by Cait Spivey
While Aalish took care of rallying the troops—who needed no speeches about why they went to war and what they were fighting for; such things were saved for the battlefield—Morgana went to her private forge in the belly of the fortress. She had seen the look in young Guerline’s eyes. The empress meant to fight in this war. They were too pressed for time to either convince her otherwise or to train her properly, Morgana recognized that, but there was another way in which she could offer aid to her brave young liege lord.
The empress needed a set of armor, and a sword.
The fire blazed up in the furnace when Morgana entered. She smiled, then took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She centered all her strength and held it there. She visualized Guerline’s height, weight, and shape, memorizing every detail and designing the armor in her mind. Slowly, slowly, she let her power flood through her whole body once more.
She opened her eyes, and burst forth into the room.
She moved almost too fast to see, gathering materials sometimes with her hands and sometimes by summoning them to her from across the room. She lay flat sheets of metal out on the ground and cut the pattern, then took up a piece and began to hammer the edges out upon a sinking die with her rounded hammer. She worked quickly, moving from piece to piece, hammer to hammer, anvil to anvil as she molded the metal. She fed magic into it the entire time she worked: spells of protection and power and courage. She wanted to give Guerline armor that would support her as much as possible, as well as keep her safe. The rest would come down to Guerline’s own strength.
Morgana kept the design simple, since she was so pressed for time, but she did add a slight hint of color to the steel. She chose a lovely, rich shade of purple, the color which represented the royal house. She was also able to add some small flourishes to the shoulder articulations. Her only other adornment to the armor was the crown which she worked onto the helm, bright silver against the purple so that everyone on the battlefield would know that the wearer was the empress.
Morgana moved on to the sword. The fire in the forge flared up once more and swirled with magic. The sword would end up being almost all magic-forged. It would use up a great deal of Morgana’s strength, but she could rest on the march in a wagon designed for that very purpose. Aalish would lead. She took a deep breath and thrust the metal into the furnace, turning it slowly and feeding power down through her tongs.
Two hours later, the sword was laid out on her workbench and she held her hands over it, finishing the spells. It was thin and light, like her sister Olivia’s sword, Silence. Morgana thought that would suit the young empress. The sword pulsed under her fingers and she whispered soothingly to it. It wanted to be held, and swung, and named.
Wait a little while longer, and you’ll meet her, Morgana told it.
She lowered her hands just as Aalish came in.
“Commander, everything is ready. We await your order,” she said. She paused as she took in the scene and realized that Morgana was not suited up in her armor. “Are you—”
“Pack my armor, and Honor and Duty,” Morgana said, referring to her double blades. “I will don them at the muster. I must rest on our march.”
Aalish’s gaze fell on the armor and the sword on the table.
“Yes, pack these as well,” Morgana said.
Aalish nodded. She went to Morgana and placed a hand on her shoulder. Morgana felt warmth seep through her body as Aalish transferred a little bit of power to her. Smiling, Morgana clasped Aalish’s hand, and then the two broke apart. Morgana left the forge to go and make sure her cart was ready, and Aalish began to pack the gifts for Guerline.
Morgana was on her way to the stables to hitch up the cart to her destrier, Seamus, and trying to figure out a way to pacify him enough to get him to wear the thing when a figure stepped out from the side of the yard and grabbed her arm. She turned to see Aasim standing there in his full ceremonial robes. The expression on his face was a difficult one to read. It seemed to shift back and forth between anger and concern. She realized that it must have been very strange for him to have her snatched by a huge wolf in the middle of the night and then not to hear from her upon her return. To be honest, she had forgotten about him, what with the undead and the personification of sickness and evil they were preparing to fight. But Aradia would tell her that was no excuse. She owed Aasim an apology.
“I . . . am sorry, Aasim,” she said painfully. “I should have told you I was back.”
“I tried to raise your clan to find you when you were taken,” Aasim said, his voice carefully restrained. “But Captain Aalish did not seem concerned. Surprised, but not concerned.”
