by Gary Meehan
“I’ll need a horse,” said Megan. “A fast one. Can you arrange it?”
“You can’t take on all the witches by yourself.”
“I’ve done it before,” she muttered, weighing the practicality of a silver candlestick. Maybe not. She didn’t foresee too many fancy dinners on the road. “On the way back from Ími’s, Damon told me about a secret way into the palace.” Well, out of, but she assumed it worked in both directions. “I’ll sneak in, free them both and sneak out again.”
“When you put it like that . . .”
“The witches aren’t expecting an inside attack. They’ll be preparing for a siege.”
“Why do you think Gwyneth sent that message?”
“She wants to gloat,” said Megan. “Show me she’s got hostages.”
“Hostages? She didn’t even make any demands. If she wanted to gloat she could have executed them and sent you their heads. She’s keeping them alive for one reason.” Willas pointed at Megan.
“You think this is a trap? For me?”
“You do have a history of recklessness.”
Megan shook her head. “No, the witches aren’t interested in me. It’s Cate they want.” She looked down at her daughter, sleeping peacefully despite the agitation in the room. “Will she be safe here? With Rekka and Fordel?”
Willas looked slightly disgusted. “Are you really saying they’d hurt a child?”
“I don’t know. Fordel—”
“Is a devious bastard, but he plays at politics, not murder. I grew up with him and Rekka, remember. I know what they’re like.”
And I grew up with Gwyneth. “What about what he was going to do with Damon?”
“Damon was an enemy of the state, not an innocent baby,” said Willas. “Did you care if the other witches lived or died?”
“They were coming to kill me and steal my daughter.”
“And they’d leave us alone, would they?”
Megan had no answer to this. She reached for her jerkin, which the drafts through the window had been airing.
Willas caught her arm. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly.”
“We?”
“I can’t let you go after Afreyda on your own,” said Willas. “She’d kill me if she found out.”
It was a long way to New Statham, but only half-chances to get away presented themselves, half-chances that Damon could never quite bring himself to take. Failed escapes—trying to flee Tobrytan when they were going after Cate; breaking out of the Hilite cell—played on his mind. If they failed to get away, well, Afreyda was a valuable hostage; Damon was a waste of rations.
The horizon shimmered—water. They were approaching Lake Pullar. The reality of the situation hit Damon. They’d soon be in New Statham. He’d allowed the drudgery of the march and Sener’s not-entirely-hostile attitude to blind him to the peril. He had to get them out of there before Gwyneth took her frustration out on him and Afreyda. But maybe he didn’t have to flee without Sener’s consent.
A brief trot brought him level with the witch captain. “You know Megan’s won, don’t you? She outguns you and she outmans you. This is just an extended final day with a rather grim last meal.”
Sener gave him a tired look. “She has to take New Statham first.”
“Like you found it so hard to do.”
“She won’t find anyone so venal among the True. We will fight to the last for every street, every building, every paving stone.”
“You want to turn New Statham into a second Trafford’s Haven?” said Damon. He guessed Sener had been a child when the firestorm had engulfed the city, maybe even old enough to remember it. “A population of your corpses?”
“And theirs,” said Sener. “Many more of theirs.”
“You make it sound inevitable.”
“It is.”
“Then why are you so desperate to become one of the corpses?” asked Damon. “As ambitions go, it’s a bit of a dead end. Or lots of little dead ends depending on how you get killed.”
They descended a shallow valley and stopped at a brook to give their horses a drink and to stretch their legs. After dismounting, Sener strode a little way upstream. He beckoned Damon to follow him. Damon did so, his boots crunching the frost that dusted the hard ground.
“What would you suggest I do?” asked Sener.
What you’ve already thought about. “Throw away your armor and turn your horses around. You could go to anywhere in Werlavia, start a new life.”
“And abandon the True?”
“More pre-empting their discontinuation.”
“I will not hide in the Realm,” said Sener, “pretend to be one of them, allow the priests to dictate my beliefs.”
