by Amy Raby
• • •
In the command tent, Lucien greeted her with open arms, and Flavia spun in a happy circle. “Did I do it right, the iskele?”
“You did it right,” she said, entering the warmth of Lucien’s embrace. “I mean, as far as I know. There aren’t a lot of marriages in the Circle.”
He sat down, pulling her onto his lap, and kissed her. “Please tell me the Circle didn’t bully you into accepting my proposal.”
“I would never have let them.”
“Are you all right with . . . you know, the wedding night?”
A shiver ran through Vitala. “Yes. I mean, I know it’s been a problem. But I’m ready now.”
He angled his head toward the tent flap that led to the bedroom. “Right now?”
She mock slapped him on the arm. “On our wedding night.”
He rolled his eyes. “How very Riorcan of you. We Kjallans don’t wait,” he teased. Then added soberly, “Are you sure?”
Her voice grew soft. “I’m sure. I have to conquer this.”
“We’ll conquer it together. You tell me what you need, and I’ll help you. All right?”
“All right.” Forcing some brightness into her tone, she said, “When’s the wedding?”
“Five days hence. I hope you’re not expecting a big imperial to-do, because under the circumstances—”
“Oh no, I wasn’t expecting anything big,” said Vitala. “I’m still stunned you would take a commoner to wife.”
“I think you know why I chose you,” said Lucien.
“You needed a bodyguard?”
“Pah,” he said, tracing her lips with his finger. “Gods help me, I’m marrying for love. How my father would disapprove! Still, there are political benefits to this match, and if I marry a Riorcan, I have no choice but to marry a commoner.” He squeezed her arm, softening any sting his words might carry.
She nodded, not offended. Riorca had once had a ruling upper class, but the Kjallans had wiped it out. From what she’d heard, this was no great loss, as the old royals had been violent and oppressive. Their extermination would have been a favor to the Riorcan people had the Kjallans not simply inserted themselves in their place. If Riorca won its freedom, it would get a new start. As empress, her voice would help shape the new Riorca as a freer, happier nation—if she could tame the Circle and its dynastic ambitions.
“But I promise you,” Lucien said, “if we win this war, we’ll have another wedding later, a proper one, with a guest list of five thousand people and oceans of flowers and I don’t know what.”
Vitala laughed. “If you say so. It’s not important to me.”
“It’s important to the Kjallan people,” he insisted.
The map on the command table caught her eye. It had new figures all over it and wooden pointers and scribbled notes on paper. “What’s all this? Did the Circle share its intelligence with you?”
He stood, pushing her off his lap. “They did.”
“And now you know where the usurper’s forces are?”
“I do, and they’re on their way. They aren’t unified yet; he’s having to bring in forces from both sides of Kjall.” He grabbed a pointer. “See, he’s got troops here, here, and here. Unfortunately, Riorca is damned near indefensible; there’s no single pass where we can cut him off. I haven’t decided yet whether we should try to keep his army split or allow it to mass up. If I keep it split, that could hamper his communications, but then I have to fight on multiple fronts.” He tugged at his earlobe. “Much to think about. I’ll probably keep it split in the short term.”
“How many battalions is he sending?”
“There are a couple we’re not sure yet are involved, but it looks like fourteen at best; sixteen at worst.”
“Fourteen to sixteen battalions? Against our six? Three gods, Lucien, what are we going to do?”
He stared down at the map. “We’ll have to be very clever, that’s for sure.”
“How can clever win against odds like that?”
“Well,” he muttered, “I said very clever.”
• • •
In the morning, Vitala rode south with Lucien to Jasah Pass, through which the usurper would soon march several battalions. For this scouting mission, they’d left the troops at the encampment and brought only Quincius and a number of junior officers. And Flavia, who loved nothing more than an all-day expedition. From the top of a weedy hill, they surveyed the pass while Flavia bounded through the brush.
