Stormcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Lyss cast about for a safer topic, one that went to tactics. “I am curious about the bloodsworn. I saw them in action at Chalk Cliffs. Are they born or made? What, exactly, are their advantages over line soldiers?”

  The empress smiled. “I was hoping you would ask. Come and see for yourself.” She stood, and then descended the steps at the edge of the terrace. Lyss followed.

  They went down several more flights, until they stood on the lowest level, overlooking a parade ground.

  Below, soldiers were drilling—hundreds of infantry, cavalry, both men and women, all dressed like Lyss. They were practicing maneuvers, riding hard, then pivoting, eddying across the barren landscape like some inland sea.

  Scummer, Lyss thought, fighting off despair. I thought it was bad when it was just the king of Arden we had to contend with.

  “What do you think?” the empress said, nearly into Lyss’s ear, making her jump.

  “Are these all bloodsworn?”

  Celestine nodded. “The bloodsworn are made mages. Their capabilities depend on the strength of the blood mage who creates them. Mine have unmatched physical strength and stamina.”

  Based on what she’d seen at Chalk Cliffs, Lyss had to agree. But when she looked closer at the troops below, the eddies and whirlpools seemed random, pointless, poorly coordinated. It wasn’t clear, exactly, what these exercises were supposed to accomplish. She knew from experience that practicing chaos on the parade ground results in chaos on the battlefield. Then again, the queendom had never had the numbers to take a melee approach to battle strategy. It valued its soldiers too highly.

  Is this my future? she thought. Am I going to be marching in the middle of a mob like this, attacking my homeland?

  “If I may ask—how do you go about ‘making’ them?” Lyss tried to keep the revulsion off her face.

  “I come from a long line of blood mages with the ability to intervene at the point of death and bring people back as bloodsworn—unfailingly loyal warriors who require little in the way of sustenance. They are fearless, because they feel no pain. The Nazari once dominated the east with their Immortals—the perfect army.” She paused. “We have lost strength over the years. Our powers are diluted, and our warriors are not so perfect these days. But they are still damned good. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Lyss wanted to say that she’d already seen too much of the bloodsworn, but she stood silently while Celestine called down orders to her officers. They pulled two soldiers from the ranks and lined them up, facing each other, each armed with a curved Carthian sword. Then, apparently, the officers ordered them to go at it.

  Lyss was a veteran of the battlefield, and so no stranger to bloodshed, but she’d never seen anything like this. It wasn’t a matter of skill—neither was practiced in swordplay. They simply whacked at each other with a dogged determination, oblivious to injury. Blood spattered the ground around them—and, eventually, severed limbs. The fact that they seemed to be fairly evenly matched only prolonged the butchery. Even on the ground, they kept flailing until their officers waded in and beheaded them.

  Lyss felt the pressure of the empress’s eyes. No doubt this was intended as a test, a promise, and a warning. So Lyss kept her chin up, shoulders back, expression as blank as she could manage.

  “Impressive,” she said, since Celestine seemed to be expecting a comment. “How many troops do you have to put into this fight?”

  “Thousands,” the empress said, “and I have the ability to recruit more—as many as needed.”

  “Success in battle depends on more than numbers, Empress,” Lyss said. “It depends on the motivation, strengths, and limitations of your troops and the skill and experience of your commanders. Otherwise, the queendom of the Fells would be part of the Ardenine Empire.”

  “I agree,” the empress said, looking pleased. “I’ve been impressed with what you have been able to accomplish with so little. It makes me wonder what you could do with unlimited resources.”

  I guess we’ll never know, Lyss thought. It brought to mind the debriefing sessions at the end of every marching season, when everyone agreed that their fighters were the best in the world, and patted themselves on the back—celebrating surviving for another year.

  She studied the troops again, trying to pick out the officers. A lot of shouting was going on, but it seemed to have little effect. Wondering if she dared speak her mind, she looked sideways at the empress. “Frankly, they look a little ragged to me.”

  “I’m finding that the bloodsworn are excellent fighters, when somebody tells them what to do. They are not very creative when it comes to tactics and strategy,” Celestine said. “The best strategists are those who are at risk of dying. They have to worry about what will happen if they lose.”

  Lyss had never considered that. “So the bloodsworn are not good officer material?”

  “Not really. Most of my officers are not bloodsworn. Captain Samara, for example. It presents a risk, because, while the bloodsworn are unfailingly loyal, the officers may not be.”

  Why are you telling me this? Lyss thought.

  “You’re wondering why I’m telling you this.”

  Lyss nodded.

  “This is a new kind of war for us,” the empress said. “We are pirates, Captain. Our experience is in quick raids and quicker retreats.”

  “You were successful in the attack on Chalk Cliffs,” Lyss said.

  “That was more like a raid on a port than a major military operation. We simply stormed in and killed everyone. That isn’t difficult. We have some experience with siege warfare, but we are not used to land warfare over distances. Battlefield tactics, troop formations, logistics, and the like are foreign to us. We are also not used to governing once we conquer territory. The Desert Coast of Carthis is one thing—it is a thousand miles long but only about three miles deep before you hit the Dragonback Mountains. So nearly everything is within reach of the sea.”

