Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series

by Amy Raby

  She knew the real reason the streets were empty. It was because the villagers spent the daylight hours at work in the forest where they cultivated spinefruit, collected mushrooms, and harvested lumber. They would surely be less than eager to return home with the battalion present, but they had no choice. Like all residents of dead villages, they were enslaved by death spells that had to be put into remission every evening by a Kjallan Healer. Without the attention of the Healer, they would die a slow, painful death.

  At the center of the village, Vitala and the others came upon six large houses built in the Kjallan style, aboveground with central courtyards. They were quite unsuitable for the climate. Central courtyards were supposed to be for growing a garden, but no Kjallan plants could be grown here. Old habits died hard, she supposed. Smoke curled from the chimneys, and the homes were decorated, manicured, and in perfect repair. Surely these were the homes of the Kjallan overseers. Her guess was confirmed when one of the doors opened and a Kjallan man stepped out, shivering in his syrtos, to salute the passing battalion. Soon others joined him.

  “Grab them,” ordered Lucien.

  A squad of men ran at each house. Some seized the unresisting Kjallans standing on the doorsteps, while others barged indoors to look for more.

  Within minutes, the soldiers had the Kjallan overseers and their families assembled on the road before the battalion.

  “Prefect Quincius!” one of the overseers cried. “Have we done something wrong?”

  “My rank is now tribune,” Quincius corrected mildly from where he rode on Lucien’s left side. With a flick of his chin, he indicated Lucien. “Kneel before your emperor, Mercurius.”

  The Kjallans turned to Lucien. Their eyes went wide as they took in his wooden leg, and they dropped to their knees. Mercurius’s jaw moved, as if he itched to say something, but he held his tongue.

  “Speak,” said Lucien.

  “Your Imperial Majesty, we thought you were dead.”

  “I’m not dead, only betrayed by the usurper Cassian.” He raised his voice so that the entire battalion, now forming in columns behind him, could hear. “By my order, the village of Tinst is no longer under your leadership. This evening, when the villagers have returned from their duties, I shall address them. As for you . . .” He looked down at the prisoners. “You have committed no crimes, so you may either stay in our custody temporarily, until it’s safe for us to allow you to return to Kjall, or to stay and take up new roles with White Eagle. Mercurius, you are a Healer, are you not?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “We would value your services in White Eagle. But if you choose to return to Kjall, you will do it without your riftstone. I cannot have you providing succor to the soldiers of my enemy. All of you will make your decisions by morning.” His eyes flicked to Quincius. “Tribune, the battalion is yours.”

  Quincius swung his horse around and gave orders to his prefects and squad commanders. The battalion erupted into activity, setting up camp in the village streets and establishing one of the Kjallan houses as a holding area for the overseers.

  The encampment formed rapidly. Once it was established, the afternoon passed slowly for Vitala, while the soldiers of the battalion played dice games and gnawed on strips of dried spinefruit. She was impressed at how orderly the camp was; each century seemed to know where to position itself relative to the others, and the end result was a tight grid with Lucien’s command tent in the center. The camp followers had set up their tents a slight distance from the battalion. Vitala had discussed with Lucien not allowing them to come at all, to eliminate the possibility of infiltration, but after some argument they’d agreed it wasn’t feasible. The men would balk at being denied such comforts, and morale was important. Besides, with no source of income, the women might starve.

  As the afternoon wore into evening, the Tinst villagers began to filter in from the woods. No doubt many of them had hesitated on the edge of the forest upon seeing the battalion encamped in their village. The battalion offered the possibility of decimation—surely rumors of that prospect had reached them by now—but hiding away and succumbing to the death spell was no palatable alternative, so they turned up in groups of two and three.

  The soldiers directed each frightened-looking group into an open space in the center of the village the soldiers had cleared for the purpose. Engineers had pulled apart an abandoned house and used the lumber to construct a podium, from which Lucien would address the village. The Riorcans huddled together, darting occasional glances at the encamped battalion and at the podium, speaking to one another in low whispers.

