She only once dropped a charcoal pen, but managed a lightning-quick Shelter binding beneath it, a hazy blue barrier halting its fall just before it clattered onto the dance floor.
Zi’s pallor had improved considerably. He was a rich, deep green punctuated by flashes of turquoises, reds, and yellows, and had managed to wrap himself around the pole mounting of a banner showing the King’s arms, three flowers in gold-on-blue entwined at the stems, near the top of the wall. The King was not in residence, of course, nor were any of the princes or princesses of the blood; they were all across the sea in old Sarresant proper. The Duc-Governor presided over the festivities tonight, in a jet-black costume with a sinister look she supposed was meant to be the Nameless, the fallen enemy of the Gods. A bold choice, sure to spark rumors, which was likely the point.
The Duc rose to his feet as the music from the last dance died, then clapped his hands, a hush rippling through the receiving grounds as all turned their attention toward his seat in the center of the pavilion.
“Lords,” the Duc-Governor announced. “Ladies. Your presence at this little fête is noted and appreciated by the crown.” He inclined his head, acknowledging the light applause, before continuing.
“We gather tonight to honor the bravest among us.” More applause. “The New Sarresant military academy has the reputation it does because it has never failed to produce the finest military officers this nation has ever known.”
Still more applause, some of it genuine, though the Duc’s sentiment didn’t make much sense to her. Surely the school had at least once failed to produce the finest officers ever known. But he was playing to his audience, and his words seemed to have the desired effect.
“As you know, we are at war.” Silence, thick and contemplative. “This is a time for heroism, a time for bravery, above all a time for sacrifice.”
She bit back a laugh. This was their idea of sacrifice?
“Today our families send their best, our most noble and valiant, to lead our armies against the menace of the enemy. An enemy who thinks he can expand his borders, seize our ships, and not provoke us into action. These young men and women, graduates of the New Sarresant Academy, espouse the virtues of the Exarch: Courage. Vigilance. Duty. Our enemy has provoked us beyond tolerance or reason, and we will take the war to him, we will refuse his advances, we will never submit, we will be victorious!”
Thunderous applause.
When it died, the Duc spoke again, a shrewd look in his eye.
“But first, we will be entertained. Clear the green for the contest of archery!”
The crowd laughed, an easy release of tension. The nobles dispersed to ring the former dance floor in knots of animated conversation, while servants rushed to prepare the grounds for target shooting.
She rose to her feet, stretching, glad for a brief break in the action of the evening. Lucky for her they’d opted to repurpose the grounds she’d already positioned herself to sketch. Even so, she resolved to find a different vantage; it grew tiresome to sketch the same angles. She made a quick check of her stores and cursed softly under her breath. Running low on Faith, though the other energies were stocked well enough. She’d have enough for the next event or two, Gods willing. It took a short walk around the battlements of the keep to find another elevated angle from which to sketch the archery contest, an overlook close to the courtyard entrance. From here she could see the green, and the thick forest beyond, as well as the assembled mass of feathers and finery of the nobles. By the time she’d settled in, the servants had completed a hasty setup and the first contestants drew near the line.
The contest was simple; she’d seen it before during daylight on the green. Three targets, three arrows for each participant. A bull’s-eye in each target was typically enough to win, but it could be trumped by three bull’s-eyes hitting the same mark. “Hero’s Gambit” the game was called, and few were bold enough to risk failure by trying for the second, superior brand of victory.
The criers were put to further use, calling out each challenger’s name, rank, and number of stripes they’d earned during marksmanship evaluations at the academy. She doubted whether the army still taught archery or tested for ability with a bow, but traditions among the nobility died hard, when they died at all.
Pirouen de Boulange, scout-captain, three stripes, distinguished himself rather well for being the opening shot, though Gavrien Carailles, lance-lieutenant, no stripes, did not fare so well. Neither did Avrille de la Vessac, foot-captain, two stripes, or Eiron d’Orelle, lance-lieutenant, three stripes. A half-dozen more contestants tried their hand at the line without besting de Boulange’s opening marks, until the crowd hushed with anticipation when the caller announced the next competitor.
