“No,” Sianna chuckled. “I think I’ll keep you here as my hostage and send a dove to Lelaine. Dalcoran and Jagur as well. They’ll be tripping over themselves to see you back in one piece.”
Horns squawked in the distance followed by shouting voices. Those in the room shifted, and the tent’s flap scraped open. “What’s happening?” a man’s voice ordered.
“Guardians broke our southwest line.” Whoever stood at the door panted for breath. “We need reinforcements. We’re calling in half the western force and shifting men from the north.”
“We can’t jeopardize our hold on the north,” Sianna barked, no longer in Vianne’s face. “We’ll be vulnerable to attack from the sea!”
“Your orders?”
“Get me Rames,” Sianna said, naming her son, her tone furious. Vianne held her breath as feet shuffled to the opening and voices moved outside. “Forgive me, Vianne-Ava. I have duties.” The high wardess paused, and then snapped her fingers. “You and you, kill her and leave her in the woods.”
“Sianna!” Vianne jerked against her bindings, gasping for breath in the darkness. “Sianna!” She heard the high wardess shouting for her general outside the tent, her voice fading into the distance. “Please,” Vianne begged to the faceless men breathing near her. “Please, let me go. I’ll run. She’ll never know. Or leave me here. Give me your names, and I’ll reward you when this is over. I swear it.”
Silence tolled in her ears. Then one of her executioners grunted and slammed into her shins. Another body thudded.
A woman’s voice whispered through the cloak’s darkness. “I’m Sianna’s influencer, Moira-Nor. I’m acting on my vow to Ellegeance and my guild… and my tier city, Nor-Bis.”
Vianne choked on the stale heat, her stomach rising to her throat. She remembered Moira from Elan-Sia, the influencer Catling and Lelaine had discarded. “Help me, Moira. I relieve you of your vow to Sianna.”
“Be still.” Moira worried the knot at the back of Vianne’s head.
“Hurry.”
Moira’s fingers trembled. “I can’t get it.”
“Find a knife,” Vianne ordered. “Cut the bindings.”
Moira left her, and the body at her feet moved. “Hold still.”
A blade slid under the knot at the back of Vianne’s neck, and the influencer sawed. The tension eased, and Moira pulled the cloak aside. Vianne’s sweaty hair fell from its clips to her shoulders. She opened her mouth and inhaled desperate gusts of air. A moment later, her wrists were free.
“You must run, Moira.” Vianne grabbed the woman’s wrist, etching the narrow face and dark eyes into her memory. “Make your way to Elan-Sia. Go!” Moira slipped from the tent. Vianne leaned over a body at her feet and slid a knife from the sheath at the man’s belt. She waited by the tent’s flap, counted to five, and strode out to wage her one-woman war.
Chapter Forty-Four
“We’re getting close.” Kadan stepped to the skudder’s rail.
Catling nodded. An offshore breeze blew her hair from her face. She clung to the smooth wood, her legs as reliable as reeds in a gale. Swells of luminescence parted at the ship’s prow, purled along the hull, and cast whorls of light in the wake. The Fargrove’s mouth lay ahead beyond a black jetty, a silver snake winding south and disappearing into the night’s ebony landscape. In the near distance, Nor-Bis glowed, an opalescent flower rising on graceful stems beneath three half-moons. The sight from the sea mesmerized and confused her. How could something so beautiful be embroiled in the bloody work of cruel ambition?
“How do you feel?” Kadan asked for the fiftieth time. “Forgive me for pestering.”
“I feel as though I ate spoiled fish.” She placed her hand on his, offering a reassuring smile. “When this is done, I’ll rest. I promise.” Over the weeks of travel down the Blackwater and Slipsilver, Minessa had healed Catling’s body with influence and her soul with friendship. By small degrees, influence had softened her withdrawal and quelled her addiction, though the desire for godswell lay dormant in the cells of her body, secretive, and crouched for the opportune time to pounce.
Luminescence had assuaged her trauma, drawn out her body’s memories and the nagging fears of vulnerability and shame that she should have known better, shouldn’t have been so cocky or convinced of her invincibility. By the time they’d left Minessa in Ava-Grea, the worst had ended. Life lay ahead, not behind, and as a result of all the horror, there would be a child.
