A short-lived wave of muttering broke through the prisoners, exclamations of disbelief and shock, that died as their Alarian captors came on guard, weapons drawn.
“You may wonder why your battalion was captured if we meant to treat for withdrawal. It is simple. We’re after a single man. One man who could mean an end to not only your capture, but to the war as a whole. Our talks with your general are a delaying tactic, giving myself and my men time to find this man. If we don’t find him within three days the war will resume in all earnest and we Alarians will not hold back. The speed with which we overran your encampment, the completeness of our capture of your positions, is just the start of what Alarie is capable of.”
Du Serres paused to let them digest that information. He continued to stride back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, hard, uncompromising gaze sweeping over them.
“If you wish to be released, if you wish to stop the decimation of your military, if you wish to see your families and homes again, then you will help us find the man we are looking for. He is nineteen years old, of average height, black hair, blue eyes and called Rafe. I am certain he was in this camp when we gained control of it, and I am certain he is still here.” Du Serres stopped before Meraz once more but addressed the yard as a whole. “This is your first chance to gain the freedom of every Delaluzian in this camp. If someone who knows Rafe’s whereabouts comes forward now, you will all be released. If no one comes forward, then one of you will die.” His gaze settled on the man tied to the post.
The bound man went still, staring at the general. Many voices called out in protest and several prisoners jumped up to stand before the post, protecting their fellow soldier.
Modisetto put his fingers to his lips and whistled, a piercing sound that cut through the din like a scalpel through flesh. When the outcry faded away, the captain gave way to the general.
“There is a way to stop the death,” du Serres said. “Give me the boy.”
An unsettling wave passed over the gathered Delaluzians. Several arguments broke out. Some doubted the boy was within the camp and demanded to know how they could prove it before they were all killed. Another muttered that one man’s life wasn’t worth all of theirs. By the post, those who had stood to protect their bound friend shouted at the crowd to own up to knowing where Rafe was.
Listening numbly, Gabe wondered what they would have said if they knew Rafe was their prince.
Again Modisetto’s whistle called order to the ruckus. When the crowd had quietened, the general took a moment to look across the prisoners with slow deliberation.
“Will no one come forward?” he asked.
“Fuck you!” someone shouted.
He ignored the insult. “So be it.”
Lieutenant Carufel drew a revolver and faced the man bound to the post. Those who stood about him closed ranks, glaring at the officer with outwardly calm defiance.
Gabe sucked in a long breath as Carufel aimed, supporting the butt of his weapon with his other hand.
A distant gunshot rang out and Victor sprawled backwards.
Chaos erupted as it became clear what had happened.
“Rifleman,” Pio shouted, pointing. “In the south-west tower.”
The prisoners around them scattered, scrambling to their feet in an effort to get out of the line of fire. Gabe crawled in the other direction, trying to get to Victor. Botello shoved panicking men out of the way and stood over the downed clerk. Ismael sat silent, a spray of Victor’s blood across his face. There was a neat entry wound in Victor’s chest, his lower back a bloody mess where the bullet had exited.
It took much longer for the crowd to calm down this time. The Alarian soldiers had to move in, using brute force to keep the prisoners from rioting. Gabe sat in the midst of it, Victor’s dead body across his lap, watching as Pio and Botello threw themselves at the enemy, determined to avenge their countryman. Both received severe beatings before they fell back, bleeding and panting but still angry.
When some quiet was achieved, General du Serres addressed them once more.
“You will not be called together again like this, but don’t think this is over. For every two hours that Rafe remains hidden, one of you will die. As has been demonstrated here, we are serious and we are not to be underestimated.” His steely gaze cut across the crowd and focused on Gabe. “None of you are safe until the boy is found.”