“Darien de Sachant, scout-lieutenant, five stripes.”
The first master marksman of the night stepped forward, and by the look of him he’d been invited to this fête only by virtue of his pending graduation from the academy. From the too-loud commentary among ladies near the wall, this was a soldier without a noble rank, here by recommendation of officers in the field rather than by the privilege of his birth. His costume, if you could call it that, was a simple affair of dyed linens with a half-domino mask, the likes of which you could buy from any number of vendors in the Market district. He stepped forward, slipping the mask off to unclutter his vision, then drew and loosed in a simple fluid motion. Thunk. Again. Thunk. Again. Thunk.
The crowd applauded politely as the servants dashed forward to retrieve the shafts from the circles at the center of each of the three targets. With a bowed apology, Darien de Sachant displaced Pirouen de Boulange in the winner’s circle, awaiting the last remaining competitors to take their turn at the line.
Two more came and went without success before the caller announced, “Donatien Revellion, lance-captain, four stripes.”
Lord Revellion strode forward to enthusiastic applause, following Darien de Sachant’s example and tossing his mask down to the grass. He made a show of holding his bow aloft as he was handed his three arrows. With a quick flourish, he stuck an arrow by hand into the ground in front of him, in line with the center target. He stepped back, as if considering. When he drove a second arrow into the ground next to the first, in line with the same target, the crowd erupted with cheers. The third was a formality; Revellion would attempt the Hero’s Gambit.
Sure you don’t want to help him win?
She glared at Zi. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.
Another flourish as he drew out the first arrow and took aim.
Thunk.
The crowd erupted again, and Revellion bowed to acknowledge it. When he stepped forward to pull up the second arrow, a wave of silence swept through the crowd, the sound of a hundred onlookers holding their breath, a silence so thick she could feel it press down around her.
Broken by a scream.
The assembled partygoers turned their heads with varying degrees of alarm. Guardsmen rushed from their posts toward the green. Trained soldiers among the nobles pushed forward, ushering the civilians back from whatever had caused the shrill cry.
Her heart surged, and she stuffed her drawing materials into her pack, an instinctive response to flee at the first sign of trouble. Always in the back of her head there was the fear that any commotion might mean she had been discovered.
Within moments, it was clear she was not the cause of this distress.
A massive beast, like a horse-sized house cat, padded its way up the stone stairs into view of the receiving grounds. Shrieks and screams echoed across the yard as the ranks of nobles broke in a panic. Only the soldiers and guardsmen held their ground, forming a semicircle around the creature. The beast was relaxed, seeming to enjoy the soldiers backing away wherever it stepped. It was covered in yellow-orange fur with a strange mix of stripes and spots, tightly muscled, taking its time with each stride. The thing radiated danger, as if it could pounce without warning, but was presently content to watch and evaluate its prey.
And its eyes. She might have said they shone like fire, but she suspected they actually were fire. Dancing tongues of orange and yellow where other creatures would have had iris and pupil.
In a heartbeat she tethered Body and dropped from the top of the keep wall to the ground below. Zi appeared on her shoulder surging red and black; for once she was not the slightest bit perturbed at him for doubling her heart rate, with the attendant boost in energy and speed. Before she could decide how best to escape the grounds, the beast attacked.
It was laughable. Soldiers and guardsmen, swatted aside like mice. If not for her Body binding and Zi’s gift of speed, she doubted she would have been able to see the creature move. It darted like a snake and struck with a terrible fury, its claws rending whatever it touched into bloody pulp. A half-dozen men were slain in an instant, a half-dozen more cast aside with grievous wounds. Undaunted, the remainder of the men charged forward in a second wave.
