We Are Blood and Thunder

by Kesia Lupo

  ‘Thank you for gathering here today, my friends,’ she said, standing up. ‘As you know, I’d like to petition you for the Protectorship. The King’s Justice has taken the mantle of power in the absence of an heir old enough to represent the Rathbone family. I hear he has inflicted a great deal of hardship on our city.’ A murmur rose along the table and Constance took a careful sip of her tea.

  ‘But whatever we make of the Justice’s policies, he is no Rathbone. It’s time to return Duke’s Forest to its rightful dynasty.’ She met the eyes of every man in the room. ‘As the Justice is absent, perhaps we can speak freely for once.’ She had no doubt he was listening, the ears of the city guard still trained to his purpose for the time being – but perhaps that was no bad thing. ‘The mage hunts are crippling Duke’s Forest. The locked gates and the storm cloud have sealed us from the outside world. But I found my way, and that means others can too.’ She paused for effect. ‘My lords,’ she said, ‘it is time for us to dare to hope once again – to open the gates and open our minds. I have spent time in the City of Kings – and in doing so, I have learned so many things I hope to bring to this city, to heal it and begin anew. You may not realise it, but everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. Everything I’ve sacrificed, I’ve sacrificed for you. And I have ever been your advocate, your friend, your protector.’ Constance sounded as if she had real emotion choking her voice. She blinked as if she was holding back tears. ‘For this is, and always will be, my home.’

  The lies spilt from her, easy as water. As the Wise Men rose to their feet, voting unanimously to pass the motion, she smiled and smiled until her cheeks ached.

  Constance stood on the battlements and peered into the storm cloud, thickening and thinning strangely in a non-existent breeze. The dense clouds drifted out of nowhere, plunging her into semi-darkness before dispersing without a trace. Flashes flickered in the edges of her vision, the odd rumble like the snore of a sleeping dragon. All that power … so close – and yet so far. She flexed her fingers, her right hand cold even beneath her fitted leather gloves, her left hand as unfeeling as ever. The brass mask felt unusually warm over her face, its cogs whirring. As well as providing a means of ‘seeing’ magic, she’d designed the mask to filter out the effects of spells, allowing her eyes to remain unaffected by the storm cloud’s noxious properties. A sudden gust of wind whipped through her skirts tauntingly. The storm cloud is playing games. She steadied herself on the crenulations guiding her along the walkway. And this was supposed to clear my head?

  She’d spent most of the night searching the crypts under the upper town. She’d found nothing. And despite her triumph at the Witenagemot, dark dreams had haunted her few sleeping hours. Dreams of her mother’s corpse, of Emris’s scars twisting in disappointment, of wrathful gods, of forsaken Ancestors, of dark shadows following her in the night. Is there anyone I haven’t angered?

  She walked up to the edge, her footsteps clicking through the gloom in rhythm with the tap of her gold-tipped cane. Her shadow threw itself against a thick patch of cloud, and she started backwards before sighing at her credulity. Leaning against the cold, damp stone, she looked down. Vaguely, she could see the rooftops of the upper town, overgrown with grey moss. Moss and fungus appeared to thrive in the storm cloud.

  Constance wondered what Emris thought of her now. She had lied to him, yes. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t loved him, in her way. She remembered the night they had met, the stars over the palace like a silent chorus in silver and white. She pushed the memory aside. After all, she had more pressing concerns. Who had seen her that night after the feast? Whoever it was, they were biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  The Justice, perhaps? She felt an unwelcome shiver of fear.

  Footsteps approached, and Constance spun round. Gradually, details gathered upon the form, as if an invisible painter was bringing it slowly into existence – but she knew him from the first brushstrokes. A hulking wolf-skin cloak, the hilt of a longsword peeking from his back. He was dressed in his training clothes, and a faint hint of sweat lingered on his skin. He was wearing shield-eyes in soft black leather and silver, and a thick scarf was pulled over the bottom half of his face.

  ‘Winton,’ she said, injecting some warmth into her voice. ‘Good morning. You’ve been training?’

