by Amy Raby
In the central square, Vitala saw evidence of Kjallan presence—two stakes mounted in the ground, quite old, since the corpses they’d once supported were now heaps of bones lying in the dirt. The villagers did not challenge Vitala and Lucien as they rode, but scurried out of their way, sending them nasty looks.
Vitala sympathized. She and Lucien looked Kjallan—indeed, between them they were three-quarters Kjallan—and the horses they rode were a clear sign they didn’t belong here. There were only a few places in Riorca where grain could be grown to support horses, and all of them had been claimed by the Kjallan occupiers. For these Nihenny villagers, who eked out a living cultivating spinefruit in the forest, Kjallans on horseback meant nothing but trouble.
“They hate you as much as they hate me,” whispered Lucien, pulling his horse up alongside hers.
Vitala shrugged. “They don’t know who I am.”
“Has it occurred to you that you make a better Kjallan than you do a Riorcan? These people don’t want you.”
Though his words pained her, she could not deny their truth. She’d found more acceptance among the Kjallans she’d met on the Caturanga circuit than she’d ever experienced among her own people—the Circle excepted, of course. “You couldn’t pay me to be Kjallan.”
“Are we so terrible?”
“Yes. Look what you’ve done to this village. Your tributes are crushing it.”
“Was it better off before we arrived? You don’t know.”
Vitala rolled her eyes. “Of course it was better off when it didn’t have to pay tribute.”
“That’s your assumption,” said Lucien. “But you don’t know, because when this village was taken, you weren’t born. I wasn’t born either. I wasn’t the one who ordered the taking of Riorca. Nor was it my father. It was his father, and it happened before my father was even born.”
She sniffed. “That’s not a lineage I’d be proud of.”
“Are you proud of yours?”
Her cheeks flamed. Furious, she kicked her horse into a trot.
He cantered to catch up with her. “I’m sorry, Vitala. I shouldn’t have said that. The point I was trying to make is I had nothing to do with this. I was born to it, as you were born to be what you are.”
“It isn’t fate, Lucien. You made choices. You held the imperial throne for four years. You could have helped Riorca during that time.”
“No, I couldn’t have.”
She snorted.
“Vitala, you don’t understand the complexity of managing an empire. If I’d begun my reign by freeing Riorca or even lowering the taxes, when I was having trouble just paying the troops their wages, I’d have been out on my ear in less than a month.”
“So you were out on your ear after four years, having accomplished nothing. What good was that?”
“At least I spared your people from what Cassian will do to them, if only for four years.”
“You’re no better than Cassian. What about Stenhus? That village was massacred on your orders.”
“Stenhus rebelled, and I ordered in troops to put down the rebellion. That was my job, Vitala. That’s what emperors do. I could hardly have ignored an uprising.”
“But after your troops put down the rebellion, they massacred half the citizens!”
Lucien looked pained. “I had been emperor less than half a year. I trusted the judgment of the battalion commander, Secundus, and gave him the authority to handle the situation as he saw fit. If you must know, I was furious over the unnecessary brutality, and I later removed Secundus from command. And the reason I went to Tasox personally to handle the bandit situation was because I didn’t want something like that to happen again.”
They’d passed the last set of pit houses of Nihenny and reentered the forest, which the Kjallans had meticulously pruned back from the road. Vitala laid heels to her horse, forcing an end to the conversation. The problem with Lucien was that the more she listened to him, the more he made sense.
14
Lucien clucked encouragement to the sorrel gelding as it picked its way up the rocky mountainside. With so many loose stones on the path, this was the perfect place for the creature to pick one up in its hoof, and the last thing he needed in this remote wilderness was a lame horse. He was also on the lookout for wolfsign. While Riorcans exterminated any wolves that descended into the lowlands, there were still packs in the higher elevations that might see a horse as a tempting meal.
Vitala’s bay was struggling up a steep rise just ahead. Lucien hoped she knew where she was going. This morning, after several days of winding their way through the twisty forest, they’d emerged from the tree cover into this desolate, rocky landscape in the middle of nowhere. Flavia, at least, was taking it in stride. She’d run ahead of the horses, guessing at their path, and was waiting for them to catch up.