Without thinking, she dropped her Faith tether and found Life and Body, with a Shelter binding to put a barrier between the beast and the soldiers. It wouldn’t hold for more than a few seconds, but it should be enough to deflect the creature’s attention. A Mind binding sent out a handful of copies of herself in either direction, a further distraction as the copies closed in on the creature, and Zi lent his familiar red haze, speeding her movements and threatening to have her sicking up the contents of her stomach.
Her first unarmed strike took the beast in the left flank as it rebounded from her Shelter barrier, momentarily confused, darting a look between her and the various copies conjured by her Mind tether. The creature’s hind leg cracked as she struck again, her fists empowered by Body and Zi’s gifts, and the cat roared, whirling to face her before she could swing again. Lightning-quick, it snapped at her head, and she screamed.
A cocoon of white flared around her as the cat’s jaws snapped shut, and she heard the sound of something shattering, a rush of hot energy blasting the creature backward. Somehow Zi had protected her. Her skin was still whole. Without pausing to think, she flew forward again. A wordless scream poured from her throat as she dove for its legs, feeling a sickening crunch as the already cracked bone shattered within.
The cat sank to the ground, jaws still working as it let out a piteous whine. With one more overhand blow she cracked its skull, and it fell silent.
The world went dark.
YOU KILLED HIM.
What was this? Where was she? What had happened?
Silence stretched on. Was she supposed to respond?
I killed it to save the people on the green, she thought.
HE WAS MAREH’ET. A FULL ADULT. IT WAS HIS RIGHT TO SLAY THE WEAK. YOU ARE BUT A PUP.
Mareh’what? she thought, confused.
HE WAS ONE OF MY CHILDREN. THE GREATEST OF ALL CATS. HOW DID YOU SLAY HIM?
I used my gifts, and Zi’s.
A moment passed. A feeling pervaded her mind that whatever this voice was, it was considering her, weighing her. Had she angered it?
YOU BESTED HIM. A WOMAN. THIS IS NOT KNOWN TO US. ARE YOU CHOSEN? ARE YOU HER VOICE?
Whose voice? she asked. Chosen by whom?
THE GODDESS.
There are two Goddesses, she thought back to the voice. Do you mean the Oracle, or the Veil?
THERE IS ONLY ONE GODDESS, LITTLE PUP.
What? Well, her uncle and the rest of the Trithetic priesthood would have a bone to pick with that. What was this? Some kind of trick?
I don’t know whether I’m chosen, she thought back finally.
VERY WELL. WOULD YOU HAVE A BOON OF ME?
I don’t even know what you are, she thought back in anger. What was going on?
I AM THE SPIRIT OF MAREH’ET. I COULD GIVE YOU HIS GIFT. YOU WOULD BE A PUP NO LONGER.
What sort of gift?
TO KNOW WHAT IT IS TO BE GREAT. IT IS THE WAY OF THINGS, TO SHARE HIS SKIN.
Fine, but—
DONE.
Her body surged with light as she settled into a different form. She had four legs, powerful and lean, tipped with razor-sharp claws that could sunder meat and bone and steel with equal ease. She rushed through forests, across grasslands, hunting wherever she pleased. The thrill of the hunt rolled over her in a wave of pleasure, the satisfaction of toying with her prey after administering a mortal wound. She felt the moment of terror when her kills saw her flame-wreathed gaze, the moment they knew their death was certain, that the power of when and how it came rested solely in her choosing. She was the greatest of all cats, proud and strong.
It seemed to go on for a long time. But eventually the visions faded.
REMEMBER HIM.
The voice echoed through her head as she felt herself slide back into her body.
She blinked, her senses assaulted by the smell of stale air, damp stone, and raw sewage. Her nostrils curled, and she gagged, a taste on the air as foul as any storm drain beneath the Maw. Narrow slits of light poured through from above, painting lines of color on the dark stone floor.
Bars.
Not a sewer. A prison.
ELSEWHERE
INTERLUDE
VAS’KHAN’URO
Yanarat War Party
Nanerat Territory
The women would not fight.