  When the sun set, the villagers were still arriving, and the soldiers lit a pair of bonfires on either side of the podium large enough to shed some light, but not so big that their roar would drown out Lucien’s words. Then Lucien mounted the podium, and silence fell.

  “Riorcans,” he began.

  He had a good voice for oratory, Vitala discovered: not deep, but clear and powerful.

  “I am your emperor, Lucien Florian Nigellus.” He paused for reaction, but there was none, except for the crackling and spitting of the fires. He held up a letter. “In my hand, I hold the latest orders for White Eagle battalion. These orders were not issued by me, but by the traitor who now commands the Kjallan military, the usurper Cassian.”

  Hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on the letter in his hand. Vitala was as surprised as anyone; she had not known orders had arrived for White Eagle.

  “These orders call for the decimation of the village of Tinst. We are to select one of every ten men, women, and children by lot to be executed by the stake.”

  In the near silence that followed, Vitala heard someone quietly sobbing.

  Lucien looked over the crowd, pausing to make eye contact with individual villagers. “These orders will not be carried out.” His words were punctuated by an explosion of sparks from the bonfire. “This is what I think of these orders.” He stepped off the podium, walked to the rightmost bonfire, and fed the paper to the flames. Then he mounted the podium again. “People of Riorca, long have you suffered, first under my great-grandfather’s rule, then my grandfather’s, and finally my father’s.” He leaned forward over the podium, and the Riorcans in the audience mirrored the gesture, leaning toward him. “Countrymen, these orders are vile. They are inhumane. And do you know why the usurper issued them? To punish Riorca for murdering me. When here I stand before you, alive and well!” He gave a bitter laugh. “The usurper attempted to kill me, and he blames my supposed death on Riorca. But this is no surprise to you. As Riorcans, you are accustomed to being blamed for things you did not do, punished for crimes you did not commit, and forced to labor while others lay idle and enjoy the fruits of that labor. Is this not true?”

  Vitala watched the crowd as Lucien continued to speak. They were a worn, demoralized people who had barely reacted to his opening words. But as he went on, chronicling and excoriating the Kjallan abuses of the past, she began to see signs of life—a pair of bright eyes, an encouraging murmur. They were skeptical, but they warmed to him, blinking awake from long, unwanted dreams. Lucien engaged them well; his voice had an intensity that compelled attention, and he actively sought eye contact with his audience.

  “No more!” cried Lucien, pounding the podium as his oration neared its conclusion. “Today, my Riorcan brothers and sisters, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes of the past. Riorca shall suffer these injustices no longer. As proof of my good intentions, I offer you a gift. Though, in truth, it is something that belongs to you by right, something taken from you by force that shall now be returned to you. I speak of your freedom.” Several villagers gasped, and Lucien paused to let the words sink in. “Standing on either side of this podium are the Healers of White Eagle battalion. In a moment, I’m going to ask you to form lines before each of them, so that they can remove your death spells. Your former overseers are in custody and will be returned to Kjall. Ladies and gentlemen, Tinst is now a free village.”

&n
bsp; The Riorcans greeted these words with a ragged cheer.

  “Now, I must warn you,” said Lucien, “there will be some hard times ahead.”

  Every eye rose to meet his. They knew there had to be a catch, and here it was.

  “In freeing Riorca—and Tinst is but the first of many villages White Eagle is about to liberate—I have all but declared war on the usurper Cassian. He will send troops to oppose me. Though you are a free people of whom I make no demands, I cannot win this war without your support and cooperation.”

  Heads nodded hesitantly throughout the crowd.

  “I do not ask you to fight for me—that is the battalion’s job—but the usurper will move quickly to cut off our supply lines. Without supplies, my troops will starve, and the usurper will reclaim and re-enslave this village. Yet Riorca, when not saddled with crushing tributes, is a rich land, fully capable of supporting its population and supplying my troops as they fight this war on its behalf. Villagers of Tinst, can I count on your support?”

