by Gary Meehan
The thought made Megan giddy. To be free of all this: the unrelenting pressure, the ever-present danger. But her reaction to Afreyda’s idea betrayed its impracticality. It was nothing more than a delicious fantasy.
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t abandon the Faithful.”
Afreyda took Megan’s hands in hers, her black skin contrasting with Megan’s olive, and stroked them, the calluses from her training scratching Megan in a not unpleasant way. “You led them to safety,” she said. “What more can you do for them? Do you want to stay because you actually want to be queen?”
“No, of course not.”
Shouting drifted in on the breeze: barked orders somewhere in the distance. “Look what politics and power games did to my father,” said Afreyda. It was her family’s failed rebellion against the Diannon Emperor that had led to their exile to Werlavia. “Do not get involved.”
“I said—”
“Just because Eleanor wanted it does not mean you have to.”
Megan jerked away from Afreyda, possibly harder than she’d intended. “Eleanor only wanted it because she thought it was the best thing for the Faithful.”
“That is not what you said at the time.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Sometimes it had been hard to separate Eleanor’s ambition from her duty. It felt too much of a betrayal to admit that though, even to Afreyda. “What do I know?”
Afreyda shivered and rubbed her bare arms, the cold finally overtaking her metabolism. “I must go. Willas wants me to talk to his men about how to fight guns.”
“You?”
“I was top of my class at the Imperial Officers’ Academy,” said Afreyda, bristling.
“I know that,” said Megan, “but how are they going to understand you?”
“Willas will translate.”
Now it was Afreyda’s turn to spin and march off. Megan sighed and leaned against the barracks. That hadn’t gone quite how she expected, but at least Afreyda wasn’t leaving. Whether they’d speak again was another matter.
She wandered back around to the training ground. Willas was there, exhorting two boys who were raking the sand level. Scars were still fresh on his bare arms, scars he’d suffered distracting the witches while Megan made her escape from Staziker. Back then Megan had tried to thank him, but her stuttered words had merely caused mutual embarrassment at their inadequacy, and Willas had mumbled something about duty and gone off to berate his men.
“I thought Afreyda was with you,” said Megan.
Willas shook his head. “Everything all right between you two?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.” Megan ran her fingers through her hair. “She wants us to go hide in the empire.”
“Might be best if you were far away.”
“From the witches?”
“From Rekka and Fordel,” said Willas, scratching his beard. “I don’t know what they’ve got planned, but I do know they won’t be the ones facing the consequences.”
The distant shouts she’d heard earlier were louder here, close enough Megan could discern they were in Stathian, not Hilite. She exchanged quizzical glances with Willas and they hurried through the streets up to the mountain road. A vast column of people and supplies stretched back all the way to the tunnels. There weren’t just civilians, there were soldiers too: a good few hundred of them, keeping the people in line, preventing them from disintegrating into a pillaging mob. Commanding them was Aldred, a farmer turned lieutenant in the army of the Faithful. He had been Eleanor’s—what?—lover, Megan guessed. She had hardly spoken to him since the funeral. Megan recognized the pain in his eyes too much to press her company upon him.
Willas marched up to greet Aldred. “Where did you find all these people?”
“Coming out of Gerland,” said Aldred. “The priests have sealed Janik.”
After the witches had routed the Faithful at Kewley—when Megan and Eleanor had been forced to abandon Damon and Afreyda—the remnants of the army had retreated to Janik. Given the witches’ imminent capture of New Statham, the hillside city was the last sanctuary in the Realm for hundreds of miles around. And if that sanctuary was now denied them . . .
Yelps of protest gave way to muttered apologies. The crowd parted to make way for a priest. It was Father Galan, High Priest of Eastport, and one of the few of the Faith who knew why the witches wanted Cate. He’d tried to have Megan executed while she was still pregnant; she had prevented Gwyneth having him beheaded. In retrospect, it was an unbalanced exchange.