“There’s always the empire,” said Damon. “I’m sure Afreyda’ll put in a word for you.”
“A disgraced princess?”
“There is that . . .”
“No,” said Sener, shaking his head. “I pledged to protect the True, and protect them I will.”
“You’ve already said you can’t,” said Damon. “And do you think Gwyneth’ll give you the opportunity to fight? You failed to get Cate, and you let your guns fall into Megan’s hands. She’s not the forgiving type.”
“You think I fear her?”
“You were being a bit skulk-y back at the Kartiks. Not the action of a man with nothing to fear.”
“She wouldn’t dare move against me,” said Sener.
“You don’t have daddy to protect you any more.”
“My family still commands great respect among the True.”
“Enough to save you?” asked Damon. The look on Sener’s face answered that question. “Better hope Afreyda’s capture is enough to get you off the hook.”
Sener dipped a skin in the brook and took a heavy draft from it, letting his beard soak up the dribbles. Damon could guess what was going on inside his mind. Sener’s whole life had been defined by belief, following it and drawing comfort from it and fighting for it. Belief was a powerful force, capable of giving you the courage to do the right thing, but it could also blind you into doing the wrong thing. Sener was trying to find some way of reconciling it with self-preservation, to convince himself he was doing the right thing and not just the right thing for him personally. Damon should know. How many times had he done it himself?
“You might be—”
The rumble of hoofs cut Sener off before he could announce his decision to Damon. He threw down his skin and pulled out his sword. Downstream, the rest of the witches mounted their horses and drew their weapons. Horsemen appeared on the ridge: witches. They made their way down the hill. Sener and his men lowered—but didn’t sheathe—their weapons. Their commander made his way toward Sener and Damon.
“Sir.”
Sener gave the man the briefest of nods. “Lieutenant.”
“The Mother got your message,” said the officer. “There’s a ship waiting for us at Aedran.”
Damon’s heart sank. From Aedran they could sail all the way down Lake Pullar and the Rustway to New Statham. There would be no chance of escape.
It was time to take leave of Cate. Megan took her daughter out into the garden and tried to interest her in the snowflakes, in a small bird that flitted from branch to branch looking for a stray berry that had survived the winter, in the fish that waited under the cracked ice of an ornamental pond. Nothing appealed. It was as if Cate knew she was being abandoned, again.
“I’m sorry I have to do this, sweetheart,” she said. “I won’t be long and then it’ll be over. Really over. There’ll be no one after us any more, no one wanting to use us. I’ll be a proper mother, I promise. We’ll be a family: you, me and Afreyda. I’ll take you home to Thicketford. You’ll like it there. The river, the fields, the warm sun, the smell of fresh bread every morning.” Cate looked up, uncomprehending. “I’ll teach you how to make it, like my grandfather taught me and . . . well, let’s not mention her, shall we?”
“They’re waiting, Your Majest
y.”
Megan looked up to see Synne standing in the garden, snow dusting her shoulders. With a heavy heart, Megan went over to her and slipped Cate into her arms.
“You will look after her, won’t you?”
“Always, ma’am.”
They circled the mansion to where Willas was waiting for her. He had arranged a company of around a hundred men—half Hilite, half soldiers of the Realm—small enough to move fast, large enough to cope with most foreseeable threats on the road to New Statham. Once they reached the capital, the company would distract the witches while Megan and Willas sneaked into the city. A city filled with Gwyneth and Tobrytan and thousands of witches. Megan’s hands trembled as she mounted her horse. Just the cold, she told the watching Synne, nothing to worry about.
Synne moved Cate’s arm in a likeness of a wave. Tears pricked Megan’s eyes. That was just the cold too. What if I don’t make it back? she asked herself. Will she blame me, condemn me for abandoning her? Megan had lost a mother twice now. She knew the suffering, the loss, the sense of crushing solitude it engendered.
