True Power

by Gary Meehan

  thirty-four

  The sight of Tobrytan toppling toward her jolted Megan out of her shock. She rolled out of the way as his body slammed into the floor. Tobrytan continued to jerk, as if Death was playing with his victim. Blood pumped out of the gash in his neck, flowing across the boards and soaking the fringes of a nearby rug. Megan scrambled to her feet before it could touch her.

  Afreyda was wiping her sword with a rag. “What . . . ?” said Megan, trying to comprehend the situation. “What are you doing here?”

  “Wishing I had Damon’s gift for sarcasm.”

  Behind her, Willas and a soldier of the Faith were hauling Damon to his feet and over the bed. He shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to control either of you,” he said.

  “How did you find me?” asked Megan.

  “We followed the bodies,” said Willas.

  “I could not stand by, knowing you were in danger,” said Afreyda.

  “And I couldn’t stand by if she wasn’t.”

  “I wasn’t in danger,” said Megan. Afreyda pointed her sword at Tobrytan’s body, which convulsed in its death throes. “All right, maybe a bit of danger . . .”

  Afreyda swayed on her feet. Megan caught her before she could fall and led her to the bed. They sat for a moment while Afreyda gathered herself, foreheads pressed together, fingers interlocking, listening to each other’s ragged breaths. If only it could always be like this, just the two of them. No pain, no fear, no war.

  Willas checked the still-unconscious Damon. “How is he?” asked Megan.

  “Still breathing.”

  “Anything broken?”

  “His jaw, hopefully,” muttered Afreyda.

  “Hard to tell,” said Willas, “what with him not being awake to shriek in pain when we prod him.”

  “Leave him there for the moment,” said Megan. She looked to Afreyda. “He came through this time.”

  “Really?”

  “He tried. Which is the important thing.”

  Willas wandered over to the crib. He picked up a goblet, let the sunlight glitter off the silver, and chucked it back in. “No baby?”

  Megan shook her head. “She could be anywhere in the palace, anywhere in the—”

  A sound cut her off. It was faint, but it was a sound that made every parent anxious, that made them want to rush to its source, offer comfort and protection. As one, everyone leaned forward and stared at the floorboards.

  “On the other hand,” said Megan. “Gwyneth could just have her in the room beneath her own.”

  Willas clattered down the stairs and returned a minute later. “Definitely a baby in there,” he said. “Door’s locked though.” He pointed at a soldier. “Grab an ax. Start breaking it down.”

  “Ax, sir?”

  “They come attached to a dead witch.”

  Megan regarded the door of Gwyneth’s chamber, which made the average city gate look like a gossamer curtain. No one could accuse Edwyn the Third of being inconsistent in his paranoia. If the door to the room below was anything like it, it would take forever to get through.

  “There’s got to be another way,” she said.

  “Damon could pick the lock,” said Afreyda.

  Damon wasn’t capable of doing anything at that moment. Megan looked around Gwyneth’s room, searching for inspiration. The curtains billowing in from the open windows gave her an idea. She went over to them. There was a balcony, littered with the fragments of a broken bottle, dark red staining the stone. An angry drunk are you, Gwyneth? Megan stepped out and leaned over the edge, getting a little dizzy from the height. She straightened back up, took a breath to steady herself and leaned over again. There was another balcony directly below.

  “What is it?” said Willas, hurrying over.

  Megan didn’t have time for the inevitable argument. She swung over the edge of the balcony, dangled for a moment, and jumped.

  The drop was further than she’d estimated. The impact jarred her ankles and knees like a volley of hammers. She lay on the stone, waiting for the throbbing to subside, ignoring the cursing aimed in her direction from the balcony above. Movement in the chamber beyond interrupted her recovery. Someone was rushing for the windows. A woman in white. Is it you?

  Megan snapped a hand out, flinging the windows into the face of the woman. The woman staggered backward, arms flailing. Megan scrambled to her feet and stumbled across the threshold. It was gloomy inside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, she could see the woman wasn’t Gwyneth, but someone older—thirty, perhaps—in a loose gown and with a face that might be considered homely if Megan hadn’t smashed a window frame into it.