  Maybe you should stay home, then, Lyss thought.

  She was growing weary of this verbal sparring. It was time to get some answers, even if it was bad news.

  “I still don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” she said. “Why did you bring me back to your capital? If you’re looking for recruits for your bloodsworn army, it seems you’ve got plenty of potential soldiers here at home.”

  Celestine laughed. “I don’t want to add you to the bloodsworn army,” she said. “I want you to lead it.”

  37

  THE TALISMAN

  After two more days in Lieutenant Karn’s private lockup, Hal was beginning to understand what is meant by “climbing the walls.” He was used to working his body hard; in the absence of that, his mind took over. If he tried to read in the light from the window, his mind kept turning to what was happening outside. Where was Captain Gray? Was she still alive? Had the empress turned her into one of her bloodsworn slaves? He imagined the wit and intelligence fading from her brown eyes.

  What possible reason could Karn have for keeping his king in the dark about his political prisoners? Were Karn and his father really at odds? Hal worried that the spymaster intended to keep him and Robert imprisoned indefinitely, to prevent them from contributing to the thanes’ military efforts.

  If Hal felt this way after a few days, it was hard to imagine what it must be like for his mother and sister after months in the dungeon. If they weren’t already dead. His little sister, Harper, had a habit of speaking her mind to authority, consequences be damned.

  Robert spent most of his time doing push-ups, chin-ups—anything to burn off frustration and useless energy. By the third day, Hal began to join in on Robert’s workouts. They were hard at it one morning after breakfast when Hal heard the key in the lock. He levered to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed. Robert mopped his face with his shirt and stood.

  Karn strode in, his arms loaded with what looked like clothing. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, dropping a bundle on each of their beds. “Have you been warm en
ough? Is the food acceptable?”

  “We don’t care about the bloody food!” Robert snapped.

  Karn raised an eyebrow. “Spoken like a well-fed man.”

  Hal untied his bundle and unfolded the fabric. He looked up in surprise. “It’s a blackbird uniform,” he said.

  “The actual members call it the King’s Guard,” Karn said. “Or they are supposed to. Practice saying that.”

  “You brought us disguises?” Robert said, with a spark of enthusiasm. “But”—he held up a glittery black mask—“don’t you think this is kind of obvious?”

  “You’re invited to a party,” Karn said. “Happily, it’s a masquerade party. I want you to attend as members of the King’s Guard. Now. Try these on and check the fit, sometime when you won’t be interrupted. In the meantime, hide them.”

  “I take it you have a plan,” Hal said. He sat motionless, cradling the fabric in his lap, his eyes fixed on Karn.

  “I do,” Karn said, “but at present it is evolving as we get more information.” The spymaster seemed to believe in the maxim that what isn’t shared can’t reach the wrong ears. “Now, is there anything among your belongings that I could use as a token to your mother and sister? Something meaningful that only the four of you would know about?”

  “Are you really going to see them?” Robert took an eager step toward the spymaster, who raised a hand in warning. Robert froze in his tracks.

  “Yes,” Karn said. “I’m going to see them later today. I need something from you to persuade them to cooperate.”

  Hal and Robert looked at each other.

  “You’re not planning to lead them into a trap, are you?” Robert said.

  “They are already in a trap, Corporal,” Karn said, with rising impatience. “I was under the impression that you wanted to try to get them out.”

  “So you’ll help us?”

  “It means that I will see what I can do,” Karn said. “No promises.”

  Robert turned to Hal. “Hal,” Robert said, “what about Harper’s thimble? You had that with you, didn’t you?”

  Of course, Hal thought. “That’s brilliant, Robert,” he said. “Nobody would think of that as something important but us.”

  “Why is it important?” Karn asked.

  “Our sister Harper was only six when Hal went to the army,” Robert said. “It was really hard for her to see him go, so she gave him her thimble so he wouldn’t get pricked.”

  “I’ve worn it on a chain around my neck ever since,” Hal said, “as a kind of talisman.” He lifted the chain over his head and handed it off to Karn, hoping he was doing the right thing. Hal couldn’t quiet the voice in his head saying, This is a trick.

  Karn weighed it in his palm. “Does it work?”

  “Well,” Hal said, “I’m still alive.”

  “Ah,” Karn said, with a crooked smile. “That’s your secret.” He tucked it away. “I’ll only use it if I have to,” he said.

  “One more thing,” Hal said. “If you see my mother, tell her to look on the bright side. That’s the advice she’s constantly giving me.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Karn repeated. “All right. There’s at least a one-in-a-thousand chance this plan will work.”

  When he went to turn away, Hal said, “Lieutenant.”

  Karn turned, waited.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  The spymaster gazed at him for a long moment, rubbing his chin. “Let’s just say that I have a weakness for women and children in peril.” Then he was out the door, and Hal heard the click of the lock.

  38

  VISIT TO THE PIT

  It was an odd committee of party planners: Queen Marina, for the carrot; Destin, for the stick; and Lila Barrowhill for logistics. Lila was dressed like a clerk in her scribner blues—all she needed was a pair of spectacles to complete the look. Still, Destin couldn’t help wondering who she really was underneath her many disguises.

