by E. J. Beaton
“For once, you speak sense,” Jale said.
“We need armor. Before we go out there.” Cassia bent over a dead soldier and removed the woman’s plating. The others did the same. For a moment, there was no sound but the clanking of metal.
“Where’s Fontaine?” Dante growled, looking around.
A cool, half-amused voice interrupted them. “If you thought I’d run, you’re painfully mistaken.”
They turned. Luca was crossing the ruined enclosure, somehow managing to find a straight path through the detritus of the carnage. His guards and nobles rushed to him, one of them handing him a bow. “Your voice carries further than rumor. Perhaps you should be thanking those elementals for forcing a chimera back into the sky, Dalgëreth,” he said. “To say nothing of putting out the fires. They saved your life, whoever they were.”
“Where were you?” Lysande demanded as he stopped opposite Dante. She did not care that there was an edge to her words.
“I was defending us strategically.”
“From outside where we were being attacked?”
“Never mind that.” Dante folded his arms. “This is the White Queen’s doing. A massacre. And her helper is somewhere among us, I’d bet.” He turned to Lysande and Luca. “What were the two of you doing before, in the palace?”
In the silence that followed, Lysande considered the explanation “trying to kill each other in a book-closet” but abandoned it when she heard Litany call her name.
The girl was pointing upward with an expression of such horror that Lysande followed her gaze. There, high up in the sky but coming closer by the second, was a white shape with a horned head and wings. She could not mistake the creature. It was swooping fast enough for her to make out the golden dots of its eyes, and it was not the spikes on the tail nor the extraordinary power of the chimera—at least twice the size of the first animal that had attacked them—that made her breath come faster. It was the dozens of armed soldiers in the skirt-like armor and spiked helmets of the Periclean States, strapped to its furred shoulders and scale-slick back. Some crouched on the tail, held in place by a complicated rig of ropes.
The city-rulers tilted their heads back. Lysande fought a panic that threatened to consume her. Two strikes, she thought. Chimera and chimera.
“Rally to me!” Cassia cried.
A pressure on her arm: Lysande felt the power of Litany’s grip and looked into the girl’s face. An unspoken question hung between them. Without breaking the stare, Litany jerked her head toward Cassia. Slowly, Lysande nodded.
I trust her.
She hoped the sentiment reached her face in its curtailed form, rather than in full: I trust her because I want to believe I can.
So many bodies clung to the backbone that the soldiers scarcely fit on the chimera: the ropes had been fashioned into harnesses, connected to stirrups and tied with knots. Lysande searched for a weak point and found none. The Councillors, guards of five cities, and all others who had been foolish or brave enough to remain closed around the Irriqi. They retreated to the back of the enclosure. Lysande jostled her way through the guards, allowing action to take precedence over fear; somehow, Litany managed to keep close to her side.
They had barely moved to the back wall when the chimera turned into a dive and plummeted, breathing fire as it came.
It landed in front of the platform without a rope breaking. The mercenaries cut themselves free and poured off its back, shouting and brandishing swords. All Lysande saw was spiked helmets and skirt-like armor coming at her, the Periclean breastplates shining like the chimera’s scales. At last she understood why Sarelin had prayed before battle; the thought of being protected by the goddesses might have made her feel courageous, even heroic. Instead, she felt like turning and vomiting onto the ground.
“It’s a Royamese white,” Cassia managed to shout, over the noise. “Got more scales than other chimeras. You can’t kill it through the underbelly—have to get it in the neck!”
Lysande saw Luca turn to his captains. “Strength without swords,” he said. “Make every arrow count.”
Freste and Malsante set off through the throng, toward the rest of the archers. As Lysande watched them pushing anyone who got in their way, it occurred to her that all the descriptions of battles in books had made no mention of all the desperate shoving that was involved. Fighting looked like at least two-thirds shoving, to the tune of ringing shields. She hurried to appraise the formation of the oncoming soldiers and shouted to her guards to gather, trying to keep anything but determination out of her voice.
Dante drew his axe and sword and charged forward at the left flank, shouting “Valderos,” and the Valderrans followed him, taking up the cry. Jale moved quickly after them, approaching the right wing of the attackers with his Lyrian guards. The two parties of Elirans met the Pericleans, and for a moment there was nothing but the crashing of swords. A mercenary fell with a blade in her neck. Another attacker tottered with one arm cut off at the elbow, spurting blood. Several Lyrians and Valderrans fell, stabbed or knocked down, and some were trampled under boots.
Lysande appraised the scene even more quickly this time and grabbed Raden by the arm. “We can’t have our special guard fighting without its captain!” It was hard to avoid sounding sentimental. “Go to your troops!”
“If you think I’m going to leave you when there’s a whole legion of soldiers bearing down on us . . .”
“Now, Raden! Go!”
An agonized look passed over his face. “You know I count you as a true friend.”
“And I you. I cherish all our walks, all our conversations. But Raden, you must go!”
He drew a deep breath. “You were a dearer friend still to Sarelin.”
A lump rose in Lysande’s throat. “This is not the time for speeches!”
