by Amy Raby
“I just got back from a mission.” Ista grinned. “Kill count: ten.”
Vitala’s eyebrows rose. She looked at Ista’s fingers and counted only nine contact points. “Congratulations. Who was the target?”
“Governor of the village of Malham. I have to debrief tonight, but . . .” Ista looked at the ground a moment, uncharacteristically shy. “Do you want to meet for breakfast tomorrow? I can tell you about my mission, and you can tell me about yours. I’d like to hear why you rescued Lucien instead of killing him.”
“I’d enjoy that.” Vitala’s throat tightened with emotion. She had long wanted to make peace with Ista, but lacked the courage to extend the first overture.
She ought to have done it herself years ago, because it was too late now. Vitala would be gone from the Circle by morning.
16
Vitala stalked purposefully through the caverns of the enclave. One of her best Caturanga strategies was to make aggressive moves early, before her opponent had a chance to settle in to the game. In this too she had to move quickly, before Bayard realized the danger of keeping Lucien here in the enclave, where she was capable of breaking him out.
She anticipated some trouble, but less so than if the Circle had any real prison cells. The Circle’s policy was simply to execute anyone who wandered too near its enclaves; thus they had no holding facilities and their means of detaining Lucien would be makeshift and crude. He’d probably just be in a room with a couple of guards in front of it.
She rounded the corner, and her heart sank. The guards were Rodmar and Hodd. Not close friends by any means, but she’d sparred with them on a few occasions. She’d been hoping for people she didn’t know.
They straightened at her approach, and Rodmar swallowed nervously.
“Miss Salonius,” said Hodd with a nod of greeting. “With respect, we cannot allow you access to the prisoner. Bayard’s orders.”
“I know. Bayard sent me to find you. He wants to see you in the training room.”
The men exchanged glances.
“I can’t leave my post unless he sends someone to relieve me,” said Hodd.
“I’ll relieve you.”
Hodd stared at her with obvious suspicion, and Vitala felt a pang of sympathy for him. While the Obsidian Circle had no official system of ranks, an informal hierarchy had nonetheless formed, and assassins were near the top of it. To challenge her was akin to disobeying an order from a superior officer.
“You’d better go,” she added, allowing a little menace to creep into her voice. “Bayard doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’d hate to see anything happen.” She curled and uncurled her fist in a gesture reminiscent of Shard summoning.
The guards’ eyes followed the movements of her fist.
“Maybe we should both go,” said Rodmar.
Coward, Vitala thought.
Hodd shook his head. “No, stay at your post.” He gave Rodmar a look, which Vitala interpreted as You keep an eye on her and I’ll fetch help.
Vitala exchanged places with Hodd and he walked off, his back very stiff, as if he half expected a knife in it. He turned the corner. Vitala waited until she judged him out of earshot, then launched herself at Rodmar.
His arms went up to block her—he’d anticipated the attack—but his reaction was poorly planned. He reached for his flintlock, but halfheartedly, as if in his mind he’d already judged her the victor. She had her Shard in his arm almost immediately. “Do not move,” she whispered. “Do not make a sound. Or I release the death spell.”
“Get off him!” Hodd commanded.
She looked up. A pistol was trained on her from the far end of the corridor, held in Hodd’s trembling hands.
“Get off him,” he repeated, “or I’ll shoot.”
“If you pull that trigger, he dies,” said Vitala. “I’ve got a Shard in him.”
“You’ll die too.”
Vitala snorted. “From a pistol at that range?”
Hodd shuffled forward.
“Stay where you are! One more step, and I activate the death spell!” cried Vitala.
He stopped, emotions warring on his face. Then he lowered his pistol, turned, and ran. Going for help, no doubt. She hoped he ran straight for the training room, because Bayard wasn’t there.
“I’m sorry for this,” Vitala said to Rodmar. “I’m sure the Healer will be here for you soon.” Rodmar shut his eyes tight. Vitala pulled the pistol from his belt and shot him in the foot.