“That’s because the wolf who took me is a shapeshifter named Lisyne. She’s . . . she’s rather a legend around here,” Morgana said, struggling to find an explanation that would make sense to a foreigner. “She’s been in hiding for one thousand years, which is why I was so shocked when I saw her. But she was the one who trained the first witches, and so we all know her history—at least from before she disappeared.”
“So Aalish . . .”
“Would have known who took me, and that there was nothing she could do about it,” Morgana finished. “It’s all right.”
“And now, you are going to war. Is this because of something the shapeshifter told you?” he asked.
“It is. She told us what is behind the disasters, and that is what we are going to fight. We are going to bind it up and imprison it again.”
Aasim stared at her, his jaw clenched, his eyebrows knitting and unknitting. He seemed to be deciding whether or not her explanation was enough to justify the damage to his pride, the embarrassment he must have felt after going to Aalish and having his fear for Morgana’s life met with dismissal. Aalish is too much like me, Morgana thought. We must learn how to communicate in a kinder fashion.
“This thing has affected the Atithi as well,” he said finally. “Fazl, Daleel, and I will go to war with you.”
“Excellent,” Morgana said, smiling. “You can join my brigade.”
Aasim relaxed a little himself and held his arm out to her. She reached out and gripped his forearm; his hand closed around hers. They squeezed each other once, tight and brief, before breaking away, Aasim to get his horses and Morgana to finish getting her cart ready.
She pulled Seamus out of his stall and told him to stand and wait while she went to get the cart. When she pulled it toward him, he snorted and stamped one of his hooves. Morgana rolled her eyes and put the harness on him. The cart was just a little thing, covered on the inside with pillows and blankets, with doors at front and back. They had a number of larger ones for long marches so that those who needed it could rest; she was the only one who had a private wagon.
Once she’d finished hitching the cart, she led Seamus out and past the rows upon rows of mounted witches waiting outside Adenen’s walls for the order to march. She went to the front of the column, where she found Aalish and the wizards waiting for her. She led Seamus into place, then opened the back doors to her cart.
“Aalish, forward march,” she said, and climbed in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morning light glinted off dewy canvas as Guerline rode aimlessly through the quiet camp on her gelding. With the exception of a small force left to guard the city, the entire Capital Guild had ridden forth to join the muster in the Achazia Valley. Guerline had also sent messages by horse and bird and spell to the major cities, drafting their forces too. She and the rest of the capital contingent had arrived with the sunset the day before yesterday, and soldiers were still streaming in from all directions. She’d tried to catch the officers as they appeared, with mild success. There would have to be a more official conference once everyone had arrived, either that night or early the next morning.
If Ianthe gives us that much time.
She shook her head. She had to stop thinking of the thing under the mountain as the woman who had shown mercy to Eva and remember that Ianthe was as complicit in Eva’s dea
th as Lisyne. Ianthe had sent Eva’s madness.
Desmond rode behind her on his bay, Keno, carrying her standard. Guerline had been confined to the palace growing up, barely allowed into the First Neighborhood of Del, never mind the rest of the empire, and excluded from all but the most important festivals. The valley nobles and officers may have seen portraits of her, but portraits as a rule hardly looked anything like the people they were supposed to be depicting. So Desmond followed with Guerline’s banner, the bright silver starburst on a rich purple field. She wore her hair braided in a crest along her head, her delicate crown-combs in place on either side.
Guards dropped to their knees and jumped out of the way as they rode through. Guerline waved to them on each side, acknowledging them as they called out to her. Some, especially those who had not been present for the undead fiasco, seemed confused and unsure whether they ought to be reporting to her. Some gave her such a clear expression of amazement that she caught herself wondering, as they were, what she was doing there.
But as strange as it felt to be amidst the clanging of steel and the stomping of horses, there was a part of Guerline that felt at home in the camp. She was afraid, yes, of what they were gathering for, but it was a relief to her to see that so many had come. She was comforted by their presence. They came to take up arms against something more dark and terrible than anything they had ever known, but they had all come, and they were all prepared to go into battle together.