  He wondered if she knew herself.

  A subdued Luc Granger met them outside the Great Hall. His face looked nearly normal save for a certain crookedness to his nose. I’ll have to get the name of the healer who worked on him, Destin thought. Whoever it is does fine work.

  “Your Majesty,” Granger said to Queen Marina, “I beg of you to reconsider this visit. I’ve not had time to properly prepare for—”

  “If the guest quarters are suitable for families of noble birth, I have no doubt I’ll survive,” Marina said. “His Majesty gave me very little notice that they would be attending this reception, and we must be as efficient as possible.”

  “In other words, lead the way,” Destin said.

  To Destin’s surprise, Granger did not lead them to the dungeon’s main entrance two floors below the Great Hall. Instead, it soon became apparent that they were on their way to the royal wing of the palace—a place frequented only by the royal family, their most trusted servants, and their most servile favorites.

  Was Jarat really housing the hostages in the royal apartments? How was that possible, without Destin knowing about it? Without the entire world knowing about it? Not to mention that it would be totally out of character for the brutal young king.

  The way in was through the apartment once occupied by King Gerard’s mistress, Estelle DeLacroix. DeLacroix was no longer in need of it, since she’d been executed on suspicion of plotting to assassinate the king. At the rear of the poor lady’s bedchamber, where the king once found an adder in his bed, was a locked door. Granger unlocked it and motioned them through.

  The door opened to a surprisingly large chamber occupied by four blackbird guards, playing cards around a table. They nodded to Granger like they knew him, and one of them handed him a ring of keys.

  “This way,” Granger said, opening yet another door to a tiny chamber. From there, a staircase descended into the dark.

  It must be a Montaigne family secret, the kind of place you’d keep your brother until you murdered him. Or a traitorous mistress. Or an uncooperative wife.

  Or an unscrupulous minion of the king. Destin smiled benignly at Granger.

  As they descended the stairs, Granger grew more relaxed, almost chatty. Definitely a bit more daring when it came to taking pokes at Destin. Maybe it was because he was on his own turf. It was disturbing that he’d recovered from yesterday’s interview so quickly.

  “So, as you’ll see, the hostages are safe and sound, right under the king’s eye, and totally secure.”

  They’d finally reached the bottom of the staircase. Granger drew a second ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. After that, it was down another corridor and through another set of doors. Here the air was dank, thick with moisture, and the walls gleamed with sweat. Destin could hear water trickling, and several times they crossed streamlets running across the floor. It was cold, too—a damp cold that penetrated all the way to the bone.

  That’s when Destin knew: King Jarat was stupid enough to keep his hostages in the Pit—only a remote, secret part of it, unconnected to the rest. A place where they would never be found by anyone who didn’t know where to look. He sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever god had persuaded him not to bring Matelon along. Even a stoic soul like Matelon couldn’t help but react to this.

  He glanced at Marina. Her face was smooth, unreadable. She’s not surprised, he thought. She knew the Montaignes better than most—at least among those who were still alive.

  Finally, they reached another checkpoint staffed with blackbird guards—none of whom were known to Destin. They all seemed to know Granger, though. After some whispered discussion, the group passed through.

  Lila had been amazingly silent so far, but now she spoke up. “How many hostages are down here?”

  Granger lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Probably thirty. That’s not counting the lýtlings.”

  Marina’s head came up. “The children are down here?” This revelation had broken through her wall. She’d always had a soft spot for children.<
br />
  “They’d want to be with their mothers, wouldn’t they?” Granger said. “I’ve asked the guards to gather everyone up for a count.”

  The next area was better lit, and the air seemed a little more breathable. Destin could see evidence that the families, or their captors, had tried to make their prison more comfortable. Here and there, a rug centered a gathering of random furniture. Families had set up in some of the side chambers, with beds lining the walls, tables and chairs, and draperies hung over the entries to provide a bit more privacy.

  “Many of our guests have apartments here in the capital,” Granger said, “thus, we were able to bring in their own furniture so that they would feel at home.”

  “A few months down here, and their furniture will be fit for the midden heap,” Destin said.

  “Hopefully, peace will be restored before then,” Granger said. “It was their choice, of course, whether to bring their belongings in.”

  “What are they eating down here?” Lila said.

  “They are supplied from the kitchens,” Granger said. “They do much of their own cooking, since we cannot exactly serve formal meals—that would draw too much attention, all that coming and going. Fortunately, goods keep well down here.”

  But people don’t, Destin thought, pressing his lips together. The families would never forget this, and the thanes would never forgive it. This is not how you treat people that you might want as your allies later on. But maybe Jarat doesn’t care. He has Granger, after all, who is probably plotting his overthrow.

  Destin could hear voices from farther on. The blackbirds had gone on ahead of them, no doubt to begin the “gathering” process.

  The families were assembled in a larger chamber in the cave—what seemed to stand in for a great hall. A table—not large enough to accommodate everyone at once, but sizable—stood at one end. Destin smelled woodsmoke, and realized that there must be some sort of kitchen nearby.