Father Galan straightened his patched-up robes and stepped up to Willas. “I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“Don’t worry,” said Willas. “They’ll find you soon enough.”
“We need to discuss the refugee situation.”
Willas stared up the line and blew out his cheeks. “It’ll be a tight fit, but Tiptun and Downín said they’d take some.”
“You think this is all we have?” said Father Galan.
“There’s more in the tunnels?”
“More in the Realm. Twenty thousand more.”
They convened in the great hall to discuss the looming crisis: the electors of Hil, led by Lord Defender Vegar, Rekka, and Fordel; a committee of refugees, headed by Father Galan; Father Broose, who had fled from the Realm with Megan and Eleanor and had attracted the devotion of an odd band of Hilites who followed the Faith. Megan herself stood beside Willas, off to the side, half hidden by a pillar. She had asked him where Afreyda was; he’d looked embarrassed and mumbled something about her volunteering for guard duty.
There was no attempt at debate between the two parties—the language barrier saw to that. Instead there was raw argument: no point, no counterpoint, just outpourings of emotion. The unremitting shouting made Megan’s head throb. She leaned back on the pillar and massaged her temples, trying to expel the cacophony, and made to say something to Willas. He wasn’t paying any attention. There was a wistful expression on his face. Megan followed the line of his gaze: to the high table and Rekka.
Seeing Megan’s stare, Willas buried his face in his beer. “Childish crush,” he said, the noise in the hall reducing his voice to a mutter, “nothing more.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“We had this . . . gang, I think you’d call it, when we were kids. Me, her, Fordel. We spoke Stathian to exclude the others. We thought we were so . . . I don’t know . . . important. She was my first kiss. Didn’t go any further. She was in love with Fordel.”
“And who was he in love with?” said Megan. “You?” She’d meant it as a joke—or a half-joke at least—but Willas’s look told her she was more accurate than she’d intended. “Sorry.”
Willas shrugged. “Like I said, childhood crush.” He was trivializing it, more for his benefit than Megan’s, minimizing a pain that still lingered. “She passed me on to her sister.”
“Sister?” Rekka had never mentioned a sister. No one had.
“My wife. She died. Childbirth. Twenty years ago now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Megan. “The baby?”
Willas shook his head.
Megan was spared any more awkwardness when Vegar slammed his fist on the table and bellowed. People shut up. You tended to do that when a bearded hulk of muscle with a mace the size of a small child shouted at you. The Lord Defender went on for some length, his tirade fueled by the flagon of ale a servant constantly refilled, until Rekka patted his arm.
She turned to the Faithful. “What my husband is saying, is that we simply don’t have food for another twenty thousand. We’d all be starving within the week. Plus the queues for the bathroom would be terrible.”
“What did he really say?” Megan asked Willas.
“The gist was, ‘Screw you, you brought it on yourself.’ Only with a lot more swearing. And some comments about the Saviors that might cause a religious war if we weren’t already having one.”
“We have to find food!” called out one of the refugees. Many of hi
s fellows took on this sentiment and the words echoed around the vast space.
Rekka waited until the noise had died down before turning to Fordel. “You hear that? We have to find food. What have you been doing all this time?”
“Exercising a deliberate policy of not finding food, it would seem,” said Fordel.
Rekka repeated their exchange in Hilite for her husband and the other electors. They responded with jeers and gestures that needed no translation, apart from one that, when Megan asked Willas to explain, made the veteran soldier blush.
Father Broose clambered to his feet. “If I may?”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Father Galan.
“I am the High Priest of Aedran.”
“I wasn’t aware Aedran had a High Priest.”
“It has little of anything anymore, thanks to your warmongering.”
Father Broose held up a copy of the Book of Faith. Megan shook her head and looked up to the ceiling, where stars glittered through the gaps left by the workmen engaged to repair the roof. Bringing up religion wasn’t going to help.
