by Cait Spivey
“But other than a handful of us, much of the clan seemed to have lost their minds. It is difficult to convey how much Fiona meant to us, but she was truly the backbone of our coven,” Kanika said. Tears formed in her eyes. “She never let us forget how important our task was, and said that it was better to keep Arido safe and be hated, than to fail our people and be loved. It was a comfort to many of us who were sensitive to the fear humans felt of us, because we believed her. So, when she died . . . we lost the rock upon which we leaned, the pillar which held us up. It is only in the wake of her loss that we have learned how weak we truly are.”
She took another deep breath and looked down at her gloved hands. Guerline waited patiently for her to begin speaking again, giving Desmond a pained look. She felt sorrow and sympathy for Kanika and the other witches of Thiymen, to have lost their beloved leader, but she also felt great disappointment to learn that Thiymen clan would not be joining their fight. But then, what were they doing? Were they still in the east?
“I see your thoughts in your face. It gets worse, Majesty,” Kanika said. “I was in Fiona’s rooms, preparing messages to send out to you and the other clan leaders informing them of what had happened, when great rumblings shook the citadel. I ran out and joined a crowd of my sisters, all rushing to the gate of the underworld, from whence we knew the shocks must be coming. When we got there, we saw that the gate had collapsed. The chamber was full of smoke, and down where the gate had been, there stood two witches. They were dressed in black, but I didn’t recognize them. We demanded they identify themselves. Instead, they attacked us.
“They were powerful, very powerful. Though we all fought them as one, they didn’t seem to tire or weaken. They just continued to repel us. But as we fought them, a strange thing happened. The smoke surrounded us, and gradually, some of my Thiymen witches ceased to battle the intruders and instead began to attack the rest of us. Breathing in the smoke was infecting them and causing them to become possessed by it. I believe it came from the thing under the mountain. I did the only thing I could think to do. I shouted an order for retreat, and we fled.”
She sighed and blinked back the tears threatening the edges of her eyes again.
“The smoke chased us, claiming more as it did. I managed to make it back to Fiona’s rooms and shut the door. I donned her armor, which has spells upon it to repel almost any kind of dark magic, took up her sail, and leapt from the window. The possessed witches followed me and shot spells at me. One ripped my sail, and I fell to the ground, but after that they did not chase me. I was given the pony by a farmer near Petra’s Bay, and I have been riding to meet you ever since.”
Guerline sat in silence for a few moments, taking in Kanika’s story. She felt a sick, heavy knot in her stomach. She had hoped to have the power of all four clans on hand to remake the spell that had kept Ianthe bound. She had no sense of how the power or numbers of the shapeshifters four thousand years ago compared to the several hundred witches of each clan now, but she would rather have had more power at her disposal than less. The idea that not only would she lack the power of Thiymen clan, but that the witches of Thiymen would in fact be members of the thing’s army, was almost enough to take away her hope. Desmond, too, looked grim.
“Are you the only one who escaped the smoke?” Desmond asked.
“The only one that I know of,” Kanika said. “There may have been others who are in hiding.”
“We thank you for coming to join us,” Guerline said.
She stood and walked over to Kanika, placing her hands on the witch’s shoulders. Kanika looked up at her, and with her gaze, Guerline tried to convey all her condolences and all her gratitude. But there was work to be done. There would be time to grieve later—that was what she kept telling herself, at least.
“Desmond, please escort Lady Kanika to the mess hall and get her something to eat.” Guerline turned away and went back to her throne. She smiled at Kanika. “You must be famished and exhausted. Please, take your ease. We will let you know as soon as the other clan leaders arrive. Then we will discuss our next move.”
Kanika rose. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I hope I may be of service.”
“We have no doubt that you will,” Guerline said.
She gestured toward the door. Kanika nodded and left. Desmond went over to Guerline, took her hand in his, and kissed it. She squeezed his hand, then he turned and followed Kanika out. Guerline waited a few minutes to give them time to get away from the tent, and then she too rose. She poked her head out of the flap and looked at her guards.
“Hamish, Frida,” she said. “I am not to be disturbed until the Kavanaghs or the shifter gods arrive. At that time, please wake me and have them brought to me.”
They nodded to her, and she retreated back into the tent. She went to the pallet that served as a makeshift bed and removed her crown, setting it on the crate next to her. Then she laid herself down, resting her head on the small pillow. During their sparring sessions, Desmond had told her that the first rule of war was to never turn down an opportunity to eat, sleep, or relieve oneself. Guerline felt that now was a good time to employ that rule, and try to get at least a little bit of rest before the storm.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“There now. All finished,” Desmond said, smoothing the canvas.
He and Kanika had eaten a quick meal in the mess tent and had just finished setting a tent of her own up right next to his, on the left side of Guerline’s. He stepped inside. Kanika sat on her pallet, removing the last of her armor. Her tunic and leathers were all black as well. She finished unfastening the vambrace and laid it down on a cloth with the rest, gently. She brushed her fingers over it.
“It must feel strange, wearing her armor,” he said quietly.
