True Power

by Gary Meehan

  “Can I see him?” asked Megan.

  “Fordel gave orders,” said Willas. “No visitors.”

  “Fordel gave orders?”

  They exchanged knowing glances. “Yeah, well . . .”

  Willas whistled at one of his men, who lobbed over a key ring and beckoned Megan toward a trapdoor. He slid back heavy bolts and lifted it, releasing a belch of dank air. Megan peered down into the exposed void. It was pitch black.

  “I don’t see anything,” she said.

  Willas grabbed a lantern. Its wan light splashed on to a winding stone staircase that descended into the blackness. “We’ve got a bit of a walk, I’m afraid,” he said. “Fordel wanted the witches somewhere a bit more secure. Haven’t used these cells since, well, before my time.”

  Megan followed him down, carefully selecting her steps, wary of touching the scarred walls, which were infested with algae and blooms of slimy fungi.

  “Do you think Fordel set the witches up?” she said.

  “What?”

  “He does have form.”

  A few feet below her, Megan caught a shifty look on Willas’s face. “We’d heard Broose was up to something back then,” he said, “but last night? He wouldn’t put the children at risk.”

  “Perhaps he thought it a risk worth taking.”

  “He’d better bloody not have,” muttered Willas darkly.

  Megan remembered the family connection—Willas would be the children’s uncle—and if Rekka had been feigning her fear in the cellar she was an awfully good actress. If Fordel had engineered the events, he’d kept it a secret from his usual partners. But what better way to convince Megan?

  They reached the bottom of the staircase. How far had they descended? Two, three stories at least. There was a single door, studded oak, locked and bolted. Willas handed Megan the lantern then set about opening it, the metallic clunks echoing around the staircase.

  More blackness in the space beyond. The glow of Megan’s lantern fell on two rows of cells, each containing a witch, kneeling in prayer. The men went silent, shrinking back at the unaccustomed light, then as they acclimatized they rose to their feet and advanced to the front of their cells. Grimy hands gripped iron bars. Eyes filled with cold hatred fixed on Megan. And then one of the witches hissed a mantra, words that were taken up by the other witches and repeated again and again.

  “I pledge obedience to God and His Saviors.”

  The chanting chilled Megan even more than the freezing air, but she wasn’t going to let them know it. Fixing her gaze straight ahead, she stepped across the threshold into the cell block.

  “I pledge obedience to God and His Saviors.”

  The atmosphere was rank with the stench of human waste; Megan wanted to gag. She suppressed her reflexes, her urge to run away, and kept walking, trying to match Willas’s purposeful stride.

  “I pledge obedience to God and His Saviors.”

  Where was Damon? Looking for him, Megan drifted too close to a cell. An arm shot out between the bars and made a grab for her. She yelped and jerked back, straight into the hands of the prisoner opposite. Nails dug into the flesh of her neck. She twisted out of the grip, at the same time whipping out a knife and slashing blindly. The blade caught flesh, slicing across the witch’s forearm. He made no attempt to staunch the wound. He just stood there, arm stuck out, fist clenched, blood dripping in a continuous stream.

  “I pledge obedience to God and His Saviors.”

  Willas gave Megan a questioning look. She nodded and urged him on.

  They reached the end of the aisle and yet another door, which Willas started unlocking. “You’re keeping him isolated?” said Megan.

  “Wouldn’t want them”—Willas jerked a thumb back at the witches—“killing him before we do.” He craned his neck around. “And will you shut the hell up!”

  “I pledge obedience to God and His Saviors.”

  Willas’s hand dropped to his sword. Megan shook her head and placed a hand on his arm. He nodded in understanding and barged the door open.

  Damon was in the room beyond, wrapped in so many chains it practically qualified as armor. Condensation collected on the ceiling above him and dripped on to his head. The drops that ran down his face gave the illusion of tears.

  “Wish I hadn’t complained about my last room now.”

  Willas slammed the door shut, but the witches’ incessant recitation still penetrated the wood, like the roar of the ocean. Megan hung the lantern on a hook and approached Damon.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s nothing I could do.”

  Damon made no attempt to accept or reject the apology. “You know, I always thought I’d end up in a place like this. Some people know they’re going to die in their beds, some on the battlefield, some condemned for a crime they didn’t commit.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “You really think I’d come after Cate?”

  “It’d be one hell of a way to worm your way back into Gwyneth’s favor.”

  “You don’t want to go on the run with a baby in tow,” said Damon. “Why do you think Eleanor was so desperate to get rid of her?”

  Megan flushed at the sound of Eleanor’s name. “Don’t . . .”

  “Sorry. Just pointing out it’s not very practical to lug a baby from here to New Statham.”

  “What about your friends?” said Megan. “The witches are not noted for their practicality where the Savior is concerned.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Damon shifted a few inches to the right, trying to avoid the drip, but another found him. “There’s a few—how shall I put this?—dissenters. Not all the True believe in Joanne’s prophecy. You and Sener should have a chat sometime. You can both bitch about Gwyneth. I’d be willing to introduce you if . . .” He rattled his chains.

  “Not possible,” said Willas. “It’s tonight. Midnight. When they . . .”

