by Cait Spivey
“I will go. No breastplate. We should be able to fit me for everything else.”
With a sigh, Josen nodded, and the armory servants brought forth the remaining pieces they’d gathered. Pauldrons, vambraces, tassets, all were tried and discarded, along with many more pieces she didn’t know the names of, until she was satisfactorily fitted with armor of middling quality.
“It’s a shame we buried Alcander’s armor,” Josen muttered.
Guerline said nothing. They had held the funeral procession for him with his stuffed suit of armor as a stand-in for his body, and it was entombed with generations of royal corpses below the palace. She had no wish to ever see it again, nor anything of Alcander’s. She certainly would not wear the armor of a man who hurt her into battle.
“Guerline-basi?”
Her heart leapt into her throat and she turned around. Desmond stood in the armory door. He smiled at her, even as his brow pinched in sorrow. Her guilt over sending him away welled up again, and forced her to give him a sad smile in return. She looked back at Josen and asked him to remove her armor and pack it up for the march.
So little time, she thought. They would leave at first light. The mustering fields were a day’s ride north with a mix of walking and cantering, and even leaving at dawn, the infantry would not completely arrive until well into the night. Her stomach twisted hungrily, reminding her that she needed to eat and sleep. Well, eat, at least. No sleep would come to her this night, she knew that without a doubt, even as exhausted as she was. Her nightmare the night before had sapped the sleep she’d gotten of any of its restorative powers, and the day that followed had been the longest of her life. Still, sleep would elude her because of all the questions spinning in her mind. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to try—she was torn between wanting to talk more with Ianthe, and being afraid of her.
“Desmond,” she said, turning to him finally after her gorget was removed.
“Your Majesty,” he replied. “I see you mean to ride out with us.”
“I do. I don’t know how much use I’ll be, but if I’m sending my guards into a deathtrap, it’s only fair that I go with them,” she said.
She had intended it to sound brave and a little facetious, but Desmond hardly even cracked a smile. He folded his arms over his chest and said, “Would you like to spar? It’s been awhile since we did any forms.”
“I would like that,” she said, smiling. Sparring would be just the thing to distract her through the long night ahead. She started to lift the shirt of chainmail off, but Desmond stopped her.
“I’d leave that on. Get used to moving with it,” he said.
She nodded. Together, they turned and left the armory, went down the hall and into the gymnasium. She waited in the center of the sparring floor while Desmond retrieved two practice swords and handed her one. He swung his in a circle, rotating his wrist, and for a moment she thought he was going to rush her—then he came to her side and stood parallel to her.
“You remember the marks?” he asked. He demonstrated, stepping and swinging at the imaginary head, arms, legs, and chest of an opponent. Guerline followed him, multiple times, ignoring the ache that crept surprisingly quickly into her arm. How pathetic that she couldn’t hold a wooden practice sword aloft for more than ten minutes! What was she thinking, to ride into battle?
“It’s good of you to go,” Desmond said suddenly. She blinked at him, shocked that he seemed to have read her mind, and then his lazy smile found its way to his mouth. “Your frustration’s all over your face, Lina,” he continued.
“It’s foolish to be frustrated,” she replied. “I know I’m no warrior.”
“But you are empress, and it will give confidence to the soldiers that you’re with them. That’s what matters,” he said.
She lifted her sword and frowned at it. “And who will give confidence to me?”
“I will. I won’t leave your side; I’ll—if you let me, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
She heard the tenderness in his voice, and could not take her eyes off her sword. Why was Desmond so protective of her? They were friends, sure, but he had many all over the empire. As special as his friendship was to her, she knew he had no reason to feel the same about hers. What had she ever done to inspire such loyalty in him, or in Theodor, or even in Eva? She closed her eyes to stave off the tears that threatened. There was a reason she had so few friends; there was little in her worth loving.
“Lina?”
“I’m all right,” she said.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She laughed, mirthlessly. “Why? What’s the purpose? We should all just be silent until this is over. We’ll ride against the mountain, and we’ll all die, and perhaps Arido will be . . .”
Safe. What did safe even mean? Safe from Ianthe and her rising corpses? Safe from the mad shapeshifters who cared nothing for human lives? She tried to be afraid of Ianthe, but when she summoned up that chill, it was Lisyne’s face that snarled and snapped at her. For weeks, Guerline had fantasized about running away, and Ianthe had told her to do exactly that. You owe nothing to Arido anymore. She could see truth in that and felt cold in her chest at the thought. Just as clear was the sense that Ianthe meant to do harm to the empire and the people; she would have revenge for her long imprisonment. Guerline understood that desire but felt sick knowing that Ianthe’s revenge would be taken on humans who were millennia removed from the wrong that had been done her. Where was the retribution in that? She couldn’t let Ianthe do that, as much as she might wish that the creature could go free.
