by Amy Raby
The soldiers grinned and remounted their horses.
The trail up the mountainside was steep and narrow. Vitala and Lucien rode in the middle of the procession, their sorrel struggling at a canter under its double load. After several switchbacks, the trail opened onto a series of terraces. The battalion’s encampment appeared to be a permanent one, with crude buildings instead of tents. Dirt ramps connected the terrace, and simple fortifications lined the cliffs. A signal tower rose from the tallest terrace.
The soldiers huddled to confer. “Antius will be in the command center,” said Quincius. “We’ll spread the word among the men first, make sure there’s no confusion that might lead to violence. Eonus, you speak to First Century. Pullo, you take Second Century . . .”
When he finished doling out the assignments, the men galloped off, leaving Quincius alone with Lucien and Vitala.
“Where’s the command center?” asked Vitala.
“The highest terrace,” said Lucien, pointing. “Near the signal tower.”
She kept an eye on it, knowing that if trouble were to arise, it would come from there.
The camp began to stir. Soldiers, most of them on foot, began to converge on their position. Some were uniformed, others seemed to have been off duty, but each of them looked eagerly up at Lucien. Vitala received a few stares as well. At first she felt intimidated, but she soon accepted that the soldiers were no threat as long as she was with Lucien.
“We’d best act now,” said Quincius. “Antius will have noticed the activity.”
Lucien nodded. “Do it.”
Quincius assembled a squadron of twelve officers and dismounted some of the patrolmen to supply them with horses. Then the squadron galloped off toward the tallest plateau. Vitala listened intently for the sounds of violence, but she heard and saw nothing. After what seemed an eternity, but in truth could have been no longer than the time it took to brush and saddle a horse, the squadron returned, escorting a gaudily uniformed prisoner.
Lucien turned to Quincius. “Any casualties, Commander?”
“No, sire. He surrendered to our numbers.”
“Good.” Lucien gestured to Vitala to get off the sorrel. She hopped down and turned to steady him as he dismounted. He took up his crutch and limped to Antius.
Antius’s hands were bound, yet he dropped quickly to one knee. “Sire, I—”
“You will speak only when spoken to,” said Lucien. “You’re Cassian’s man. Are you not?”
“Begging your pardon, sire, I am Kjall’s man. Cassian appointed me to this position after your tragic . . . assassination.” He swallowed uncertainly. “It’s wonderful to see you alive. An honor, sire.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “You knew nothing of Cassian’s plot against me?”
“No, sire.” He shook his head vehemently. “It’s a shock to discover I’ve been lied to.”
“If you are indeed innocent, then I’m sorry for this. But I don’t think you are, and I cannot trust my enemy’s handpicked man.” Lucien grasped the chain that hung around Antius’s neck and yanked it free. The yellow riftstone dangled from it, glittering like a miniature sun. Lucien handed it to a junior officer. “Take this far away from here.”
“Yes, sire.” The officer mounted and rode off.
“Execute him, Quincius,” said Lucien.
“By the stake?”
“No, the sword. Make it honorable.”
A chill crept over Vitala. She had never seen this side of Lucien. It was unsettling, yet it didn’t surprise her. It was consistent with his Caturanga play; he had never hesitated to sacrifice a piece in pursuit of a larger goal. Horrified as she was, she was also pleased with him. Lucien was demonstrating the strength he would need to win a war in which he was the underdog. He was quite right that Antius could not be trusted. He could not afford either to send Antius home to Cassian, bearing news of Lucien’s location, or allow him to stay here. Even imprisoning him would have been risky.
Tribune Antius’s face flushed with anger, but he showed no fear as the soldiers led him away.
“You.” Lucien beckoned to a nearby soldier. “What’s your name?”
The man stepped forward and pressed a thumb to his chest in salute. “Sigilus, sire.”
Lucien handed him the sorrel’s reins. “Sigilus, take this faithful creature to the stables and see that he’s well tended to. Do not ride. Walk him there.”
“Yes, sire.”