“She would have given you this. Take it from our queen, if you won’t take it from a friend.” He thrust his shield at her and dashed off before she could refuse it, toward where his Axium Guards were engaged. Lysande watched his arm raise a sword aloft and bring it to meet an attacker’s blade. She knew she could allow herself no time to bask in his words; the White Queen’s people would not slow with her; and yet she felt the glow of the sentiment and guessed what it had cost for him to voice it.
In front of them, soldiers in spiked helmets and skirts broke the lines and advanced. Cassia did not need to call to her guards: they came with her as soon as she stepped forward and massed to form a block behind Jale and Dante. The Pyrrhans took her direction, throwing swords and firing bolts into the mercenaries. Lysande looked quickly around, wondering whether she should make a charge. The Axium Guards who had reached her were waiting for her command, yet it did not make sense to charge headlong into the fray.
She might do more damage to the Pyrrhan defenders than help, when they were working so closely together. What would Sarelin do? But no . . . it was what she would do that counted. The change had taken place some time ago, subtly.
“Not going to charge in, Prior?” Luca called. She spotted him behind the mêlée.
“I’d prefer to help us win.”
“That’s not very chivalrous of you.”
“Is there chivalry out there? I must have missed it.”
Luca called something to his soldiers. They rallied behind him, and a wave of black flowed around the side of the battle; the Rhimese moved with the same assurance they brought to everything they did, most of them spreading into the seating as they ran. They were not merging with the fight, she realized. Luca climbed onto a table near the front, and Lysande saw the others copy him and begin to shoot at the chimera.
“Draw your blades!” she screamed, turning to the Axiumites.
It was the last shout she managed before the first Pericleans broke through the block.
She was throwing daggers before she could think. Her first blade sank into t
he gap in a woman’s visor and killed her mid-stride. She churned inside, but hastened to pull another dagger from her belt. Don’t look at the blood, she told herself. Just look at the target. She could do this if she immersed herself; blocked out all fear. Ducking under a Periclean’s arm with her shield held close, she pulled her dagger from a fallen body, yanking it out quickly and darting back, just as Litany was doing beside her. Litany flung blade after blade into the mass of soldiers; Chidney raced forward to bring the Axiumites beside her, and together they fought to keep the attackers at bay, Chidney hacking and slashing with the full power of her muscles behind her sword, Litany whirling and weaving, flinging her daggers, the two of them pointing out attackers to each other.
The chimeran fire had burned some of the Pyrrhans, and more and more Pericleans were slipping through Cassia’s lines. They could scarcely kill one soldier before another arrived in their place, and the lunging of the Periclean soldiers told Lysande that they knew their advantage, swinging their swords without hesitation. She forced herself to ignore the waves of despair breaking within her, focusing on each attack, throwing rhythmically.
She dodged a sword, feinting to the right, and nearly impaled herself on another blade: Litany pulled her out of the way in time. They stared at each other, breathing hard. “Thank you,” Lysande whispered, adjusting the shield Raden had given her, and Litany nodded before turning back to the fight.
The tide of soldiers might have proved too much had not a blast of air knocked several of the Pericleans to the ground, the force sending their weapons flying. Lysande felt a tug at her arm, coming from a figure in a rough brown cloak. She knew who would be wearing it even before she glimpsed his face.
She flung a dagger, almost automatically, into the legs of an approaching mercenary. “You mustn’t let anyone see you!” she cried.
“My dear, we might all meet the goddesses below. And if the White Queen is here, I mean to help.” Three shot a jet of air at another Periclean. “How many chances does one get to test oneself with a chimera, after all?”
“It was you before, then?”
“I cast the air. Six just happened to ignore her orders and came here too.” He moved to guard her left. “How in the Three Lands the White Queen got two chimeras . . . but never mind. Damn that white beast. Roaming around like a fire-breathing eagle. We can’t kill it with fireballs.”
She stared around the enclosure, half-expecting to see Luca engulfed in fire. Despite sweeping the crush of bodies with her eyes, she could not pick out his elegant figure. It annoyed her that she felt the need to look for him, even now.
“The archers need to get it in the neck, Cassia says.”
Three glanced ahead, in the direction of the platform. “They might, if Six keeps on.”
She looked up to the front of the enclosure and saw balls of fire shooting up, causing the chimera to screech and flap its wings. Six was nothing if not determined. Her flames widened in the air and forced the animal higher. Hope began to spread in Lysande’s breast. Ahead, several figures were climbing onto the platform; their spiked helms glinted in the light of the elemental woman’s fire, and one of them reached into a pouch at his belt.
The object glanced off a Valderran’s breastplate and clattered to the ground. Lysande stared at it, but she did not recognize it: a disc of metal with a jagged edge.
“The filthy dogs!” Cassia shouted. “They’re throwing coin-knives!”
“What?”
“Tiny pieces of goddess-be-damned death, that’s what! Get down!”
The second circular knife whizzed by Lysande and sliced the cheek of one of Jale’s soldiers. The woman gave a guttural scream as she tried to pull it out, and staggered, falling into the path of a group of mercenaries. Figures in skirted armor fell upon her.
“Down!” Dante roared. “Everybody, get down!”