“Lina, please. Is something troubling you?” Desmond asked. “You can tell me anything. Or perhaps we should go to Lisyne—”
“No,” Guerline said. She stepped into a fighting stance again. “I’m all right. Let us spar.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia burst through the doors of Sitosen Castle, blue sail fluttering behind her. The witches in the great hall leapt up from their desks and ran toward her, clamoring to hear where she’d been and what she’d learned, whether her sisters were joining with her, and what their next step was. She tapped the shoulders of a few and whispered to them, ordering them to go through the rest of the castle and bring the entire clan to the hall for her announcements. They pushed their way through the crowd and dispersed into the different wings of their home. Olivia strode right up to her massive mahogany desk, raised up on a platform above the other desks lining the room. She sat down in her huge wingback chair and looked down at the witches gathered before her.
“Make room,” she said. “Your sisters are coming, for you all must be present to hear what I have to say.”
The witches pressed together and waited. Shortly more witches began to appear, all of them cramming into the center of the room and whispering amongst themselves. Olivia watched them patiently. Some looked fearful, others almost excited. Many simply waited silently, staring at Olivia, breath bated. There was an atmosphere of apprehension. They all knew that whatever was happening was once in a lifetime, even for those with such long lifetimes.
Finally, the hall was full. Several minutes went by where no more witches appeared. Satisfied that everyone had come, Olivia stood. The room instantly went quiet, and all eyes looked to her.
“My sisters of Sitosen, the time has come for us to go to war,” she said.
Not a sound came from the gathered witches. Olivia could understand their confusion. Her clan was the clan of learning and knowledge, and while they of course were well-read in military history, strategy, weaponry, and the like, it was more theoretical than practical knowledge. That was not their function; it was Adenen clan’s. Olivia stayed silent and watched the faces of her witches grow pale with the realization that whatever it was that needed fighting was too much for the Adenen witches alone. It didn’t take long for them all to understand just how serious their situation was.
“We go to war against a thing of evil from legends that we have never even heard before,” Olivia
continued. “So arm yourselves, my sisters, with steel, with iron, with all your knowledge, and be brave.”
She looked sadly over these witches that were hers to command, witches who had studied martial arts without ever thinking that they would one day use them, witches who were collectors rather than implementers of knowledge. She ached, seeing the resolute looks on their faces; they would fight, though they understood that many would die and that, though it was absolutely necessary, triumph was by no means certain. My brave, brave witches. Let no one ever question the convictions of Sitosen clan.
“The teachers will stay here at Sitosen castle with the students,” Olivia said. “Every other able-bodied witch must go to the armory and prepare. Tesla, Carulina!”
The two witches made their way to the front. They bowed their heads, kissed their closed fists and raised them to Olivia.
“You will oversee the arming, and you will be my generals,” Olivia said.
Tesla and Carulina nodded grimly. Then they turned, faced Sitosen clan, and began to direct them. Sitosen had enough weapons and armor for every witch in the castle. They were meticulously maintained, though they had not been used since the Thiymen Rebellion over nine hundred years earlier.
Olivia watched them leave, then ascended the stairs to her chambers. She went through her study into a very small room which she had not entered for almost a year. She raised her arms slowly; as she did, light came up in the dark room to reveal two sets of armor, two shields, two swords, and a bow and arrow. Her armor was a pale sky blue inlaid with silver, simple and sleek. There were wings on her shoulders and on either side of her helm, which featured a full cage mask over her nose, mouth, and chin.
The other set of armor was Desmond’s, designed just like Olivia’s except for a darker shade of blue. Her heart skipped a beat when she looked at it. Desmond would fight on the ground with Guerline. He would not be able to convince her to stay out of the fighting, so he would stay with her. Olivia reached up and put a hand on the expansive breastplate. She would pack it up and bring it along to the muster. Like all witch-armor, his was spelled for strength and protection against magic as well as weapons. He would need it in this battle.
Olivia turned away from her son’s armor and stripped out of her gowns. She dressed herself in the simple tunic and trousers she wore under her armor and put on all her pads and leathers. Her fingers moved deftly over strings and straps, practiced despite how infrequently she had donned this garb. There were some things, it seemed, that one never forgot, and her grandmother Lirona had always impressed upon all of them the necessity of being ready for battle at all times, no matter what your clan. We have not done the same, Olivia thought regretfully. My witches understand the concept of war. They understand what happens, and they understand why we fight. But will it be enough for them when the battle begins? Will they hold their ground?
She stood before her armor, staring at it like it was another person. Then she lifted the breastplate.
I will hold my ground, and so will they.
Olivia put her armor on piece by piece, using magic to fasten straps and buckles she couldn’t reach herself. The armor was not heavy; it was so light, in fact, that she hardly knew she was wearing it, except for the sounds it made when she moved and the different pieces touched each other. She almost wished that when she forged it, she had left some weight to it. Her assumption had been that it would be better to have lighter armor so that it didn’t weigh her down or tire her unnecessarily during a battle, which she knew was still the case—but she had a desire to externalize the heaviness she felt in her heart, and had hoped to transfer that feeling to the weight of her armor.
She turned next to her sword. Lirona had made it for her, as a gift. Each of the sisters had gotten one when Lirona turned over control of the clans to them. The sword was called Silence, and silent it was. It was thinner than a typical longsword and made absolutely no sound, even when slashed through the air with full force. Olivia wondered whether it would make a sound when it hit armor or flesh or bone. She had never had to use it in a situation where she could find out, and had never thought to test it. She buckled the sheath around her waist, then lifted Silence from its bracket and slid it slowly into the leather.
