The crowd broke, and coat, breeches, hose, and shirt were tossed forward from among the onlookers. “It’s justice,” the first man yelled back. “We’ll have them all before we’re through.”
She ignored it, dropping from Jiri’s saddle and tethering Body and Life as she knelt at the naked man’s side. He sucked in a wheezing breath, a sickly gurgle suggesting a pierced lung.
“Don’t speak,” she said. “We need to get you inside.”
Sadrelle brought the man’s coat to drape it over him as she tethered a strand of Body for herself. “Carefully, Aide-Lieutenant, get his feet. We have to move him.”
The man groaned as they hoisted him together, her Body-enhanced muscles enough to keep him steady as she made her way toward the council building. A warm fire and her bindings might be enough, but it would be a near thing.
“You missed quite a show, d’Arrent,” Voren said, leaning forward over his desk. “Councilman d’Agarre was apoplectic. Says the army are ‘a glorified pack of half-trained barbarians,’ I believe his words were.”
“My apologies, sir,” she said, taking a seat across from him in the temporary chambers he’d claimed for himself here at the Council-General.
“How is Vicomte Ouvrille?”
“He died, sir.”
Voren grimaced. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know him, not well at any rate. I’ll see to it his family is notified.”
“Sir, is this what the revolution means, to d’Agarre?” she asked. “To his followers?”
“There is no shortage of hate toward the nobility, d’Arrent.”
“Much of it well deserved, sir, all due respect. But that isn’t what I asked. What are Councilman d’Agarre’s intentions?”
“Peace, Chevalier-General,” Voren said. “Reyne d’Agarre is a young man, and an idealist. But he has no illusions that he can hold power without our backing, and that means he tolerates the nobility, or at least the vestiges of it within the army. And control of this city ultimately falls to us.”
“The men speak of worse than the Vicomte Ouvrille got, sir. Angry mobs calling themselves tribunals, seizing the watch’s guillotines to put on public displays of bloodletting.”
“Well, and what of it, d’Arrent? It’s no order I gave, but still better than the city would have had if Louis-Sallet had gotten his way. There are realities to this sort of business; surely you can understand that.”
A long moment passed.
“Yes, sir,” she said finally.
Voren sat back in his chair. He was right, of course; she never imagined their refusal to obey the Crown-Prince would result in bloodless resistance. But it was one thing to countenance a degree of lawlessness, quite another to make it an end unto itself.
“You did well with the vicomte,” Voren continued. “Good to show the citizens our strength. No need for the city to devolve into chaos.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“D’Agarre unleashed his invective on us for want of just such control,” Voren went on. “He claimed two of his lieutenants were killed here in the city. Assassinated, to hear him tell it. What would you make of that, General?”
“Two men murdered, sir? I’d call it a slow night, since d’Agarre’s people started barricading the streets.”
Voren barked a short laugh. “Truly though. D’Agarre claims they were men of influence within his ranks, men he claims were skilled enough fighters that anything short of a fullbinder shouldn’t have stood against them.”
She snorted.
“Yes, General, I know,” Voren said. “Humor him. What do we know of the fullbinders that have gone missing from our ranks? Are there any among the priests who might have access to Body, Entropy, Death?”
“Few enough,” she said. “And those would have been trained to healing or stewardship, not for combat.”
“Our fullbinders, then.”
“Laurent is the most skilled to have gone missing. Perhaps four or five more. And Louis-Sallet’s flowerguards, if they survived the council. I can get a full report from the Second Corps by tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Do it, if you please, General. But do it for the full army, not only the Second.”
“Sir?”
A spark showed in Voren’s eyes as he rose from behind his desk.
“It’s time, General d’Arrent. My attentions are going to be on securing the governance of the city, and the Gandsmen are coming. Your Need bindings will have to be implemented in more than just the Second Corps.” He opened a drawer, withdrawing a small wooden box and placing it on the desk, pushing it toward her. “It’s time we begin planning our defenses in earnest.”
She kept emotion from showing even as her heart raced.
He opened the wooden box, tilting the lid back and revealing a pair of gold pins. Five stars in a circle. “Congratulations, General. Or shall I say ‘High Commander.’ The armies of New Sarresant are yours, Erris d’Arrent.”
He broke into a wide grin. “Yours if you want them, that is,” he said.
Her head spun. Sixty thousand souls under her command. The fate of the colonies in her hands.
“Sir, I was a brigade commander not six months ago …”
“And the finest mind in the army,” he finished for her. “Take the posting, d’Arrent. Not a soul in the colonies would do it better; we both know it for truth.”
Her jaw worked, and she found herself nodding.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”
He beamed, coming out from behind the desk as she rose, belatedly, to attention.
“We’ll have to get you a new coat tailored for your rank, but for now these will do.” He leaned down and withdrew the gold pins, fixing them into place as she stood before him.
When he was done he stepped back, offering her a salute. She returned it, feeling a rush of pride even as the weight of it settled onto her shoulders.
