“So you’ve heard of Sol,” Teo murmured.
“The rising star in Anthea’s politics. She seems nice enough. Brains and looks, the full package.”
“You’ve probably heard how she was made Prefect after an attempt on her life.”
“Organised by you, no doubt.” Paul’s most innocent smile flickered on his lips.
Teo lips crawled upwards, and he tapped his nose with a finger. “Well, that’s just the thing. I’ve asked around and no one knows anything about it. My cousin swears he knew nothing of it, and he had the most to win by Sol’s reforms. It makes no sense. I’m starting to think that little minx organised the whole thing herself.”
Paul let out a slow whistle and leaned back. “Come on, that sounds more like you than her.”
“I’m serious,” Teo protested. “The whole thing was too convenient. She’s good, I give her that. No one’s noticed the holes in her story. If the attack took place in Anthea, how come no one heard anything? And if they stabbed her out of the city, how did she make it to the Town Hall with no one seeing her? No, the whole thing doesn’t add up.” He grinned and picked up a toothpick, using it to dislodge a grape skin from his teeth. “Not that I mind, of course,” he continued after spitting. “The girl’s got stones. Do you realise she managed to fool everyone?” He roared a hearty laughter. “Everyone but me, that is.”
“Assuming you’re correct, of course,” Paul reminded him.
Teo pushed out his chin and lifted his head in defiance. “I am. Again, good for her. She fixed the city for me, after all. She gave the economy the boost it needed and defanged both Sea Lions and Bulls. Not bad for a little girl. And how about that stupid party of hers?”
“The Poor?”
Teo laughed so hard that spittle flew across the table. “The Poor. A stroke of genius, that one. Those poor fools, led by the wealthiest girl in Anthea. Perhaps I’ll lead them instead of the Bulls this time.”
Paul coughed to hide his chortle. He knew Teo had little love for the plebeian himself. “If you love her so much, why don’t you get in bed with her? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Teo snickered and dove back into his cushions. “Believe me, I’ve tried, metaphorically or otherwise. She’d make a great ally, unlike those idiots my father-in-law gave me. I’ve made a number of efforts to contact her. The little bitch rejected them all. She wants nothing to do with me.”
“She’s probably scared of being associated with you,” Paul said, only half-jokingly.
“Perhaps. But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that without her the city would drop into my lap like a ripe fruit.” He squeezed a grape to illustrate his point before wiping his fingers on a soft towel.
“I hope you’re not thinking of any unfortunate … accidents?”
Teo grinned. He picked up a date and cut it in half with a knife, freeing the long seed from its sugary sweet constraints. “I may have let a few people know I wouldn’t mind returning to Anthea,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “Sol staged an attack on herself to gain power. Perhaps next time she won’t have to pretend.” He flicked the date into a jewel-encrusted gold goblet and raised it in silent toast, then emptied it with a single gulp.
Paul failed to mimic him, staring at his own goblet instead, lost in thought. If Sol was in danger, she had to be warned, even though he could not let her know the source of his information. Oh, Teo, what are you up to this time?
Temple Hill, Anthea, Western Democracies
September 40, Sol
The crowd’s laughter surrounded Sol as she led the ceremonial procession. A group of priests in colourful robes marched solemnly beside her, representing the many faiths worshipped on Temple Hill. As is often the case with religious ceremonies, a long procession of people followed them, laughing, gossiping, and chatting despite the priests’ occasional dark glances and curt requests for silence.
Sol hid a smile as a stern, elderly priest trudging next to her glared at a kissing couple sitting on the grass. Naturally, the couple ignored him, lost in each other’s affections. Every year on this date the entire city walked to Temple Hill to celebrate the equinox. It took Pearseus four hundred and seventy-eight days for a full revolution around the sun. The first survivors had carved up the year into twelve months, like on Earth. Each month lasted forty days instead of thirty, except for the last one, which lasted thirty-eight. As they had arrived towards the end of summer, close to the planet’s equinox, they had originally celebrated the anniversary of their landing on that date. A later adjustment by Justice Dar ensured that people celebrated both the equinox and the landing anniversary on the last day of September. It soon became the most important holiday on Pearseus, even more significant than January first, the nominal beginning of the Old Calendar. As such, everyone celebrated it, including Jonia, Loyalists, the Capital, and the Democracies.