He knew it even before he made the formal request. They were soft and weak, gifted magic they were too cowardly to wield. All agreed women were fit to raise children and cook meat. Some of his hunters—no, his warriors—preferred a woman’s company when the nights grew long and the cold bit deep. But when the time came to act, to carry the mantle of the spirits against the tribe’s enemies, women were good for little more than wasting time with prattle and deliberation.
When Arak’Uro became Vas’Khan’Uro, the men listened to his call.
He led the men out of the steam tent, cutting short the senseless debate that had droned until the sun disappeared from the sky. Two boys were missing and Ka’Erewun had seen the cause. Victims of the treacherous Nanerat, who would trade with his tribe and call them brothers, then slay their children in the night. Their erstwhile “friends” would learn what it meant to incur the fury of the Yanarat. The women would have him send an emissary to investigate. And so he would. But where the women’s investigation ended with words, his ended with blood.
“Vas’Khan’Uro.”
A solemn voice. Venari’Jatek, who had once been Ilek’Jatek, the apprentice guardian. His apprentice. Silently he closed his eyes and said a prayer to the spirits. Even before Venari’Jatek spoke, he knew.
“Vas’Khan’Uro. Honored warleader. They’ve found the boys.”
He opened his eyes. “Show me.”
They walked over the rocks and late-thawing ice of the northern tundra, the rest of the war party following in their wake. Whispers passed Venari’Jatek’s news from man to man and then they were quiet. Four days’ journey, each of them hoping Ka’Erewun’s vision had been clouded, that the shaman had somehow made a mistake. They were ready to do what must be done for the defense of the tribe, but what man did not hope for peace when there was any chance for it, any chance at all?
The broken bodies dashed at the base of the rocks snuffed those hopes like so much sand on fire.
They were boys. Ice preserved their flesh where the carrion-eaters had not gnawed it away. Smooth skin beneath their cheekbones, mouths agape in surprise. His lip curled up in an involuntary snarl as he regarded the long spears still protruding from their bellies. This was no hunting accident, no misunderstanding. Those were spears of war, and they had been left here to remove all doubt of who placed them.
He fell to his knees and howled.
A chorus joined in behind him. It was right to rage for the dead. Beautiful boys, alight with the potential of youth. Kar’Duvek had been a gifted marksman, able to sight a bull moose at three hundred paces and bring it down with a single shot; he would have been Valak, of a surety. Kar’Urrin had a pretty face and a silver tongue. He might have been a Ka. Both would h
ave been proud men of the Yanarat. Both had named him guardian. He had failed them. How many turns of the moon now had Ka’Erewun given his warnings, the whispers of the spirits’ calls to war? He had failed to listen. He had let these beautiful boys run off, imagining they would be safe in the lands of the Nanerat, the tribe’s allies. How often had he gone on such journeys in his youth, just he and a companion braving the wilds, full of life and possibility? The shaman would have seen it, were any great beasts nearby, and the guardian would have come to protect them from any creature beyond their ability to kill. He would have come, spirits be cursed; he would have saved them, preserved them, and kept them from this fate. But not even the shaman could foresee the treachery of men.
It fell to him now, as Vas’Khan, warleader, to avenge them. In a rage he called on the spirit of the gun’dal, mighty white bear of the North, and snapped both spears in two before the nimbus of the spirit’s blessing faded from around him.
“I swear this now,” he said, voice shaking, a pale mist revealing the heat of his breath. “Before the spirits. Before the tribe. I swear a blood curse on the Nanerat. I will bleed them. I will hunt them. The Yanarat make war, until the last ounce of Nanerat blood is spilled into the rivers and the sea.”
He stood, slowly, looking down over the corpses of these two boys, freezing the image in his mind.
“This I swear, as Vas’Khan.”
A quiet breeze full of winter’s sting whipped around him and the rest of the warriors, the witnesses to his pledge.
The war party departed, according the boys the honor due fallen warriors: Their bodies lay undisturbed. An offering to the wilds, the last evidence of their courage.
The spirits favored them with fresh tracks three days later.
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