“The problem,” said Lucien, “is that there’s no real choke point. If we try to hem him in at the road, there are too many ways he can go around.”
“No way to block the alternate routes either,” said Quincius.
“There’s a saying: ‘One cat at the hole can keep a thousand mice at bay.’ But where can we find such a hole?”
Flavia stopped dead in a patch of thick grass, her ears up and alert. Vitala followed her gaze to the thread of blue snaking its way through the dusty hills. “What about water? Cassian’s men have to drink. Would ambush points along the river be more effective?”
Lucien’s eyebrows went up. “Maybe.” He pointed to a distant hill. “Let’s go over there. We’ll have a better vantage point.”
The river turned out to be rather more promising than the pass itself. Having wound through these lands for countless generations, it had carved its own canyon, and was at the moment running rather low. There were few access points where one could descend to water level. Vitala grabbed hold of Flavia to keep her from heading down into the canyon. Lucien and his officers located several places where bowmen and muskets could set up on the far side of the river so that they had a height advantage, good cover, and an escape route.
“I like this.” Lucien shot Vitala an approving glance. “I like it a lot. We won’t be able to inflict huge losses on them, but if they can’t break up our ambushes, they’ll have to divert to the Aleor River east of here, and that will put them off schedule and frustrate the usurper’s plans. Even if they do break up the ambushes, our harassment will frustrate them, force them to ration water, and cut down on troop morale. And our own men will be at almost no risk at all.”
“Pardon me if this question is impertinent, sire—” began a prefect from Orange Oak.
“Speak freely,” said Lucien.
“Why are we so concerned with troop morale? It seems to me we should focus on inflicting real losses, and, as you say, we won’t be able to do that here.”
“I respect your question, prefect. The reason is that most wars are won or lost based on which side first loses the will to fight. I intend it to be the usurper’s side that gives up first.”
“Yes, sire.” The prefect’s head bobbed.
“We already have an advantage in that this war involves Kjallans fighting Kjallans. The usurper’s battalions won’t like the fact that they’ve been sent to kill their brothers in arms. Our men don’t like it either, but they’re not the aggressors. It makes a difference.”
As the junior officers left to mark ambush points and escape routes, Tribune Quincius whispered conspiratorially to Lucien, just within Vitala’s earshot, “You think you’re going to win this war based on soldier morale?”
Lucien shrugged. “I’ll win it any way I can.”
24
Days later, the combined encampment of six battalions had begun to look like a patchwork blanket. Centuries from each battalion had left to harass and delay the usurper’s approaching troops at Jasah Pass and other locations. Once they returned, Lucien would move the combined army to a more defensible location, but that location was still undecided. Since he was the one being pursued and attacked, he had the advantage of being able to choose where the battle would take place. Unfortunately, every site had drawbacks. Some offered the possibility of being flanked, a grave concern when the usurper’s army so outnumbered his, while others left him vulnerable to attacks by sea or severed supply lines, also serious threats.
While they awaited
the return of the absent troops, they held a wedding.
It was an informal affair, but with six partial battalions of soldiers present, plus one gold-and-white dog, extraordinarily well attended. Had the location been up to Vitala, she would have chosen a high ridge with the Great Northern Sea pounding the cliffs in the background, but to include all the soldiers, they held it in a great open field. Each century was in military dress, with flags and pennants, standing in formation behind its centurion. Together, the centuries formed a circle around Vitala and Lucien and the officiating chaplain.
The ceremony was a blur to Vitala. She remembered placing the garland over Lucien’s neck and receiving her own from his trembling hands. She remembered the needle biting into her upper arm as it administered the marriage tattoo. She remembered drinking wine, in turns, from a shared cup, the one Riorcan tradition they had incorporated into the wedding. The rest was a haze of half-forgotten words, the rolling of her stomach, and the thousands of eyes upon her.
The battalions followed the ceremony with their triple salute: the hurrahs with the foot stomping, the sword clanging, and the musket shooting. Carried out by three times as many men as before, it was thrice as loud and thrice as intimidating.