Lucien commandeered two fresh horses from the squadron, one for himself and one for Vitala. They mounted and rode on through the camp, past crude barracks buildings and storehouses and up the packed dirt ramp to the tallest plateau. Here the buildings were larger and finer than below.
The signal tower spiraled upward in the center of the plateau, and just beside it squatted a low building with a doorway framed by two White Eagle standards.
“The command center,” Lucien announced as they dismounted from their horses.
He led her inside. The building was windowless and a little dreary, but glows kept it lit and warm. Maps, papers, inkpots, and quills were scattered over a large table in the center of the room. Lucien shuffled through the materials, taking stock. “Are you hungry? Would you like to rest? There are living quarters through that door there. They were Antius’s, but we’re going to take them over.”
Vitala turned to him in surprise. Apparently, he intended for them to remain lovers, and publicly so. “What will the men think of that?”
“I don’t care what they think.”
She was not averse to sharing a bed with him, but how long could she sustain such a relationship, given her problems with the visions? He might tolerate her limitations for the time being, but he would not put up with them forever. In his raw, unembarrassed sexuality, Lucien was normal. And she was not.
His mention of rest had brought a great weariness upon her, an exhaustion that was more emotional than physical. The reality of what she’d done—left the Circle and defected to a Kjallan battalion to consort with the enemy—was overwhelming. “I’d like to rest.”
“Go on, then. I’ll see that you’re not disturbed. I need to read Tribune Antius’s correspondence, especially anything from Cassian.” Lucien began to arrange the papers on the table into piles.
“There’s something you need to know,” said Vitala.
His head popped up. “Yes?”
“White Eagle has been infiltrated by the Obsidian Circle.”
He stood silent, considering. “Do you know who the infiltrators are?”
“No, but we have spies in all the Riorcan-stationed battalions. That means the Circle will soon know where the two of us have fled to.”
“And what will they do about it?”
“Send assassins.”
“For me or for you?”
“For me. Possibly for you as well. It depends on whether or not they like your being a thorn in Cassian’s side.”
A line of worry appeared in the center of his forehead. “All the more reason we should stick close to each other. We have a little time, don’t we? They’ll have to get the information back to headquarters, make a decision.”
“Yes, we have a little time.”
He waved her toward Antius’s living quarters. “Get some rest. Later we’ll discuss this at length. We have an advantage, after all—you know how these assassins operate.”
Vitala smiled humorlessly. “I do.”
• • •
That night, Vitala slept so deeply she could barely claw herself back to consciousness in the morning, while the only indication Lucien had slept was the mussed covers on the bed. When she’d retired, he’d been cramming information like a mage candidate awaiting his soulcasting ceremony, skimming through documents and poring over maps. At suppertime, he’d summoned a group of officers to the command center and questioned them for hours. Now, at breakfast, he was back to the cramming, so absorbed in a sheaf of letters that he seemed barely aware of her presence.
As
if reading her thoughts, he glanced up. “You need to have a look around camp.”
She nodded. “I need to learn how an assassin might gain access.”
He called to the door guard and requested a man named Kryspin, a weathered-looking squad commander with broad shoulders and a patch over his right eye. Lucien ordered him to give Vitala a tour of the camp.
She followed Kryspin out of the command center. Squad commander—that was her father’s rank. Kryspin, like her father, must be common born, with no magic, since only a highborn officer could afford the magical training needed to become a prefect, tribune, or legatus. He would have joined the army as an enlisted man and somehow distinguished himself to earn the promotion. What if he actually was her father? It was possible; he was old enough. Vitala banished the thought. I really don’t want to know.
He led her first to the signal tower next door to the command center. She climbed the spiral stairs to the platform at the top, where two sentries stood watch, one facing north, and the other facing south. Leaning on the railing, she drew in crisp morning air and analyzed the scene, picking out the approach points to the camp. South of her were the Ash Mountains, which she and Lucien had crossed on their way to the enclave. They were not the steep, craggy, snow-covered peaks that rose in parts of eastern Kjall, but low, smooth mountains. Tired mountains, she thought. Easily navigable, they would not present much of a barrier to invading Kjallan troops.