There was such a camaraderie amongst the guards. It made her smile, especially when they hailed her and made her part of it. This happened more with the capital guards than those from the outer cities, but the word spread quickly around the camp that the young empress was among them and would command them. The men and women seemed to be heartened by that knowledge, and her presence, as much as Guerline was heartened by them.
She and Desmond rode back toward the center of the camp, where her massive tent stood bright and white against the sea of smaller, vaguely grey and yellowing tents of her soldiers. She’d resisted having such a grand tent at first. It hardly seemed necessary, since she didn’t need to bring anything with her except a pallet to sleep on, but Desmond and her council had explained to her that it wasn’t just a tent for her to sleep in; it was also where the commanders would meet, where they would discuss their plan of attack. It needed to be tall and grand so that it could be easily found. It also wouldn’t hurt to show herself off to the four regional High Commanders, who might perhaps be more skeptical of her abilities than the guards in Del and the center cities, and who had not been privy to her savvy command of late. It was important for her to seem in control and prepared.
Even if she wasn’t.
Guerline dismounted in front of her tent and tied her horse up at the post. She took the standard and staked it into the ground while Desmond dismounted and tied Keno up. They took the saddles off their horses and put them to the side on a waiting rack. Guerline rubbed her horse down briefly and then went into the tent, Desmond behind her.
The tent was sparsely furnished. Though her council told her that sovereigns typically brought tapestries and rugs and all other manner of decoration along with them, Guerline struck down that idea. She allowed only her pallet, an ornately carved chair to serve as a throne, a large desk upon which were spread maps and hastily scrawled notes about the situation, and many, many candelabras to light the space. To one side stood the suit of armor they’d scrounged up for her from the armory, as well as an old sword that seemed to fit her arm.
She looked dismally at the set, piecemeal and mostly antique. She was certainly glad they had found something for her, but she couldn’t help but think the simple, dark grey armor would not help her inspire confidence on the field. Whether the rusted plates would protect her from unearthly blows was also doubtful.
Desmond waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he took a step forward and cleared his throat.
“Would you like to spar some more, Guerline?” he asked.
Their hasty review of basic sword techniques before leaving Del had not helped her remember so much as remind her of everything she had forgotten; but they’d kept at it until the last moment, and her confidence had increased a very small amount. She knew she ought to practice more, but another part of her felt it was too little too late. She would not become an accomplished swordswoman before the battle broke upon them. She knew that. She did not hope to be the deadliest soldier on the field, she only sought to be present on it. She would have Desmond to protect her, and Josen and a group of guards assigned to her specifically. It was more than her other guardsmen would have, and it was enough to her. To take up her sword again at this point would only dishearten her. So she turned to Desmond and smiled.
“No, I don’t think so. Perhaps later. Now I would like to rest,” she said.
He nodded and reached out to her. She stepped into his arms slowly, resting her head against his broad chest. She could hear his heartbeat, and she closed her eyes, focusing on the sound. It was even and steady, and she timed her breathing to match. True to his word, he had hardly left her side; yet Desmond had been formal with her since she’d sent him away from Eva’s washing, keeping his distance and trying not to touch her even as they sparred. She was grateful for the space, and even for this chaste embrace; it helped to ease some of her guilt. She was frustrated and angry with Desmond, but much of it had to do with her expectations of him as a friend and how his actions with regard to Eva had felt like betrayal. But under all of that, she did still consider him a close friend, and it pained her to feel such conflicting emotions toward him. And, despite how much she might wish to, she could not yet put all her feelings to words, could summon up neither apology nor admonition.