Most Kjallans who visited Riorca saw it as wild and primitive, but Lucien knew better. Though it was sparsely populated, with its forests intact, Riorca was as fully cultivated as Kjall. When his people had first conquered it, they’d driven out the Riorcans along the southern border, cleared the forests, and established farms. But what crops they could convince to come out of the ground at all grew to half height, anemic and sickly. His people, starving, had abandoned the settlements in desperation.
Riorcan soil was unsuitable for farming, at least by Kjallan methods. But the Riorcans knew how to coax a yield out of it. Spinefruit grew in the shade of the forest, never in direct sunlight. The plants were fragile and the fruit slow to mature—a tiny green spinefruit took two years to reach its full size and turn yellow, and during its green stage, it was poisonous. Riorcans cultivated spinefruit bushes all throughout the forest, planting and fertilizing and weeding them by hand. The forest looked wild, but it wasn’t. It was an enormous farm. It had taken his people some time to understand that.
Two years of living in Riorca had lessened his contempt for the Riorcans and replaced it with a grudging admiration. They were a tough, rugged people, impossible to fully subjugate. His people had occupied Riorca for generations, and still pockets of rebellion persisted, not to mention the gods-cursed Obsidian Circle. Riorcans were pragmatic and often ruthless. Vitala, despite her Kjallan looks, was a perfect example of her race.
His sorrel, a little more agile than Vitala’s bay, catapulted up the rise, landing him beside Vitala on the rime-encrusted path. “I just love Riorca at this time of year,” he commented. “It’s so wonderfully windy and frigid.”
She eyed him narrowly.
“And then there’s the food. Spinefruit and dried fish. Every single day.”
Her lips puckered just a little. She was amused and trying not to show it. He was getting to her little by little. She was like a spinefruit herself: hard and spiny on the outside; soft on the inside. It was getting past the spines that was the challenge.
His horse halted abruptly, having nearly collided with Vitala’s. She’d stopped to stare at a featureless cliff face. He stared at it too, trying to see what she was seeing. “Are there code words there or something?”
She looked up as if startled. “Yes, for those who know how to read them.” She clucked to her horse and turned left. Flavia, who’d run ahead in the wrong direction, corrected course and scampered past her.
Lucien followed, apprehensive. He was taking a huge risk following Vitala into the hands of the people who hated him most. But if he wanted to retake his throne, he needed the Circle’s resources. And they needed him too. While Vitala seemed to be lying about a few things, he didn’t think she would outright betray him. Not to his death, else why would she have saved him in the first place?
• • •
The enclave had moved since her last visit, but if Vitala had read the signs correctly, this narrow canyon was their current location. She walked her horse straight into it. Lucien hung back a moment, then followed. She couldn’t blame him for hesitating; the canyon was a natural ambush point.
“Wait here,” she said. �
�Give them a moment to recognize us.”
Lucien gazed about him in all directions, silent.
She couldn’t see the lookout, but by now the enclave was surely aware of them. “We should be safe now,” she said, and urged her horse farther into the canyon.
The hoofbeats of Lucien’s horse echoed hollowly behind her.
As they rounded a curve, an opening appeared in the cavern wall, large enough to admit a horse. She entered it, followed by Lucien. Three shadows passed across the mouth of the cave, cutting off their retreat. Obsidian Circle agents—she was among friends.
“Vitala . . .” murmured Lucien.
“It’s all right.” She hopped off her horse. A man and a woman came forward and took the reins of both geldings. “We’re home.”
Lucien climbed carefully from the saddle, lowering his crutch to catch himself.
“He’s with me,” Vitala told the three men, who formed a rough circle around Lucien. “A friend. He’s not armed.”
Another man appeared at the other end of the cavern. “Vitala, is that you?”
“Bayard!” As happy as she was to see a familiar face, a knot formed in her gut. She was not at all certain that her old mentor would approve of the way she’d handled this mission. Still, she had to project confidence. She strode to him boldly and clasped wrists. He looked good. His blond hair was graying a little—fading, almost—but he was lean and well muscled, no doubt still spending much of his time in the training room.