“‘And thus, Edwyn and his Army were lost in the deserts of Andaluvia, and Dryness clawed at their throats but he urged them to Obey the teaching of the Saviors. Some turned their back on him, and Perished in the sands, but those who kept the Faith were Rewarded by an Oasis and their Thirst was Quenched.’” His followers nodded their approval and made the Sign of the Circle.
“Sorry,” said Rekka, “I don’t speak stupid. You might have to explain that to me.”
Father Broose trembled, struggling to contain his temper. “Those who put their faith in God will be rewarded.”
“Fine. He can reward them on their side of the Kartiks.”
“Not exactly hot on this diplomacy stuff, is she?” said Megan.
“You didn’t know her when she was a little girl,” said Willas. “I’ve got more scars from her than I ever got in combat.”
Father Broose jabbed an accusatory finger at Rekka. She raised her eyebrows in mock primness. “You cannot deny the Faith lands secured for them by the Unifier in the name of God and the Saviors!”
Father Galan motioned for Father Broose to sit. The old priest obeyed with ill grace. “Perhaps we could reach a compromise, bring through those most in need? The young, the old, the sick?”
“You want to bring diseased people into a packed city,” said Rekka, pulling a face.
A translation rippled through the Hilites, provoking concerned murmurs. They stepped away from the refugees, some subtly, some making a great show of it.
Fordel spread his palms apologetically. “We’ll provide for those here,” he said to Father Galan, “but the rest will have to take their chances in the Realm. I hear there are plenty of abandoned towns and villages for them to shelter in.”
“And when the witches come for them?” asked Father Galan.
“It’s not them they’re coming for.”
Fordel’s eyes flicked over to Megan. Father Galan followed the direction of his gaze. Megan shuffled nervously and felt for a knife. The solid grip reassured her.
“Indeed,” said Father Galan.
Fordel motioned to Willas. “Send a detachment, captain. Secure the tunnel gates. And double the guard on the Arrowstorm Pass.”
Willas didn’t react. Fordel scowled and whispered in Vegar’s ear. The Lord Defender barked an order. Willas pushed himself off the pillar and straightened.
“The men’ll be overjoyed,” he muttered to Megan.
She touched his arm. “Will you . . . ?”
“Don’t worry,” said Willas. “I’ll keep Afreyda stationed in the city.”
Rekka led Fordel and Vegar out of the hall, signifying the meeting was over. The crowd dispersed. Father Galan glanced in Megan’s direction. She was in no hurry to speak to him, but he crooked a finger at her and swept outside. The first Pledge of Faith: I pledge obedience to God and His priests. Megan had no choice but to follow.
They circled outside the hall, dodging the equipment left behind by the roofers. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Congratulations, father?”
“You are the new Countess of Ainsworth,” said Father Galan.
“Congratulations?” snapped Megan. “Do you know how it happened?”
Father Galan held up his palms. “I apologize, my child. Your predecessor was a . . . remarkable woman.”
He took a step further into the shadows and placed a hand on the small of Megan’s back, intending to bring her with him. He flinched when he made contact with the knife she had stashed there.
Megan pulled away from him. “Was there something else, father?”
“The child?”
Now it was Megan’s turn to flinch. “Don’t even think—”
“She’s here?” asked Father Galan. Megan said nothing. A pointless denial, but it allowed an illusion of safety for a few seconds. “Do the witches know?” Megan turned around and stared up into the mountains. “They’ll be coming here.”
Megan swallowed the lump in her throat. “Fordel says we’ve got until spring.”
“Fordel!” Father Galan snorted. “What exactly are the two of you plotting?”
“I’m not plotting anything,” said Megan, careful to leave Fordel out of her denial.
“Are you seeking to revive Endalay’s claim to the throne? Don’t give in to the temptation, my child. It will destroy you. The priests will destroy you.”
The arguments were all too familiar—Megan had used them herself against Eleanor—but she also remembered the countess’s counter-arguments. “What if it’s the only way to unite the Realm and the Snow Cities against the witches?”
