“What about Ralik? Vestar? Prynveil, Lockmire’s greatest hold? We can save them from bandit occupation or possible destruction. And do you think Esterden will stop there? They’ll come for Tarreth next. There is no end to bandit greed.”
“You are lumping Esterden’s name in with that lot?”
Asher shrugs. “They chose to bed down with bandits; they can reap the consequences. An alliance with bandits is enough to mark them for destruction. It was a desperate decision to win the war, but it will cost them everything. It must! Who are we to let them get by with it?”
Hamish paces behind his desk, lips pressed against his steepled hands. Finally, he turns to Asher again. “I’d need to set up a meeting with the chancellor. Work out some kind of agreement to settle with Lockmire’s leaders. Nothing can be done without his approval; you know that.”
Asher nods. “Yes, of course. Thank you. As soon as possible. Esterden will waste no time in claiming the other holds.”
Hamish nods. Grogar appears then behind one of the guards.
“Grogar,” Asher says, “Ilvara is missing.”
The Orc’s eyes go wide, making him appear as close to distressed as Asher has ever seen him. “What?”
“She and Evelyn left yesterday to find Caius. They ended up in Lockmire, where Esterden had just arrived with the bandits. It was all under attack. Ilvara and Evelyn got separated at the gates. Evelyn was brought back here, injured, but Ilvara hasn’t been located. Caius is there as well, to my knowledge. We need to find both of them.”
“Ilvara? Countess of Lockmire?” Hamish asks.
“Yes,” Grogar says.
“Asher, you didn’t tell me one of the leaders was missing.”
Asher fidgets with a piece on his armour. “There are still available leaders. Esterden will surely take Count Hadrian and the elders captive.”
Hamish nods, sitting and taking out his quill. “I’ll arrange my meeting with Chancellor Meeves, but the leaders’ capture does confuse things. If we send word to Esterden to speak with Count Hadrian or to pay back their no-doubt exorbitant ransoms, they’ll be alerted and send in their troops right away. They know Tarreth isn’t prepared for a war of that nature.”
“No one is ever really prepared for war,” Asher says, “but it must be done. I know Tarreth, Captain. It’s full of incredible fighters. Don’t just send guards or trained soldiers. Send the Mages’ Guild, the Guild of Warriors. Recruit potion-makers for healing, smiths for armour. Supply them with food from every vendor. Pay beggars to spy. They’re experts at it. We don’t need to outnumber them; we just need to outsmart them.”
Hamish pauses his writing to smirk up at Asher. “Your zeal is the reason I chose you for Lockmire.”
Asher lowers his face to hide the wash of heat. “I…Thank you, sir.”
“Very well,” Hamish says, looking back down at the parchment. “I will meet with Meeves today. I’ll be sure to bring up Countess Ilvara’s disappearance and Count Hadrian’s imminent capture. We’ll discuss his ransom and battle plans.”
Asher clasps hands with him. “Thank you, Captain.”
Grogar grabs his shoulder. “The countess,” he says.
“Yes, I just need to replenish my weapons and armour.” He eyes Bertrand. “If I may?”
Hamish waves a hand. “Take what you need. Go with the gods, Xerxes.”
Asher nods, briefly wondering if any god could help with all this. Nevertheless, he says, “Much appreciated.”
He makes quick work of this, fitting himself into a comfortable suit of Tarreth armour, replacing all the pieces Evelyn and Caius took when they dropped him naked in the forest. Asher thinks of the items slowly eaten by rust out there, somewhere in the forest. Despite the other things he’s lost since then, it’s still a bitter thought.
He meets Grogar outside the tower.
“What brought Caius to Lockmire?” Grogar asks.
“I’m not sure. He must have seen Esterden preparing to attack and needed to join Lockmire’s cause.”
“A stupid act of bravado, then. I thought he was better than that.”
“He doesn’t know Evelyn is alive,” Asher says. “He’s probably looking for death, which is why we need to find him as soon as possible.”
“I thought you liked her. Evelyn.”
Asher shoots him a look. “I do like her. She was one of my soldiers in Lockmire.”