As he lay howling on the ground, she burst through the cell door, which like all Obsidian Circle doors had no lock, and glanced about, taking stock. Lucien was the room’s only occupant. He lay with his back against the wall, his wrists and ankles bound with rope. She knelt at his side and sliced through his bonds with a knife.
“Crutch and leg,” said Lucien, pointing.
She fetched them from where they lay against the wall.
He strapped on the leg and stood, wincing, though the injuries Bayard had inflicted were gone. Probably he was just stiff from being tied. “Weapon?” he asked.
She loved that about Lucien, that he accepted new situations instantly and did not ask idiot questions like What’s going on? or What are you doing here? She handed him her pistol. “Use it if you have to, but try not to kill anyone.”
He took the weapon and looked it over.
She reached into her pocket, took out his riftstone, and shoved it in his hand.
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Thank you. But aren’t you coming with me?”
“Yes,” she said, moving for the door. “But if we’re separated, get yourself clear and don’t worry about me. Move fast.”
He limped quickly after her. The corridor was empty except for the still-wailing Rodmar, but that wouldn’t last. At the end of the corridor, she turned right, taking the back route. She’d mapped out her escape route in advance, even walked it a few times. But the enclave was small, and its caverns crossed and recrossed one another like a latticework. They would not get through it without being seen.
“Vitala!” cried a voice she dreaded.
She risked a glance behind her. Bayard was there with Ista and several guards. Pox. Vitala could outrun them, but Lucien couldn’t.
“Faster!” she hissed, but he was already moving rapidly, running almost normally and no doubt calling upon his war magic to enable him to do so. She positioned herself behind him, acting as a human shield. Bayard and the others would shoot at Lucien, but they might hesitate to fire on her.
“Vitala, stop this!” cried Bayard. “Don’t be foolish.”
“Turn left,” she whispered to Lucien.
He swung neatly into the passageway, and she followed, still shielding him. Just ahead were the stables. If they could get to their horses, they had a chance. On the back of a horse, Lucien would have no speed handicap.
Bayard and the others pelted toward them, their footfalls growing louder as they closed the distance. Then, to Vitala’s astonishment, Lucien reached back, grabbed her by the syrtos, and yanked her to the floor. Almost simultaneously, she heard the crack of the pistol behind her and the whine of a bullet overhead. Lucien fired his pistol back at them, and there was screaming and a cacophony of gunfire. Lucien contorted his body, almost impossibly it seemed, avoiding bullets. The air was full of smoke.
Then he was back up, limping swiftly down the corridor. The pistols were empty.
Vitala feared to look back, but forced herself to do it even as she scrambled to her feet. As the smoke began to clear, she saw a downed man on the floor. Bayard. Ista was at his side, tending to him. The guards were still in pursuit, but they were hanging back, perhaps not too eager to engage her up close. Good. If they were afraid of her, so much the better.
She hurried after Lucien into the stables. The horses were tacked and ready to go, just as she’d left them. She hauled them out of their stalls by the reins, shoved Lucien onto his sorrel, and climbed onto her bay. The guards had not followed her into the stable,
which made her suspicious. Perhaps they were setting up an ambush.
Vitala set heels to the bay and galloped toward the cavern exit in a mad scramble of hooves. Lucien’s horse catapulted after her. The sunlit chasm loomed ahead. As she emerged from the cavern into daylight, she spotted the guards—and the muzzles of their pistols, aimed in her direction. She leaned low over her horse’s neck, uttering a quick prayer to the Soldier, and heard the sharp report of the pistols. Lucien yanked his horse to the left, then back to the right. Vitala didn’t feel any bullets connect. But then everything went wrong.