  Squalling from the bed grabbed Megan’s attention. A baby in distress, limbs lashing out as if fighting some unseen monster. Megan took a step toward her. The woman dashed to block her way.

  “You’re her nurse?” said Megan. The woman wiped blood from her nose and nodded. “You know who I am?”

  “The Apostate. The fake queen. The denier of the Saviors. The one for whom God is preparing a special place in hell.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Megan looked across to the baby, who looked so much like Cate it made her heart ache. Their fathers had been siblings as well as their mothers. “She’s my family. She’s coming with me.”

  “You will not take her.”

  “There’s nothing you ca—”

  The vase smashed into Megan’s temple before she had a chance to react. She staggered back, head spinning, blood streaming down her face from a dozen cuts. How could she have been so stupid as to underestimate the woman after everything she had been through?

  Floorboards rattled as the nurse ran across the room. Megan groped for a knife to defend herself with, but there was no attack. She tried to blink the tears away, regain her vision.

  “You can’t escape,” she said between winces, everything still a blur. “I have soldiers stationed outside.”

  There was a hiss. A pungent smell filled the air. Escape wasn’t the plan either. That was gunpowder. Saviors, the nurse was going to blow them all to God.

  Still half blind, Megan dashed across the room. She could make out the nurse kneeling, powder spilling out of a barrel and on to her gown, sparks as she struck a knife against flint. Megan dived at her. The nurse cried out as their bodies collided. She lashed out. More blood spurted down the side of Megan’s head. She groped behind, caught the woman’s knife hand, smashed it against the floor until she released the weapon.

  The woman wheeled her other arm around, smashing the flint into Megan’s cheek. The flat side fortunately. It was still enough to send stars exploding in front of Megan’s eyes, to make her want to vomit.

  “You will not take the Savior,” the woman spat in her face.

  Megan thrust her forehead into the woman’s nose. Cartilage crumpled under the force.

  The woman dropped the flint and staggered backward, clutching her bleeding nose. Megan made to snatch the flint. Too fast. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She lost her footing, hit the floor with a thud that knocked the energy out of her.

  The woman was crawling by her side, scrambling for the flint. Megan flung her arm around, sweeping the woman’s supporting arm from under her. The woman dropped. For a moment the two of them lay there, looking across the floor at each other like post-coital lovers, then the woman lunged at Megan.

  Nails slashed at her face like claws. Megan tried to smack her hands away with one hand while the other fumbled for a knife. She found an empty scabbard. The woman dug into her cheek and tore. Four lines of pain seared into Megan. She stretched down to her boot. Fingers wrapped around polished wood warmed by body heat. She yanked the stiletto out, whipped her arm around, buried the blade deep into the woman’s side. There was a shocked gasp, then the woman went limp.

  Thumping at the door. With the last of her strength Megan crawled over to it, turned the key in the lock, slid back the heavy bolts. Willas and Afreyda burst in.

  “What the . . . ?”
/>   “Staff problems,” gasped Megan.

  Afreyda didn’t look impressed by Megan’s attempt to downplay what had just happened. She knelt down in front of Megan and examined her with not quite the tenderness she had hoped for.

  “Just cuts,” Afreyda said stiffly. “They will need washing, but you will live. Sometimes I am not sure you deserve it.”

  “She was going to blow us up,” said Megan, pointing at the heap of gunpowder.

  “You knew that when you jumped out the window?”

  “Not exactly . . .”

  They retreated to a room without its own corpse, not a requirement as easy to satisfy as it should have been. Afreyda checked Megan’s injuries while Willas took charge of the wailing baby, scooping her up into his bear-like embrace and rocking her. She settled down. He cooed at her, as delighted as if she was his own.

  Willas caught Megan and Afreyda’s bemused glances. “I look after Rekka’s children sometimes,” he said. “What are you naming this one?”

  Megan winced as Afreyda picked a shard of pottery from her cheek. “Naming? I . . . I hadn’t thought about it.” She supposed she couldn’t keep calling her “Gwyneth’s baby,” and Jolecia was out of the question for obvious reasons.