  “Yes!” many cried.

  “Stand up and get in line to have your death spells removed,” said Lucien. “And then we shall celebrate. My men have brought food, and we have musicians. Are there any Riorcan musicians in the crowd?”

  A few heads nodded.

  “After your spells are removed, fetch your instruments and join the others. But first, hear White Eagle’s salute to the liberated village of Tinst. White Eagle!” He turned and gestured to Quincius.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then the ground shook beneath Vitala’s feet as a thousand Kjallan boots, all around her, hit the earth at the same time. “HURRAH!” came the soldier’s cry, so loud and so primal, emerging out of the darkness, that Vitala’s hair stood on end. There was a ringing clash as their swords struck one another in unison. “HURRAH!” Finally came the ear-shattering blast of muskets firing, and the accompanying flashes of orange. “HURRAH!”

  Vitala’s flesh felt electrified. The soldier’s salute wasn’t merely a gesture honoring Tinst; it was a demonstration of power—power that was now acting for Riorca instead of against it. To witness it was exhilarating. Having never admired him more, she felt a fierce desire to run to Lucien and embrace him, but she refrained. He’d stepped down from the podium and was surrounded by his officers and by Riorcans who wanted to look on him, touch him, as if he were a god come down from the sky.

  She brushed tears of joy from her eyes. She’d dreamed of this moment, offered herself up as a sacrifice in order to help to bring it about, but never expected to see it with her own eyes. Their work wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot; they still had the usurper to deal with. But even if they lost the war against Cassian, at least the Riorcans would die free.

  The musicians struck up a tune, and Riorcan couples headed into the open area to dance. Vitala looked about for a partner. Lucien was busy, and anyhow he was not able to dance. She spotted a Riorcan fellow eyeing her; he seemed too shy to approach her. She took him by the hand, gave him an encouraging nod, and let him whirl her into the crowd.

  • • •

  She danced for over an hour, turning often to glance at Lucien. Always he was surrounded by admirers, Kjallans and Riorcans, with whom he clasped wrists and conversed, seldom smiling but nonetheless making himself approachable. She had a feeling he wouldn’t have danced even if he’d had two good legs; to dance with commoners would have diminished him in their eyes. Happily, there was no such restriction on her.

  The celebration was still in full swing when Lucien excused himself and headed for the command tent in the company of his officers. Vitala excused herself as well, bidding farewell to the young, pock-faced Kjallan soldier she’d been dancing with, and hurried after him.

  Lucien’s party separated, with the officers going to their own tents and Lucien to the command tent he shared with Vitala. The guards admitted her as she followed him, and she found Lucien in the bedchamber, stripping off the outer layers of his military uniform.

  His eyes met hers. “I think that went rather well.”

  Vitala reeled as if drunk. “You’re a gifted orator.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Thank you. It’s good to have that acknowledged.”

  The formality of his speech stung. He was still imposing distance between them. Too bad—she’d never been more attracted to him than she was right now. “Surely you’ve heard it said many times.”

  He sat on the edge of his cot and began working loose the intricate knots of his sword belt. “Not as many as you might think. And when subordinates praise me, I assume they’re just trying to curry favor.”

  “But when you’re emperor, everyone’s a subordinate.”

  Lucien smiled. “Now you see the problem. But you’re an exception. You’re not a subordinate. You’re— Well, I don’t know what you are.”

  Vitala smiled. That makes two of us. “Did you really tear up the orders from Cassian?”

  Lucien chuckled. “No, I wrote those up myself. We haven’t received orders from Cassian yet, and, besides, they’ll arrive by signal, not by letter.”

  She stiffened. “You lied about the orders?”

  “We know they’re on the way.”

  She allowed that was probably true, and she didn’t mind a little stagecraft for the crowd. But if he’d so casually lied about the orders, was the rest of the speech also peppered with lies? His words had so affected her. She hadn’t considered that they might be just an act, another bit of strategy well executed. “Did you mean what you said in that speech, Lucien?”

