by J. V. Jones
Something jagged pricked against his fingertip.
Izgard inhaled sharply.
Although some distant part of him knew it was only a rough edge of the girl’s thumbnail, another greater, deeper part told him it was a thorn on the Barbed Coil. In the darkness they felt like one and the same.
Izgard froze. He could feel nothing other than the point digging into his flesh. The darkness in the tent thickened. He was aware of it pushing against his back, settling in his lungs, and coating his thoughts like molasses rolled around a glass.
The Coil shone in his mind’s eye as its surrogate barb pricked his flesh. He saw his own face reflected in the twisting bands of gold. Other images, shifting so quickly that individual portions could not be recognized, flashed within the metal like salt crystals thrown on a flame. Even though Izgard was unable to name the parts, the whole was perfectly clear.
He licked his lips. The Coil was showing him images of war.
Suddenly they were no longer before his eyes. They were in his head, spinning, thrashing, cutting a path to his core: blood, sliced flesh, the hollow O’s of opened mouths and the immaculate glint of steel. Izgard saw things he didn’t understand and many that he did. The images scorched the raw tissue of his mind, branding him with the mark of the Coil and destroying whatever matter lay beneath. When finally the visions slowed, and all ideas obstructing their path had been converted or consumed, one final image lingered within the smoking embers of his thoughts.
He, himself, standing in the great western harbor of Bay’Zell, master of the trade routes to the west, far east, and lower south, master of Rhaize, the Bay of Plenty, and the Gulf that lay beyond.
And all that was just the start.
Izgard pulled away from the girl and struggled to his feet. The girl clutched at him, but he didn’t even acknowledge her. Her emaciated body repulsed him now. Desire had left his body to nestle solely within his mind. He wanted what the Barbed Coil showed him. All of it. He wanted the glory of victories won, power taken, and acclaim given freely by land barons and lords. Yet he wanted the dark side too: rotting carcasses, festering wounds, muck and dirt and flies.
Heart pumping, palms damp, Izgard moved around the darkened tent, pulling on his clothes. He hadn’t done enough. He should have pushed harder, fought longer, not stopped for either breath or sleep. If he wasn’t careful, everything could be lost. Everything. He needed to talk to his scribe.
Cool night air buffeted his body as he stepped out into the camp. The girl knew her place and didn’t call after him. And he might spare her just for that.
Guards snapped to attention as he made his way through the ordered lines of tents. Situated a day’s ride east of Thorn in the foothills where the Borals rose to join the Vorce, the camp formed the heart of territory gained. No man who was not a Garizon by blood or leaning now lived within a circumference of thirteen leagues. It was the harras’ doing. They killed for the sake of it, because they needed to see blood and smell fear, and because any breath that was not a man’s last burned like poison in their lungs.
With a few exceptions, Izgard was well content with their services. They cleared the land of all impurities, made it fit for occupation by Garizon sons and lords.
Ederius’ tent was in darkness. As Izgard had brought no torch with him, he slipped through the slit unannounced. The scribe was sleeping. His dark form lay curled up on the ground, knees raised close to his chest. Even in the grainy quarterlight, Izgard could tell he was shivering. The blanket covering his chest rose and fell in tiny, shallow bursts. The battle yesterday morning had left him weak. He had been in the care of the physicians ever since.
Izgard knelt by the sleeping scribe. Reaching over, he covered Ederius’ face with his hands, blocking his nose and mouth. A second passed while Ederius’ lungs tried to suck in air, then the scribe’s body convulsed and his eyes flew open. Izgard pressed harder, keeping the man down.
“Awake now, I see,” he murmured.
The scribe blinked furiously. The whites of his eyes were very bright. His hands jerked by his side and the muscles in his jaw worked a silent cry.
Still Izgard did not allow him to breathe. “Look at me,” he hissed, bringing his face within a thumb length of the scribe’s. “Look at the man who wears the Coil.”
Panicking, Ederius tried to struggle free. His chest thrashed from side to side and his heels kicked the ground, but he was weak and lack of air was taking its toll. After a few seconds the scribe settled, his hands falling limp and his back lying fast against the ground.