So she stayed silent. She squeezed Desmond tightly and then released him, slithering out of his arms. She went over to her temporary throne and sat down. Desmond sat on the bench next to her desk and leaned back against the tabletop. Guerline rested an elbow on the arm of her chair, leaning her head upon her fist, and watched him. Though she relied on her own strength as much as the support she got from him, she valued his dedication to helping her. The guards may look questioningly at Guerline, human and womanly as she was, but they needed only to see Desmond standing behind her to give her a second look and an attentive ear.
Soon, I will prove myself to them on my own merit. They must respect her for going afield and being among them despite her lack of martial skill. This was her hope, anyway.
She closed her eyes, hoping for a chance to doze briefly. Hooves pounded and shouts went up from outside her tent. Desmond sat up at attention. So did Guerline. They remained as still as possible, and strained their ears to catch the words in the shouting.
The hoofbeats grew louder and Guerline and Desmond got up, going to the door of the tent and looking out. They saw a stout black pony galloping toward them. On its back was a woman in jet black armor and a flowing black cloak. Her helm had a tail of black horsehair and a full mask, so they couldn’t see her face. She looked strange, riding on the pony in her armor; though the pony was large, as ponies go, it appeared smaller than it was amongst the Adenen warhorses of the guards. Guerline stared at the approaching figure. She had to be a witch, to have armor so fine, and it being black seemed to indicate Thiymen clan. With any luck, Thiymen was finally contacting them and joining the fight.
Guerline turned to Desmond to get his opinion, but the look on his face stopped her. His jaw was slack, and his eyes were wide as he stared at the woman riding toward them.
“Desmond? What is it?” she asked.
“Aunt Fiona,” he said.
“What?” Guerline snapped back to look. There was no way—Lisyne herself had told them of Fiona’s death, and despite the monster that she was, Guerline didn’t think it was something she would lie about. But she herself had guessed that the rider was a Thiymen witch.
The rider reined up and skidded to a stop just in front of Guerline’s tent. Guerline waited, as was pr
oper, for the rider to announce herself; but Desmond could not wait. He ran right up to her.
“Aunt Fiona! Is that you?”
“Oh, Desmond. I wish for that as much as you,” said the woman.
She removed her helm. She was young and beautiful, with smooth white skin and light brown eyes, like diluted molasses. Her face was flushed red with riding and the heat of her armor. Her tightly curled black hair was braided and wound many times around her head. She looked down at Desmond with anguish in her eyes and sadness in her mouth. Guerline felt a rush of warmth and a sudden urge to embrace this woman.
“Kanika,” Desmond said.
He reached up and offered her a hand. She took it and swung herself down from the pony, then turned and knelt before Guerline.
“Guerline-basi, may I present Kanika Asenath, the new Heart of Thiymen,” Desmond said. “Am I right, Kanika?”
“You are, Desmond, to my everlasting regret,” Kanika said. “I have come now to offer what assistance I can.”
“Then by all means rise,” Guerline said. “We welcome you whole-heartedly. Please come in.”
Guerline led them inside the tent and they each took a seat, Guerline on her throne and Kanika and Desmond on the bench.
“We are very glad that you’ve come, Kanika-lami. We all are. Lisyne has told us all about the thing under the mountain, but it is a comfort to have Thiymen with us as well. You are so much more intimately connected to it than the rest of us. How many of your clan have come?” Guerline asked.
Kanika grimaced. “None, Your Majesty.”
Guerline blinked. “I-I’m sorry. None?”
“None. I only just escaped the Citadel myself,” Kanika said.
“What happened?” Desmond asked.
Kanika took a deep breath. It was difficult to tell because of her armor, but her body seemed to be slumped, supported only by the metal. She looked up, her weariness now overpowering her expression.
“When my lady Fiona died, we—we immediately held her funeral. We entombed her in the catacombs where all Thiymen witches are laid to rest. Moira Emile, Hand of Thiymen and Captain of the Thiymen Guard, was supposed to then be recognized as the new leader of the clan, but she was severely weakened by the Guard’s last attempt to push the thing under the mountain back. We waited for hours, all standing round her and feeding her power, but it wasn’t enough. She too died, and leadership fell to me.