Grogar rolls his eyes. “I don’t quite understand the emotions of you humans, but I am not blind. I saw the way you looked at her that first day in the main hall, when you yelled at me for scolding her. I mean, why would you want to find Caius so badly? Without him, you can have her.”
Asher shakes his head. “She is not some prize to be passed from victor to victor. She’s a human being. And she wants to be with Caius.”
“What if he’s dead?”
“I hope he isn’t,” Asher says firmly. “You won’t be chattering the entire time, will you?”
Grogar chuckles once before his eyes turn to the sky, brightening with morning light. His brows lower over his small eyes. “If Ilvara was at the gates when Esterden was attacking, she’s either dead or in Esterden’s hands.”
Asher swallows hard. “Let us hope for the latter.”
Chapter 19
Esterden
Ilvara limps behind Sylvia, watching her dark braid wave back and forth as she walks. Ilvara’s lungs burn with every breath. The skin around her injured ankle is tight and puffy. The rest of her is sore from running. From fighting back when she tried to escape in the night.
A bandit behind prods her with a sharp stick he picked up hours ago.
“Hurry it up,” he says.
Ilvara curses under her breath. The Peaks of Cinis rise on her right, and on her left, Blackmist Pond stretches out toward the forest and meadow, which appear as only a sliver of coastline, shrouded in morning mist. Lockmire is far, far behind. Esterden is still far, far ahead. It will take days to get there at this rate.
“Why didn’t we grab some horses?” the other bandit complains. “My feet hurt.”
“Quit your whining,” Sylvia snaps back at them. “We’re almost there.”
Ilvara furrows her brow. We certainly are not.
After another half-hour, Sylvia veers onto a path up the mountain. She whistles against her fingers, a shrill sound that splits the calm morning air. Ilvara steps back as a wiry dragon squirms out of a hole in the mountain. It is far smaller than the others she’s seen—about the length of two horses end-to-end, not including its tail—and copper in colour. It’s narrow head whips around on a long neck. It leaps up to Sylvia. She draws it to her with a stroke against its scaly face.
“Amicus meus,” she says softly to it, then babbles something else Ilvara can’t understand.
The beast seems to reply by muttering, wagging its head, and pawing the ground with massive grey talons. It reminds Ilvara of a horse with the grace of a falcon, all within the body of a giant lizard. Sylvia mounts it fluidly.
“On,” she orders.
The bandits and Ilvara scramble onto its back less gracefully. The bandit behind Ilvara wraps one arm around her waist while holding onto a long spine with the other. Before Ilvara can even feel afraid, the beast leaps into the air.
Ilvara’s stomach drops. Her body tenses. She ducks her head toward Sylvia’s back as the shrubs and dirt path shrink below her. Wind smooths her hair down over her face. Sylvia shouts more commands to the dragon, and it charges forward.
Ilvara lets out an involuntary cry as she’s knocked back into the bandit, nearly losing her seat. The bandits laugh. Sylvia says nothing.
When she finally finds the courage to open her eyes, Ilvara blinks in wonder. Ardellon is but a drop in the palm of Aranea. In one direction, the Sea of Kalpine stretches out beyond her vision. Before it, the rocky cliffs, the glittering city of Tarreth, the mountains, the great, green forest. Munsweed and Esterden lie to its right, closed in by mountains on all sides. East of
that, over the range, Nequa’s grey plateaus. Behind her, the Pond, Lockmire, endless forests.
Ilvara can hardly draw breath. The landscape is more beautiful from this height than even the height of the mountains when she first crossed them into Ardellon, Evelyn at her side. But she does not think of Evelyn right now. She can only picture her having found Caius, and the two of them getting out safely. Her throat burns with bile. If being with Caius is even safe at all…
The wind is cold and thin up here. Both ears suddenly stop up, as if she’s stuck her fingers in them. The landscape spins around her. Ilvara buries her face in her hands.
“Someone’s getting flight sick,” says the bandit behind her with a laugh.
Ilvara struggles to control the rolling of her stomach. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut until Sylvia gives another order to the dragon and she feels them descend.
There is no large stir when Syliva’s winged steed lands in the middle of the street. Sylvia dismounts first, hardly waiting until the other three are off before commanding the dragon back to the sky. Two young boys even run up to watch it go, not a trace of fear in them. Dragons must be a common sight here.