  “Of course I meant it.”

  “Including the part about asking forgiveness for the crimes of the past, about there being no more injustices under your watch?”

  Lucien tugged off his boots. “Some of the sentiments were overblown, but the gist is true.”

  If she’d been drunk before, she was rapidly sobering up. “The sentiments were overblown?”

  He shrugged. “A little.”

  Vitala fumed. “Is this all pragmatics for you, then? I don’t believe you care a whit about Riorca and how it’s suffered over the years. I believe you’re just flattering and seducing the locals so they’ll provide your army with food and supplies.”

  He stared at her in bewilderment. “I didn’t flatter them—I set them free. Are we in this war to win or not?”

  “Yes, we’re in it to win!” She shook her head. “It’s just . . . your words were so moving. I couldn’t help thinking you actually meant them. I wanted you to mean them.”

  “Vitala, old wounds can’t be healed in a day. I’m helping your country. Don’t ask me to love it.”

  “It would be nice if you stopped hating it.”

  “Vitala, look at this.” He jabbed a thumb at his maimed leg. “You expect me to love the people who did this to me? And you! They turned you into an assassin who seduces men and kills them. It’s disgusting. It’s horrifying! What amazes me is that you don’t hate them!”

  “They didn’t force me to be what I am.”

  “Did you ask for the job?”

  Vitala burst into tears. “Riorca is what your people made it. Do you think the Circle would even exist if Kjall hadn’t enslaved my country?”

  He gave a sigh of exasperation. “So it’s Kjall’s fault.”

  “Yes, it is! If you hate me, if you hate what I am, blame yourself for it. Blame Kjall. We Riorcans only did what we had to do.”

  He was silent, and for a while all she could hear were the sounds of her own choked weeping. Finally, she climbed into her cot, pulled the covers over herself—no way was she going to undress in front of him—and reached up to deactivate the light-glow, which plunged them into darkness.

  “I don’t hate you,” said Lucien softly.

  “Never mind,” said Vitala. “It’s not important.” But it was.

  His footsteps padded across the room toward her, and he knelt by her cot. She felt his warm breath on her face. “Can I make a deal with you?”

  She screwed her eyes
shut. Her sobs had ceased, leaving her in the desolate, empty state that followed. “What deal?”

  “I don’t have to love your country, and you don’t have to love mine.”

  “Fine. I accept.”

  A warm hand touched her cheek, and she instinctively turned toward it, opening her eyes again, though she could see nothing in the darkness.

  Then she felt the prickle of his heat, the promise of his lips as they hovered a breath above hers. “I don’t love your country,” he said. “But I love you.”

  She hesitated. Then, in response, she kissed him.

  He rose from the floor to deepen the kiss, climbing on the bed and then on top of her, framing her face with his hands and stroking her neck. “I enjoyed watching you dance this evening,” he said. “I was glad you took part—otherwise all the women would have been Riorcan, and there weren’t near enough to go around.”

  “I’m Riorcan too.”

  “They didn’t know.” He paused. “I was jealous of all your partners.”

  “You needn’t be. I wished every one of them was you.”

  He smiled and reached under the covers, where his hand encountered her syrtos. “Did you really get under these covers fully dressed?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “Let’s fix that,” he said, tugging at her belt, “and then I’ll show you how much I love you.”

  20

  As Vitala and Lucien rode at the head of the battalion, now on its way to the village of Echmor, a messenger galloped up to the troop column. Vitala watched as Lucien unfolded the message, studied it with unblinking eyes, then grimaced and folded it up again.

  “What does it say?” she asked.

  “Two things. First, it’s the orders we expected from Cassian. We’re to decimate the villages of Tinst, Echmor, and Rynas.”

  “I thought you said those orders would arrive by signal.” She poked him in the arm, teasing.