She wiped her eyes and turned to Father Galan. “You’ll act as Secretary of the Realm in my absence,” she told him. “I want you to work with Brother Broose, find out how we’re going to give power to the people, how elections are going to work, things like that.”
“A . . . constitution?”
“It’s not like I’m asking you to drink water.”
Megan blew Cate a kiss and spurred her horse into motion. They filed through the city in a long column, their progress rousing brief curiosity but little more. People had their own lives to lead: food had to be gathered, clothes had to be washed, lessons had to be learned. There was something reassuring about this normality. Megan had saved something at least.
They wound their way up the foothills of the Kartiks. Megan huddled into her furs, letting her horse find its own way. How was Afreyda holding up? What was Gwyneth doing to her? Megan tried to put such thoughts out of mind, but she couldn’t help imagining Afreyda’s screams of agony, Gwyneth’s leer of triumph.
Willas’s “uh-oh” snapped her back to the present. Fordel was waiting for them at the entrance to the tunnel. A detachment of soldiers flanked him. A large detachment of soldiers.
Fordel snapped something in Hilite. Willas shrugged. “Just patrolling the border,” he replied in Stathian. “It is my job.”
“I don’t recall giving such an order.”
The company became agitated: mutterings and nervous whinnies. Megan glanced around. More Hilite soldiers were advancing on their rear. One or two of the Faithful started playing with their weapons in a non-playful way.
“You don’t have the authority to give me any orders, Fordel,” said Willas. “Only the Lord Defender does.”
“How hard do you think it’ll be to get that particular signature?”
“I don’t know. Have you managed to teach Vegar how to spell his name yet?”
Megan glanced up. There were men up in the rocks, their furs camouflaging them against the ice-smeared stones. Archers—loyal to Willas or Fordel? It didn’t matter: at these close quarters you were as liable to hit your own men as the enemy.
She nudged her horse forward. “You might be able to stop Willas, but you can’t stop me.”
“Really?”
“You want to start a fight over what? Because we didn’t fill in the right forms?”
“It’s a little more than that.”
Megan chose her next words carefully. “If the priests had provided Afreyda with a proper escort on her way back from Janik, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But they didn’t, so we are.”
“Back from Janik?” said Fordel. “I thought they were taken going.”
Megan shook her head, as if the difference was of no consequence. “That’s what the reports indicated,” said Willas, giving Megan a look that said, “The things I do for you.”
Fordel paced while he considered—if Afreyda and Damon had been captured by the witches on the way back from Janik, they’d have delivered the formula to the priests and there’d be no reason to hold Megan. Soldiers on both sides looked on uneasily. The tight confines of the path promised a massacre everyone could get to enjoy. Was Megan prepared to order her men to draw their weapons on their friends, countrymen and allies? Were they prepared to obey? Would it be a sacrifice too far?
Fordel beckoned to a soldier, who scurried forward. Steel rasped against leather somewhere behind Megan. “Put that sword back where it belongs,” Willas said through gritted teeth. There was an apology and the hiss of a blade being slid back into its scabbard.
The soldier handed Fordel a large sealskin pouch. “What’s in there?” asked Megan. “Death warrants?”
“Not technically . . .” Fordel threw the pouch up to Megan. “You might want those if you insist on this suicide mission of yours.”
“What are they?”
“Maps of New Statham, plans of the royal palace, oh, and directions for that tunnel Edwyn the Third thought he’d kept secret from everybody.”
“You knew about that?”
“Who do you think dug it for him?” said Fordel. “Always check up on your subcontractors. They might just be the people you built your fortress to protect yourself from.”
“Thank you,” said Megan.
Willas barked orders. Their company dismounted and led their horses into the tunnel, a column disappearing into the black and heading for Saviors knew what. Megan had talked them out of one fight, but she suspected the witches wouldn’t be so cooperative.
She made to follow them. Fordel called her back.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Do look after Willas. I’m very fond of him.”