  ‘I try to train every morning,’ he said, smiling faintly.

  She glanced again at the longsword. ‘I’m curious. Why do you train with the guardsmen? Why not with Lord Irvine?’

  ‘Oh … I’m no good at that kind of swordplay,’ Winton said, but the lightness in his voice sounded forced.

  ‘It would be more befitting of the son of a Duke,’ she suggested gently. ‘The longsword is a common soldier’s weapon.’

  He ignored the observation, lowering his eyes. After a few moments, he began again. ‘May I speak with you?’ His voice sounded tired, tight with worry.

  ‘You are speaking with me. Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Winton firmly, rubbing his temples. ‘I’m sorry about my strange behaviour at the feast. I just …’ He shook his head.

  ‘Brother, it is not yet a month since your mother’s death. You are grieving, and some strangeness is to be expected,’ she said. She reached out with her right hand, squeezed his shoulder. And suddenly he enveloped her in a hug, warm and strong. Constance pressed her left arm close into her body, forcing the rest of her to remain relaxed.

  ‘We haven’t really had a chance to talk yet,’ Winton said, his voice muffled by her fur collar. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ He pulled away, his eyes catching on the badge of office pinned to her cloak.

  ‘I received it this morning.’ She stroked the golden shield-and-sword brooch positioned proudly on her chest – the sigil of the Protectorship. ‘Some poor bastard was given the task of retrieving it from the Justice.’

  ‘And he didn’t put up a fight?’ Winton frowned.

  Constance straightened her mask, her skin slightly clammy beneath the warm metal. ‘No. What can he do? The city guard must obey the choice of the Wise Men, and I am their Lady Protector now, with the Swordmaster on my side. Even with his personal retinue, the Justice is outnumbered. Perhaps he’s chosen not to fight me for fear of losing.’ Or perhaps he has some other trick up his sleeve. She fidgeted, feeling restless. ‘Come – walk with me. I came up here for some exercise.’

  Winton stepped in line beside his sister. The battlements spanned the full circumference of the castle. Built in a war-torn age, and designed for defence rather than beauty, they provided a walkway over fifteen feet wide, bordered by crenulations on both sides and punctuated by four guard posts, small jutting rooms at the outer corners of the three square towers, containing supplies and ammunition. Constance and Winton walked between the south and west guard posts, wisps of cloud snatching at their heels like a pack of hungry wolf cubs. A couple of city guards bowed as they passed, dressed in the short green cloaks of their uniform. Constance’s men now.

  Once they were out of earshot, Winton spoke again. ‘Doesn’t it all seem a little too … easy? The Justice confronted you upon your arrival but at the first sign of resistance he just disappeared. That’s not like him.’ He cleared his throat. ‘While you were gone, he was very … aggressive in his pursuit of power. He allowed no argument from the Wise Men – all but forced them to confirm him as Protector. It’s hard to argue with someone who has three hundred swords at their command.’

  Constance shot him a glance. She couldn’t appear to be naive, and yet she knew she had to seem more confident than she felt. ‘I’m under no illusions. The Justice is likely planning his next move like some fat spider in his web. But that doesn’t mean I’m not ahead of the game … for now.’ She smiled. ‘If there’s one thing the City of Kings has taught me, it’s to take what you can get – and hope by the time the tables turn you’re far enough ahead that you can save yourself.’ The truth, for once. ‘I’d try him for his crimes if I could – bu
t you know how it is,’ she continued, as if part of her was desperate to bury her slip of truth under the details. ‘Only the King can convict one of his own Justices. For the time being, all we can do is confine him to his apartments. Lord Irvine has stationed a double guard around his wing. I’ve ordered as many of the Justice’s men as could be found rounded up, paid off or locked in the dungeons.’

  Winton nodded. They walked in silence for a few moments, and then he asked the question she knew had been on his lips since she had arrived. ‘What happened to you? Where have you been, really?’

  Constance glanced across – they were nearing the south tower now, and a flicker of bluish lightning cast his face into fleeting relief. ‘I told you. Father sent me away to stay with my mother’s family at court, the Santinis.’

