him to spread fear among us with lies,” Rential said, leaning back in his chair, obviously unconvinced. “Assuming, that is, that this conversation even took place. Strange that these details only surface now, my lady. Seems quite… convenient.”
Emma felt a flush in her cheeks, as if she was a child caught sneaking sweet meats. Somehow, telling the truth could feel like a lie when reality was unbelievable. “Lord Rential, I understand that my story may push the boundaries of the imagination. I wouldn’t believe it, myself, were I sitting in your seat.”
She had to convince all of them, though. If even Rential held out, it was unlikely that the Jecustans would mobilize their military. Rential could subvert the others, casting enough doubt in an already doubtful situation that it could shut down any chances of aid. Rential, too, was the magnate of the low plains, and those endless fields of wheat, corn, and peas—supplies that would be essential in supplying an army during the winter. He owned the stockpiles, vast towers of unused food, and would not part with them cheaply. That might be enough to dissuade the other magnates.
Escamilla said there were two things that drove men. Cocks and coin. Maybe a passionate entreaty was not the way; maybe she had to appeal to these baser needs.
“But this is surely the truth. Isn’t the possibility of a threat enough to muster a piece of the military to come to Ardia’s aid? To ensure your own protection? Certainly, this action could only have extreme benefits for each of you.”
Rential’s boney expression assessed her like savvy skeleton.
“Lord Rential, I’m certain this army would have need of your stockpiled food. I understand that twenty percent of your excess went bad, unused, by the end of last spring. Countless tons of food, rotting in your towers. You know, marching soldiers require a great amount of bread and meal. I would be willing to wager that the cost of sending out a few thousand troops would be less than the gain from emptying your stores.”
Rential released his filigreed dagger and leaned forward onto his elbows. His face was still awash in scepticism, but it lacked some of the hostility of earlier. There was some level of calculation in his sharp eyes now. Rential knew he was being played, but in a way that might end up with him still being somewhat the richer.
“My Lord Ervis, you have been in a hundred skirmishes with the Alganians. Everyone here is well-aware of the military aid that you have requested from the state over the years. Aid requested, but often denied. This would set a precedence of aid in the case of a possible foreign invasion. And perhaps accrue a favor or two.”
Mentioning the Alganians made the functional side of Ervis’ face tighten. Emma expected that one reason Ervis opposed a possible mustering was because his own requests had been denied over the years—he was actually said to be quite warlike, advocating invasion of their coastal northern neighbor on several occasions. Danby had been quite thorough in his information-gathering with the magnates.
Like Rential, Ervis said nothing. But she felt him loosen, just a bit. Perhaps just enough.
“You do not need to give a speech about the Eastern Sweeps and how this could benefit us. I know what you are saying is the truth. The Feral are no rumor. Recherche Oletta is no rumor. The Linaels are with you, as are our forces,” Evina said, her voice sharp with command. She was larger than her husband in both body and spirit.
Clem twisted in his seat, staring back at his wife. She made some gesture with her fingers, perhaps a stabbing motion. Clem paled and turned back around, once again becoming absorbed in his wine.
“And, at this time of year, an army would need warm clothes. Tents. Blankets. And, we all know the greatest supplier of textiles in the country is Farrow’s Hold.” Thanks to Harivor for that hunk of gold. Unael likely didn’t need any convincing, but it never hurt to appeal to everyone for the sake of appearances.
“Basically, my lords and ladies, a muster makes sense. Whether you believe my story…” Emma nodded gratefully to Evina ”…or wish to stimulate your economies, this is the right path. There can be no harm in gathering together a few thousand men each. You are either showing the foresight of great leaders in the protection of your country, or each of your regions end up a bit more financially viable.”
Glances were exchanged. Postures were altered. Brows were furrowed. Eyes were narrowed.
Emma could see it. She could feel it. She had them. Fear of wailing beasts and mad assassins was nothing compared to potential gains. Look like heroes, or get rich in the process. There would certainly be more discussions and arguments, as well as negotiations and dealings. Emma would likely have to commit the remainder of Escamilla’s fortunes—those not seized by Ardia—to supporting the military. But, she knew that they were convinced.
It was a shame that, just then, a black cloak captain rushed in the door, his face red with either cold or exertion.
“My lords, I apologize for this…” he gasped for a moment, catching his breath. Unael gestured impatiently with his hand. “I apologize. But, we have a problem. The Brockmore forces—they are rioting outside of the Trins Grand Chapel.”
Emma felt her heart drop out of her chest. At the moment of her first major political victory, something had to go wrong.
Because, why in the fuck not?
Cocks, cocks, and godsdammit.
Chapter 25
They all expected to be caught at some point. You could see it in Ill’Nath’s wary, shifting eyes. In Lisan’s slight hunch. In how Merigold could never sleep, save when she needed to be awake. The only person unaffected was Marius, staring straight ahead as he drove the cart, following explicit instructions and only occasionally checking on his brother.
But, though they’d expected to be caught, it was still a surprise when it happened.
“What in the name of Yetra..?” A bright, silent flash filled the night sky like a thousand bolts of lightning bursting through the air. Merigold covered her eyes, but too late
to escape temporary blindness. She stumbled through the snow disoriented as she tried to find Grumpy, her horse. She yanked the nail from around her neck and brandished it in front of her as she moved, as if swinging the weapon wildly might protect her from whatever was out there.
“Merigold!” Lisan’s voice guided her. “Merigold, Ill’Nath, to me! Marius, draw your sword and kill anyone who isn’t us!”
She blinked away the flash and reached for Lisan, feeling herself pressed against Grumpy. Through squinted eyes, Merigold could just make out Lisan the Arrow fumbling for her bow with cold fingers.
They were amidst a small forest of evergreens on a path that was hardly travelled, still slogging through heavy, wet snow. Their party had traveled off main roads, avoiding cities, towns, and even villages. Throughout, they’d hardly encountered a soul, and yet occasionally Merigold had still heard metal ringing in the distance, or the slight sound of a cry carrying on the wind. As if they were being haunted by the sounds of battle. It had kept them all on edge, though they didn’t speak of it. Marius and Ill’Nath, of course, spoke of nothing.
Lisan sent an arrow sailing toward a black shape. No sound, and the shape stood firm. A tree. Merigold heard crunching snow all around them as heavy, booted feet moved toward their location. A lot of booted feet. Merigold pressed against her horse and quested out. Even in her blindness, she could see the nerring of a dozen figures glowing with a warm light. And the nerring of a thirteenth glowing distractingly brighter, a sun amongst stars.
“Remy!” the voice split the air like a war cry.
The sounds of battle rang out, the sharp report of metal clanging against metal. The suddenly sweet, coppery smell of blood mixed with the eye-watering stench of turned-out guts.
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