Her horse staggered, tripped heavily, and staggered again with a terrible groan. The ground lurched toward her, then retreated. She flung her feet out of the stirrup and jumped clear of her horse, twisting her ankle as she landed. Her vision filled with the contorted faces of the guards, fearful but determined, as they rushed her. She took a few limping steps. Then Lucien’s chestnut gelding swept in front of her. His arm was outstretched. She grabbed it, and he swung the horse around, using its momentum to help toss her onto the back of the saddle. Then they were off at a gallop.
Bouncing awkwardly on the saddle’s cantle, she looked back. The guards were jogging after them, but in a desultory way; they could not outrun a horse. Her poor bay was still staggering about.
She wrapped her arms tightly around Lucien, not wanting to think about the image that kept pushing its way into her head: Bayard lying flat out on the ground while Ista tended him. She closed her eyes. Some decisions could never be unmade, some actions never undone.
• • •
When they’d ridden long enough that it was clear there would be no pursuit, Lucien pulled up. “We need to rest the horse.”
Vitala slid down. Stiff muscles and a bruised bottom from where she’d been banging against the saddle protested as she landed. She embraced the pain, welcoming its distraction.
Lucien hopped down beside her.
“Gods,” she moaned. “Why’d you have to shoot? I told you not to kill anyone!”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Lucien. “I shot him in the leg.”
“Are you sure? He was on the ground.”
“Of course he was on the ground. Nobody takes a bullet in the leg and keeps running.”
If Lucien was correct about where the bullet had struck, Bayard had a good chance of surviving. But it depended on the exact location of the wound and how quickly a Healer reached him. She’d chosen to shoot the guard outside Lucien’s cell in the foot because while it was a disabling and painful wound, it would not kill him. But a man could bleed out from a leg wound.
“I had to shoot him,” said Lucien. “He fired at you.”
“He was firing at you.”
“Wrong. Why do you think I yanked you to the ground?” He pulled the reins off the sorrel’s neck and started walking, leading the sweat-soaked animal.
Vitala stepped forward and took the sorrel’s reins, figuring it would be easier for her to manage the horse, since she didn’t have to also manage a crutch. “But your war magic works only for you. If a bullet were aimed at me, you wouldn’t know where it was coming from the way you would if it were aimed at you. Right?”
“No, I can extend it to people close to me. Animals too. Those last shots were aimed at the horses—did you see me steer my horse out of the bullet’s path?”
“The Circle has war mages, and they can’t do that.”
“War mages vary in how effectively we can use our magic.”
Vitala nodded distractedly. She couldn’t stop thinking about Bayard.
“The woman stopped to take care of him,” Lucien added softly.
“Lucky for us,” said Vitala. “She was the most dangerous one among them.”
“Really? Why? Is she a mage?”
“She’s what I am. An assassin.” Except Vitala wasn’t that anymore. After what she’d done, the Circle would never take her back.
Lucien tugged at his earlobe, his eyes bright with curiosity. He wanted to ask her more, that much was obvious, but he seemed to decide against it. Instead, he said, “You did the right thing.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Really, you did.”
“And where do we go from here? The Circle was all I had.” Her voice shook. Any moment now, she might burst into tears.
“I know a place we can go. Why don’t you let me guide us for a while?”
She laughed, though her throat was so tight, it almost made her choke. “Do you even know where we are?”
“No. But if you can get me to the village of Vorst, I can take things from there.”
She shrugged helplessly. “And where are we going from Vorst?”
“The White Eagle encampment.”
Vitala shuddered. The home of a Riorcan-stationed Kjallan battalion—not a place she was enthusiastic to visit.
“It’ll be all right,” said Lucien. “You’ll see.”
Vitala said nothing. It was of little importance where she went. She was an assassin who’d gone rogue. The Circle would send people to kill her.
“What do you suppose will happen to Flavia?” asked Lucien.
“I couldn’t get her out!” cried Vitala. “It was hard enough just freeing you. If I’d tried to rescue both of you at the same time—”
“You misunderstand me,” said Lucien. “I don’t blame you at all. You made the right tactical decision, and if I’d been in your position, I’d have done the same. But you know your people better than I do. Will they harm her?”