  Damon nodded, trying to be casual, but Megan recognized the terror in his eyes. “How?” he asked.

  “Fordel’s quite squeamish,” said Willas. “He doesn’t want a public execution. You’re going to be thrown down Kolida.”

  “Kolida?” said Damon. He cocked his head as he mentally translated. “The Pit of Certain . . . ? Ah . . . That should do it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Megan. “I really am.”

  “I know, I know,” said Damon. “There’s only so much a good vassal can do.”

  “I am not a vassal,” snapped Megan.

  Oh, but she was, she really was. She was nothing more than Fordel’s puppet, given an illusion of choice but always with the knowledge the Hilites had the guns to enforce their wishes. Everyone else knew it too—Fordel had gone out of his way to demonstrate it. Did Eleanor know what she was doing when she set these events in motion; had it been a price she’d been willing to pay?

  twenty-three

  Auroras washed across the night sky—blues and greens purer than any Megan had ever seen—and cast an eerie glow on the city. The Hilites believed they were the souls of the dead departing for the heavens. God knew there were plenty of those these days, and soon there’d be more joining them.

  Megan had been unable to sleep so, with Afreyda out on patrol and Cate and Synne both dead to the world, she had slipped out of the mansion. She’d settled in the shadows of a side street, across from the prison, waiting for one last glimpse of the prisoners as they made their final walk up to the tunnels and the chasm that awaited. The rest of the city was dark and silent, only the glow from the odd window betraying signs of life. Like Fordel, everyone preferred to feign ignorance of what was to happen.

  Megan thought about hurtling through the void—everything being over in an instant. How long would it take? Seconds? Minutes? You wouldn’t even be able to see the bottom rushing toward you. Would you be frightened or accepting, resisting even as you plummeted through the darkness? Or still in acceptance?

  There was activity ov
er at the prison. Soldiers filed out, silent apart from the beat of their footsteps, and then the witches, shuffling along, iron chains clamping them all together. They’d fought together, killed together, and now they were going to die together.

  Megan bowed her head and began muttering. “God, born of the eternal universe, ultimate arbiter of man, take these souls we deliver unto You. Show them Your mercy and love and the wonders of Your creation. Rejoice, for though life ends in death, out of . . .”

  A second voice took up her prayer. “. . . out of death comes life.”

  Megan whirled round. Damon was standing behind her. He grinned. She pointed at him then spun back round to gawp at the receding column of prisoners, needing confirmation he wasn’t among them.

  “What . . . ? How . . . ? I don’t understand.”

  A second figure stepped forward. Willas. “One of the advantages of Kolida is no one’ll be able to examine the bodies.” He handed a heavy cloak to Damon, who slipped it around his shoulders.

  “You’re letting him go?”

  “Don’t say it out loud,” said Damon. “He might realize what he’s doing and change his mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Fordel’s a bastard and he doesn’t realize there are people at the other end of his pen,” said Willas. “It’s always down to the likes of you and me to clean up the mess he doesn’t think about.” He placed a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “And you’ve lost enough.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Afreyda’s organizing an escort to see him safely into the Realm. You’ll have to lie low for a few hours. The tunnels are going to be . . . well . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” said Damon. “Lying low’s my specialty.”

  “I have to go.” Willas pointed to the mountains. “Good luck, Your Majesty.”

  Megan was still trying to comprehend what was going on, still trying to comprehend if this was what she wanted. Damon alive? Did he deserve it? But after everything, he was still her friend; she cared about him. And Willas had risked so much to give her something back.

  She flung her arms around the older man’s shoulders. “Thank you, captain. Thank you.”

  “Toca vela birá dubí,” added Damon.

  “Only one drink?” said Willas. “Cheapskate.”

  He gave Megan a fatherly kiss on the forehead and hurried off after the procession. Megan grabbed Damon’s sleeve and pulled him further up into the darkness of the side street.

  Awkwardness hung heavy in the air. “So . . .” said Damon.

  “So . . .”

  “I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “About?”

  “About you being a vassal.”

  Of all the things to apologize for. “The Snow Cities have the guns,” said Megan. “But we need them to defeat the witches.”

  “How did you get them?” said Damon.

  “It was Ími. He’s a Hilite scientist. He discovered the formula for making gunpowder.”

  “And I take it he’s not keen on sharing?”

  “Not exactly.”

  An idea began to formulate in Megan’s mind, a dangerous idea, the kind that could get her killed or start a war. Or finish one. No time to think about it, to discuss it with cooler heads. She would need Damon for it to work, and he’d only be around a few hours more.

  “Can you read Hilite as well as speak it?” she asked.

  “Reading’s easier,” said Damon. “No accents, no slurring, no slang. Why?”

  “Willas only told us to lie low. He didn’t say where.”

  Evading the patrols that mooched through the city, Megan led Damon to the docks. She scurried along one of the piers and down to a rowing boat bobbing on the gentle waves.

  Damon held back. “You never mentioned water,” he said.

  “It’s the fastest way,” said Megan.

  “To where?” said Damon. “I’d be happy with a long walk.”

  Megan realized what was wrong. “How long were you in for?”