Chapter 23
The Church of Sevastian had long since overrun the promontory to the west of Roque City. Around the cloister sprawled the chapter-house, dormitories, refectory, lavatorium, misericord and sacristy. Further inland, where the ground wasn’t solid rock, the Royal Catacombs sprawled across a large field, scattered mausoleums like the tips of icebergs, their true size hidden underground in a maze of tunnels and crypts where the Second Estate of Roque were laid to final rest. Beyond were the larger buildings of the hospital and Academy, which included the scriptorium. On the very end of the promontory stood the cathedral of Sevastian. Built with an eye to open spaces, graceful curves and a predominance of white stone, the cathedral was not nearly as large or as grand as those of most other churches. Less concerned with holding material wealth on the inside, Saint Sevastian’s cathedral was more interested in exposing itself and its clergy to the wealth of the natural world, and in particular, the glory of the ocean.
Abbess Bernardita Marianela Orellana Esquivel de Roque stood by the edge of the sacristy and looked out at the ocean. Fishing boats dotted the calm waters within the wide, natural bay of Roque City. Further out, trawlers plied the deeps for bigger hauls, and beyond them, a dragon-ship prowled. Bernardita watched the navy vessel, only just able to make out the flowing lines of its sleek hull, the proud lift of the dragon-head bow, the glint of sunlight off claw-cleats, the deadly fangs of the beast crafted into an anchor. Pristine white sails hung from the masts, as they did from most dragon-ships these days. The original wing-sails had long since deteriorated past usefulness, though there were a few ships still using them.
Of all the saints of Luz, only Sevastian had been gifted with water magic. As such, Luz had tasked him with the destruction of the Talamhian dragons that had terrorised Delaluz’s eastern border. The giant beasts had killed thousands of people and millions of stock beasts each year. Each dragon brought down by the saint was turned into a ship and set to protecting Delaluz’s only water-bound border. Sevastian had killed every last dragon of Talamh until all that remained was the oldest, wiliest female, supposedly the mother of the entire dragon species. The fight had raged for months, all along the Talamhian ranges, the wild greenmen of the mountains coming to the aid of their last dragon. At last, Sevastian had been able to draw the dragon to the north and drown her in the ocean, the dragons’ only weakness being water. The body of the last dragon hadn’t been retrieved. Grievously injured during the final fight, Sevastian had ordered it left in its watery grave. Every couple of years or so, during a particularly wild storm, a sailor would invariably use the story of seeing the rotting remains of the last dragon to get more than one free beer in a dockside tavern.
It was a romantic tale, and one Bernardita had loved as a child, demanding it of every bard who visited her family estate. She had spent hours replaying the fight between her beloved saint and the bloodthirsty beast, imagining that in the end, there was an understanding between them. It was said that as the dragon—wings broken, heart already drowned by Sevastian’s magic—plunged into the ocean from this very promontory, the barb on her mighty tail sliced into the saint’s chest, cutting his heart in two. Strong and blessed as he was, Sevastian had lived long enough to give his last order regarding the dragon’s body, then died. But in Bernardita’s imagination, the dragon’s tail didn’t touch Sevastian. He died of a broken heart, divided between his love for Luz and the respect he had for his opponent.
As she rose through the ranks of the church hierarchy, Bernardita’s childhood fascination with the story of the last dragon had lost its power as reality had
peeled away the layers of beautiful ignorance. Practicality told her it was the dragon’s final throes that had killed Sevastian, not some poetic notion of a broken heart. Yet at times like this, in quiet contemplation, watching the vast, mysterious waters, she couldn’t help but think perhaps her saint had questioned his duty at the last. The dragon-ships were magnificent beasts in their own right, unparalleled on the water, fast, powerful and daunting. What must the dragons have been like in life? Sailing the skies as they now sailed the water, vast wings creating a gale with each sweep, belching fire into herds of sheep and cattle. Surely that would have been exquisite to see. If she could love the image of them in her mind, couldn’t Saint Sevastian have felt the same for the reality?
If she could doubt her devotion to duty, couldn’t Saint Sevastian have doubted his?
“Abbess.”
The gentle prompt drew Bernardita from her thoughts. She turned and nodded to the monk, who stood back at a respectful distance.
“Your worship, Duchess Aracelle de Ibarra has arrived.”
Bernardita’s heart clenched but she kept her face calm. “Of course. I will see her in the vestibule.”
Nodding, the monk hurried away.