She circled around. To the north, she spotted the characteristic pit houses of a Riorcan village only a short ride away, surrounded by forest. Farther still was the mottled gray expanse of the Great Northern Sea. From here, it looked calm, but that was an effect of the distance. Up close, it would be turbulent and dangerous. “What village is that?” she asked.
“Tinst,” replied Kryspin.
“Is it living or dead?”
“It is a dead village, miss.”
When she finished observing her greater surroundings, she descended the signal tower and Kryspin showed her around the upper terrace, pointing out officer’s quarters, the infirmary, the stable, a dusty training field, and several crude storehouses for weapons and grain. He was polite and businesslike in his conversation, but she caught him staring at her a few times and realized he had to be curious about her, as all the men were. Who was she? What did it mean that Lucien had arrived at the camp with her in tow?
“What do you think of Lucien?” she asked as they descended the packed dirt ramp to one of the lower terraces. “I mean, what do the soldiers think of him?”
“It’s Emperor Lucien, ma’am, and any man here would give his life for him.”
“Why?”
“He’s a brilliant commander, and he cares about his men.”
“I know he’s brilliant, but Lucien wasn’t a popular emperor. After all, he was deposed by his own bodyguards—”
“Now, ma’am, that ain’t fair—” began Kryspin.
“But it’s true. Kjall as a whole is not loyal to Lucien, but you say the men of this battalion are. And clearly that is so, because the officers here instantly accepted Lucien’s command, despite the fact that Cassian—I mean, the usurper”—Lucien had spread the word last night that Cassian should henceforth be called by that name—“will consider that treason. Why does White Eagle trust Lucien when the rest of Kjall does not?”
“Miss,” he sputtered, “those folks in Riat don’t know tomtit about Lucien. They never gave him a chance. Lucien came here when he were just sixteen years old—just a boy, miss!—and we didn’t like the idea of being commanded by a young man barely into his bumfluff, and that were before he lost his leg. But appearances is deceiving. We’ve never seen a commander like him, and we’ll not see one again.”
“How is he different from other commanders?”
“Most commanders just holes up in their quarters and send orders out, but Lucien’s always out with the men, looking at things, figuring things out. He don’t fight directly, of course, but he goes on scouting expeditions to study the terrain so he can put us in the winning position. Back then, he knowed every man in the camp by name. He don’t now, because there’s been some changes, but he’ll know ’em soon. And he keeps them alive.”
“Through superior strategy?”
“That and sticking his neck out for us. You know the rebellion at Echmor?”
“I’ve heard about it.” Echmor was a Riorcan tragedy. Some years ago, at the Circle’s urging, the village of Echmor had rebelled and refused to pay its tribute to Kjall. Two Kjallan battalions had been sent to quell the uprising. The Circle and the villagers thought they had the upper hand, but the Kjallans had won. Now Echmor was a dead village.
“White Eagle was one of the battalions sent. The rebels was entrenched along the foothills of Mount Banough. You know the place?”
She shook her head. “Not well.”
“Orders came in from the legatus that we was to march to a place where the roads meet in the foothills and join forces with Blue Lion battalion, but Lucien, he’d sent scouts and he knowed the Riorcan rebels was dug in all over the high ground and well armed. If he marched us into the valley, we’d be cut to pieces from above. So he signaled back that it were a bad meeting place and we should go in over the far side of Mt. Banough and come in from up top. Then we’d have the high ground, and we could take out the rebels easy.”
Vitala bit her lip. Had the Circle failed at Echmor because of Lucien?
“So,” continued Kryspin, “he made the signal, but the legatus weren’t listening to no kid, even if he was the emperor’s, and he signaled back to stick with the original plan. The legatus weren’t a sapskull, mind, but lots of Kjallan commanders have never fought in the mountains, or if they have, not these mountains. So Lucien broke the chain of command and signaled the tribune in command of Blue Lion, tried to get him to take the route over the pass, but the tribune weren’t going to disobey orders. So Blue Lion battalion went to the spot where the roads met, on the low ground, and Lucien brought White Eagle in over the mountains.” He shook his head. “It weren’t an easy march. Snow and winds to freeze your cods off—pardon my language, miss—but we made it. And when we got there, we picked off the rebels like shooting apples off a fence. Blue Lion got cut up, but they’d have been worse off if we wasn’t winning the battle for them. So, now you see, miss, why there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for Emperor Lucien.”