Izgard nodded. His palm was pressed so hard against the scribe’s mouth, he could feel the curve of his teeth. “Am I your master, Ederius?” he whispered. “Am I?”
Ederius’ eyes were bulging. His lungs sucked his chest into a cavity as he managed something close to a nod.
“And you have sworn a sacred oath to me?”
Again Ederius nodded, the action more in his eyes than his face.
“And if there were any dangers, you would—you will—tell me?”
The scribe’s body convulsed. His rib cage beat against the blanket, and his shoulders and arms began to twitch. Tendons rising like cords in his throat, he forced himself to nod.
Feeling a bite of misgiving, Izgard withdrew his hand.
Ederius bolted forward, coughing, choking, hands out, chest pumping wildly. Tears spilled from his eyes.
Watching him, Izgard let out a long breath. The air exhaled from his lungs was white. “There, Ederius,” he said, turning away to hide his confusion. “It’s all over now.”
Wheezing noises that may or may not have been words escaped from Ederius’ lips.
Glancing around the tent, Izgard searched for a jug of water. Even though it was still dark, he could see objects clearly and, spotting a flask sitting on top of a chest, he grabbed it in his fist. “Drink this,” he said, flicking off the cap and handing it to Ederius. Judging from the smell, it was spirits, not water.
Ederius took the flask, drank, swallowed hard, and drank some more. His body was still jerking and twitching, not quite in his control.
As he watched the scribe drink, Izgard felt his anger returning. The man was weak. Weak. He leaned forward. “What happened during the battle yesterday? Why did my harras fail to kill Camron of Thorn and Ravis of Burano?”
“Archers, my lord.” Ederius forced the words out between coughs. “Surely you already know that. The harras must have returned to the camp by now.” The scribe’s words were halting. Spittle frothed from his mouth as he spoke.
Izgard went to step back, away from the scribe and the temptation to strike him, but he caught himself. He was king. He wanted answers, and he was going to get them. “Why did the harras back off? Why didn’t you force them to keep fighting regardless of the archers and their arrows?”
Ederius rubbed his hand over his face. He didn’t speak.
“You have promised me answers, scribe,” Izgard reminded him.
Hand shooting to his heart, Ederius cried, “Because I was too weak to do anything more. Someone—a girl—interfered with my illumination. I was forced to use all my strength to stop her. She was dangerous, untrained—” The scribe shuddered. “There was no telling what she would have done if she had been allowed to carry on.”
“A girl.” Izgard ran his fingertips over the skin on his own throat. “Who is she? Why was she trying to interfere with my plans?”
“I have seen her face once before.” Ederius took long, deep breaths to still his body. “She was with Ravis of Burano the night the harras attacked him on the bridge.”
Izgard beat his fist against his thigh. “Ravis of Burano! Ravis of Burano! Always his name. His filthy, sordid name. What is this girl to him? What is he involved in now?”
Drawing the blanket up around his body, Ederius backed into the corner of the tent. “The girl is a scribe, sire. A raw beginner. But she does have knowledge of the patterns, and she was working to stop the harras.”
“Did you destroy her?”
“I tried.”
Izgard caught the end of the blanket and yanked it away from the scribe. “Tried is not what I want to hear. Is she dead or isn’t she?”
Ederius shook his head. Without the blanket he was naked except for a linen wrap around his hips. “I don’t think so. Burned, certainly, but not dead.”
“That’s not enough. She must be sought out and destroyed. You say this girl is untrained, yet she diverted your attention, your resources, stopped you from doing your job. She is a threat to the harras, to myself, and to the Coil, and she cannot be allowed to carry on.” As Izgard spoke, the vision of the crown beat in his temples like a pulse. He felt excited, anxious, eager for action. “Where is she now? Do you know?”
Ederius was shivering. His knees were pulled up to his chest. “Bay’Zell, perhaps. I’m not sure. I saw a kitchen and her face, nothing more.”