“It’s completely unreal,” Kanika said. “I mostly feel like I’m dreaming, like I’ve dreamed this whole thing, and any moment now I’ll wake up and Fiona will be telling me some new, better way she’s devised to ward the tears we make when we cross.”
Desmond sat next to her. “If only this were a dream.”
“But it’s not, and so we must not wish it is,” the witch said, sitting up straighter. She looked at Desmond and smiled. “This new empress is more composed than I expected to find her. I thought she was not given any lessons on leadership.”
“She’s just a natural,” Desmond said. “I wish she could see herself.”
“She’s doing remarkably well, from what you have told me,” Kanika said.
“Yes. She’s brilliant. And she doesn’t even realize how handily she’s taken care of everything that’s been thrown at her so far.” He smiled bemusedly at Kanika. “I think she’ll be absolutely amazing as empress.”
“Yes, I thought you’d say that,” she said, winking at him.
Desmond stared. He felt heat rising in his face. The memory of Guerline glaring as she stood in the fountain consumed him and for a moment, he felt dizzy. Remembering her expression and her words sent a stab of pain through his heart every time, because she’d been right. His desire to help and comfort her had had everything to do with her, not Eva, and it had made him insensitive to the kind of comfort Guerline truly needed. He only hoped the damage done to their friendship was something he could be redeemed of.
He had tried to push it all from his mind, tried to rein in his improper physical attentions to Guerline—but Kanika had still noticed something. Were his feelings still influencing his behavior, and making him too familiar in Guerline’s presence?
He decided to feign ignorance. “Whatever can you mean, Kanika-lami?”
“Don’t be dull, Desmond! I may be exhausted, but you can’t fool me.” She laughed.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he whispered.
Kanika frowned and leaned in toward him, tucking her chin and looking up at him through her eyelashes.
Before she could speak, though, several horns sounded across the camp. Desmond jumped up, grateful for the i
nterruption. He really did not want to discuss his feelings for Guerline with anyone else before he had a chance to talk about them with the woman herself. Kanika was one of his many “older sisters” in the clans, but this was really an affair he would prefer to keep private until he knew what was going to happen. He didn’t want to jeopardize any small hope he may have—and more than that, he couldn’t afford to make a mistake and be banished from her side once more, not when the thing under the mountain might still have its hooks in her.
Kanika stood up next to him, her teasing manner gone.
“The clans have arrived,” she said.
They left Kanika’s tent and jogged across the green to Guerline’s. Only one guard stood at the door as they approached, but a moment later, the other one emerged and jogged off toward the south. Kanika and Desmond entered the tent to find Guerline lighting candles. She finished one set and moved on to the next, stifling a yawn and rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Oh good, you’ve come. Are you feeling better, Kanika-lami?” Guerline asked when she noticed them.
“Much, Your Majesty, I thank you.”
“Desmond, could you and Frida bring the chairs in?” Guerline said.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Desmond said.
Guerline stared at him for the briefest of moments. What was going through her mind? It was impossible to tell. She nodded to him. He bowed and went outside the tent to where the chairs were stacked. Desmond wasn’t sure how many they would need, so he and Frida just decided to bring them all. It took them two trips to carry them in, stacked as they were. Kanika and Guerline helped to lift and arrange them in a circle in the center of the tent, wide enough to include Guerline’s throne.
“I’m not sure who all to expect,” Guerline said, half to herself. “The northern legion has all arrived, as well as most of the East. We may still be waiting on some from the South, but I think the regional commanders are all here. I’ve sent Hamish to go and summon them. Please, be seated in the meantime.”
She went back to lighting the candles and lamps. Desmond crossed to her and closed a hand over the one of hers that held the wick. Her skin was soft and warm, and the light flickered in her red-gold hair. She looked up at him, and he smiled down at her.
“I’ll light the rest for you,” he said. He reached up to run his hand over her hair, but caught himself. “You’re missing something.”
Guerline smiled back at him, nodded, and held the wick up. Desmond took it lightly from her hand and watched her walk to the other side of the tent. She picked her crown up from the crate by her pallet and slowly placed the combs into her hair, then she went to her throne and sat down. Her simple linen gown was slightly rumpled from her brief respite, but other than that, she was as lovely and well-kempt as ever. Kanika made a small coughing sound in her throat. Desmond jumped and turned away to light the candles.
He had just finished when all three of the Kavanagh sisters entered the tent. Olivia led in her sky-blue armor, followed by Aradia in her leathers. Morgana brought up the rear. She was not in her armor yet, and her hair was mussed. It looked as though she had slept on the way to the muster, following one of the rules she’d always impressed upon him: never turn down an opportunity to sleep. Behind Morgana floated a large wooden crate.
The three witches all bowed before Guerline, who sat straight now on her throne, her hair thrown behind her shoulder. She nodded to each of them and swept her hand toward the chairs they’d arranged, indicating that the Kavanaghs could take their pick. Each of them passed by Kanika and took her hand, welcoming her to the fold of command, and sat down. Morgana was the last to pass, then she guided the crate and set it down next to her chair.
“Welcome, Lords Paramount,” Guerline said.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Olivia said. “We have each of us brought the full strength of our clans to join in battle against the thing under the mountain.”
Some of the tightness in Guerline’s face relaxed. “Excellent. We are well pleased to hear it.”
