by Amy Raby
Similar preparations were in progress at Ashfeld, the southern pass. The gulch where the battalions were now encamped could be reached only through one of the two passes or by traveling up the Ember River from the ocean. The Mosari fleet guarded the river mouth, and if Lucien’s troops blocked both passes, the usurper would find it difficult to inflict much harm on them.
“Sire,” someone called from below.
Vitala looked down at the messenger standing in the bottom of the gorge.
“What is it?” Lucien called back.
“The boat’s arrived, sire.”
Lucien grimaced. “Obsidian Circle,” he said to Vitala. “You’d better come along.”
• • •
Bayard, accompanied by only Asmund, didn’t even look at Vitala as he entered the command tent, but she pulled him aside for a moment, anyway. “Did you make the inquiries I asked you to make about Flavia?”
“Who?” He blinked in confusion.
“The dog.”
Bayard shook his head. “I’ve more important things to do, Vitala.”
“If you’re meeting with people, anyway, it doesn’t hurt you to ask an extra question. If for no other reason than to honor the memory of our agents who died in Tasox.”
“I’m sorry. It never crossed my mind.” He moved away.
“Gentlemen,” said Lucien, clasping wrists around the table. He took a seat, and the others followed. “What’s the news?
“Our news is over a week old,” said Bayard. “Cassian has retaken enough signal towers to make them unreliable, and travel by barge is slow.”
“Understood,” said Lucien. “Slow intelligence is better than no intelligence.”
“Cassian’s forces have torched the villages of Tanim, Quattan, and Bluas,” said Bayard. “There were no survivors.”
A chill settled in the pit of Vitala’s stomach.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Lucien.
Asmund huffed angrily. “Your troops were supposed to prevent these abuses, yet here they are, holed up in the gulch. Why have you gone to ground like a coward?”
“The usurper has more than twice as many troops as I do. I cannot face him in open battle.”
“What good are your troops if they will not fight?” demanded Asmund.
“They will fight,” said Lucien. “But only in a situation where they can win.”
Bayard spoke up. “How many more Riorcans must die before that happens? We cannot supply you forever.”
“I do not think it will be much longer,” Lucien said. “He will come after me.”
Vitala cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, the emperor is right. I’m as disturbed as anyone about the loss of the villages, but to come out of the gulch and face the usurper in open battle would lead only to a certain loss. Just as in Caturanga, some sacrifices must be made in order to achieve victory.”
“Is that what those villagers are?” said Bayard. “Sacrifices?”
Asmund fumed. “Why is it that whenever sacrifices are called for, it’s always Riorcans who are offered up?”
Vitala folded her arms. “There will be hardships enough to go around when the usurper’s army arrives.”
“This is a difficult loss,” said Lucien in his gentlest tone. “But we have no choice. We must face the usurper where I can neutralize his advantage in numbers. Right now he’s making a tactical error. He hopes to draw me out and is probably trying to locate and cut off my supply lines. But he doesn’t know we’re supplying by river, and his reluctance to attack is working to our benefit. We’ve nearly succeeded in walling off both entrances to Blackscar Gulch.”
“And what if he never comes?” said Asmund. “What if he sweeps across the whole of Riorca, leaving death and ashes behind him?”
“He won’t,” said Lucien, “because dead villagers pay no tribute. Once he realizes I cannot be lured out of the gulch, he will come after me.”
The Riorcans sat for a moment in disgruntled silence.
“Is there anything further?” asked Lucien.
“Yes,” said Asmund. “Cassian is leading the invasion personally.”
Lucien sat up straighter. “He’s in Riorca? Did he bring Celeste?”
Asmund nodded. “Our spy has not actually seen her, but we’re told she’s with him.”
“Can she be rescued and brought here?”
Bayard and Asmund exchanged looks.
“I don’t see how that would be possible,” said Bayard. “We have no ability to rescue people. Instead, I propose that we attempt to assassinate Cassian.”
