***
They all watched her to see what she would do, and for a moment, Seline only stood uncertainly. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and her throat was unaccountably dry. She was afraid. Afraid to step forward, feeling somehow that in doing so, she would be killing the man who knelt beneath the gate, watching her with eyes that held a world of emotion. Suddenly, she was no longer the sure, confident, independent woman she had tried to be for her entire life. All the years spent full of hate not just for the world but for everyone in it, fell away, and she was a child again. A frightened, unsure child.
Seline, you must hurry, the Virtue said into her mind. For there is not much time.
But what would she say? What could she say to this man whom she had never known? And why, if he was a stranger, did her chest ache at the sight of him here, breathing his last breaths? She’d stepped closer before she realized it. “F-father?”
At first, the black-clothed man didn’t answer, and a new fear rose in her, a desperate, panicked thing. She had waited too long, had stood torn between her emotions for too long, and he had succumbed to his wounds. But then he took a slow, deep breath and met her eyes. “Daughter,” he said. And in that simple word, whatever was left of the wall Seline had built around herself broke, and the tears began to pour from her eyes.
“I’m…I’m here.”
“I am sorry that we did not have more time,” he said. “I…I need you to know that I loved you and your mother—always. I wish…I wish things could have been different, between us. I would have…much liked. To be your father.”
Seline fell to her knees in front of him, taking one of the man’s hands in her own. “You are my father. But…surely there has to be something we can do,” she said. “One of the healers…”
“Would be better served seeing to those who might still be saved,” he said in a soft, comforting voice. “It’s okay—in calling me ‘Father,’ you have given me a gift greater than any you could imagine. Now, you will be alright. You are strong, Seline. You get that from your mother. Always remember, though the world has its cruelties, it is not all cruel. There’s goodness here. It does not beat its chest or scream to be heard, must be searched for to be found, but it is here.” He smiled, glancing past her, and Seline followed his gaze to where Leomin watched, tears gliding silently down his face. “He is a good man. He cares for you.”
Seline nodded and here, at least, she felt no compulsion to dissemble or hide her own feelings. “I care for him too.”
“He knows. It is good that you know now, as well. I love you, daughter.”
“And I you,” she said, her voice wretched with a profound grief she had not felt for years, since her mother had died. “Father,” she began, suddenly wanting to ask a thousand questions, but his shoulders slumped, his head lowered, and when the breath left his lungs, it did not come again.
Seline lowered her own head, and tears, hot and wet, poured down her face. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Leomin standing there. The Parnen said nothing, only watched her with eyes like windows in to her own soul, reflecting her own pain. Seline did not knock the hand away, as she would have done not so long ago, but took comfort in the understanding it offered. Search for goodness. “I will, Father,” she whispered. “I will.” She rose, and though she felt sad, she also felt lighter, buoyed up, for though her father had not been with her during her life, he had, in his final moments, taught her how to live. “Come,” she said, taking in Leomin and the others, “let us finish this. While there is still time.”
***
The desert wind howled like some great beast in the darkness, but not one out to hunt for prey, only one calling out its loneliness, a testament to all the living creatures of the world, those who walked their own paths of loneliness, forged and fashioned by their own hands. The sand was soft beneath his feet, and the night was neither too hot nor too cold.
The man walked a path through that lonely darkness, the swirling sands erasing his footsteps behind him. And as he walked, he began to pick out the faint glow of a light in the distance, so pale that it might not have existed at all. The sound of a woman’s soft humming reached him. It was a familiar sound, one of comfort, of love given and love received. It was the sound of family.
The tent lay in the distance, outlined in the darkness by the light of a lantern within. It was as if there were nothing else in the world save the dark and the tent, the light and the humming. What is this? the man asked, his voice formless in that great void.
A gift, a voice answered, and the man turned to see another standing beside him where none had been before. The man’s form was like shifting smoke, blurred and indistinct, but his eyes, and the smile he held—sad and overjoyed at once—were unmistakable.
A gift? For who?
For you, of course, the stranger said.
The man turned back to the tent where, inside, he could just make out the form of a woman and the small bundle she held in her arms.
Go and meet them, Raenclest. They wait for you. They have waited for you for a very long time.
And he did, traveling into that great darkness, toward the woman and the child. To his family.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Aaron felt as if he was struck by something, and he grunted in surprise, staggering at the invisible force that threatened to knock him from his feet. Co, what…
Father? the Virtue asked.
I am here child, came the reply, the long-dead king’s voice full of sadness.
Realization struck him then, and Aaron turned to the body of Raenclest, still kneeling by the city gate. Proof then, if any were needed, that the man was dead in truth, for his Virtue had left him. Aaron wondered at the implications of possessing two Virtues at once, but forced the thoughts—and more than a few worries—down. There would be time for them later. Assuming, of course, that there was a later.
“Come on,” he said to the others. He turned, meaning to lead his party into the city, but had barely taken a step when a robed figure glided out into the street ahead of them.
“Tell me, Aaron Envelar. Did you really think it would be so easy?”