Sol was out of breath by the time they’d climbed Temple Hill—the lush hill overlooking the Anthean sea. Joined temples, Themis’s temples, and Asian ones occupied its eastern slope. This was her favourite part of the city; a sanctum, where believers of all faiths worshipped their gods in peace. Even the First’s deity, the Lady, had a temple dedicated to her.
She raised her hand and the procession halted. Priests of all faiths and denominations stepped forward to form a ring. They joined hands and bowed their heads in prayer for a good year and a bountiful crop, each to their own deity. They ended with a loud amen and cheering broke out.
The smiling crowds dispersed to enjoy the day. Everyone had brought food with them, to be shared among the worshippers. The pilgrimage did not end until the next day; watching the sun rise from Temple Hill was said to bring good luck. Of course, many returned home for the night, preferring to rest in their own beds after a long day.
Sol spent the rest of the day visiting each temple and eating a morsel from rich offerings until she felt ready to burst. Most people seemed happy to see her. A few ignored her and some actually avoided her, but she did not mind; no politician can be popular with everyone.
Two guards shadowed her, escorting her everywhere ever since an urgent message from Paul Gauld made vague references of a plot against her. Still, she knew that if anyone wanted to harm her, it would be easy enough to do so in the busy crowd. Tradition dictated that people carry a weapon with them on the equinox to fight off the coming winter’s darkness, but she did not feel threatened. Anyone using a weapon on Temple Hill would be breaking centuries of tradition; such a sacrilege would be unforgivable.
Sol welcomed the coming of dusk, longing to rest her aching feet. Her face was frozen in a painful grin. She allowed herself to relax when people started putting up small tents and lighting fires in front of them. From a distance, the hill reflected the skies, the small fires mirroring the once unfamiliar stars shimmering above them. It would be midnight soon enough and everyone would sing Auld Lang Syne to honour the survivors of the UES Pearseus.
Sol breathed in the rapidly cooling, fragrant air. She wrapped her shawl around her and hurried towards the small tent her family had set up. Some of her predecessors would spend the night in a temple, but she had decided against it, as choosing one over the other might offend the rest of the faiths. Don’t lie to yourself, she scolded herself. The truth was she could hardly wait to put her feet up. Spending another moment among the priests felt like torture. She had a dull headache and leaden limbs. I need a rest.
Saul bolted out of the tent to meet her, the dying sun on his hair turning it a fiery orange. She forgot all her pains and aches as she grabbed him and twirled him up in the air, planting hungry kisses all over his pretty face. He giggled as she spun him around, holding him close.
A sudden jolt pushed through him; a dull thud, like a punch. He cried out in surprise, then one of her guards crashed on them, pinning them to the ground. What’s going on? Her brother’s body rolled away from her embrace, a quivering arrow sticking between his shoulders. It bent and broke with a loud cra
ck as his body fell, half of it digging deeper into his back and half flying off, spraying the grass with splinters.
People stampeded around her, shouting and screaming. Sol could not move under the weight of the guard, barely able to raise her head to seek her brother. A second arrow flew so close to her eye that its feathers scratched her eyebrow. Blood flowed from the wound, half-blinding her. In the distance, a shadow nocked a third arrow to his bow.
Her second guard sprang towards the attacker, followed by other men with drawn weapons. Her eyes widened at the sight of her brother’s young body lying on the ground, life oozing out of him, while her mind desperately tried to make sense of it. A growing pool of blood formed under him, soiling the ground.
She shut her eyes and time slowed down. She could turn it back and undo the harm if only she tried hard enough; if only her will was strong enough. She would make everything all right. When she opened her eyes again, everything would be like before.