  “Eleanor,” said Afreyda. She looked up at Megan. “Unless you . . .”

  Megan’s throat tightened. She remembered that last desperate day in Staziker, the crushing despair as Eleanor had left for the last time, but then she remembered all the times the countess had been there for her, all the way back to that day in a Thicketford field when she had rescued Megan from the witches, and her heart swelled.

  “No,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

  There was a commotion out in the corridor: shouts, arguing, the drawing of weapons. Willas twisted, putting his bulk between baby Eleanor and the door, and felt for his sword. Afreyda unsheathed her own weapon and hurried out into the corridor. Megan slipped out a knife and dithered, torn between backing up Afreyda and staying to defend her niece.

  “It is fine,” said Afreyda. “Let him in.” Clomping. “Just him.”

  Sener marched into the room, bruised, battered and bloodied. What looked to be bits of people were smeared across his armor. The witches were as committed to betrayal as everything else, it would seem.

  “Well?” said Megan.

  “It’s done,” said Sener. “Apart from Tobrytan. We can’t find him.”

  Megan jerked a thumb at Afreyda. “Dealt with,” she said. “What about . . . ?”

  “The bitch”—even after everything, Megan flinched at the denigration of her sister—“has retreated to the throne room with the last of those loyal to her.” Sener sneered. “And there weren’t many to start with. We’ll soon have her.”

  Gwyneth was still here, so close, and soon she’d be butchered by her own men. She deserved it oh so much, but that didn’t stop the ache in Megan’s soul, the wish the two of them could be sisters again.

  “Not yet,” said Megan. “I need to talk to her.”

  Afreyda gave her a despairing look. “Megan . . .”

  “I need to see her, I need to ask why, I need to hear an honest answer, I need to hear her beg for forgiveness; I might even need to grant it. There’s no danger; it’ll just be me and her.”

  “And me.”

  “You still need time to recover.”

  Afreyda brushed Megan’s cut cheek, making her wince. “And you don’t?”

  thirty-five

  They needed gunpowder to deal with the doors of the throne room and a short but bloody fight in the dust clouds to deal with the last of Gwyneth’s men. Megan held back on Willas’s orders, squeezing Afreyda’s hand, wanting this to be all over but also reluctant to let go. The fight against Gwyneth and the witches had defined her for so long. Would she be able to adjust once it was ended?

  Finally Willas beckoned Megan and Afreyda forward. They stepped into the throne room. Megan thought she’d be more impressed. This was the place her predecessors had been crowned, but it was just ridiculously oversized, the walls of marble and glass and now-flaking gilt nothing more than an ostentatious reminder of how much wealth the monarchs had sequestered and wasted. And here she was, the last of those monarchs who had basked in the reflected glory of the Unifier, the reflection dimmer in each successive generation. She felt no connection to those who had once ruled from here: no pride in their deeds, no shame in their sins. It wasn’t her adoption—blood was as artificial a bond as the law—it was the centuries that divided them. She was not them and they were not her. They didn’t confer legitimacy, nor did they deny it. Only the personal mattered, her own actions. Megan had fought for her position; she could be proud of Afreyda and Eleanor and the others who had been with her; she had to be ashamed of what her sister had done.

  Soldiers from all ranks—witches, Hilites, the Faith—lined the walls. Rather less attentive, a similar mix lined the floors, blood oozing from their bodies and coloring the tiles. And there, sat on the steps in front of the throne, her legs tucked underneath her, was Gwyneth. Megan shivered. The chill of the early morning, she told herself, but she knew it was so much more.

  Another girl—their age—was knelt behind Gwyneth, braiding her hair. Trembling fingers let strands escape and settle back on to Gwyneth’s neck. Tears had smudged the girl’s make-up and left dirty black smears under her eyes. Gwyneth herself, however, was perfectly serene. It could be a couple of years ago; the girl doing her hair could be Megan; the preparation for nothing more than a party in the village.

  “You’re meant to curtsy,” said Gwyneth.