“Your assassin could also retrieve Celeste.”
Bayard flicked a glance at Vitala and shook his head. “Our assassins are not trained for that. We wanted to ask you, since presumably you understand the mind-set of Kjallan soldiers, would assassinating Cassian end the war?”
“Hard to say,” said Lucien. “There are four legati in his army who might attempt to seize power if Cassian died. Of those, Dignus and Sorio are loyal to Cassian but they despise each other; they won’t join forces. Titillian would support me if he knew I were alive, and Getha is a wild card. None has solid support from the enlisted men or a clear advantage over the others. This is one reason we need to get Celeste out. If Cassian died, there would probably be a string of murders and possibly outright civil war as those four men maneuver to be her next husband. On the other hand, if she were gone, nobody would have a way to legitimize himself as emperor. Have you been circulating those rumors, as I asked?”
“Yes,” said Bayard. “Not only has the rumor that you’re alive and commanding the troops in Riorca taken root, but the usurper is also trying to quell it. Right now any enlisted man who speaks your name gets ten lashes, and, of course, that’s just convincing everyone that the rumor must be true.”
“In that case, if you assassinate Cassian and get Celeste out, I believe the war will end. Titillian should have the most support from the enlisted men.”
Bayard nodded. “We’ll attempt the assassination, but it’s a long shot. We normally prepare for high-profile assassinations years in advance. Did you know Vitala was assigned to you at the age of thirteen? She had a full seven years to learn your habits.”
“I cannot thank you enough for sending her to me,” Lucien said dryly. “What about extracting Celeste?”
Bayard shook his head. “I can’t promise that. The assassination itself will be very difficult, especially since we know so little about Cassian and his weaknesses. In fact, it would be easier . . . Well, we’ll do our best.”
Vitala spoke up. “Bayard, I should be part of the assassination team—”
“It will be easier if what?” interrupted Lucien.
“Nothing,” said Bayard. “If we had more information.”
“It would be easier if your assassin killed Celeste along with Cassian, to prevent her being used once more as a pawn,” said Lucien. “That’s what you were about to say.”
Bayard shook his head. “That’s not what I was about to say.”
Lucien’s voice grew quiet. “If your assassin kills my sister, you can forget the Circle’s sweet deal. I’ll stake the lot of you.”
Bayard glared at him. “And just how successful have you been at quelling the Circle in times past?”
“Maybe I just needed more motivation,” said Lucien.
“Gentlemen,” said Asmund. “Of course our assassin will not harm Celeste.”
“I should be part of the assassination team,” said Vitala.
“And do what?” cried Lucien, looking horrified. “Seduce Cassian?”
Vitala shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be done that way. In fact, it probably won’t be. For an assassin to gain intimate access to a man of that rank takes years, and we don’t have that kind of time. We can infiltrate as camp followers, but emperors don’t sleep with whores. They have other options.”
“If it’s not to be done by seduction, why send a woman at all?” said Lucien. “Send a group of men, like the
ones who took my leg.”
“It must be women,” said Vitala, “because they can infiltrate the camp.”
“Vitala has the right of it,” said Bayard. “But she cannot participate in the operation. She’s no longer an Obsidian Circle assassin.”
“I have the skills,” said Vitala. “No other assassin in the Circle has ever successfully targeted someone so highly placed.”
“You never killed your target,” said Bayard.
“She could have if she’d chosen to,” said Lucien. “But I agree. The empress cannot be risked on such a mission.”
Vitala laid a hand on Lucien’s arm. “Whom do you trust—me or some nameless assassin? I wouldn’t harm Celeste. I’d go out of my way to rescue her. I don’t know any other Obsidian Circle assassin who’s performed a successful rescue mission.”
Lucien looked stricken. “Don’t you understand? I can’t risk you both.”
“She’s not going,” said Bayard.
“I concur,” said Lucien.