When the moment of eerie stillness passed, time continued its relentless flow. She could never go back. She had to live with the consequences of what had just happened. Someone screamed. She wished they would stop, then realised it was her screaming, and tried to reach her brother, but the guard still pinned her to the ground. She watched in helpless agony. Her mother ran towards them, crying out Saul’s name. Then the attacker released his third arrow, a split-second before the guard and the crowd hurled him to the ground.
The Marshes
October 1, Cyrus
Cyrus moaned at the repetitive sound of someone outside the tent chopping wood. Every fall of the axe reverberated in his skull, pounding it like a drum and turning his stomach. He smacked his dry lips; the inside of his mouth felt like a hedgehog had crawled in to die. The door flew open and the bright morning light stabbed his eyes. He bit his tongue to avoid screaming obscenities at the shadow standing over him, and pulled the blanket over his head with a soft whimper.
“Wake up, Pukey,” Lehmor ordered in the First language.
His words sounded exotic to Cyrus’s ears. Pukey? What the hell’s that about? Is that why I’m bothering to learn their language? He struggled to remember last night. A rooster cawed louder than he cared for, and the rude bray of a donkey made him cringe. The commotion outside the tent confounded his desperate attempt to put together blurry memories.
They had officially welcomed them into the tribes last night, during the equinox celebrations. He had been astonished to find out they celebrated that, but then again, everything in the large village had come as a surprise to him, including the strong red wine sweetened with honey and brewed with nuts. It went down much too easily, and he had a vague memory of getting sick in front of the entire tribe, much to everyone’s amusement.
He groaned at the memory and tried to go further back. He recalled stepping into the large wooden building that served as meeting hall for the tribes. Although at first he thought the village belonged to a single tribe, it soon became clear that in fact two tribes shared it, the Wind Warriors and the Fire Clan, brought together by the marriage of Lehmor and Moirah.
He had expected the ceremony to be a boisterous affair. Instead, the tribes sung a gentle, melodic song in a silky language he barely understood. It sounded like ancient First to him. He still remembered the haunting melodies with the rich polyphonies and counterpoints. The music’s richness had moved him to tears—although that might also have been the wine. The singing had lasted for over an hour and had been attended by the entire tribe, including the children.
They had feasted afterwards, dining on roasted venison and rabbit served with various roots and washed down with plenty of honeyed wine. He had enjoyed it well, he now remembered. Too well, it seemed: with the dinner over, the children had left and the drinking had begun in earnest. He had a vague memory of his discreet—or so he hoped—flirtations with Moirah, who seemed to get prettier and prettier with every glass he emptied. Even her laughing rejections had only made her increasingly desirable in his eyes.
And then … Memory returned, dragging a deep moan from his mouth. He had got sick in front of everyone. The humiliation came back to him and he pulled the blanket down to examine Lehmor’s face, afraid it would show anger. An amused grin greeted him instead. Cyrus now remembered how everyone called him Pukey after that. Would that be his nickname from now on? The thought made him groan again, louder this time.
He pulled the blanket back over his head. “I’m so sorry about last night,” his muffled voice said from under the covers.
Lehmor gave a boisterous, hearty laugh. “You’ve been punished enough. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
Cyrus smiled uneasily, then his head emerged from the blanket and he raised his hand. Lehmor grabbed it and pulled him up like a toy. “I believe I have,” said Cyrus, cringing, as he waited for the room to stop spinning around him. “Thank you.”
Lehmor grinned. “Any time, Pukey.”
Petria
October 30, Parad
The night was moonless, and the shrubs and trees surrounding them hid them from any prying eyes. Even so, Parad’s breath caught at the merest sound, from the rustling leaves to a snapping twig. He glared at a soldier crawling to his position farther down the hilltop. A horse whinnied behind him. During the night, most of his cavalry had crept upstream to traverse the river on rafts, unnoticed. They lay in hiding, headed by Parad himself, on a forested hill with an open view that spread from the bridge all the way down to Crusoe’s fortifications. Gella had located this spot, and Parad knew she had made an excellent choice as soon as he saw the place.