“They won’t. She’ll be fine with the Circle.” Especially after what she’d told Bayard about Flavia having belonged to Hanna and Glenys, a pair of Obsidian Circle spies who’d died for the cause. “I daresay she’s safer right now than we are.”
“Hey.” Lucien held out his hand, showing her his riftstone. “Thanks for this.”
17
It was late afternoon and the sky was overcast when Lucien pulled up the sorrel in the rocky foothills and pointed to a plateau ahead. “There. Do you see him?”
“See who?” She squinted.
“Up on the cliff, at the far end.”
At first she saw nothing, but then movement caught her eye. There was a man there, a sentry, shifting from one foot to another. She couldn’t make out any details, but from his outline he looked Kjallan.
“That’s one of mine. Let’s move out where he can see us.” Lucien kneed the sorrel forward, out of the tree cover and into the open.
“One of yours?”
The distant sentry stilled as he sighted them. Then a ball of blue magelight sputtered into existence over his head and rose upward.
“One of White Eagle’s. And he’s signaling. Perfect.”
A tiny storm of magelight followed as the signal made its way across the encampment, relayed from one person to another.
Lucien’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Won’t be long now.”
In the distance, she heard hoofbeats. Sorting them out, she counted half a dozen or more separate animals. Bushes rustling along the edge of the plateau betrayed the riders’ presence as they descended from the high ground. “You’re sure this is safe?”
“Fairly sure,” said Lucien. “If not, you can handle them. Can’t you?”
She snorted. Six at once?
Lucien grinned. “I’m teasing.”
The riders, who’d temporarily vanished onto a switchback, suddenly appeared on the low ground, galloping toward them. Uniformed soldiers, eight of them. She clenched her fist, wishing for the security of a Shard between her fingertips, but held back from summoning one. Her six remaining Shards were all she would ever have now, and she would have to save them for true emergencies. Without the Circle, she had no way of replenishing her supply.
The riders surrounded them, leveling muskets at their chests. The leader spoke. “Who are you, and—” His eyes widened. “Three gods!” He stared at Lucien for several long seconds. “Your Imperial Majesty—is it really you?”<
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“It’s me, Quincius,” said Lucien.
Quincius’s face lit up like that of a child whose first puppy had been placed in his arms. He dropped his musket into the saddle holster, leapt off his horse, and dropped to one knee. The other soldiers scrambled to do the same. From their faces, it was evident that most of them recognized Lucien and were equally stunned and happy to see him. “Sire, we were told you’d been murdered by the Obsidian Circle.”
“Obviously, I wasn’t. Cassian betrayed me so he could force Celeste into marriage and seize the throne; he laid the blame on the Circle. The Circle is not responsible at all; in fact, they helped me escape. I would be dead now if not for their assistance.” Lucien gestured at the soldiers to stand.
Quincius rose, looking puzzled. “But the Circle—”
“They’re on our side now. I’ll explain later.”
Vitala raised an eyebrow at Lucien, but he ignored it.
“My companion here is our liaison from the Obsidian Circle,” Lucien added.
The soldiers looked at Vitala with new interest and more than a little suspicion.
Lucien’s tone turned teasing. “Quincius, what are you doing leading a patrol? Haven’t you learned how to delegate?”
The soldiers exchanged glances, and their bodies tensed.
“Ah,” said Quincius. “I’m afraid I’ve been demoted. Emperor Cassian—I mean, the usurper—sent a new tribune to take command of White Eagle.”
Lucien’s eyes hardened. “Who?”
“Antius.”
“Did Cassian send anyone with him?”
“No. It’s just Antius, sire.”
“You have new orders, Quincius. Remove Tribune Antius from command and bring him before me. Can this be done without bloodshed? Will the men obey you in preference to Antius?”
The soldiers nodded vehemently.
“I want it done immediately, before he can react to my presence,” said Lucien. “Go.”