Vitala sat back in her chair, fuming, as Lucien and the others discussed the logistics of the proposed assassination. She’d promised Jan-Torres she wouldn’t abandon her position as empress, but this would be no ordinary assassination. This mission could end the war! It wouldn’t be an easy task, to be sure, but was anything worthwhile ever easy?
“What sort of man is Cassian? What are his weaknesses?” asked Bayard.
“He’s ambitious. Combative,” said Lucien. “Not especially loyal. I know little else.”
“What about his sexual proclivities?”
Lucien swallowed, looking suddenly nauseous.
“Must you ask him that?” Vitala snapped. “Cassian forced his thirteen-year-old sister into marriage.”
“I’m sorry if this conversation is disturbing to the emperor, but it’s very important,” said Bayard.
“I don’t know his sexual proclivities, as you put it,” said Lucien. “What have your spies seen, as far as he and Celeste?”
“You mean, is he fucking her?” asked Bayard. “We don’t—”
“You cull!” cried Lucien, rising from his seat, his face hot and flushed. “Is that how you speak about the Imperial Princess?”
“My apologies, Emperor.” Bayard’s half-hidden smile, contrary to his words, made it clear he was delighted to have provoked such a response.
Vitala took Lucien’s hand and stroked it with her thumb until he had calmed enough to sit back down.
“The answer is, we don’t know,” Bayard continued. “We don’t have spies that close. What we’re trying to find out is if he can be tempted into some kind of liaison. Vitala is correct that high-ranking men usually aren’t interested in common whores, but if he has a weakness, some way he can be tempted . . .”
Lucien shook his head. “I don’t know of one.”
“In that case,” said Bayard grimly, “I hope your army is prepared for war.”
30
A horn blast startled Vitala from sleep.
Lucien leapt out of bed and began throwing on his clothes.
Vitala sat up and looked around the dark bedroom. She didn’t feel too groggy; it was probably around dawn. “What’s going on? What does the horn mean?”
“It means our scouts have sighted the enemy,” said Lucien.
Vitala’s stomach fluttered. The weeks of waiting were over. Later that afternoon, as the enemy drew closer, Lucien took Vitala up one of the towers near the southern pass for a look. The entire horizon was orange, as if she viewed a dazzling sunset, but the effect was no trick of the light. It was the uniforms of Cassian’s men. Her throat tightened as she finally grasped the enemy’s numbers. “Are they attacking us only here, not at Stonemaw Pass?” Lucien had stationed half his army here at Ashfeld and half at Stonemaw. The walls and fortifications were complete at both sites.
“He’s split his army. See? Count the battle standards,” said Lucien. “I’m sure the other half is on its way to Stonemaw.”
She stared at him. “That, on the horizon, is only half his army?”
• • •
The fighting began at sunset. A pair of bodyguards escorted Vitala to her tent, while Lucien remained near the front lines to command his troops. Vitala lay awake all night, terrified by each blast of the cannons.
When she stepped outside the tent and stared toward the horizon where the battle was taking place, the distant flashes of muskets and artillery told her nothing at all of how the battle progressed, only that the armies were fully engaged. Twice she heard the thundering of a rockfall released onto the enemy, and many times she thought she heard screams. But who was doing the screaming?
After dawn, the sounds of fighting died down, and Lucien arrived at the tent, exhausted and reeking of gunpowder. “The walls held,” he told her shortly, and collapsed in his bed without undressing.
Later, after they’d both rested, he explained further. The fighting had been bloody on both sides, but the rockfalls claimed many casualties, and the usurper, not expecting fortifications, had not brought enough artillery to break through the walls. “He has withdrawn,” Lucien said, “no doubt to regroup and bring in more cannons. This time of quiet shall not last long.”
He was right. The fighting began anew that evening.
• • •
Your role is not to do, but to inspire.
Vitala wandered among the wounded in the Healers’ tent, wondering how anyone could provide inspiration in a place like this.