Taking a last look at the distant dragon-ship, Bernardita steeled herself for the coming conversation.
Following the cloister around she approached the cathedral. Usually she took solace in the building’s beauty, in the elegant flying buttresses, the vast, flawless windows, the tiles of Sevastian green. But today it reminded her of what Roque had lost.
Her robes lifted so she didn’t trip, Bernardita went up the stairs and through the open doors to the cathedral. The vestibule was empty but inside the church came the soft pad of barefoot monks preparing for the next sermon. It would be a hard one, and sure to be swollen with more than the usual devout. So soon after the death of Duke Selestino, the people would turn to their saint for a reason why they were faced with yet more grief.
Duchess Aracelle de Ibarra entered the vestibule not long later. She was accompanied by her lady, Veronica Cande Duran Rubio de Covadonga, the only friend to stay with Aracelle when she came to Roque to marry its duke. The duchess held her head high, her shoulders stiff as she approached Bernardita. Lady Veronica stayed at a respectful distance. The toll of the news from Ibarra was clear in Aracelle’s bloodshot eyes, her face swollen and pale, lips trembling with suppressed emotion.
Bernardita’s resolve cracked. As much as Prior Yanez jokingly questioned her elevation to Abbess, Bernardita seriously wondered the same at times. How could her fellow Abbots keep an emotional distance when presented with such heartbreak? How had Abbot Guillermo looked Princess Alegria in the eye and told her she would never see her children again? How had any of them listened to a mother’s impassioned plea for the lives of her daughters and not voted for her? How many of them could look at Aracelle, a new mother, a newer widow, and talk of Sol being at peace, comforted in the Shadows? Would any of them want nothing more than to beat their own chest and scream at Luz for the injustice of it all?
Without a word, Bernardita took Aracelle’s hand and led her to a couch. Aracelle sat with little grace, as if every movement she made was unconscious. While her dress was immaculate, no care had been made for her face or hair, grief clear in the tangles of her long, golden locks, the lack of colour in her cheeks. Her gaze was fixed on the middle distance, her hands clutching at Bernardita with absent desperation.
“Oh, my child,” Bernardita whispered. “You poor, poor girl.”
She’d seen this before, when Selestino had died. Aracelle had been fresh to Roque, knew no one but her betrothed. The princess had sought out Bernardita, needful of comfort and counsel. Bernardita had come to care deeply for the de Ibarra woman, seeing the bright heart Selestino had fallen for. Her counsel had been to turn Aracelle toward the recently returned Sol. Changed from the laughing, light hearted boy who had gone to Alarie, the new duke had needed the closeness of someone who had loved his brother as much he did, someone who could remind him of the life Selestino had lived, not the death he’d suffered. It had been a good choice, Bernardita decided, when not only did the pair help each other through the grieving process, but fell in love as well. The smiling Sol she had known before Alarie finally returned and Aracelle’s heart had healed.
Now she wondered about that choice. If she had offered her sympathies to Aracelle and sent her home to Ibarra, she wouldn’t be here once more, devastated at the loss of the man she loved. A cynical part of her wondered who she would point Aracelle at this time. Sergio was gone along with Sol and Gabriel was in the Valley somewhere, but there was a whole herd of unattached de Roque noble men to pick from, because there was no other escape for Aracelle now. She couldn’t return to her brother’s palace in Ibarra. No, there was Prince Sebastian to consider now.
“How is the baby?” she asked Aracelle.
The duchess focused on her. “Oblivious,” she said. “He should have been able to get to know his father.”
“He will, my child. We will teach him about Sol, telling him about his father and uncle as unruly children who couldn’t sit still through an entire sermon, who asked the most inappropriate questions in class. I’ll warn Sebastian to not get into the same mischief his father did with his scallywag cousin Sergio and to never, ever get into a drinking competition with a Bone Mage. That never ends well.” Bernardita smiled at the memory of a moaning, devastated Sol and heartlessly smug Gabe.