The remainder of her pleasantries with Voren passed in a blur, her head spinning as she considered the implications for command. No time for training exercises to mold the existing unit commanders toward her preferred way of thinking, but then again a decentralized style might be unnecessary in an army equipped with Need. One vessel for each brigade commander should be sufficient, with two or three assigned to each cavalry unit for redundancy’s sake to ensure the accuracy of her field reports. And the navy. She’d have to speak with High Admiral Tuyard at once for full manpower reports and preliminary planning for the invasion.
Fifty thousand infantry, the lion’s share veterans of the spring and summer campaigns, with eight thousand horse. Two hundred wheeled cannons and their firing teams. Crew enough for perhaps eighty ships, with at least sixteen men-o’-war. More details after she spoke with the admiral, gun counts and the status of each ship’s complement. Three hundred binders with varying degrees of combat-relevant talents and training, and forty-odd fullbinders. All told they would be outnumbered by the Gandsmen four-to-three or perhaps three-to-two, with the enemy’s command structure already leveraging Need to the hilt. But she had the choosing of the ground, and her men would be fighting on their home soil.
Two weeks until the enemy arrived, perhaps more. Her connection with the scout on the far side of the world had revealed only the enemy’s preparations; it could have been days, perhaps a week or more before the last ship was ready to sail. Her men were rested in spite of the chaos in the city. The enemy soldiers would be coming off a hard voyage through winter storms. The first step would be to find them. A patrol sweep, ships spread along the coastline to catch sight of enemy sails on the horizon. Scouts posted along the barrier as well; she wouldn’t be caught by a flanking maneuver again, in case the enemy had levees marching north from their colonies. Then deployment in the field, once she knew where they would invade.
These things and more ran through her head. Ammunition stores. Snowfall. The ground upon which they would fight—always that, above other considerations. If Tuyard could harry the Gandsmen to make landfa
ll in the south, they might prepare an ambush in the narrows where the southern rivers fed into the sea.
“Sir, is everything well with the marquis-general?” Sadrelle asked, falling into step beside her as she made her exit from Voren’s offices into the council halls.
“Sadrelle,” she said, “I’ve been promoted to High Commander of the army. We need to rouse the division commands and begin vetting our supplies and disposition in the—” She cut herself off, turning to look sharply at her aide who had fallen a step behind, wearing a look of surprise. “You support our victory, do you not, Aide-Lieutenant?”
“Sir, I … Congratulations,” Sadrelle stammered, quickening his steps to catch up. “Yes, of course I support our efforts and hope for victory. Why would—?”
His words washed over her as she shifted her vision to the leylines, searching for the threads of gold. In another time she might have worried over the implications of forging Need connections without the informed consent of her vessels; now, with mere weeks to plan a full defense of her homeland, such concerns paled before the immediate needs of the army. She found Need, snapping a connection into place between her and Sadrelle. Her vision shifted into his skin for an instant before she released the binding. Good enough. She could find him again.
Her aide sucked in a breath, his eyes wide with shock as she resumed her brisk pace toward the council stable yard.
“Move, Aide-Lieutenant,” she called over her shoulder. “Gather the division commanders of every corps, tell them to report to high command on the double.”
She took a few more long strides, then stopped. “And have them bring an aide. Someone known to be loyal to our cause.”
Flicking her eyes shut, she made a check of her stores. Need in abundance, springing from her like a fountain of gold.
Voren had spoken truly: It was time, past time, to begin laying the groundwork for victory.
49
ARAK’JUR
Approaching the Ranasi Village
Ranasi Land
Their journey had been swift, on new horses borrowed from Nanerat tribesmen at the base of the snowy pass. Each day began before sunrise, and ended long after the sun had set. Short days in the cold season, made longer by hard travel, with an uncertain end.
The spirits who had spoken to him at Nanek’Hai’Tyat had confirmed his worst fear. War. Whether the Sinari men had taken up weapons and battle names, or merely fallen victim to aggression Ka’Vos had not been able to see, he could not say. The question gnawed at him like a wolf at a haunch of a fallen elk. Would he return home to find his people at arms defending their land, or slain by the hand of an enemy? Every day he drew closer to an answer, and his dread built with every step.
Corenna shared his fears as they traveled, but there was warmth there, too. In the late hours, when they waited for sleep to come, they risked whispers of possible futures, daring to imagine a world where their peoples stood together. Perhaps war was inevitable, but if the blood-oaths had been honored, the pacts sealed between Ka’Vos and Ka’Hinari, they could be returning to find their tribes united in victory over the aggression of their enemies.
As they drew near the northern boundary of Ranasi lands, Corenna’s mood lightened. The flowing waters of the Anakhrai River marked the edge of her home, and together they dared to hope for a reception there, of Ranasi and envoys from the Sinari standing together to welcome their return.
Instead they found the riverbank empty. By itself no great cause for concern; even the best shamans could not foresee every coming and going. They crossed the waters in nervous silence, anticipation building with every step as they tracked their way through forested hills toward the Ranasi village. Whatever their hopes, each of them knew well enough the darker side of what was possible. Until they had confirmation of what had transpired in their absence, hope would flicker like a flame under a rough wind.
Wisps of smoke above the trees in the distance—signs of a greatfire in the Ranasi village—confirmed their arrival, at last.