The south side of the tent was by far the worst. Here the men whom the Healers hadn’t yet treated lay moaning on makeshift cots, grimy and reeking of blood. Healing magic took time to work, and the battalion’s few Healers were overwhelmed. Aides rushed about, bandaging wounds, trying to keep the men alive long enough to be saved by the Healer. But many of the men on the cots lay all too still. Last night a man burned along his left side had expired before Vitala’s eyes while she held his hand.
She stroked foreheads, wrapped bandages, and sat at bedsides. When she couldn’t bear the stench of death any longer, she moved to the northern side of the tent, which held recuperating patients whom the Healers had already attended. Some soldiers, after treatment by a Healer, could get up and return to the front. Others could not. A Healer’s magic could mend almost anything, but it couldn’t re-create a shattered arm or restore lost blood. Some of these men were merely weak and would recover in time; others were missing a leg, an eye, half a hand. Still, there was no blood here and no wound fever. These men weren’t in pain, but in some cases they had to adjust to a new reality.
She spent half an hour sitting by the bedside and stroking the arm of a man who appeared intact but couldn’t stop weeping. She wasn’t sure why, and he wouldn’t say.
“Empress,” called someone behind her.
She gave the weeping man a final pat and turned. The man addressing her lay in a cot; the bottom half of his left leg had been amputated. Like Lucien, Vitala thought with a wave of pity. She sat down beside him. “How are you feeling?”
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
All at once she recognized him. “Kryspin!” He was the man who’d shown her around the White Eagle encampment. Gods, that seemed so long ago. She stiffened as she remembered how chilly Kryspin’s demeanor had become when he’d learned she was Riorcan.
“Look,” he said, pointing to his leg. “I’m like the emperor now.”
“I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”
Kryspin shook his head. “Don’t remember.”
Vitala nodded. She got that answer a lot.
“But if the emperor can get by . . .” He smiled weakly. “I figure I can too.”
“Of course you can.” She considered taking his hand. Most men seemed to welcome it, but Kryspin . . . well, he’d been pretty obvious in his dislike of Riorcans. There was a longing look in his eye, though, and she could hardly treat him differently than the others. She took his hand, which was clammy. “You’re cold.” She grabbed the blan
ket at the foot of the cot and pulled it over him.
“Thank you, Empress.” He closed his eyes.
Vitala couldn’t help herself. “You don’t mind anymore that I’m Riorcan?”
He cracked an eye half-open. “You’re not Riorcan. You’re White Eagle.”
She smiled and smoothed the hair back from his brow. What was she really—Kjallan, Riorcan, Obsidian Circle, White Eagle? She was all of those and none of them. “I know a fellow who makes wonderful wooden legs. He made the emperor’s. When the war’s over, come and see me, and I’ll have him make one for you.”
“I’d like that,” said Kryspin. “Then I’d be just like the emperor.”
• • •
The war became a siege. While Vitala spent most of her days in the Healer’s tent, Lucien split his time between Ashfeld and Stonemaw passes, riding between them as needed. He was a hands-on commander, always involved in something, whether it was to set up an ambush or rockfall, exploit some weakness in the enemy’s line, or deploy a new tactic. Most evenings he came home to Vitala, but sometimes that was not possible.
“They’ve brought in more artillery, but the walls still hold,” he said on the eleventh day of the assault, yanking off his boot and turning it upside down. A collection of pebbles spilled onto the floor. Blackscar Gulch had once been the center of Riorca’s mining industry. Maws of long-abandoned caves gaped from the cliff walls, and flat shards of rock, the detritus of the old mines, were everywhere. They got into one’s clothes, one’s boots, one’s blankets. “We inflicted heavy losses on them today.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Vitala pushed Lucien into a chair, brushed the dust from his syrtos, and massaged his shoulders.
He turned and gave her a lopsided grin.
Gods, that was all it took now. He smiled, and all her blood flowed south. It was delicious, a promise of pleasure soon to come. After all, why shouldn’t they enjoy each other while they still could? The usurper could break through at any time.