Aaron stared at the man standing a short distance away. He was thin and bald, and even in the poor light the moon provided, the sellsword could see the amusement dancing in the stranger’s eyes. “Do I know you?”
“No, Aaron Envelar,” the man said with a slow smile, “but I know you—as does my master. Did you really think we did not know of those Akalians? Did you really believe we would simply sit back and let you march into the city?” The man raised his hand, gesturing, and suddenly dozens of the swift creatures poured out of the alleyways to stand on either side of him.
One of the Ghosts shouted a warning, and Aaron spun to see at least twenty of the creatures gathering behind them, and bit back a curse. The closest of Perennia’s soldiers, seeing what was happening, started toward the gate at a run, but moments later it slammed shut, blocking their way.
The bald man who was still watching him with that same small smile. “So I ask you again, Aaron Envelar, did you really believe it would be so easy?”
Aaron shrugged. “I’d hoped. Anyway, who the fuck are you?”
“My name is not important,” the man answered, “but you may call me Caldwell.”
“You’re right—it’s not important. You’ll be dead in a few minutes anyway.” Aaron started forward at that, the others following, and the bald man raised a finger.
“Ah, ah. What is your hurry, General? Do you think to save the army you have so foolishly brought to oppose a god? They are out there,” he said, gesturing to the closed gate, “dying. Wondering, I suspect, why their leader has abandoned them. Or do you, perhaps,” he continued, his grin widening, “believe those ships which even now approach the harbor might somehow save you? Sorry, but they won’t. My master sees all things, knows all things. The moment you decided to oppose him, your fate—and the fate of those poor, hapless souls that follow you—w
as sealed. Still, it is not all bad. I have a gift for you, a reacquaintance, shall we call it, with one I believe you know.”
He motioned again, and another figure stepped out from a nearby alleyway, coming to stand beside the bald man. Despite the deep scars on his face and limbs, Aaron recognized the figure as Savrin, the swordsman he had fought when he and the others had escaped from Baresh. But whatever the man had once been, he was that no longer—the mage had done his work, and the thing staring at Aaron with empty, dead eyes was no man at all, but a monster, a weapon crafted in a forge of despair and pain.
“Ah yes,” the bald man said, “I can see you do recognize him. A special one, is he not?” He shrugged. “Still, not so special now, for my master has crafted many such recently. Not that it will matter to you, of course.” He turned to the creatures. “Kill them.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
“Where are they, damnit?”
Balen turned from where he stood on the deck of the ship, his hands propped on its railing, to see Captain Festa pacing back and forth, his hands balled into fists at his sides. It was at least the fifth or sixth time the man had asked the question, yet still there was no answer. They were close to the port now, could make out the eastern side of the city of Baresh in the distance, but, so far at least, there was no sign of Baresh’s navy. A navy that, Balen knew from his days as a smuggler aboard the Clandestine, was not insignificant.
“Maybe they left.”
Balen winced as the captain spun on Urek who stood nearby. The man had spent the better part of the journey bent over the rail of the ship, puking his guts out, and even now there was a distinct green tinge to his skin, but he was speaking at least, so that was something. “Maybe they left?” Festa repeated.
The big man grunted, shrugging. “Well. They ain’t here, that much’s for sure. So yeah. Maybe they cut out—they knew we’d be marchin’ on ‘em soon enough, after all.”
Festa stared at the man if he were the world’s biggest fool, then with a huff stared back up at the crow’s nest. “Any sign up there, Pater? And I swear by the gods, if you’ve fallen asleep again dreamin’ about playin’ hide the anchor with Benjy’s sister, I’ll throw you to the sharks and save the bastard the trouble!”
The bastard in question, Benjy, turned from where he was working the lines of the sail to scowl up at the crow’s nest, and Balen winced, not missing the small, cruel grin on the captain’s face.
“No sign of the enemy, Captain!” Pater shouted back with, what seemed to Balen, appropriate haste. “Only our own ships and the city, comin’ on fast now.”
“Like I said,” Urek ventured. “Gone.”
Festa paused in his pacing for a moment to glare at the man before resuming. The truth was, Balen shared the captain’s anxiety. From what everyone said, Kevlane, was no fool. He had to know that Perennia had ships, after all, and he doubted it would be as easy as docking and unloading the troops they carried without being bothered. A nice idea, but a dangerous one. Even if the mage knew nothing of naval warfare, he had generals and commanders in the city who did, and it was too much to hope that the man would refuse to listen to any of their counsel.
He stared off into the darkness where, all around, he could see the lights of the rest of Perennia’s fleet surrounding them. That alone gave him unease, for Balen was used to being aboard a smuggling ship, and he’d never thought to find himself in an army convoy bent on sieging a city. What’s more, the closer they drew to Baresh, the more he felt like a man who had decided it would be a good idea to go swimming in the ocean with some raw, bloody meat strapped to him. Just because nothing had taken a bite out of him yet didn’t mean nothing would, and it would serve him right when it did.
Festa stopped again, looking up at the crow’s nest. “And what of the western gate?”