“You’ve gathered a sizable host here yourself, Majesty,” Morgana said. “It was well and rapidly done.”
“And for that, we commend our swift messengers and our well-trained guardsmen.” Guerline smiled at Morgana, for it was she who had trained them. “They have not forgotten their drills, nor their loyalty. They have all come with hardly an explanation as to why, and none have questioned us so far.”
Morgana laughed. “That is well. An army that does not trust their commander is practically worthless.”
She glanced around the tent and caught sight of Guerline’s impromptu set of armor. She laughed anew and examined it, tutting and shaking her head. Desmond glanced to Guerline and saw her mouth tighten as she struggled to hide her embarrassment. Desmond himself felt a small wave of anger rise at his aunt’s lack of consideration, even though he knew what she’d brought for Guerline. Morgana was usually not one for social niceties, but this was beyond her usual absent decorum.
He stopped himself from glancing at the crate and said, “Aunt Morgana, why do you laugh so? It was the best we could find to fit her.”
His aunt turned to look at him, her eyes wide and bright.
“Desmond, my dear boy. I am laughing in relief. I should have been very concerned for you indeed, Empress, if you went afield in such steel,” Morgana said.
Desmond and Guerline exchanged looks, and even Aradia and Olivia raised their eyebrows. Morgana grinned, excitement apparently building in her, and dragged the crate into the center of the circle.
“Fear not, dear Guerline-basi. I have brought you a gift,” she said.
She stood over the crate and lifted her hands. The top of the lid came off and the straw packing swirled up. Morgana twisted and turned her hands and began to arrange the something that rose out of the crate. All present leaned forward with interest, trying to make it out in the ubiquitous but flickering candlelight.
At last, the thing ceased to move, and Morgana allowed the straw to fall back down to the ground. Guerline gasped. A suit of armor was revealed, exactly Guerline’s size. It was tinted a rich purple and edged with simple silver flourishes on the articulations. The full helm was topped by two rows of crystals exactly like the crown Guerline wore now. The steel plates were all arranged over a glistening coat of ringmail.
Guerline rose from her chair and went toward it. She reached out and plucked the helm out of the air, running her fingers over it. She looked up at Morgana and smiled.
“Thank you, Morgana-lami,” she said. “This is exactly what I needed.”
“I thought so,” the witch replied. “Tomorrow, Desmond and I can show you how to get into it, and I can make any minor changes necessary. But wait, that’s not all!”
She allowed the rest of the armor to descend back into the crate, but not before she plucked something quickly out of the bottom. Guerline reluctantly put her helm in with the rest and then looked with interest at what Morgana presented to her now. She gasped once more when she realized that Morgana was holding a sheathed sword out to her.
Morgana grinned. “This is why clan Adenen was delayed, and why I have not arrived in splendor like my sisters. I knew your intentions, and I knew that you were not equipped to fulfill them, so I decided to do what I could for you. I made your armor, and then I forged this—in record time, I might add.”
The other Kavanaghs chuckled. Morgana shot them all a glare that only made Desmond smile wider. He could see the change the armor wrought in Guerline. She stood straighter, and she seemed to be less worried than she had been a moment before. She reached for the sheath which Morgana held out to her and took it in both hands, then looked back up at Morgana, as though wondering what to do with it.
Desmond walked over to her. “Take the handle. Draw your sword.”
Guerline grinned at him and wrapped her hand around the sword’s grip, finger by finger. Then she pulled the sword out of the sheath and held it aloft. It shone even in the dim light, and Desmond c
ould feel the magic coming off of it. Morgana must have poured a great deal of her energy into the forging of this sword, both to accomplish it in time and to create the number of spells worked into the metal. Guerline gazed up at it in awe, eyes wide with wonder.
“Do you like her?” Morgana asked breathlessly.
“She is perfection,” Guerline said.
She stepped back and gave it a few tight practice swings before straightening again and grinning wider than ever. Desmond too, smiled, as he saw that her technique was surer and less hesitant.
“I shall name her Order,” Guerline announced.
“Ah, an excellent name,” Olivia said. “May she ever be the champion of what is right and proper.”
“And may you make Order from chaos,” said a voice from the entrance.
All eyes turned toward the noise. Lisyne entered the tent, followed by Tirosyne and Seryne. Behind her also came a tall, dark-skinned woman whom Desmond recognized as Silas, the reclusive queen of the dragons. When Desmond was younger, he had always wondered at what a massive woman she was. Now, of course, Desmond was quite as large as Silas. The dragon queen stood respectfully behind Lisyne, her face stern and sharp.
The shapeshifters and the dragon queen stopped right in front of Guerline, in the center of the circle of chairs. They bowed to her. Guerline nodded back to them and sheathed Order. Rather than put it back in the crate with her armor, she held open the belt loop and hung it on the back of her throne. Morgana moved the crate behind the line of chairs, back to the corner of the tent where Guerline’s makeshift armor stood, looking more forlorn than ever.
“We have been watching the progress of the muster from above,” Lisyne said. She stepped aside and gestured to Silas. “I present Silas of Purvaja, the Dragon Queen.”