Kadan accompanied her to Elan-Sia, and Lelaine dispatched them onto the Cull Sea, headed into war. Service to the queen left no time for rest.
When The Bellwether dropped anchor, the crew hauled in the dory that bounded after them on a towline. Kadan climbed down after the oarsmen and stood below her like a human net as she descended the sea ladder. “I’m not an invalid,” she whispered.
He shrugged, chagrined. “I can’t help it. This is dangerous.”
“And yet, it must be done.” She found her seat at the stern and gazed at the looming city. Within the hour, the craft’s oars beat against the Fargrove’s current. Wrecked ships jutted from the riverbed and flotsam littered the banks. The shipyard’s jagged silhouettes speared the night.
The sounds of war started as a low drone, interrupted by the jarring screams of wounded or dying men. As they neared, the sibilant clamor increased. Acrid smoke billowed over the water like a gray fog. Catling coughed and covered her mouth with her sleeve. South of the city, a red halo of fire rose from the dark buildings hugging the shore. Tongues of flame licked the stars. She couldn’t feel it yet, but she knew instinctively that influence was at work.
“Bring us in,” Kadan said.
The oarsmen swung them toward the riverbank. Catling sensed Kadan’s influence flowing up and over the shore, a peacefulness made wary by fear. She touched his sleeve. “We must both send love, pure love as strongly as we can.”
“I can’t promise that. If we’re in danger, I’ll respond.”
“We’re not in danger now.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll shield us if we’re caught in a spray of influence. You must smother the city in love.”
His lip hinted at a smile, and the tenor of his influence changed, the reach broad, swaying anyone in his view whether they or he were aware of each other’s presence. The boat grated against the mucky bottom. An oarsman hopped out and held the craft steady while Catling stepped to the sparse grass and the bank’s loose gravel. Kadan crouched beside her. She canvassed the narrow streets that split indistinct storehouses and shops, all lit by the dusky glow of nighttime luminescence. Behind her, the oars gurgled as the dory headed back to the ship.
Kadan grasped her hand, helping her up the bank’s slope. He gestured north, away from the fires and horns and the droning cacophony of battle. The north ramp to the first tier lay in that direction. Both it and the surrounding area would be well defended. The challenge lay in reaching it alive, the Nor-Bis defenders no less perilous than Sianna’s invaders.
With Kadan in the lead, Catling crept into the lanes and sidled up against a stone wall. Bats swooped silently, flitting like windblown leaves across the moons. The sea crashed in the distance, and a bell clanged with the rhythm of the waves. Boarded-up buildings creaked and whispered, the shipyards eerily deserted.
They turned a corner, keeping to the outskirts before veering in toward their destination. Ahead of them, voices slinked closer, and Kadan tugged. They jogged across a tight intersection of rutted lanes and wedged in an alcove beneath a swinging sign. She shrank back into the doorway’s shadow and held her breath, heart thumping like a trapped hare. A group of men exited an alleyway, crept around a corner, and disappeared.
When the voices faded, she exhaled. They hurried in the opposite direction, crossed another street, and slipped behind a long warehouse. Halfway down its length, Kadan paused and held up a hand. She heard nothing but the distant clash of sea and combat. Then beyond her view, wood cracked, and she jolted. Someone shouted, the start of a gro
wing confrontation. Voices entered the fray with the clash of weapons and cries of the wounded. Crates or pallets crashed against walls.
Catling retreated, pulling Kadan into an alley. They ran the length and skidded to a halt as eight men entered the other end. Kadan smashed them with love and a touch of fear. She read his influence, recognized the authority and adoration he attempted to weave. Though he defied her wishes, she said nothing and added her own surge of love.
“We’re influencers,” Kadan said. “We won’t hurt you unless you force us to.”
“Who’s side?” The man’s club whacked his palm.
“Neither,” Catling said. “We intend to end this.”
The fellow licked his teeth and laughed. “Everyone’s on a side, darling. Pick one.”
“Nor-Bis,” Kadan said. Catling frowned and waited. She supposed it made little difference, pain and fear could jump the gap before the men risked a step in their direction.
