“Not afraid,” the farmer said stubbornly. “But I don’t see no need to go stirring up a hornets’ nest neither. Let them lie, I say. We’ve enemies enough here.”
The wrong ones, Bitharn thought, but she stayed quiet. She sipped her ale and listened while the others talked.
Most of the talk centered around the upcoming competitions: who was likely to win, lose, break an arm or lose a tooth. One of the Brotherhood mercenaries had entered the melee, she gathered, and any man who met and bested him in the fray was welcome to ride with them back to Craghail, where he might find a berth with their company. The Brotherhood was looking for new blood, having filled its coffers and thinned its ranks after two seasons’ fighting the ironlords among the war-wracked ruins of Thelyand.
There was a local boy favored to win the stone toss, as he had the past three years. Vosric the Northborn, they called him, though he had been birthed in Thistlestone and lived in the castle’s shadow all his life. He had the blood of the White Seas through his father—the boy was a bastard born the summer after another Swordsday long ago—and it showed in his height, his white-blond hair, and strength that made the town blacksmith look like a stripling boy. He’d do well as an armsman, all agreed, though he’d never shown any interest in the arts of war. The Brotherhood mercenaries looked disappointed to hear that; White Seas men made prized warriors, and even a half blood had promise.
The last bit of gossip concerned an Oakharne knight who had come across the border with his retinue to pay his respects at Thistlestone. Sir Galefrid was the eldest son of the lord of Bulls’ March, evidently, and was said to be eager to establish a peace. The locals gathered around the bar scoffed at this notion, and scoffed harder still when one boy suggested timorously that perhaps Sir Galefrid intended to pay reparations for what the Slaver Knight had done.
“He’ll not pay,” the first farmer said. “They’ll never pay. Not like they deserve.”
Bitharn listened to his grumblings with half an ear. A hooded figure at the periphery of the crowd had drawn her attention. A woman, she guessed; the figure wore a muffling cloak, too heavy for the weather, but its loose folds failed to hide a certain litheness of body, or the hip-swaying grace of her walk. The hooded woman had been sitting alone at first, but when the conversation around the bar shifted to Sir Galefrid’s visit, she’d drained her wine and sidled forward, lingering at the crowd’s edge.
Eventually the talk turned to the archery competition. Bitharn listened just long enough to learn that the previously favored contender had recently lost a hand for poaching Lord Isarach’s black-antlered stags, and that a mercenary calling himself Anslak Bluefire claimed to have magic arrows that would deliver him victory. The discussion swiftly devolved into an argument over whether Bluefire’s magic arrows were real, and whether it would be a fair match if they were, so Bitharn finished her ale and stepped back from the bar.
All things were possible in the world, if the Bright Lady willed, so magic arrows might exist somewhere … but she had never seen any, and no one would waste such treasures on a minor Swordsday contest. This Bluefire was a fool or a fraud, and nothing to worry her either way.
As she slipped through the commons back to the stairs, Bitharn heard soft footfalls behind her and glanced back. The hooded woman was following her. She hesitated, touching the hilt of her belt knife, then chided herself for a fool and kept walking. There was no reason for anyone here to wish her harm. Most likely the woman was going to her own room. At worst, she might have seen through Bitharn’s disguise and hoped to reach Kelland through her. Whatever she wanted, it was unlikely to put anyone in danger.
But she kept her hand on the knife hilt, and nearly drew it when the hooded woman approached in the shadowed hall upstairs.
“I would speak to you,” she said. “In private.” Her voice was soft, little more than a whisper, and carried the melodic accent of Ardasi nobility. It was faint, as if she’d had decades to adapt her speech to the northern courts, but there was no mistaking it.
Bitharn nodded, cautious but curious, and unlocked her door.
Once inside, the other woman lowered her cowl. She was an older woman, petite and quick-moving as a bird, with the honey-colored complexion common to the southern Empire. Strands of silver shimmered in her soft black curls, and fine lines netted the corners of her dark eyes, but age had refined her beauty rather than diminishing it.