Aracelle didn’t smile, but she did squeeze Bernardita’s hand in thanks. “I will get through this, Abbess Orellana. I know, from past experience, that it will be hard, but it also showed me I can, and will, survive. I had Sol to live for then. Now I have Sebastian. And Roque.”
A surge of pride swept through Bernardita and she knew her decision had been right after all. Aracelle would be a fine regent for Sebastian, strong, smart and keenly aware of her position as a de Ibarra in Roque.
“But,” Aracelle said, her voice firm, “I have to know if you’ve spoken to Saint Sevastian about Sol.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To determine that he is truly dead.” The heartache had been set aside and here was the proud noble woman, pushing on with grim practicality.
“My dear, the message from your brother was clear. Sol’s dirigible went down in flames. No one survives that.”
Aracelle’s mask bent under the pressure of Bernardita’s equally practical answer, but the duchess set it back in place and continued.
“It doesn’t make sense to me, though. Why did Sol and Sergio leave the manor at that time of night? Where were they going? Did the Earth Mage you sent with them tell you what was happening?”
Bernardita sat back, shocked. “What Earth Mage?”
The duchess gave Bernardita a look that reminded her of her familial connection to Duke Alamar de Ibarra. The calm calculation of someone eminently confident of their position.
“I spend more time at the Academy than you seem to be aware of. I have found the students are more willing to talk openly with me about all sorts of matters. At first it was so I could learn all of Roque that I could, so I wouldn’t embarrass myself, but it soon became because I enjoyed the company of young, questing minds, looking for who they are and where they’re going. I didn’t know the Earth Mage you sent with Sol, but I did recognise her. I kept your secret, Abbess Orellana. Now please, grant me the benefit of the truth. What do you know of the accident?”
Given such an admission, it would have been easy to fall back on the old tradition of distrust between the duchies. Aracelle wasn’t de Roque, she didn’t have a lifetime of devotion to Saint Sevastian, an inbred desire to protect his duchy. Bernardita loved Aracelle as the wife of a man she was very fond of, as a strong woman in her own right, but what mattered most was that Aracelle had sworn her loyalty to Sol and Roque under the hand of Master Mage Carrasco. Able to detect lies, a Bone Mage was always called on to take oaths of fealty. Aracelle’s loyalty was unquesti
onable.
Yet Bernardita had to wonder if Aracelle had let knowledge of the disguised Earth Mage slip through to her brother. Was that why Sol was dead? Had Bernardita’s decision to send Mage Madriguera to Ibarra destroyed Roque? She couldn’t even blame Saint Sevastian for it. It hadn’t been his counsel she’d acted upon.
“Please, Abbess.” Aracelle’s confidence wavered, the devastated widow once again revealed. “I need to know. Did he tell you anything before the accident? Have you heard anything since?”
The one message that had come through after she’d sent the warning had been short. We’re leaving. It had been all she’d expected, would have been furious with anything more. Then, in the early hours of the next morning, unable to sleep for worry, Bernardita had been told of another message from Ibarra, through official channels. Duke Sol’s dirigible had been sighted leaving his manor, flying east, only to suffer engine failure and explode. Duke Ibarra’s people had found the manor empty but managed to track down a staff member, who’d said Duke Deleon, Marquis Duarte, the page and constables had all left on the dirigible.
There had been no more communication from Mage Madriguera, no hint anyone had survived.
“Aracelle, there is nothing I can tell you.”
Aracelle’s mouth twisted in anger. “No!”
Lady Veronica looked ready to rush to her duchess’s side. Aracelle held up a hand to stop her, turning back to Bernardita, close to tears.
“You have to know something. Did you suspect danger? Is that why you sent the mage? Just tell me why my husband is dead.”
Bernardita was torn between being a grieving friend and an Abbess, devoted to all, not just a few. Perhaps she should have listened to her predecessor when he counselled her to sever personal ties, to keep a distance between herself and those she had sworn to guide and protect.
Taking Aracelle’s hands, Bernardita bowed her head over them, kissing the duchess’s knuckles. It was a rare gesture, for an Abbess need bow to no one, but Bernardita did it now to convey her own grief, her own need for support. When she raised her head, Aracelle was crying freely.
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