A feast would have been customary at this time, but given the nearness of war and the paucity of supplies, the supply officers had deemed it infeasible. So instead Vitala headed back to the command tent with her new husband, passing by row after row of cheering, catcalling soldiers, smiling and blushing all the way. When they arrived at the tent, they found a private feast had been left for them.
“Gods, that smells good,” said Lucien as they entered, lifting the lid off the tray. “Are you hungry?” He removed the garland from around his neck and set it on the table.
“No. I wish I was.” She took off her garland too, her fingers shaking with nerves. “I have a gift for you,” she stammered.
Lucien blinked. “You do? I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” said Vitala. “This was something special I had the opportunity to acquire. And I’m not sure you’ll like it, actually.”
“Well.” Lucien chuckled. “You make me so eager.”
She pulled the cloth-wrapped package out from under her bed and set it on Lucien’s lap.
His eyebrows rose at the size and weight of the object, which occupied his whole lap. He began to unwrap it, exposing a length of polished wood. “A weapon?” he asked. Then he pulled it free. “Oh.” It was a wooden leg, quite different in style from the one he wore. Instead of a padded hollow carved into the wood at the top of the leg, there was a stiff leather cuff, large enough for him to fit his entire stump into and adjustable. The leather was bolted to the leg itself, made of a wood not so fine as that of his current leg, but equally smooth and glossy. The leg’s curved contours led to a hinged ankle and a foot that, while not a replica of the human form, provided good traction and distribution of weight. There were no straps at all. For its size, the device was surprisingly lightweight.
Lucien bit his lip. “You know I tried many legs before settling on the one I have.”
“Not one by a Riorcan craftsman,” said Vitala. “Please try this one.”
He sighed. “Don’t be offended if I don’t like it.” He removed his old leg and slid his stump into the leather cuff of the new one. “How did you get it fitted?”
“I got the numbers from your tailor,” said Vitala. “The man who made this leg for you says he’ll adjust it once you’ve tried it on. It will probably need fine-tuning.”
“How odd that there are no straps.” Lucien regarded the device morosely, as if reluctant to stand and disappoint her.
“He said you wouldn’t need them. The cuff will keep the leg on all by itself.” Vitala took him by the arm and lifted him to his feet.
Lucien wobbled for a moment and winced.
“Is it hurting?”
“Yes.” Lucien reached down and adjusted the cuff. “That’s better. It pinched.”
Vitala felt herself deflating. “I’m sorry. It’s no better than the others—”
“Give it a moment.” Clinging to her arm, he took one tottering step forward, then another. He flashed her a grin, and hope surged; her insides melted like candle wax. He reached down and made another adjustment to the cuff, then let go of her arm and walked all the way around the room. “Look! No crutch.”
Vitala stared. Such an ordinary thing, a man walking, but she’d never seen Lucien do it before, not without a crutch.
Lucien took a second turn around the room, faster this time. “How did your craftsman get it so light? Is it hollow inside? Most of them feel like you’re dragging a cannonball around.”
“I believe it is hollow. You can ask him yourself—his name is Braesi.”
“Send him to me, because I want to give him a medal. This is a world of improvement.” He tentatively jogged a couple of steps on the leg, then came back, grinning infectiously. “I wonder if I could— Say, do you know this one?”
There was no music, but he grabbed her by the waist and swept her into the unmistakable rhythm of the “Carousel Waltz.” Giggling, she followed his lead. It was a slow, uncomplicated dance. Even so, he was clumsy and awkward; she’d certainly known better dance partners. But as they wheeled and turned, she felt his confidence growing. His steps grew bolder, his turns sharper. His fingers tapped the rhythm on her hip, and in her head she imagined the keening of the violin and flute. When they came to the part where he was supposed to lift her in the air, he paused, uncertain, and they both laughed. “Perhaps that would be taking things too far,” he said.