She was dressed in simple linen and wore not a single jewel, but she needed no ornaments to tell who she was. There was only one Ardasi noblewoman in Thistlestone: Lady Isavela Inguilar, Lord Eduin’s wife.
“My lady.” Bitharn curtsied. How may I serve? she almost asked, but caught the words on the tip of her tongue. She might not want—or be able—to serve at all. She certainly could not promise that Kelland would, and the lady’s request would doubtless be of the Blessed, not his companion. Skilled as she was, Bitharn did not flatter herself that Lady Isavela had come to talk to an archer. “To what do I owe this honor?” she asked instead.
“Do you hope for peace?” Lady Isavela said bluntly, holding her gaze.
Bitharn blinked. She looked away, uneasy despite herself. “Of course.”
The lady nodded. “So do we. It is a hope that we have nurtured longer than you have been alive, child. You heard the men talking about Vosric downstairs?”
Child? Bitharn bit her tongue and nodded.
“His mother was Oakharne. She fled her family when she learned she was pregnant; they had never been kind, and she feared their wrath if she bore a bastard under their roof. She was so afraid that she crossed the river and came here. I took her in as a washerwoman and told the town that she was part of my retinue. It explained her accent, her unfamiliarity with local custom. If anyone suspected the lie, they did not challenge it.
“In time Vosric was born, and when he was old enough, his mother gave him the truth. Because of it, he shunned the sword and refused to join my lord’s army. He could have been a great warrior; you saw how quickly the Brotherhood of the Rose realized that. In another life he might have worn the thistle-wreath and slaughtered his cousins, or signed with one of the mercenary Companies and ravaged our lands. Instead he turned toward peace. He has a way with animals; he will make a fine huntsman or stablemaster someday.
“We have a thousand stories like that. Little seeds that my husband and I planted over the years, hoping that in our lifetimes we might see an end to this pointless enmity. I would never have agreed to live here, would never have married him, if Eduin hadn’t convinced me it was possible.” Lady Isavela smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to be so long-winded. The reason I tell you this is because a storm is coming that threatens to tear away all our little seeds. If we do not avert it, everything we’ve spent our lives building will be lost. People’s lives will be destroyed. Not just the ones who die fighting, but lives like Vosric’s. The ones who could have been—who want to be—something else.”
“What do you want from me?” Bitharn asked.
“You’re close to the Burnt Knight. Tell him … ask him to visit us tonight. Please. I know the Bright Lady’s faith takes no sides in the disputes between Langmyr and Oakharn, but what we would ask is nothing like that. All we want is your help avoiding war.”
“How?”
Lady Isavela shook her head, lifting the hood over her face as she backed to the door. “There is no short answer to that question. Come to us this evening, and I will explain.”
The door closed. After a while Bitharn stirred from her thoughts and glanced out the tiny, bubbled-glass window. The day had moved on without her; it was nearly time for the match. She collected her bow from the room’s corner and made her way down to the field.
Most of the competitors were already there. They traded jests and insults while spectators gathered around the bundles of hay that set out the limits of the field. A vendor in a robin-red cloak strolled around the crowd, hawking roast chickens on a long steel spit. His young son trotted after him, carr
ying a cloth-covered bread basket. For an extra penny, the chickens came on a thick slice of bread; otherwise the vendor simply dropped his birds into his buyers’ hands. Bitharn’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since her last bowl of porridge after dawn prayers. Too late: she could hardly get her fingers covered in chicken grease now.
Hay-stuffed dummies stood at the far end of the field. Each was painted with a series of concentric circles to measure the archers’ scores. The largest ring was the width of a whitemelon, the smallest the size of a plum. In Ang’arta, it was said, they used live captives for targets, and aimed for the groin before the heart. From what she’d heard of the ironlords, that might even be true.
Most of the competitors used the maple and elm flatbows common to this part of the Sunfallen Kingdoms. The three archers she’d seen at the inn had heavy yew longbows; their weapons looked strong enough to send an arrow through Mirhaine plate, and probably had pulls to match. Bitharn’s bow was yew as well, but far lighter; she hadn’t the strength to manage a shoulder-breaker like those. Speed and accuracy would have to serve instead.