  ‘He never mentioned it. I mean, before he was … unwell. Everyone thought you had run away or … or even died.’

  Winton wasn’t a suspicious person, she thought – it wasn’t in his character. But she could tell he didn’t quite believe her. If you can’t tell the whole truth, tell part of it. She stopped suddenly and turned to face him again. ‘Look, Winton … I am sorry about your mother. I know you loved her truly. But … she bore little affection for me. She was desperate for you to be the heir to the duchy. She hated the fact that you and I were close. And she must’ve been glad when I disappeared.’

  He hung his head, knowing it was true. ‘So … you left because of her? But I still don’t understand. You were, you are, the heir to the Forest. In sending you away, Father severed your ties to the Ancestors … And now …’ He shook his head as if his thought was too terrible to finish.

  Now I’m an outcast. Constance felt like laughing; Winton didn’t know the half of it.

  He continued: ‘Surely nothing can be worth that?’

  She paused for a moment, measuring her words carefully. ‘In all honesty, Winton, I never had as strong a connection to the Ancestors as I should have. Once your mother made her feelings known, I started to feel unwelcome here – to feel different, foreign.’ She kept her voice low, sincere. ‘And I was, sort of. I may look more like Father, but inside, I have always been my mother’s child – outward-looking, curious about the world and my place in it.’ She paused again. ‘Honestly, I asked Father to send me away. I wanted to find the other half of my family. Mother died when I was very young, so I never really knew her, or them, or where they lived. I guess … I guess I wanted to find a place where I belonged.’

  ‘But why all the secrecy? Why didn’t you say goodbye?’ His voice was low, steady – but she had the sense that these were questions he’d wanted to ask for a very long time. She felt an ache in her heart: he’d only been eleven. Her departure really had hurt him.

  ‘Father couldn’t bear it, Winton. He saw the wisdom in it – but it was also a shameful thing, and painful. He said that if I was to go, I had to just go. And so he sent me off in the middle of the night.’ Another half-truth. She could still feel how hard he’d grasped her arm, the desperation in his voice. Just run. Run. Before they find out.

  ‘I see …’ Winton nodded, but he was frowning. Constance felt a tug of frustration. Why couldn’t he just believe her? Perhaps she wasn’t as good a liar as she’d thought. Winton opened his mouth to ask another question, but footsteps interrupted him, and they both turned to the wide-shouldered figure emerging from the cloud. She recognised the captain, a tall man in his late thirties, who smiled at Winton warmly and bowed to Constance.

  ‘Lady Protector,’ he said. His voice was harsh with the accent of the lower town. He had broad, handsome features but rough-hewn, a rash of stubble across his jaw. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Captain Trudan,’ she said, nodding in greeting. He, like Winton, was in his training clothes. She wondered if the pair had sparred together. Lord Veredith had mentioned the man had become something of a father figure to her brother.

  ‘If you have a minute,’ he continued awkwardly, ‘I’d like to brief you on a few reports of disturbances in the lower town.’

  ‘Disturbances? Please, go on.’

  ‘The Justice ordered me to impose a strict curfew between sunset and sunrise after the cryptling girl vanished, and had his own men search the lower town. They have been … thorough in their duties. The people are unhappy, and curfew last night was broken by a large assembly of around forty men from the lower town. One of my guards was attacked and narrowly escaped with his life. The Justice’s men gathered in force to suppress the townspeople.’

  ‘I thought I ordered them to be rounded up?’

  The captain bowed. ‘Yes, Lady Protector. But as soon as there was word of your success in petitioning the Witenagemot, many of the Justice’s men disappeared into the city. We have imprisoned maybe fifty out of three hundred – none would be bought to our side. They largely believe, as the Justice does, that Duke’s Forest is infested with mages – and I fear they will not submit to your authority now that you have detained him.’

  Constance let the realisation sit for a moment, her stomach churning. Two hundred and fifty enemies at large in the city. When she spoke again, her voice was low and careful. ‘And what was the outcome of last night’s activity?’

  The captain bowed. ‘The Justice’s men killed five, and strung up a ringleader in the lower town as an example.’