“Did Lucien get in trouble for disobeying orders?”
“Yes, ma’am, but his father was the emperor, and for that reason he weren’t removed from command, but I heared his father gave him hell for it, calling him a coward, which he weren’t, miss.”
“Of course not. It was just good sense.” Three gods. The rebellion at Echmor might have been successful if not for Lucien. At least this time he was on her side.
Kryspin grinned. “I’m glad you see it that way, miss. I’m glad you understand Emperor Lucien, because lots of folks doesn’t.” He pointed at his head. “He’s just got more up here than they does, that’s all.” He halted before a series of long, low buildings. “These here is the barracks for Fourth Century. Do you know how the battalion is organized, miss?”
“No, sir, not very well.”
“Well, it’s ten centuries, with a prefect in command of each one—there’s the prefect’s residence, right there.” He pointed at a smaller building. “I’m in Fourth Century,” he added, swelling with pride.
“Very good,” she said, and followed him as he headed for another terrace. She pointed to a terrace he appeared to have passed by. It was different from the others, dotted with tents rather than stone buildings. “What’s on that terrace?”
“Oh.” Kryspin’s cheeks colored. “That’s no place for a lady.”
“But what is it? I need to know the whole camp, sir, not just certain parts of it.”
He avoided her eyes. “Well, in them tents is the camp followers, miss.”
“Oh. Thank you. That’s very important, actually.” If the Circl
e sent a female assassin, she would almost certainly infiltrate the battalion as a camp follower. “Can you tell me anything about the women there? Are they Kjallan or Riorcan? Do they stay on their own terrace, or are they allowed into the camp proper?”
“Um.” Kryspin rubbed the back of his neck. “Some is Kjallan, some Riorcan. And they’re supposed to stay in their own terrace, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I’m not the person to talk to about this, ma’am. I don’t know much about them.”
Vitala suspected he knew quite a bit about the camp followers, whether he visited them or not, as did virtually every man in the camp. But she let it go. There would be others who would speak more freely.
Kryspin led her toward the next terrace. “How is it, miss, that you came to be liaison to the Obsidian Circle? ’Cause the Circle, they don’t trust outsiders, especially Kjallans. They kill anyone who stumbles onto one of their enclaves. Lost two good men that way once.”
“Oh, I’m not Kjallan.”
He stared at her. “But—” He gestured vaguely at her, as if trying to indicate her hair without directly pointing at her.
“I know I look Kjallan, but I’m half-and-half. Kjallan father; Riorcan mother. I was raised Riorcan.”
He continued to gape at her for a moment. Then he turned and headed for the next terrace, leaving her to scramble to catch up. “Fifth Century,” he said, his tone terse and businesslike. “Prefect’s residence.”
Vitala sighed as she followed him. Kryspin didn’t know it, but he’d just answered her most urgent unspoken question. Lucien might have accepted her, despite her Riorcan background, but if this man was any example, the soldiers of White Eagle battalion would not.
• • •
The lower terrace stank of refuse and excrement. Until now, Vitala hadn’t truly noticed and appreciated the cleanliness of the rest of the camp. There must be some kind of work schedule such that the soldiers removed and disposed of waste, swept the paths, mended their uniforms, and polished the weaponry. But the rotation didn’t apply here.
Kryspin had oversimplified when he’d implied the camp followers were all whores. In fact, the lower terrace was a fully functioning village, with food vendors, laundresses, liquor sellers, cooks, boot menders, and an herbalist. One section of the terrace was reserved for soldiers’ wives, and from there she heard the squalling of babies. The marketplace was subdued rather than bustling. But there was more variety here than she’d imagined.