Unable to hold herself to even the quick pace they had kept for days, Corenna nudged her mount forward through the tree line as he followed behind. Together they emerged into a village frozen in place, the paths deserted, tent flaps hanging loose in the wind. Panic stirred in his belly as they tethered their mounts, and Corenna rushed from tent to tent, seeking signs of life. He left her to it, heading straight for the village meeting ground. A fire burned there, no mistaking the smoke trailing into the sky above it.
Thank the spirits he arrived first. Enough time to turn back, to meet Corenna on the path and stop her before she could reach its source.
“Don’t,” he said, holding her as she struggled against him.
“What is it, Arak’Jur?” Her voice quavered, threatening to break.
“Don’t,” he repeated, keeping himself interposed between her and the pathway to the meeting grounds. “You do not want to see.”
“Let me go.”
“Corenna—”
He meant to reason with her, to spare her the pain. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel the shock of it, concerned only with sheltering her from the horror ahead.
Instead a blast of earth beneath his feet sent him soaring away from her, crashing to the ground beside one of the empty tents in a cascade of dirt and stone. He snapped to his feet, but not before a howl sounded from the grounds ahead. A desperate plea, and then a scream. No, she cried out in denial. Let it be false. Let it be anything other than what it was.
When he emerged behind her, Corenna was on her knees, weeping into the dirt.
He approached with caution, staying silent. Enough to let her feel his presence, to let her know that whatever else had happened here in her village, at this moment she was not alone.
“I left them,” she whispered, curled beside the fire.
He had carried her from the ruins of her village, away from the terrible pyre as she clung to him in tears. Now they camped to the south, at the base of a hill dusted with snowfall, fleeing from the memory of what they had witnessed.
“Corenna, you strove for peace—”
“I left them! My father, the brothers and sisters of my tribe, my people. Our guardian was slain and I left them without a protector. Their blood is on my hands.”
He fell silent. His assurances were hollow. In her place he would blame himself; spirits forbid it came to that when they reached Sinari lands. A possibility they had not yet escaped, and he knew it well. If he could not assuage her pain, he could remind her he felt some measure of the same.
“Ka’Vos honored the blood-oath,” he said quietly. “I saw Sinari men among the dead.”
Her anger cracked, her expression softening once more into tears. “Oh, Arak’Jur, what have we done?”
The fire hissed and popped, casting shadows into the night. Stillness surrounded them, settling over the snow-covered hills of the Ranasi as if the spirits themselves mourned what had befallen their children. Perhaps some few had survived; he didn’t have the stomach to sort through the wreckage of that terrible pyre to make an accounting of the dead. But the truth was clear: The Ranasi tribe was no more. And some among the Sinari had stood with their blood brothers and sisters. What fate might that betoken for his people? The question festered inside him.
But even as he felt it threaten to take hold, he knew despair was not the way. They had chosen the right path, and he could not doubt it now when faced with the price.
He met Corenna’s eyes, and saw strength within her. Quivering for the cold, and for the uncertainty of convictions tested by horror. A fire burned there—dimmed by wind and snow, but no less for it.
“We have done only what was right,” he said. “Against this madness, our people could not stand alone.”
“And what do we do now?” she asked, voice shaken. “We travel to Sinari lands; what then?”
“We make war.”
The answer stoked the fire behind her eyes, but she tempered it with reserve, a steadying breath
that misted into the night air.
“Is it wisdom,” she said slowly, “to trade peace for vengeance?”
He considered her words. Even in the grasp of anguish, she was right to urge caution. Anger boiled beneath his skin. He would have given much to have the ones responsible for the Ranasi village before him now, to cut them down like weeds and break them with the power of his gifts. The spirits would understand and forgive the vulgar use of their blessings; una’re or ipek’a protected their young with savage ferocity. And men were not as simple as the predators of the wild. Even the greatest predators limited their killing to food, territory, or the perception of a threat. Only men could be corrupted by madness.
“There cannot be peace in the face of such evil,” he said. “No tribe can be safe, so long as those who would commit such acts walk upon our lands.”
She nodded, a solemn gesture, full of poise. And then she broke, turning away.
He moved to lie beside her, offering his warmth against the biting winds. No more words passed between them, only quiet tears of pain and grief.
Sleep found them both, and they awoke long past first light.
A haze settled around them as they made preparations for travel; he saw it in the distant look behind Corenna’s eyes. For himself, he felt once more the creeping dread of the unknown, made worse by the atrocity they left behind. He expected no comforts from Corenna, though he offered what little he could as they crossed the land of her people. Corenna kept a hard pace, but said little. He understood.
When they reached the waters of the Nuwehrai, they turned inland in search of narrows where they could fell a tree for a crossing. Too late in the season to make the swim; floes of ice slid along the slow current as a warning, if the snowfall and chill in the air were not caution enough. Little concern for him—the gift of the guardian was strong—but he would not ask it of Corenna, and she did not offer.
Rounding a long bend in the arm of the river, he saw a pair of tall oaks had already been put to the task, bridging the water where the banks drew close. Freshly done, at least since he’d been away. They’d nearly reached them when a man rose from where he sat at the base of the wide trunks, on the Ranasi side of the river.
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