“Guardian warriors pushed through Sianna’s lines,” the man said, relaxing his stance. “She’s pulling her rabble south. That’s why it’s quiet here. We’re rounding up the stragglers.”
“I’m Catling. This is Kadan-Mur.” She bowed, her influence loosening more smiles. “We need to reach the tiers. Will you take us?”
“Falman.” He squinted at her eye and bent in a gallant bow. “The tiers are jumpy. As likely to stick a bolt in your gut as let you near.”
Kadan’s coercive power vibrated in the air, and she touched his arm, letting her own influence fade. “They must trust their instincts,” she whispered and then faced Falman. “We have to try with or without your help.”
The man eyed her, the return of his suspicion wiping the smile from his face. “We’ll get you close; then you’re on your own.” He signaled to a pair of men, whisking them ahead to scout. “We need to move.”
Catling stayed close to Kadan as the men darted between buildings and across empty lanes. They twisted through the quarter, scurrying from shadow to shadow, the tiers looming larger. Silhouettes of guards stood at the rails, many of those on the first level bearing crossbows. She scanned the air for influence.
A whistle sounded ahead. Falman perked up. An agonized wail rose into the night, replete with such suffering Catling covered her ears. The men sprinted toward the clash and shouts of a growing altercation.
Kadan grabbed her hand and tugged her to the wall, retreating. “We go around. This way.” They ran in the opposite direction, ducked into an alley and ran the length, trying to detour around the fight. Four men with clubs burst into the alley. Kadan whipped the air with fear, driving them into panicked flight. He yanked her to the left again, the ramp no more than two hundred paces ahead. He exuded fear and pain, hurling it into the night to clear the way as they ran.
“Stop, Kadan,” she cried, terrified that he’d only invite attack. They raced ahead, crossed a lane where men howled at the sight of them. Frightened voices shouted; people dashed along the tier’s rail. “Stop, Kadan!”
“We have to keep going,” he insisted.
He didn’t understand. She threw her shield over him, severing the dangerous emotions he used to protect her. At the same time, she cast love into the air, hurled it toward the tiers with every fiber of strength she possessed.
A bolt cut through flesh with a wet hiss. Kadan staggered. Catling spun as his hands flew to his bloodied head. He crumpled to his knees, and Catling screamed.
Hands grabbed her under each arm, wrenching her up. She shrieked and kicked as they dragged her away. “I have to help him. Let me go!” Fear bloomed in the air around her.
“You’ll die down here,” Falman shouted, his grip tightening. More men joined them. Others ran in panic. The tiers glittered in her tears.
“I have to help him,” she screamed, fighting the hold on her arm. “I can kill you with a touch!”
Falman let go and backed off.
She snapped off her influence, panting and swallowing her gasps. “I have to help—”
“Bring him!” Falman shouted to the men running down the ramp.
“What if he’s dead?” a guard asked as he ran by.
“Bring him anyway,” Falman yelled. He offered a tentative hand to Catling as she began to sway. She clutched his arm and whipped the air with love and peace and comfort while through her veins coursed nothing but her own terror.
***
Vianne strode into the twilight of Sianna’s camp. She stood at a low wall marking the edge of Nor-Bis. Ten glimmering tiers towered like silver platters over the rambling riverside’s dingy rooftops. The battle had advanced closer to the city than she’d imagined.
A salty breeze flooded her veins with renewed life. She inhaled, curled her fingers into fists, and surveyed the camp. Soldiers abandoned fires and shelters. They snatched up weapons and hoofed it to shouted commands, some loping north, other’s west. A barricade blocked the dirt lanes into the tiers. There, russet-cloaked guards and men with frayed armbands gazed with the bleak eyes of trapped birds at the growing frenzy. Men brandishing crossbows split up between the buildings, jogging for the tiers, the battle’s final chapter careening toward its bloody conclusion.
She raised her arms as if she commanded the moons to rise, swept them down like a hailstorm, and opened them wide. Fear and pain ripped from her fingertips in invisible lightning. As far as she could see, men crumpled, writhing and screaming. The effort rocked her, the power exhilarating and frightening. Archers and guards on the lower tiers pitched to their knees, her revenge angry and indiscriminate. This war would end if she had to kill every one of them.