“And you look after Cate. Even I don’t make it back, I’ll be one sodding vengeful ghost.”
twenty-seven
Damon sidled up to Sener as their ship creaked into New Statham. The witch captain was observing the wharfs, a thoughtful look on his face. Sandstriders darted on and off docked vessels. They were loading them up, preparing to depart. Further down the Rustway, Damon could make out ships that had already started the long crawl home.
“Someone called the Andaluvians ‘Sandstriders’ to their faces, didn’t they?” he said. “And they’ve gone off in a huff. You know they like it no more than you like being called ‘witches.’”
“Shut up,” said Sener. He stroked his chin: the beard had gone the night before, as had most of the straggly hair. “She’s never going to be able to hold the city. Not with so few men. Not once they know she’s on her way.”
“The occasional proper noun won’t hurt, you know.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”
“Next time specify a time limit,” said Damon. He lowered his voice. “It’s not too late, you know. We could keep going. No one’s going to notice us with all the Sandstriders about.” Sener raised a questioning eyebrow. “You’re allowed to call ’em that behind their back. We can drift down the river, find somewhere warm, safe.”
Sener looked around the deck, taking in each of the bustling witches. Damon saw the calculation in his eyes, the formation of a plan of attack. He’d lost track of which were Sener’s men and which Gwyneth had sent. They were outnumbered, he knew that much, but they’d have the benefit of surprise.
There was a hollering from the piers: stevedores calling them into dock. Sener shrugged, mentally casting his plan into the murky waters of the Rustway. Damon was going to have to find another way out of this mess.
Gwyneth and Tobrytan were waiting for them as they disembarked, a sizeable detachment of guards by their side. Neither looked impressed by the sight of Damon. He was used to it by now.
“How the hell are you still alive?” said Tobrytan.
“Most people settle for ‘hello.’” He made a show of looking around. “So . . . anything interesting happen in my absence?”
Gwyneth rolled her eyes at him and turned to Sener. She’d put
on a little weight, and her cheeks were flushed in the winter air. Better lay off the wine, thought Damon.
“You were ordered back months ago.”
“I thought I’d best—”
“I don’t remember ordering you to think,” snapped Gwyneth. “Where’s the prisoner?”
Sener called out. Two witches appeared from below decks with a sullen Afreyda. She gave Damon a look that condemned him for broken promises.
“When I told you to go after my sister,” Gwyneth said to Afreyda, “I didn’t mean quite like that.” Afreyda said nothing. “I’d say ‘no harm done,’ but there was plenty of harm done. How many True have you killed for her? There’ll be a lash for each one, three if you lie.”
“A dozen,” said Afreyda. “A hundred. A thousand. You think I care what you do to me?”
Gwyneth pulled her cloak tight, battling the winds that whipped down the Rustway. “Brave girl. I have to warn you, Trymian doesn’t hold the whip back.”
“You killed my parents.”
“I was doing a favor for your emperor,” said Gwyneth. “He liked you though, and . . . what was her name . . . ?” The tendons on Afreyda’s neck bulged as she clenched her teeth. “He asked me to keep you alive, if possible.” She shook her head. “It’s not possible.”
“Tobrytan,” said Sener. The general looked unimpressed by the breach of military protocol. “Sir. We can’t hold the city. We should evacuate before the blasphemers get here.”
“To where?”
“Andaluvia,” said Sener.
“Not entirely possible,” said Gwyneth. “They’re going to be a bit annoyed with us.” She looked to Tobrytan. “Are the guns in place?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And Jolecia?”
“We got word to her ship,” said Tobrytan. “They’re holding at Samsun until it’s over.”
Damon looked at Gwyneth, then at the departing Sandstrider ships. Gwyneth was going to blow them out of the water. She was following her sister’s lead, but instead of firing on an invading enemy she was attacking a retreating ally.
“We don’t need to evacuate,” Gwyneth said to Sener, “or flee or hide. You need to place your trust in Joanne’s prophecy, captain.”