Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  Around the clearing, more tears in the world billowed open, new arrivals squeezing and clawing their way from the black, rose-scented void. Most wore masks of bone, a menagerie of moths and magpies, lionesses and zebras. The two robed figures approaching them, though, didn’t hide their faces. Mari recognized them—the tall, gangly, and olive-skinned Carcannan man and his shorter, pearly-toothed counterpart—in a heartbeat.

  “Ah, just in time,” Nessa said. “Mari, I’d like you to meet my students, Despina and Vassili. Or, as they’re known to our coven, Shrike and Worm.”

  Jarred from her horror, Mari blinked. “I…I know you. You were those merchants, who gave us a ride to Reinsbech.”

  Vassili bent low in a courtly bow. “Our apologies for the deception, Mari. You see, Nessa wanted very much to meet you, and we’d heard reports of bandits on that road. So my sister and I were instructed to ensure you reached her safely.”

  “We heard about what happened to Werner,” Despina said, frowning. “We’re…so sorry, Mari. He seemed like such a good man. A noble man. His death must have been terribly painful for you.”

  Mari bit her bottom lip, eyes downcast.

  “Nobody could have foreseen his loss,” Vassili said. “We’re just glad that you and our mother escaped safely.”

  “Mother?” Mari asked, looking between them. “I knew you were brother and sister, but…” She paused, studying Nessa’s face and trying to gauge everyone’s ages.

  “Not like that,” Nessa said with a chuckle. “You see, Mari, our coven is a family. The only actual birth relations here are Despina and Vassili, but everyone else uses…well, whatever appellations reflect their heart at the moment. Often I’m an aunt, very rarely a mother; most here will be ‘cousin’ to you.”

  Despina swooped in and locked up Mari’s arm in hers.

  “Sister, as far as I’m concerned. She’s proved herself deserving of it.”

  “Sister,” Mari echoed, her voice faint, not daring to say it too loudly. Speaking the word felt like taking something that didn’t belong to her.

  “Would you like that, Mari?” Despina’s eyes glittered.

  “A family?” Mari asked. “For…for me?”

  “Everyone should have a family,” Vassili said, taking her other arm and pinning Mari between them. “A family who cares for you, and who you can care for. Don’t you think?”

  Mari didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. She blinked, her eyelashes suddenly damp.

  “Is everything prepared for Mari’s initiation?” Nessa asked.

  Despina nodded sharply. “Exactly as you requested, mistress. We had no difficulties.”

  “Nor would I expect you to. Off with you, then.”

  Despina leaned in, as her arm snaked away, and pecked Mari on the cheek.

  “Be brave,” she whispered. Then she and Vassili were off to mingle, the clearing now crowded with hoods and robes and masks. Mari gazed about in wonder. There had to be thirty, maybe forty people milling about on the grass, a quiet expectation hanging in the air. They were waiting for something. Waiting, but eager.

  “I did,” piped up a small voice to Mari’s left. “I did kill them all.”

  A young woman of nineteen or so, garbed in a hooded saffron robe, the corners of her eyes glistening with coppery paint reminiscent of a serpent’s scales, held a much smaller girl—maybe five years her junior—in a headlock.

  “Viper and Mouse,” Nessa murmured, glancing sidelong at Mari. “They get along about as well as their namesakes.”

  “Well, I think you’re a filthy little liar,” Viper said. She tightened her hold around Mouse’s neck, forcing her to one knee. “You’re a filthy little liar who’s just trying to save her own hide. Just wait until Fox gets here. I want to see you try and tell him your ridiculous story.”

  Viper grabbed hold of Mouse’s ear and twisted it until the smaller girl yelped. Mari, eyes narrowed to slits, took a step toward them. Nessa stopped her with a touch to her arm.

  “Niece,” Nessa said, striding in, “is it jealousy that blinds you, or pride?”

  Viper blinked, holding the squirming girl tight. “Huh?”

  Nessa waved her hand. Viper reluctantly let go. Mouse straightened up, wincing as she rubbed her ear.

  “It’s in the eyes.” Nessa gently took hold of Mouse’s chin, lifting her face, studying her. “You can always tell by the eyes. You’ve been blooded, haven’t you, Mouse?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, Miss Owl.”

  “More than one.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Bandits,” Mouse said. “I poisoned them.”

  Nessa let go of her chin and nodded her approval.

  “Poison is a good choice for you, I think. It will serve you well.”

  Viper frowned, looking cheated. Her glare snapped toward Mari. “And what’s this? Lunch?”

  Nessa slid one hand behind Mari’s back, fingers curling over her shoulder.

  “This is Mari, my knight. Mari, this is Viper, your new cousin.”