  “Long enough to appreciate the benefits of not drowning in freezing northern seas.”

  “In better circumstances, I’d show sympathy.”

  Damon took a breath and gripped the top of the ladder. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Well, manageably terrified.”

  They cast off and made their way through the anchored fleet. The shimmering lights above their head lent the huge ships a spectral appearance. The sounds of the city faded until all that could be heard were their ragged breaths and the splash of oar dipping in and out of water.

  “How much longer?” gasped Damon.

  “A lot,” said Megan. “Keep bloody rowing.”

  “The quality of your motivational speaking leaves a little to be desired.”

  “I’m sorry. Just a few more pulls. You can do it, you brave little sailor, you.”

  The auroras dissipated, leaving the night pitch black apart from the moon, which occasionally peeked out from behind the clouds to see what was going on. Megan scanned the dark coastline, hoping she could recognize some contour from her previous trip, but nothing looked familiar or even definitely unfamiliar.

  “What’re you looking for?” asked Damon.

  “The place to dock.”

  “Move close to the shore.”

  “Will that make things brighter?” asked Megan.

  “No, but it will make them more bumpy-in-to.”

  “You’re advocating the crash method of navigation?”

  They steered shoreward. The rocks seemed to lunge for them, but it was just a trick of the dark, Megan’s nervousness manifesting itself. She concentrated on the rowing, the simple if tiring repetition. Her shoulders burned from the effort. This journey had definitely been easier when she wasn’t the one doing the work.

  “Tell me about this witch dissenter,” she said.

  “Sener?” said Damon, amidst panting. “What do you want to know about him for?”

  “He a friend of yours?”

  “He’s a witch. They don’t have friends, only people they’ve yet to decapitate.”

  “Why do they tolerate his”—Megan searched for the word—“unorthodoxy?”

  “His dad was the commander of all True forces.”

  “Was?” said Megan. “What happened to him?”

  “Your sister.”

  Megan couldn’t help but feel shame at the guilt-by-relation implicit in Damon’s words. It made her wonder what would have happened had she been in Gwyneth’s place, if she’d been taken by Brother Attor instead of Brother Brogan. Would divine power have seduced her as it had her twin? As much as she liked to claim not, hadn’t she claimed a throne to less than universal acclamation and sent armies to fight her rival? Who was to say which sister had the more blood on her hands?

  “Did you see her much?”

  “Gwyneth?” said Damon. “A bit. I think she’s lonely.”

  “Like I give a damn,” said Megan. She did though. It was hard not to empathize, not just because they were sisters, but because they were both queens with the crushing weight of expectation upon them. “What do you think she’ll do now?”

  “Put an advert on the temple noticeboard? Friend sought for fun, frolics and flagellation?”

  “About the war,” said Megan. “I guess this Sener’s done for.”

  “Maybe,” said Damon. “He’s still got a number of supporters, and Gwyneth can’t afford to lose the men after what you did to her fleet.” He craned his neck round to check their progress. “Look”—they hit something and went spinning—“out!”

  They’d hit a jetty. After an argument, they regained control of the boat and moored it. This looked like the place; certainly Megan couldn’t remember any other piers this far from the city. She had to assume it was, in which case they needed to go—she oriented herself—that way, perpendicular to the inlet. One way to find out.

  They trudged through the forest, snow crunching underfoot. Chill air snuck in under Megan’s hood, numbing her face a
nd making the tips of her ears—or what tips she had left—burn with pain. Occasional moonlight flashed through the pines, catching a rabbit scurrying over the blanketed ground or a branch that had been swaying then froze when illuminated, as if scared it had been caught.

  There was a thud and a cry of pain. “You could have brought a light,” said Damon.

  “What happened to the crash method of navigation?” Megan said over her shoulder.

  “Not so good when it’s you personally who’s doing the crashing.”

  “Here, take my hand.”

  “It would help if I could see”—a slap echoed around the forest—“it.” Damon peeled Megan’s hand off his face and squeezed, his pulse just discernible under the layers of leather. “My cheek’s all warm now.”

  “Want me to do the other?”

  “Not that warm.” A pause, then, “This is like that time we—”

  “It can never be like that,” snapped Megan. “There’s one of us missing.”

  They finally reached Ími’s hut, its snow-covered roof sparkling like starlight. Megan struck her knife off a flint and lit the lantern hanging off the wall. A flickering yellow light promising, but not giving, warmth filled the clearing.

  “Are you sure there’s no one home?” asked Damon.

  “I saw Ími getting drunk with Fordel at dinner,” said Megan. “They’re not shifting any time soon.”

  She tried the door. Locked. “Can you get us in?”

  “I’ll need tools.”

  Megan handed him a hooked spike and a stiletto from her boot. Damon pulled off his gloves, blew on his fingers and set to work. Megan paced about, trying to keep warm, fretting and regretting. She was already committed, too late to go back.

  A clunk made her start. It was Damon opening the lock. He grinned in triumph. “Not very good with locks, are they?” he said. “After this, fancy a trip to the city treasury, see what we can score?”

  “We’re not thieves.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “We’re taking what we need,” said Megan.

  “Most thieves do.”