“You think you are the only one who can save us?” said Father Galan. “Who does that remind you of?”
Megan shuddered at the comparison to Gwyneth. If she did try to become queen it would only be to protect the Faithful, not out of personal ambition. But, then, hadn’t her sister claimed the same?
three
Damon rinsed the kerchief out in the trough of gritty water before retying it over his face. It didn’t help much. The air was thick with dust from the slowly disintegrating walls of New Statham and the only way he could have had more stone in his body would have been to eat the damned things. The city was proving stubborn, even for the guns of the True. Its outer walls didn’t meet at the entrance but overlapped, forming a curved corridor along which any arrival had to pass, vulnerable to archers on both sides. This structure protected the gates from a direct assault, meaning the True had to attack the walls themselves—cliff-faces of limestone thirty-odd feet thick and fifty-odd feet high. They had eventually hit on the idea of a sustained attack on the same spot, though given the inaccuracy of their weapons this was more intention than actuality. Still, it was only a matter of time. There was only so much battering any one thing could take.
The witches hadn’t known what to make of Damon since their return from the Kartiks. Friend or foe? Believer or blasphemer? Damon didn’t know himself. He had left a part of himself up there in the mountains and had been in a dazed, half-alive state ever since. Eleanor was gone, and no matter how much he tried to downplay his role in her death he knew he was responsible.
Damon needed a drink. He made his way through the camp, picking his way along the muddy streets formed between canvas walls, heading for the command tent. Rivulets trickled underfoot, some more yellow than others, waves rippling through them each time a gun fired. Damon had got used to the noise; he’d begun to use it to mark off time. What was it like in the capital, knowing each boom brought you closer to your end?
The guard at the tent gave him a quizzical look but let him past. Damon was one of the True. They were all fighting for the same cause, all equal before God and the Saviors, no need for priests to rule them. Damon could go where he wanted. Except away.
It was a little clearer inside, but particles still hung in the air making everything hazy, as if Damon was already seeing throu
gh drunken eyes. The wine was at the far end, past the table where the captains argued: Osgar, the general and supreme commander of the witches, withered but strong, like a ravaged oak; Tobrytan, stiff and fanatical despite Megan’s capture of his daughter; Sener, practical and rational, only his father, the general, saving him from punishment for what might otherwise be considered heretical views.
Damon sidled around to the wine table and poured himself a cup. It was sour. Figures, he thought.
“Look at them,” said a female voice. Megan? “Bickering like schoolboys over the rules of some game they’ve just made up.”
Damon turned. Gwyneth stood behind him, her black hair in need of a brush, her once-pure gown smeared with dirt. She had a goblet of wine clutched to her chest. Like the sound of guns, it was such a common occurrence Damon only half noticed it now.
For some reason, Gwyneth seemed to like having him around. Damon wasn’t sure if she saw him as a proxy for Megan, someone she could gloat and vent at, or merely someone her own age, a respite from the war-obsessed old men. It must be awfully lonely, being the Mother of the Savior—no one was exactly queuing to invite her to parties. She’d brought it on herself of course, but Damon wondered what he would’ve done in her place, if he’d known what the True had planned. Megan had fought, but she’d had Eleanor. Who would have helped Gwyneth, who would have even listened to her? The priests had refused to believe the True still existed until they had bombarded Eastport. She had chosen to accept her fate absolutely, put all doubt aside.
“We should be heading north,” said Gwyneth. “I don’t know why we’re still here.”
Because New Statham still had a sizeable garrison and, after the witches had blown up the leaders of the Faith in the palace at Eastport, it was the only hope of any immediate organized resistance. Break the capital and the Realm would be open to the True. Plus, if the witches did decide to head north to the Snow Cities, the rear of its army would be exposed. The witches might have the guns, but they didn’t have the men to absorb the casualties a guerrilla force might exact.
“Why don’t you put a stop to all their nonsense?” said Damon.