The Elirans ducked as more of the sharp pieces rained onto them. Lysande lifted her shield to block the coin-knives, then grabbed Litany and Chidney and drew them close. “Can you cover for me here?” she shouted.
“Yes. But where are you—”
“Take this.” She handed Raden’s shield to Litany. “Just keep holding them off. You’re doing brilliantly.”
“Lysande, you mustn’t risk—”
She pulled Litany tight to her and squeezed her. It was the only thing she could think of to thank the girl, and as she held her close, she whispered, “Shadow Chidney now. See that she’s protected. For your own sake.”
Litany nodded, and seemed to struggle with words before running off.
There was one other person who was shadowing Lysande, clutching a shield and watching for arrows, and she turned to him. “Derset, can you bring that shield and run alongside me?”
“Of course, my lady.”
He moved to her. Without hesitating, he maneuvered himself to stand between her and the mêlée on her right. His hand clasped hers. The touch came gently, and yet it carried the weight of an embrace, and Lysande was aware of the brevity of the moment, savoring it. She was aware of the other moments that layered beneath this one: those minutes when they had been alone and gasping, but not in pain. Something pulled her away from the thought. A whipping sound came nearer, like wings beating the air.
She looked up just as the beast swooped on her. The power of the gaze hit her in the stomach, the full force of it causing her body to freeze. Golden eyes stared into hers.
Lysande stared back. This time, it was unmistakable—the inquisitiveness, directed at her, overpowering, and her own fascination rising to meet it. The animal might roast her. She could not move, even if she had wanted to, trapped in thrall to the meeting of soft hair and cut-glass scales. When it did not draw a breath and cremate her, she considered what might happen if she reached up, for she felt certain that it was waiting for a signal to approach her.
A thought hit her. Surely, though, if no physician or scholar had ever hinted in any text, after all this time, it could not be that her use of scale . . .
“My lady!”
This was no time to gape at a chimera.
She drew a dagger and forced herself to sprint down the path around the side of the tables, past the statues, the honey-jug, and its pavilion, Derset keeping pace on her left. Armor covered the three Periclean soldiers upon the platform. It would be impossible to get a clear shot through the slits in their helmets, yet there was one place . . . She lined up her eye with her right hand and sent a dagger spinning into the boot of the nearest soldier. The man staggered, cried out an oath, and fell into the pool.
Lysande forced herself to watch. The splash he made was nothing to the flurry of movement around his body: spikes of a grayish hue broke the pool’s surface and impaled him from every side. His legs, groin, and chest sprouted with red.
The spearfish leaped onto the body and tore chunks of the flesh, their teeth flashing. They worried the fat from the bones within seconds. Lysande turned her head away, holding down bile. If she could have rewritten the moment, she would have parceled this violence up, exchanged it for something bloodless and clean.
Derset passed her a few more daggers, all battle-stained. She brought down the second Periclean, and the woman’s body had already been half-devoured by the time she struck the third soldier—despite everything, she was proud of her aim.
Spearfish turned on each other as they quarreled over these presents, beginning to gore their rivals in the body and fins. Their blood added to the spreading pool of red. Glancing away, she saw Cassia totter; a knife-thrower had landed one of his little pieces in her face, and the Irriqi staggered, clutching her eye. “No!” Lysande shouted.
Pyrrhans thronged around Cassia, shielding her. A rush of blood surged to Lysande’s head. She aimed a dagger at the heart of the nearest mercenary and found her mark, and ignoring the rest of the battle for a moment, she threw another and another. Even though
she knew she was not meant to care about the city-rulers, her wall was crumbling—it had never been very solidly constructed to begin with, she realized.
“For Queen Sarelin!” somebody cried. “Let’s send her some company!”
Lysande turned sharply. She strove to pinpoint the speaker through the crush of bodies.
“And for Councillor Prior!” Raden’s voice roared, louder. “Prior! Prior! Prior!”
Her name echoed from the guards’ voices: Prior. There was a bold music in it that was not the well-measured tune of court dances, nor even the regimented two-step of a march. Lysande noted the wild beat.
Prior. Again and again. She was supposed to be indifferent to such adulation, performing her duties for the Shadows, the populace, the other elementals . . . yet she could not hear that word enough. The mirror of one’s majesty. The reflection could nearly blind you, she thought, watching the Axium Guards storm through the mêlée.
A crest of silver broke over the sea of swords and shields. The mercenaries shouted words she did not recognize, but she saw the new fear on their faces.
One of the archers had penetrated the chimera’s hide below the neck, and the animal came wheeling around in the air, shrieking and sputtering flame. Fires blazed between the tables and encircled the Rhimese as they sprayed arrows into the throng. Lysande directed the Axiumites as loudly as she could over the shouts and screams, letting strategy take over from fear. Did Perfault not claim that the place to debate orders was in court sessions, and the place to issue them was in battle?
“Can you put those fires out?” she called, elbowing her way through to Three.
He looked up, and shook his head. “My dear, I’m afraid my element is air.”
“Someone used water to put the flames out, before!”
“So I saw.” He cast a jet of air at an oncoming attacker. “But not our someone. Only Six and I are here tonight; I wish my colleagues were as eager.”