The mercenary who called himself Anslak Bluefire was the last to take the field. He strode out in a cloak of fluttering blue patches cut to resemble dancing flames. Silver coins glinted in the center of each flame. His bow and arrows were dyed to match, and when he drew an arrow to take his first shot, Bitharn saw that the head was grooved and filled with gray-blue powder.
She hid a smile, readying her own shot.
“Nock and loose!” the herald cried, and Bitharn let her arrow fly. A gasp came from the crowd as the rush of air ignited the smokepowder hidden in Anslak’s arrow, turning his shot into a bright blue comet that trailed sparks halfway across the field. The man’s accuracy matched his showmanship; his arrow thudded squarely into the black, still smoking. Bitharn sank hers into the center of her own target, while the other competitors struck yellow or grazed red.
Three times the herald cried, and three times Bitharn hit the black. Anslak matched her shot for shot, loosing arrows that flew in arcs of green and gold and teal-blue fire, thrumming into the center every time. One by one the other competitors dropped out, until only Bitharn and the blue-cloaked mercenary were left on the field.
Two boys ran out and grabbed the targets, moving them still farther back. The last round counted speed as much as precision. It required three shots, not one, and taking too long to aim counted the same as missing altogether.
There was no wind. That helped. Bitharn drew a long breath, tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears, and let her focus narrow to her bow, the row of arrows plunged into the earth by her feet, and the black ring on the distant target. Nothing else existed: not the roar of the crowd, not Anslak Bluefire with his absurd cloak and theatrics, not the westering sun that threw sideways shadows across the field and played tricks on her eyes.
The boys cleared the field.
“Nock and loose!”
Even before the last word ended, all three of her arrows were in flight … and so, too, were Bluefire’s, weaving across one another in a hissing braid of fire. Her arrows landed in a tight, precise cluster. So did his.
The boys ran down the field. One wrapped his hand around Bitharn’s clustered arrows; the other did the same for Anslak’s. The boys conferred, changed places, conferred again. Then one of them pulled Bitharn’s arrows from the target and held them aloft in a steel-tipped bouquet, signifying that she had won.
A roar came from the crowd. Anslak sketched a performer’s bow, sweeping his cloak out in a glittering wave as he conceded defeat, and strode over to clasp Bitharn’s hand.
Up close he was older than she’d thought; he could have been her father. The corners of his mouth were creased by the tracks of countless smiles, and his gray-blue eyes shone with mirth, making him handsome despite a crooked nose. “Congratulations,” he told her, clasping her hand and forearm in an old-fashioned soldier’s greeting.
“You would have won if you’d used plain arrows,” Bitharn said.
She’d only noticed it on the longer arcs, but his fiery arrows wavered as they flew. Bitharn couldn’t tell whether it was due to a change in the bodkins’ weight as the smokepowder burned away, or was caused by the streaming sparks somehow interfering with the arrows’ flight, but it was clear that something about the smokepowder arrows hampered their accuracy. If not for that, Anslak might well have bested her.
“No.” The mercenary grinned. His teeth were good and very white. “I would have lost anyway. But I don’t regret it. The commonfolk like a show, and I can’t be too sorry about defeat at the hands of the Burnt Knight’s companion. It was a worthy match, my lady.” He bowed again and walked away, leaving her momentarily flustered. Was everyone going to see through her disguise today?
“Tharn of Cailan!” the herald shouted, announcing her false name as the victor.
That was her signal. Bitharn turned to the crowd, lifted her cap, and shook her hair free of its braid. At the same time she wiped the smudges from her cheeks, showing herself to be the girl she was. “Bitharn of Cailan, good sir!” she called back. “Late of the Dome of the Sun!”
Another roar came from the crowd, this time followed by a sea of whispers as people asked their neighbors what had happened and those more knowledgeable explained who she was. As the recognition spread, a final wave of applause went through the commons. Bitharn held her hands out to her sides and bowed.