  ‘That’s barbaric,’ Winton said, the outrage sharpening his voice.

  Constance nodded slowly. ‘There is no more need for a curfew, Captain Trudan, and I want no more searching for this cryptling girl. Please ask your men to spread the word of our regime change among the townsfolk too, and if they see any of the Justice’s men tormenting the people, they are to arrest them on sight. Is there anything else you would recommend?’

  Winton cleared his throatx. ‘The man they strung up as an example … and the others they killed …’

  Constance nodded. ‘Have him cut down, and ensure the families of the dead are provided with coin for the proper rituals.’

  ‘My lady …’

  ‘What is it, Captain?’ she said, unable to disguise her impatience. I don’t have time for this.

  ‘The Justice … he has more men than you realise. Informants in the city, spies. Propagandists. Other men, whom he pays but who do not wear his livery.’

  ‘What is your point, Captain? Do you wish me to seek out all of these men and kill them, alongside everything else? Do what I have commanded.’

  Captain Trudan bowed. ‘Very good, my lady,’ he said.

  Once he was gone, Constance turned to Winton – he was still visibly upset by the news, and perhaps at how harshly she had spoken to his friend. ‘I should not have snapped at him,’ she said, by way of apology.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m sure he’s used to worse from the Justice.’ Winton smiled, forgiving her. ‘I can’t believe what the Justice’s men have done. How can anyone be so heartless?’

  Constance shook her head. Her brother was annoyingly, unbelievably naive.

  They drew up beside the west guard post. In silent agreement, brother and sister stepped towards the edge of the wall and looked out over the descending slopes of the mountain. The roofs of empty mansions in the upper town rose like ships from the storm cloud, glowing pinkish in the morning light. Random flickers of blue licked at the chimneys and the gutters.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Constance quietly.

  Winton glanced across at her in disbelief. ‘It’s killed more than half the people who once lived here,’ he replied. ‘It’s as good as destroyed us.’

  ‘As if something terrible can’t be beautiful too.’

  He was silent for a moment, and then he turned to her and she was taken aback by the intensity of his stare. ‘For Ancestors’ sake, Constance, I know you aren’t telling me the whole truth. Just … let me help you.’ He reached out suddenly and wrapped his fingers around her left arm, her wrong arm. She snatched herself backwards, but the shock was clear on his face: he’d felt the
unexpected hardness underneath the long-sleeved dress. Instantly, doubt clouded his eyes.

  ‘I have to go,’ she blurted, hurrying towards the stairs. She nearly stumbled in her desperation to flee across the courtyard, her throat tight, a pulse pounding in her temples. She must not be discovered. Not yet.

  Later, Constance waited in the north wing, watching the courtyard for Dr Thorn. When he finally left her father to visit the Justice, she set down her quill next to the papers on her desk. She’d purposely chosen the office for its vantage point near the door to the north tower.

  ‘I shall visit my father now, Lord Veredith,’ she said. The old man glanced up from his own reams of paper, formalising the transfer of the Protectorship from the Justice to her.

  ‘Very good, dear,’ he quavered, smiling.

  She reached the door to the north tower. The physician had locked it behind him, but – checking quickly over her shoulder – she magicked it open with a simple tap of her cane. She slipped through the door and relocked it from the inside.

  Her father was calmer today, but less responsive. After a few minutes of persistent questioning, she knelt on the hard stone floor beside him, pressed her fingers against his temples and tried again to break through the barriers Dr Thorn had set up in his mind.

  After a few minutes of fruitless work, she slipped on her mask and turned the dial. The spell-scape emerged all around her. The storm was weak up here – merely a faint web of lightning clinging to the sides of the glass dome. But her father was glittering with the red spell that kept him trapped in madness. She probed the red wall for weaknesses, needling gently through the mortar of the spell. Thorn was a strong mage, and skilled. She knew from experience what effect throwing her full power against the wall would have – and she wasn’t keen to try it again. She knew she’d have to go the long way round: undo the spell, undermine it, pick at it until it fell apart.