“I’m glad it’s working,” Vitala murmured into his chest.
“That Braesi,” said Lucien. “I want to kiss him. No. I want to kiss you.” He lifted her chin and pressed his lips to hers, tasting her, savoring her like wine.
This is it, Vitala thought. But the shiver of fear that ran through her paled next to the wave of heat that pulsed through her body, warming her from the inside out. She loved Lucien. She wanted him. And the time was right.
“You know what?” murmured Lucien into her mouth. “I think we should find out just how much weight this leg can bear.” He swept her legs out from under her, and she laughed madly as she found herself struggling in his arms, swaying a bit as he tried to balance.
“This will end in disaster. I can see it,” she teased as he tottered unsteadily forward.
“Shush,” he said. “I’m a war mage. I see things coming. Like the floor.”
His balance improved as he carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She held out a hand to him. He took it, and she pulled him down atop her. While he went to work on the belts of her syrtos, she reached down to the artificial leg, loosened the cuff, and gently removed it. She rubbed the place where it had been. They were the walking wounded, she and Lucien. His broken place was on the outside, and hers was on the inside. If he could learn to cope with a missing leg, she could learn to cope with her visions.
If such thoughts preoccupied her, they did not preoccupy her partner. He’d succeeded in freeing her breasts and had cupped one in his warm fingers.
“You could be making better use of that hand,” he added.
She looked up at him. “Where do you like to be touched?”
“Anywhere,” he breathed as he kissed her. “Everywhere.”
She reached up to his loosened syrtos and pushed it off his shoulders. He had a beautiful body. Her fingers trembled a little as she reached up to stroke his neck and back. He sighed with pleasure, encouraging her, and she relaxed.
Gods, this is working. I’m not afraid. Even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t entirely true. Beneath the heat of her desire was a cold pit of terror—the young soldier could make his appearance at any time—but she was keeping it at bay. If she could keep it there for the length of this encounter, perhaps all would be well.
“Are you all right?” asked Lucien, his voice honey
soft in the darkness. He kissed his way down her neck, down her breasts, and she knew from experience where he was going. She felt a sharp throb of desire from below, but as much as she wanted what he offered, she wanted even more to get through this before any visions could take over and spoil things.
“Yes,” she said. “But I think we should try . . . you know.” Intercourse. Why couldn’t she say the word?
“You seem tense to me. I’m not sure you’re ready.” Instead of working his way farther downward, he settled in beside her and pulled her into his arms. One of his fingers stroked her breast, sending jolts of fire through her as it passed over her nipple.
“It’s your wedding night.”
“Our wedding night,” he corrected. “I have no doubts I’ll end up satisfied, and there’s no need to rush things. We’ll have a whole lifetime together. If Cassian doesn’t kill us.”
“But you need an heir.”
“Three gods! Not right this moment.”
Vitala pulled him close and kissed him, pressing her eyes shut to stop the sting of tears, overwhelmed with the love she felt for this man. But Lucien didn’t understand. Allowing more time to pass would not make things easier. Indeed, she would likely only become more anxious if she allowed the problem to fester, and, worse, continued to mislead Lucien about its nature. Her visions had not diminished in severity over the years. If they could be overcome at all, she would have to fight her way through them. And she feared that might not be possible.
“Lucien,” she said, “I appreciate your patience more than you can imagine, but I have to conquer this, and it cannot wait any longer.”
“Then tell me how I can help you.”
“Enter me now. Before I think too much about it.”
“If that’s what you want.” He checked her for readiness, and his hand came away slick. With a twist of his body, he was atop her, and he pushed himself inside.
• • •
“Gods.” The young soldier’s eyes fluttered closed as he penetrated her. His dark hair, overlong, fell across his brow. She could feel his energy, his excitement, his masculine strength. His mouth found hers and kissed it eagerly. “Who are you?” he asked. “Tell me your name.”