“Congratulations are in order,” said Bayard. “Your mission was a success.”
“Actually,” said Vitala, “about that . . . I have someone to introduce you to.” She glanced at wary-eyed Lucien.
“I always said you were my star,” said Bayard. “I knew you’d be the one to get the job done. It hasn’t started the war we were hoping for, but give it time.”
Vitala said, “I didn’t kill Lucien.”
Bayard’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Our sources say he’s dead. Are you saying it wasn’t you?”
She turned and indicated Lucien. “I mean he isn’t dead. Cassian tried to kill him in a palace coup, and I rescued him. He’s standing right there.”
Bayard turned and stared.
“I have a proposal for you,” said Lucien. “One that could save Riorca.”
Bayard gaped and signaled his men.
“No!” cried Vitala. “He’s on our side! He came willingly!”
The three agents grabbed Lucien and flung him to the ground. Flavia barked furiously.
“Quiet that dog, or I’ll quiet it for you,” said Bayard.
“Flavia!” she called, uncertain the dog would respond, since Lucien was the one who snuck her food from his plate and threw sticks for her to retrieve. But she came immediately, pressing against Vitala’s leg and looking up with a whine.
Bayard smiled grimly.
Vitala grabbed his arm as he stalked toward Lucien. “Listen to me! Lucien is our ally. Cassian’s men tried to kill him. Their plan was to blame the assassination on the Obsidian Circle and punish Riorca by decimating it. All of it, Bayard. The entire country!”
Bayard turned to her. “Where did you hear this?”
“From Lucien,” she said, wincing at how weak that sounded.
“Ah.” Bayard turned away and strode to where Lucien lay pinioned by three guards, his face pressed into the rocky cave floor. “Bind his hands.”
“Are you listening?” Vitala grabbed Bayard’s shoulder and turned him to face her. “We can’t allow any harm to come to Lucien. We need him alive to prove that the Circle is innocent.” She turned to Lucien, whose wrists had been yanked behind his back and were being tied together. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Lucien coughed, expelling a mouthful of dirt.
“Prove it to who?” asked Bayard. “Cassian’s lackeys? You must realize Cassian will oust the existing battalion commanders and replace them with his own men. He may already have done so.”
“There are ways to get the word out,” choked Lucien. “I have an idea—” One of the guards kicked him in the stomach, and his words ended in a gasp.
Anger boiled within Vitala. Her fist curled instinctively as if to produce a Shard. She advanced toward the guard, who, catching the look in her eyes, backed away.
Bayard stepped between them. “Gudrik, do not harm the prisoner again. Vitala, control your temper.”
Vitala stared balefully at Gudrik, then turned to Bayard. “Lucien will be our ally in figuring out how to thwart Cassian. He has the connections, he has the knowledge, and he’s as motivated as we are to see the man removed from power. If we help him take back his throne, he’ll free Riorca.”
Bayard laughed. “Is that what he told you? He’d free Riorca? Vitala, did this man put something in your food?”
Gudrik and the others chuckled.
“It’s the truth,” rasped Lucien.
“Vitala, that was a wild promise of desperation,” said Bayard. “This man is out of power. He knows that Cassian sharpens a stake for him, and he’ll say anything to save himself. What has he ever done for Riorca? Nothing.”
Vitala could hardly contradict him; Bayard had zeroed in on the flaw in her argument. Yes, Lucien had not helped Riorca when he had the opportunity. Yes, his motives were questionable. But her gut told her that the Caturanga board had changed more than Bayard realized, and Lucien was more trustworthy than the Circle gave him credit for. An alliance with Lucien was chancy, but less so than Bayard believed, and the rewards were potentially so great that it was a risk worth taking. “Bayard, what if he’s telling the truth? We can’t squander this opportunity. It could save Riorca. And what’s the alternative? We do nothing, hiding away in our caves while Cassian decimates our people?”
“We don’t do nothing,” said Bayard. “We interrogate this man. If he’s truly the former emperor, he’s the richest source of intelligence we’ve ever had within these walls. Gudrik, clear a room.”
“Yes, Bayard.”