Ilvara glances down the large main street, decorated with wooden archways covered in white flowers and animal bones. She furrows her brows. Some kind of celebration?
Sylvia heads down the main street toward the castle perched on a small hill in the centre of a flowering courtyard. Ilvara follows closely behind, legs watery from the flight, with the bandit still prodding her forward.
Ilvara stares as someone emerges from the castle. She’s a small thing, dressed in a mixture of leather armour and bandit fur. Two golden braids wrapped up together with leather bands swing behind her. At first, Ilvara is sure it’s Evelyn. But as she gets closer, Ilvara sees the fine lines of age, the pallor of her skin. She is exactly Evelyn, only older.
“Are Nathan and Gilbert in Lockmire?” Sylvia asks the woman.
The golden-haired woman gives Ilvara a cursory glance. “They should be. They left very early with plans to take some prisoners back. Krassis wants all the leaders. Who’s that?”
“Lockmire’s countess. We’re taking her to the castle.”
“Ah.” The woman now scans more carefully over Ilvara. Her voice holds no hint of emotion, very much like Evelyn’s. An even, low hum like the buzz of a bee. “I suppose Krassis will want to see her immediately.”
They follow the golden-haired woman through the courtyard, over a small pond with grey and blue stones and up to the castle doors. Sylvia stops there to straighten her armour. Finally, she turns around.
“You two,” she says to the bandits behind Ilvara, “report to the walls and wait for Gilbert’s arrival. Now.”
Ilvara can hear the bandits’ quick departure. Sylvia’s dark eyes find hers for a single moment. Ilvara can sense the bottled rage in that momentary glance. Any moment, she expects Sylvia to lunge for her throat. Why shouldn’t she, after what Ilvara did to her?
Ilvara follows her inside, heart pounding, mind racing with fear of Sylvia, confusion at the golden-haired woman, worry for Evelyn. Inside, a single black chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, barely illuminating the room. The hall is similar to Lockmire’s—a long, decorated chamber with a waiting area and tapestries hanging and thrones at one end. Or in this case, one throne.
The golden-haired woman stands behind it to the right, tall and solemn like some kind of bodyguard. Seated there is a gentleman maybe six or seven years older than Ilvara, with dark, wavy hair going grey at the temples, framing a classically handsome face, intelligent brown eyes, and a beard salted with grey. Hadrian used to say the lord of Esterden looked exactly like his father before him, except his father was not so fat. But she would not call this man fat. Beneath his fine robe, he seems strong, sturdy. Ilvara realizes she has met him once before—at the end of the last war, only a few weeks after she became Hadrian’s wife.
He rises slowly, opening his arms as if greeting an old friend. “Welcome, Countess Ilvara. It has been too long.”
Ilvara dips her head. “Lord Krassis.”
“I see you’ve already been introduced to Sylvia and Goldie.”
Ilvara glances at the golden-haired woman. “Well, actually—”
“Marigold Brightwater,” the woman says, bobbing her head. “Everyone calls me ‘Goldie.’”
“She’s my lovely mediator and a warrior under Commander Nathan. And Sylvia, of course, is Gilbert’s best. He’s the Black-Wing leader, you see. A fine officer. Anyway, I suppose you’ll be staying with us for a little while.” Krassis tucks his hands behind his back. “Goldie prepared your room—”
“I don’t know why you treat me like I am but a guest in your home,” Ilvara interrupts. “You have destroyed everything precious to me. My husband is dead. Those I deem family are in danger. I have lost everything.”
Lord Krassis lowers his brows, making him appear almost kind. Sympathetic. “It pains me to say this, but most of that was your fault.”
Ilvara stares at him. “What?”
“We had spies watching Lockmire day and night. The moment we saw your party leave with that coffin, we knew Lockmire would be ours.”
Ilvara eyes Goldie. If she knows about the coffin, does she know who was inside? But Goldie does not even react.
“So, if I’d stayed, you wouldn’t have attacked?” Ilvara asks.
“Perhaps not at that time. We were waiting for the perfect moment, and you orchestrated it beautifully. Hadrian was the count—gods rest his soul—but you were Lockmire’s backbone.”