Izgard nodded. “Bay’Zell is a good place to start. I will send a pack of harras there tonight.” Throwing the blanket back to Ederius, he said, “Cover yourself up, old man. I don’t want you catching your death.”
“There may be patterns I can use to search for her, sire. I shall look through my books at first light.”
“Look through them now, old man,” Izgard said, stepping out of the tent. “Within minutes I will have this camp lit up like day. I am here for war and war alone, and I will not rest, sleep, or pause until all my enemies are defeated and I name myself master of Bay’Zell.”
E I G H T E E N
A ngeline sat very gingerly on her horse, choosing her path with almost fanatical care, intent on preventing her innards from shattering like glass. Every so often Gerta would look over at her from high atop her huge old nag, and at such times it took all Angeline’s powers of determination to stop herself from blushing. Sometimes she dug her fingernails into her thigh, but even that didn’t work all the time. These days everything made her blush.
They were traveling up through the Vorce Mountains toward the Rhaize border and the pass. Izgard had called for her presence at the camp, so a small party had been assembled—her, Gerta, Snowy, a dozen armed men, and a trail cook—and they had left the morning after the messenger from Rhaize had arrived. Angeline had been a little surprised by how fast it had all happened, and only now was the whole thing beginning to sink in.
She was on her way to an armed camp. To war.
Angeline frowned, not liking that thought very much, and reached down to pet Snowy.
Snowy was packaged up in her right-side saddlebag and was about as miserable as a no-good dog could be. He looked up at Angeline with his big dark eyes, cocked his head in puzzlement, and squeaked like a mouse.
Snowy down. Snowy down.
Angeline thought he might be suffering from riding sickness and would have dearly liked to stop and nurse him, but although she knew she was officially head of the party and so could call a stop whenever she liked, she didn’t dare do it. What if she gave an order and everyone ignored it? What if the armed guards, all twelve of them, started laughing at her voice? When Father was alive all she had to do was go and tell him what she wanted and seconds later he would boom out orders in his deep, rumbling baritone. No one ever ignored him, not even Izgard himself.
Feeling sad all of a sudden, Angeline tickled the silky bits behind Snowy’s ears. “There, there, Snowy,” she said. “We’ll just have to make the best of it, you and me.”
The truth was she wasn’t feeling much better than Snowy. And even the excitement of being properly outside on a beautiful, blue-skied, flower-scented day in the mountains wasn’t nearly enough to take her mind off feeling sick. It didn’t help that Gerta was watching her like a mother hen, making her feel about as guilty as a girl who had lied and deceived could feel, and that the path they were riding along was bumpier than the crust on one of Dham Fitzil’s apple-and-hazelnut pies.
Apples and hazelnuts. Just the thought of them made Angeline feel queasy. In fact, the idea of any food whatsoever, even her favorite—strawberries and clotted cream—made her stomach turn, and not at all silently at that. Gurgling, watery noises kept emanating from deep within her belly. Distressed, Angeline let out a faint sigh. To top it all off she was starting to feel flushed again!
“Are you feeling well, my lady?” called Gerta from across the path. Minus her usual grooming paraphernalia and mouthful of pins, Gerta looked ill at ease, like a fiddler without a bow.
“I’m fine, Gerta. Just a little”—Angeline glanced around for inspiration: she saw high cliffs of gray stone, small patchwork meadows filled with flowers, odd little bushes that even odder little birds flew out of, and the sun, large and yellow, hanging in a cloudless sky—“hot. That’s it. I’m just a little hot.”
“Well, we’d better stop for a while, then.” Gerta swiveled around in her saddle. “All halt! All halt! Tents up! Her Highness needs to rest in the shade for a while. You over there. Yes, you with the polearm, run and find some cool stream water for the lady. And you with the saddlebags, unroll one of the best blankets and lay it on the ground. Now! Not when you’ve finished inspecting the dirt under your fingernails.”