Vitala grabbed Bayard’s arm. “No! There’s nothing to be gained by an interrogation. Make a friend of Lucien, and he’ll tell you everything you need to know. But if you hurt him, you may forever spoil any chance of our forging an alliance with him.”
Bayard removed her hands from his arm and gestured to the remaining guards, who hauled Lucien to his feet. “This alliance you propose has no value to the Circle, but the information this man carries does. Vitala, I have the utmost respect for you as an assassin and field agent. But we’re in enclave headquarters, and I give the orders here.”
• • •
Lucien found himself half dragged, half carried through a hallway of rough, damp stone. He turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Bayard and Vitala behind him. They were arguing furiously, Vitala continuing to plead for his freedom, but it didn’t seem to matter; she had no power here. Gods, why had he trusted her?
The hallway ended in a natural cavern, rather like an air bubble blown into the rock. Indeed, the entire compound seemed to be a natural cave system, unaltered by any stoneworker but simply cleared out, equipped with crude doors, and furnished. Although furnished was an exaggeration in this case; the room contained only a single crude, wooden chair. Streaks of green, gray, and ochre stained the craggy walls.
The guards shoved him into the chair. They bound his arms to the seat back and his right leg to the right chair leg. They stared at his wooden leg for a moment, uncertain what to do with it, and finally just left it free.
“Leave us,” ordered Bayard. There had been only a handful of guards to begin with, but during their walk to the interrogation they’d picked up several more, as well as a few men and women and a teenage girl in Riorcan peasant tunics. They looked like civilians, but they had to be Obsidian Circle agents of some kind. Whoever they were, they left at Bayard’s order, along with all but two of the guards, whom Bayard gestured at to stay. Someone slipped a loop of rope around Flavia’s neck and led her away. Bu
t Vitala folded her arms stubbornly when Bayard told her to go, which was a relief. Her presence, he felt, extended him a sort of protective aura.
Bayard began stripping off his outer tunic.
“Look,” Lucien said quickly. “This isn’t necessary. We may have once been enemies, but we’d be fools to nurse old grudges when we can accomplish more by working together. My interests and the Obsidian Circle’s are aligned—”
“What would you know of the Obsidian Circle’s interests?” Bayard cast an accusatory look at Vitala, who frowned at him, rejecting the insinuation that she’d been airing Obsidian Circle secrets.
“They are common knowledge,” said Lucien. “You seek Riorcan freedom.”
“And you seek to recover the Kjallan throne,” said Bayard. “These goals are not the same.”
“We have a common enemy in the usurper Cassian, who stole my throne and plans to decimate your people. Help me regain my throne, and I will free Riorca.”
Bayard snorted. “Empty promises born of desperation. You don’t know our true interests.”
“Then tell me what you want. I’ll—” Lucien cut off his own words, because his magic told him the blow was coming, even though Bayard was too skilled a combatant to telegraph it physically. He couldn’t dodge the blow entirely, not tied as he was, but he twisted his head, and Bayard’s callused knuckles glanced off his chin instead of breaking his nose.
“Bayard!” cried Vitala. “Stop!”
Lucien’s chin throbbed dully with a pain he knew would worsen later. He worked his jaw, verified it wasn’t broken.
Bayard leaned over him in a classic pose of intimidation, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. Lucien’s flesh prickled at his nearness. “You think this is a negotiation? It’s not. It’s an interrogation. From now on, you will be silent except when you are answering my questions.”
“Bayard, this is—” he began, then stopped as his war magic warned him again. Bayard grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. Lucien twisted frantically, using the full force of his magically enhanced strength to try to free himself, but Bayard, wise to the tactics of war mages, moved with him, using the grip on his hair to track him rather than hold him still. Lucien knew where the blow would come from but could do nothing about it. It smashed into his nose with a sickening crack. His mind reeled, and his vision fuzzed around the edges, darkening almost to blackness. Then there was shouting, and Bayard’s hand was torn painfully from Lucien’s hair. Lucien shook his head, then regretted the motion, as it set everything to throbbing. He tasted blood and opened his eyes—no, they were already open. His vision was returning. He coughed, spat out a mouthful of blood, and tried to make sense of the blur around him.