  “I was about to say the same to you,” said Megan. “Accept it, Gwyn, you’ve lost. I have guns, your allies, even some of your own men. I have your daughter.” Gwyneth flushed at the last; there was some emotion then. “It’s time to surrender.”

  “That’s it, is it, Meg? You’ve come to gloat?” Gwyneth craned her neck around. “She was like this when we played games as a kid, Taite. A terrible winner.”

  “And you were always a terrible loser. You can’t escape what you’ve done.”

  “What I’ve done?”

  “All the people you have killed,” said Megan. “They deserve justice.”

  “They deserve justice?” said Gwyneth. She threw her hands in the air so violently Taite had to duck to avoid being hit. “What about the tens of thousands of True the priests slaughtered? What about all those who burned in Trafford’s Haven? A whole city. Do they not deserve justice? That’s what I was bringing to Werlavia. That and peace and faith and truth and God’s love. And what do you do? Betray the teachings of the Saviors and sell us out to the barbarians.”

  Megan endured the dramatics with a stony face. “Nice speech. I assume you had a team of writers prepare it for you.”

  “Nice sneering. I assume you had a team of priests school you in the art.”

  Gwyneth wasn’t entirely wrong—if she had been, Megan could hardly have come to a deal with Sener—and doubt scraped Megan’s soul. It was all too easy to wrap base desires in abstract concepts, claim what you did was for justice or God or the people. In the end, only history and your own conscience could judge.

  “Take the men, captain,” she said to Willas. “Secure the city before they can start rioting. Signal the rest of the company. Dispatch messengers to Janik and Hil.”

  “You know she’s armed, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Megan. She had seen the knife by Gwyneth’s side—all gold-plating and diamond-encrusted hilt—and already dismissed it. Form over function, little threat. “Go on, captain.” She pointed at Gwyneth’s companion. “And take her with you.”

  “She stays,” said Gwyneth. “My hair—still not right.”

  Willas cocked his head. Megan nodded. He signaled to the men. They marched out of the throne room, the clomp of their boots echoing around the vast chamber. Then they were gone and there was silence.

  Keeping her eyes on Gwyneth, Megan stretched down and slid
a stiletto from her boot. Sharp, slender. If it came to it—If? Who was she kidding?—it would be quick, clean. Gwyneth would hardly feel it. The wound would leave but a small stain on her gown.

  She took a single step toward her sister. Fear, reluctance, childhood memories made her stop. Afreyda drew her sword and advanced with her. Taite let out a sob and fumbled Gwyneth’s hair. The braid unraveled.

  “Oh, for Saviors’ sake,” muttered Gwyneth. She batted Taite away. “Meg, would you?”

  “Do you regret anything you’ve done?”

  “How can you regret following God’s commands?”

  “Not even Grandfather?”

  Gwyneth looked away. “He was an old man . . .”

  Another hint of feeling, a hint of wistfulness, the tiniest sliver of humanity. “Give up, Gwyn, please. Renounce the claim our children are the Saviors.”

  “Or what?” demanded Gwyneth. Megan’s gaze flicked down to the knife in her hand. “You expect me to be scared of that? I am the Mother of the Savior. God will protect me.”

  “He’s been strangely absent so far,” said Megan. The palace shuddered. Gwyneth looked smug. “That was gunfire.”

  Gwyneth shook her hair out. “You don’t understand the nature of God, Meg. He does not communicate via floods or bolts of lightning or plagues of locusts. He acts through His chosen ones, instructs them, guides them. He formed our nature to best do His work. He sent the Saviors back as children because He knew nothing would better protect them than a mother’s love.” She jabbed a finger down the aisle. “Or a father’s.”

  Megan turned. Damon stood by the remains of the battered doors. He was pale and woozy, unsteady on his feet.

  And he was aiming a crossbow at Megan.

  “Damon? What the hell?”

  “I can’t let you kill her, Megan.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, what the hell?”

  Megan looked back to Gwyneth, at the nascent smirk tugging the corners of her mouth. Father . . . ? No. Not that. Anything but that. The thought made her dizzy, nauseated, violated.