Watching Gerta in action, Angeline felt a mixture of guilt and relief. She greatly admired the way Gerta made everyone do what she wanted when she wanted and was extremely grateful for the chance to rest a while, but she couldn’t help feeling bad all the same. Gerta cared for her, truly cared, like Snowy did, like Father had, yet here she was keeping up a terrible deception.
Frowning, Angeline slid off her horse. She felt very queasy, and not even holding Snowy tight could make her feel better. If it was just guilt that was making her feel ill, she could probably cope with it, but she knew in her heart it was much more than that.
She was really, truly pregnant. All the symptoms were there: the blushing for no reason, the sickness, the soreness in her breasts, and the absence of womanly bleeding. She was pregnant, yet she couldn’t tell anyone. Gerta would be angry that she had been deceived, and Izgard would be furious that she was jeopardizing her unborn child by crossing the mountains on a horse. Why, her innards could shatter at any turn of the path! Everyone would be mad at her. Everyone.
Dropping Snowy to the ground, Angeline sat on a nearby rock and watched as the midday camp took shape. The truth was she wanted this baby very much—much more than she thought she would—and the idea that she might be harming it by riding was so upsetting, it made her chest ache. Father had dreamed of having a grandchild. “Abonny little baby, just like my best girl,” he would say. Only now there was no Father, and she was no one’s best girl.
She was a bad girl. She had lied, fooled Gerta, and tricked Izgard into sending for her. And for what? To be outside? Angeline looked around. The mountains were gray and hazy in the warm air, and dandelion puffs and insects floated past her face. It was a lot prettier than Sern Fortress, but she wasn’t going to stay in the mountains, she was going to live in the middle of a warring camp, surrounded by armed men, guarded at all times, pregnant, yet not daring to tell anyone, with Izgard close by, temper ready to boil over like water above a fire if she as much as put a foot out of place.
Angeline shivered despite the heat. She had made a terrible, terrible mess of things.
As always when she was afraid or upset, the first thing she did was slap her thigh and call for Snowy. The little dog came straight away—he just wasn’t his no-good self at the moment. Bending down, Angeline scooped him up in her arms. Fighting off another bout of queasiness, she laid one hand on her stomach and the other on Snowy’s neck and whispered, “You and me are all alone in this, Snowy. Just you and me.”
“And, miss, here’s an extra ten silvers for hiring a horse.” Emith handed Tessa a second purse. “There should be a little extra in it for emergencies. Oh, and remember to keep this one in a separate place from the other. And be sure to watch yourself at all times. All times.”
Even though Emith had given her the same piece of adv
ice at least a dozen times since breakfast, Tessa nodded. She took the purse—which felt as if it contained at least double the number of coins Emith had stated—and tied it to her belt.
They were standing on the quay, in the shadow of the three-masted vessel that would take Tessa to Maribane. Longshoremen pushed past them, toting barrels, chests, and crates up a series of gangplanks to the ship. Sailors called to each other from high atop the riggings, crying insults, warnings, and instructions. Seagulls shrieked, wood warming in the morning sun creaked, passengers waiting to board chatted in subdued groups on the wharf, and high up on the quarterdeck, a man wearing a turban and chewing on licorice root shouted orders to everyone in sight.
Tessa couldn’t really believe she was going. Only five days ago she had wakened in her bed, head sore, palm burned, and asked Emith to find her passage to Maribane. Things in the Emith household had moved quickly after that. Emith, although reluctant at first, had been as good as his word. Better, even. Tessa now had new boots, gloves, a cloak and a dress, a scabbard for Ravis’ knife, a leather belt and pouch, and a leather sack for her belongings. Emith had even purchased combs and ribbons for her hair, though granted they were probably his mother’s idea, not his own. No one could think of everything quite as emphatically as Mother Emith.
From the safe haven of her chair Mother Emith had directed the whole operation: supplies to be bought, items to be pawned for cash, meat to be dried for travel food, leather sacks to be patched, and tales to be spun to explain why Tessa, as a woman, was traveling alone. Mother Emith was a planning demon: ship schedules, weather reports, local custom, and word of mouth had all been taken into account in the raveling of her grand design.