Ilvara drops her eyes.
“Also, you mistook my boasting for hospitality.” He steps down from his throne. “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ve awaited this day for many, many years. I’d like to savour it a little.”
Ilvara instantly thinks he’s going to kill her. She is the only potential obstacle to his domination of Lockmire and all its holds. A dagger glitters at his side. Ilvara’s breaths come fast as he slowly approaches. She fights the urge to run, to cry out.
She shuts her eyes. Waits. The only thought she can conjure is a fervent prayer, not to the gods she’s worshipped all her life, but to Herus.
No stab comes. When Ilvara opens her eyes, Lord Krassis is kneeling before her. He takes one of her hands.
“Be my wife, Ilvara of Lockmire,” he says. “Rule this new dominion at my side.”
For a second, Ilvara blinks at him, uncomprehending. She suddenly thinks of Hadrian’s proposal. He had not been on his knee. He’d been standing next to her horse with a great pleading look in his eyes, and despite the hint of doubt she’d felt, she’d said, “Yes.”
Ilvara finds her voice, but not her words. “Um…I...”
Lord Krassis stands. Upright, he is only a little taller than her. “I know it is a shock, but I will give you a choice. Marry me, bear my children, share my kingdom, or be executed.”
Ilvara lets out a breath. “Gods. Well, when you put it like that…”
“Forgive my brashness,” he amends. “I truly want you to live, and that’s the only way you can. With your city destroyed, you’ll be tossed about like a doll for ransom or tortured for information. Marrying me will ensure your safety. No one would dare threaten the Lady of Esterden.”
“And if I don’t, you’ll just kill me anyway.”
“I’d rather you have a quick death than be mutilated and tortured for years on end,” he says gruffly.
Ilvara looks away. Her hands shake when she wrings them together. “I appreciate your brutal honesty, my lord. But how do I know you won’t torture me or hold me for ransom?”
He peers at her through heavily lashed eyelids. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me. But you have my word that I’ll never harm you, or the children you give me.”
She wonders then if he has ever questioned why she and Hadrian never had children. Perhaps he thinks Hadrian was the problem. But telling him this would guarantee her execution.
“Shall I give you a night to decide?” Lord Krassis asks, watching her face.
“I would appreciate that, yes.”
“All right. At dawn on the morrow, we will have a visitor in the castle. You may decide whether it is a priest or an executioner.”
Chills run down Ilvara’s spine. She nods her head once.
Krassis cradles her cheek, tilting her face up to his. His skin is dry, but warm. “I pray you shall choose the priest. It would pain me greatly to have you executed, but you must understand. It would pain me more to watch you be tortured,” he says softly, and retracts his hand. “Also, I am very sorry about your room. It isn’t what I wanted, but it is the most secure place in the castle."
Ilvara blinks at him, unsure of how to respond.
Straightening, Krassis says, “I believe that is all. Sylvia, would you escort Lady Ilvara to her room? Make sure she is as comfortable as possible.”
A hand grips her arm from behind. Ilvara leaves the golden-haired woman and Lord Krassis, walking with Sylvia back outside. They enter a door in the side of the castle and head down a long, spiralling staircase. Through the next guarded door, Ilvara finds herself in a large, circular dungeon, with cells along the walls. Sylvia does not lock her in one of these, but leads her across the circle, past prisoners who jeer at them, through another door. They enter a square room with tables, chairs, and chests. One guard sits at the table, silently eating some bread. Sylvia pushes Ilvara along, continuing through a door on the other side.
This takes them into a long, wide hallway with cells on either side, but Sylvia walks past them as well. They reach another small, circular room—the base of a tower, Ilvara imagines—and up a flight of stairs against the walls. The next floor is only stairs again. Finally, they enter a room with two more guards and a single ladder into the top floor of the tower. Sylvia steps aside for Ilvara to climb it.
At the top, Ilvara pushes through a trap door into a spacious room, cut in half with a wall of iron bars. On this half of the room, a window lets in the daylight and warm breeze. But behind those bars, there is only a single bucket and a set of manacles bolted to an iron bar on the wall.
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