Jagur flashed in her mind. Then Whitt, Captain Nordin. And Moira, the woman who had spared her. She gasped as awareness sifted through her rampaging emotion. Pulling back, she freed the tiers of her influence. In Sianna’s camp, she reduced the grip of pain to raging cramps and loosening bowels.
Unless an archer’s aim overcame the devastation of her presence, she was free to hunt. She strode through the disabled camp, ignoring the groans, retched splatter, and reek of human waste. As new men entered her sight, her improvised illness wracked them. Those she left behind would recover, but in no condition to fight. She smiled at the prospect of winning a war with an army of fouled trousers.
Influence blasted into her, arcing from the tiers or the city or forest, from friend or enemy. Fear knotted her stomach and anger bloomed in a searing heat. She clenched her teeth, the rage no different from the murderous revenge that consumed her upon exiting the tent. Was any of it real? Influence wielded against influencer. War had turned them all into oathbreakers. Did it matter? She had a war to win.
She marched west through the dying light in the direction of Guardian’s breach, eyes seeking Sianna and her retinue. Men in greens appeared at the fringes of her vision, and she stepped her influence back again, collapsing her broad sweep to a narrower range and venting her frustration with harsher punishment.
Each withdrawal increased her danger, yet there was no helping it. Behind her, warriors shouted for surrender, bashing heads and legs even if the invaders complied. Influence pounded them all, the murderous loathing irresistible. On a patch of cleared land with a view of the tiers, she spied Sianna and her tall son, surrounded by guardians. The blond woman’s soldiers lay dead and dying on the grit of the bloody ground. Those on their feet shot invectives at each other, shrill and sharp enough to slice off the ends of her ears.
“Vianne!”
Her name scarcely registered. She retracted her influence, hoarded it like a thunderhead, and focused on Sianna. Pain shot from Vianne’s core, singeing the air as it flew. The traitor collapsed and screamed, her face and body contorting. She keened, unfocused, an animal in the throes of agony. Her son crouched, bellowing at his captors. He hooked his mother’s arm in his hand. Vianne burned his fingers, thrusting him backward with a wrench of his spine. She advanced on the woman, hand extended to touch her, shred her heart, and snuff out her life.
“Viann
e!” The man’s voice boomed, furious. The shouting of the guardians and howling of her victims blended into an incoherent roar. What did she care? Fury fed her like a vicious wind whips a storm. She’d bull through anyone trying to stop her.
“Vianne!” Jagur reared before her, blocking her path, his face crimson. He gripped her by the upper arms. Growling her rage, she speared his skull with a bolt of pain that rolled his eyes back in his head. He staggered, palms to his temples, and she marched around him. Other guardians tottered backward, propelled by a surge of fear, her patience at an end.
Her eyes pools of horror, Sianna lay on the stony ground. Vianne touched her, plowed her with influence, groping for her enemy’s beating life. Nothing happened.
Vianne gasped, her mouth hanging. She folded, knees pliant as rope. False emotions evaporated in the moonlight. Ire ran down her skin like rain and puddled on the bloody ground. She stared at her hands, her influence blocked, her power ending at her fingertips.
“Don’t kill me,” Sianna whimpered, face in her hands. She lay on her back, a middle-aged failure, defeated. “Don’t kill me, Vianne-Ava. I surrender.”
Vianne sat back, depleted. A gust of dread and sadness welled inside her, bubbling up and bursting from her throat in a bitter sob. She struggled to her feet, spun off balance as if the world had changed directions. Her body shook with fatigue, and she forced herself to turn, to seek Jagur. Any sense of control shattered when she recognized the hurt in his eyes. Her hands rose to her mouth as tears wet her lashes.
He wrapped her in his arms and patted her back. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Your kind should be outlawed.”
***
Whitt sprinted through the warrens’ dim corridors below Nor-Bis. Behind him, Boden muttered a rumbling landslide of curses. Outside, Guardian’s warriors pressed in from the south, trapping Sianna’s guards and recruits against the tiers. “How does anyone know who’s the enemy?” Whitt asked, winging around a corner.
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