There was a hesitation, as Balen could envision Pater reaching for his spy glass, and he felt his own breath catch in his throat. Aaron had been confident the Akalians could get the gate open, but Balen wasn’t so sure. It seemed to him that when a man started putting his trust in folks with the sort of reputation those bastards carried, then he was desperate indeed, so it was with no small relief that he listened to the lookout’s reply.
“The gate’s open, Cap!”
Balen let out the breath he’d been holding with a relieved sigh that was shared by the others—sailor and criminal alike—standing on the deck with him. He was just starting to think that maybe this whole thing would work out, after all, when the lookout cried out again. “Hold that last, Cap. I…something’s happening…” He trailed off, not finishing what he’d been about to say, but Balen felt his stomach turn at the unmistakable sound of confusion and more than a little fear that had been in the man’s voice.
“Well, what’s happening, damnit?” Festa called back, looking out toward the city as if somehow he could see past the harbor and the buildings. Then he turned, his gaze skimming the dark waters around them, but whatever had startled the lookout could not be made out from their place on the deck. “Is it the navy? Do you see them?”
“Not the navy, Cap,” the man called back. “It’s the gate it…it’s—”
***
“—closing.”
“What?” Brandon said, looking up from the command table.
“The western gate, Commander,” the messenger said. “It’s closing.”
Brandon rushed to the tent flap, and gazed out in the distance, hoping, praying the man was wrong. But he wasn’t. The western gate of the city, the means by which they had intended for their army to make it inside, was closing, leaving them surrounded on all sides and with no place to retreat. “Shit,” he growled, rounding on the messenger. “How many?”
“S-sir?”
Brandon fought to keep his patience past his growing dread. “How many made it inside, man?” he demanded. “How much of the army?”
The messenger recoiled, swallowing hard. “Um…sir, none of them.”
“None of them?”
“Sir, General Envelar and his…squad made it through, along with the Ghosts but…”
“Damn,” Brandon hissed. That meant Aaron and the others were trapped on the inside of the city, without reinforcement, without help. And make no mistake, he thought, you’re just as trapped out here. Brandon knew a fair amount about military tactics, had read enough of the histories of battles to understand their intricacies the way few others could, but it didn’t take a military strategist to know what happened to an army surrounded with its back against a wall.
He stared out into the distance, as if he could somehow see the ships carrying troops to the eastern side of the city. He hoped they were having a better go of it; otherwise the war would be over before it had even properly began.
“Sir, your orders?”
The messenger’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Orders?”
“Sir,” the man ventured, obviously uncomfortable, “the gate was our best hope…with it gone. Perhaps, it would be better to retreat?”
Brandon grunted. “Retreat to where? Retreat how? There’s nowhere to retreat to, lad. Not, at least, unless we can all grow wings, and that doesn’t seem likely.” He considered for a moment, then shook his head. “No, we won’t retreat, not even if we could. Aaron and the others have made it into the city—the longer we can hold off Kevlane’s army here, the better chance they have of making it to the mage and doing what needs doing.” A small chance, one in a thousand, if that, but better than nothing. Maybe.
“Yes sir,” the messenger said. “And…should I tell the queen?”
Tell her what? That her army is surrounded with no escape, that the gate has been closed, and her lover has been trapped on the inside with the other Virtue-bearers and practically no soldiers at all? “No, lad,” Brandon said, taking a slow deep breath. “I’ll tell her myself.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
“Captain, what do we do?” one of the sailors asked, but if Fes
ta heard, he gave no sign. Instead, he continued to pace the deck, slamming his fist repeatedly into his open palm, as if he might somehow beat the answer out of his own flesh.
Balen hoped he did, because he himself had no clue. They’d gone over the plan in detail, spent hours huddled over maps with Aaron and Brandon Gant explaining how it would go, but this part had not been in the plan. The gate was not supposed to close. And, judging from what Pater had shouted down, the vast majority of the army was still stuck on the outside of the city.
It was an eventuality that had, at least, been foreseen, and the answer to it had been the troops carried by Festa and the other ship captains. Yet the captain hesitated, frowning and continually glancing in the water as he paced as if somehow the enemy navy—still nowhere to be seen—might appear.
He was still pacing when a shout from the lookout in the crow’s nest alerted them of two ships separating themselves from the group and rushing toward Baresh. They were intent, it seemed, on releasing their troops and rushing to the aid of the army, perhaps planning to open the gate once more.
Festa growled a curse. “That’s Manerd and Goderd. What do those two fools think they’re doing?” he demanded of no one in particular, and no one answered. Partly, of course, because given the captain’s current mood, the first one to answer would no doubt find himself going for a swim, but mostly because what they were doing seemed obvious enough.
Balen watched the ships, hopeful and tense all at once. It seemed to him that everyone not just on Festa’s ship, but on all the ships, held their breath. They were getting close, close enough that he began to feel sure that they would make it, after all, when the night was split by an earth-shattering crack. The ships were stopped as if they had rammed into a wall. Wood split and cracked, the sound of it tortured and thunderous, and the two vessels began to shift dangerously. Despite the distance, Balen could make out sailors running along the decks of the ships, could hear their screams and shouts as the two vessels floundered and began to sink.
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