The last piece of her ensemble was a very special shield: Neria’s Shield. Olivia stood in front of it and stared, remembering twenty years ago when Arginine and Alanine Maravilla had snuck into her chambers while she was giving a lesson and tried to make off with the shield. She had caught them while they were still trying to unravel one of the first layers of enchantment on it, the one that prevented any but the current leader of Sitosen clan from touching it. They had never told her why they were trying to steal it, but Olivia had a fairly good guess. Neria’s Shield had been made by Lirona for Neria, the first leader of Sitosen, for the specific circumstance of an attack from Thiymen clan. Petra had been a proud, bitter, and unforgiving witch, and though Lirona appointed her to rule Thiymen, Lirona did not trust her. Knowing that Sitosen was the closest and the easiest to approach from Thiymen, Lirona had forged for Neria a shield that would repel black magic. When Petra attacked with her necromancers and hoards of demons all shrouded in grave mist, Neria raised her shield and they were all thrown back.
Even then, it seemed, Arginine and Alanine were seeking to use the energy from the underworld, and had wanted the shield to protect themselves.
The energy from the underworld.
Had they ever found a way to purify it? Could it be used?
Olivia pointed at Desmond’s armor and weapons. They leapt from the wall and began to pack themselves in a crate that was pushed against the edge of the wall. Olivia took Neria’s Shield down and strapped it over her back. She then left the room and went down to the stables, the crate of armor floating behind her.
The witches of Gwanen shuddered with horror, and Aradia looked down at them from her high seat with tears in her eyes.
“I know, my darlings, I know! This thing is an abomination; it is the opposite of all the life and growth we hold so dear,” she said. “That is precisely why we must go to war and stop it before it can ruin all that we have worked for.”
Her followers looked up at her, and Aradia saw the fear and pain in their eyes. They were nurturers, not fighters. They gave life to things; they did not bring death. But that which they would have to fight was already dead, and she saw that they knew that. The witches looked up at her and they were afraid of this evil that brought blight to growing things, but they were more afraid of what would happen if they did not stop it. There was fear in their eyes, but there was no hesitation.
“Teachers and students shall remain. Jaela, Hewyna,” Aradia said, looking down at them. “Lead everyone to the armory and get them ready. We leave within the hour.”
Jaela and Hewyna nodded, kissed their fists, and bowed. They split the gathered witches and went to prepare.
Aradia, too, went away to prepare herself.
The sun poured into her chambers, which normally would have been a comfort to her. Now, though, her mind was clouded with fear and apprehension. She strode across the room to a wall of hanging vines. She placed her hands gently on them, and they drew apart, revealing a small room. There, Aradia’s armor was displayed. It was made of leather rather than steel. She remembered Morgana’s surprise when Aradia announced her decision to use boiled leather instead of metal to make her armor.
“Won’t it bother you that you’re wearing a dead animal?” Morgana asked.
“Do my clothes, made of dead plants, bother me?” Aradia asked with a slight laugh. “Death is part of life, but steel doesn’t die, not in the same way that plants and animals do. I would rather be protected by something that used to be alive. I understand it better than I understand metal.”
Morgana had laughed it off and Aradia had gone on to make her armor. It was hard and many-layered leather molded to her form. She had a coat of scale armor made from bone which she wore underneath the leather breastplat
e. She stared at the scales for a moment, thinking of the animals from which the bone had come and glancing over the uneven yellowing that decorated it. She reached out and touched the smooth, polished surfaces.
Protect me, she thought, as you once protected the organs of your own body.
She stripped and donned her armor. As she ran her hands over the breastplate, reaching around to fasten the straps, she felt the fine detailing on it. It had begun as a simple design, and the longer she’d worked at it, the more intricate it became: scenes of jungles and plants and animals hidden in a maze of delicate lines burnt into the leather. She looked up at her helm, a half-helm with nose and cheek guards. But she would wait to put that on. She turned next to her weapon.
Her sisters had each received swords from their grandmother Lirona, but Aradia had not. Instead, Lirona made Aradia a tall and exquisite scythe which she named Mercy. It was hung on the wall, its curved wooden handle cradled by the vines that held it steady. The blade was a brilliant shining silver, etched with ivy leaves on the forte. Aradia ran her fingers over the handle and the vines which clung to it released their grip. Mercy fell gently into Aradia’s hands. Lirona had chosen this weapon for her because of her comments about steel when making her armor.
“I thought you’d prefer the wooden handle,” Lirona had said.
And so she did.
When Morgana arrived back at Fortress Adenen, she needed only to look at Aalish to set the gears of war in motion. Her Hand sent witches running with messages for the six lieutenants, ordering them to prepare their battalions. Each battalion was made up of one hundred mounted witches and each could be ready to march in half an hour. Aalish also sent word to the trainers to assemble any battle-ready students and others who had not yet been promoted to mounted battalion into an infantry column. It was all undertaken very quickly. Adenen spent much of their time training and running drills for this very thing. They had it perfectly timed.