Kelland was walking toward her when she straightened. She hadn’t seen him in the crowd; he must have arrived as the match ended. The dying sun struck fire from his gilded mail and made his snowy tabard glow, but his smile outshone it all.
Her heart beat faster at the sight of him. It always did. Bitharn busied herself pulling up her unused arrows and knocking the dirt from their heads. She stole glances at him with every step. By the time he reached her, the last arrow was long in her quiver.
“Congratulations,” Kelland said, clasping her shoulders.
Heat rose in her cheeks at his touch. It only lasted a moment before he let go, but that was long enough to set her skin burning. Bitharn ducked her head to hide it, wondering if he could hear her heart thundering through her leather jerkin. “Did you bet on me?” she asked, when she thought her voice could be trusted.
“I did.” He held out a handful of silver solis to show her.
Bitharn whistled. She’d seen the odds. They’d been generous, but not that generous. He must have bet half his money. “I thought that was a sin.”
“You told me it wouldn’t be a gamble. If there was no gamble, there was no sin.”
“I was wrong about that,” she admitted. “The fellow in the blue cloak nearly outshot me.” She glanced over her shoulder, but Anslak was already gone.
“Then I shall make penance in my prayers,” Kelland said gravely, though his dark eyes twinkled. “Come. It’s nearly sunset.”
She walked with him to the clearing’s end. Downfield, town boys carried away the hay-stuffed dummies and searched for stray arrows. The crowd gradually dispersed, recounting the day’s entertainment and looking forward to the morrow’s.
Together, Bitharn and Kelland prayed on the trampled grass. Most Celestians prayed in silence, their knees bent and their hands clasped. Parishioners might chant responses to a solaros’ liturgy, or sing with the choir in chapel, but when they prayed alone in the sunlight, they simply knelt without words.
For the Knights of the Sun it was different. Dawn, highsun, and dusk prayers each had their own ancient, ritualized sequences of movements and poses designed to strengthen the body while centering the soul. All were performed with solemn grace, almost as dances meant to honor the goddess. The Illuminers had similar rites, but theirs were not as demanding as the Sun Knights’. The Bright Lady’s warriors had to be strong, physically as well as spiritually, and their prayers were designed to make them so.
Bitharn was not a Knight of the Sun, but she had learned their practices whi
le living at the Dome, and she was always glad to pray with Kelland. The stances and precise, demanding transitions required all her concentration, freeing her thoughts from the day’s worries. Afterward she always felt at peace, serene in her goddess and herself.
She bent double, brushed her fingertips along the grass, and straightened at the waist, bringing her hands up in a wide arc and over her head. Slowly she let them sink to her chest, folding them over her heart for a moment of meditative prayer. Beside her Kelland mirrored the movements with the same practiced fluidity. They stood there for a while, neither willing to break the calm, until finally Bitharn made herself speak.
“The Lady of Thistlestone requested a private audience,” she said. “Tonight.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. Only that she needed our help to avert war.”
He considered it. “It cannot hurt to listen. Let us see what Lady Inguilar might say.”
The castle guards must have been expecting them, for they found Thistlestone’s postern gate open. A serving girl in a green wool dress waited between the two guards at the door. As Kelland and Bitharn drew near, she greeted them with a curtsy.
“You honor this house with your presence,” the girl said. “Please, follow me.”
She led them up a spiral of cramped and winding stairs, down a narrow hallway, and through a scarred oak door thicker than the length of Bitharn’s hand. Broad iron nails glinted where past attackers had battered at the door with swords and axes, beating through the wooden facade only to dull their weapons on the crisscrossed studs underneath. It did not seem any had broken through.
There was nothing threatening about their guide, yet Bitharn was acutely conscious of the murder holes that pocked the walls, the irregular stumble steps on the stairs, and the sharp teeth of the recessed iron gates that hung overhead, waiting to come crashing down at every bend. Thistlestone was a squat, ugly, practical fortification, built so that every foot of its halls would have to be wrested from its defenders.
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