The Loyalists wanted to lure them over to their side of the river by attacking soft targets in their countryside. Petria had simply been a lucky bonus, thanks to Marl’s incompetence and treachery. Once the Capital’s army crossed Aly, Crusoe would wait for the first wave to break on his walls, then attack with his heavy cavalry. With the river cutting them off, Parad’s men would soon be annihilated. Half the victory is correctly guessing your opponent’s plans, he mused. Have I done so?
Parad raised his battered binoculars to study the bridge below. A dozen Lancers were swimming down Aly, letting the current carry them towards the bridge. He pressed the lenses against his eyes. After a month of inaction, he was hoping that the Loyalists’ discipline had relaxed, and they would prove easy prey to his Lancers. His breath caught. This was the most terrifying moment of the entire plan. His forces had to cross a bottleneck; if the bridge was properly defended or if the defenders alerted Crusoe, the battle would be lost before it ever started.
The Lancers approached from the water and climbed the bridge’s rafters. Their shadowy figures stalked the guards. One after another, the bridge’s defenders slipped off the bridge and disappeared silently into the rushing waters, their throats slit.
With the last guard dead, Parad jerked his binoculars to Crusoe’s position. An eternity passed while he waited with bated breath to see if any troops would exit the fortress to retake the bridge. Once he felt certain that would not happen, he lowered the lenses and wiped thick beads of sweat from his forehead.
He drew a slow breath to silence the doubting voices in his head. The more intricate the strategy, the more things could go wrong, and his strategy was more elaborate than he liked. During this past month he had sent mounted troops up and down the river every night, observing the way Crusoe’s men shadowed them. The bulk of the Loyalists resided in the safety of their fortress, loath to venture out. Crusoe obviously expected an attack; luring him out would be hard.
So, he waited. Every day spent in Petria’s safety was a good day, allowing them to restore the country a little further and sap the morale of Crusoe’s men a little more. No bow can be strung indefinitely, for it will surely break. Parad was willing to bet that Crusoe’s men would soon be itching for a battle, thus becoming reckless.
Parad had spent the days distributing Petria’s wealth as fairly as possible among citizens and refugees, and sharing their ow
n provisions with them. By now, most refugees had left the city, escorted by prisoners. Marl and his men went with them, along with guards from Parad’s own troops with strict orders to ensure that the captured Loyalists worked in humane conditions. Parad knew only too well how a dozen drunken refugees driven by thoughts of revenge could slaughter the whole lot, and needed to prevent it. If his plans succeeded, the Loyalists would soon be citizens of the Capital, fighting any future wars side-by-side with their former enemies. An atrocity would make that common future impossible.
After a month of waiting, it had become clear that Crusoe would not venture out of his stronghold. And even with the city population returning to its original numbers, winter was approaching fast, making logistics tricky. Parad had no choice but to make Crusoe move. So, he had reluctantly put his plan to work.
Movement on the bridge caught his attention. He raised his binoculars again. Tang was crossing with two thirds of the army. It’s time. His heart raced as he observed the march of Tang’s men over the bridge.
It took the better part of the night for all of Tang’s men to cross the bridge, despite meeting no resistance. Now, however, they had to attack a well-fortified enemy. As dawn broke, the first rays of the sun fell on Tang’s troops, formed in three distinct groups. Behind them stood what cavalry was not waiting with Parad on the hill. Horns from Crusoe’s stronghold sounded the alarm. The Loyalists had finally seen the approaching threat. The clamour coming from their ranks showed they were eager to meet the enemy.
Parad felt queasy. He always worried like that before a battle, going over the plan in his mind again and again, looking for weaknesses, wondering if he had ignored some vital element or made some gross miscalculation. It was easy to forget that these were men and women he was sending to their deaths when making plans on a map, but right now their lives weighed on his shoulders, causing his breath to come out in short, curt pants. Sitting upright, he steeled himself and waited for Tang to march his troops against the fortifications.
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