  Viper snorted. “No relation of mine ’til she’s blooded proper. And a knight? She doesn’t look like much to me.”

  “Try me,” Mari replied. “Or do you only spar with girls half your size? I could get on my knees and fight you that way, if it makes you feel safer. And I’ll still win.”

  Viper froze, one hand dangerously close to the feather-bladed knife on her belt. Then she broke into a grin, showing off canines chiseled to jagged points.

  “Yeah, all right, all right. You might be fun to have around. For a little while. You’d best learn the pecking order around here before you open your mouth again, though. Far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing but a gussied-up servant, and I don’t take lip from servants.”

  “Pleasure meeting you too,” Mari said. “Cousin.”

  Viper stalked off in search of an easier target. Mouse looked up at Mari, eyes bright and curious.

  “I’m Hedy,” she said. “Are you really a knight?”

  “She will be,” Nessa answered for Mari. “Provided she passes her initiation. You never made it to Lerautia, I presume?”

  Hedy bowed her head. “No, ma’am. I was trying, though, honest. As soon as the sabbat is done, I’ll try again. I mean, if…if Master Fox doesn’t…hurt me.”

  Nessa leaned in close, locking eyes with Hedy.

  “And why would he do that?”

  “He wanted me to, um…” Her voice trailed off. The girl seemed to shrink where she stood, her shoulders tensed.

  “He wanted you to obey my orders,” Nessa said, “but you were to report your findings to him first, instead of me.”

  Hedy’s chin bobbed, barely a fraction of an inch.

  “But you know what you should do.”

  “I’m afraid,” Hedy said. “I’m afraid he’s going to kill me.”

  Nessa shook her head, firm. “I won’t allow that.”

  A horn blew. It was a low, droning hum that sent flights of night birds fleeing from the pines, spiraling up toward the alien stars. The hum made Mari’s bones shiver, like the call to a funeral march.

  “It’s time,” Nessa said and took Mari’s hand.

  They walked with the crowd toward the clearing’s edge. A trailhead waited for them, a narrow road carved through the tangled forest and paved in spongy chips of cedar. It turned and twisted under leafless boughs, skeletal limbs folding overhead like the bars of a wicker cage.

  The path emerged into a second clearing, and in the clearing stood an altar. Behind the altar leaned a crooked tomb, its open door illuminated by two guttering torches.

  The altar was a slab of black basalt. The grass around it scorched yellow, twisted and dead. And upon the altar, bound by knotted sailing ropes at his wrists and ankles, lay a naked man. He squirmed, letting out muffled, frantic pleas, gagged under the burlap sack draped over his head.

  Nessa led Mari to the altar as the coven circled around them. All eyes were upon the tomb door, though, a stairway leadin
g down into stony darkness.

  Nessa let go of Mari’s hand and raised her arms to the crowd.

  “We gather tonight in celebration,” she said. “In celebration of our way and our creed, and in celebration of welcoming new blood to our veins. Dire Mother, will you witness?”

  The answer came on a gust of fetid wind billowing from the mouth of the tomb. An ancient whisper that carried to every ear.

  “I will.”

  Nessa turned to the tomb, arms still outstretched.

  “And I ask for us all: will you lead us to Wisdom’s Grave?”

  “I will,” came the Dire Mother’s reply.

  Nessa lowered her arms and flashed a cruel, hungry smile.

  “Tonight,” she said, “we rekindle a tradition long lost. This woman at my side has petitioned to enter my service. A coven knight! She will prove worthy.”

  One figure, taller than the rest, shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. Mari’s jaw clenched. She recognized him at once, from his snouted mask to the ice-blue knotwork tattoos on his beefy arms.

  “This is an outrage,” Bear shouted. “She’s a witch hunter. She’s killed one of our own! You insult us all by bringing her here.”

  “She is no such thing,” Nessa replied. “She was misled by our enemies, and she is…properly penitent.”

  “Then let her prove it.” Viper put her hands on her hips and glared at Mari. “Blood for blood!”

  “Blood for blood,” came the whisper from the coven, then again. And again. A chant. A command.

  Nessa waved her hand, sharp, and silenced them all. Then she led Mari to the altar.

  “Only one person complicit in Squirrel’s death has not been punished,” she explained. “That changes tonight.”

  She tugged the hood from the bound man’s head.

  Mari knew him. She remembered their last meeting like it was yesterday.

  * * *

  “You can’t do this,” Mari had pleaded. She could barely hear her own voice over the din from the village square as the executioner bound the young girl to a post. Kindling piled around her feet.

  The mayor sat placidly under an open tent at the edge of the square, counting out copper coins from a dented lockbox. He didn’t look at her, let alone answer her.

  “You don’t even know she’s guilty,” Mari said. “You won’t even let her talk.”

  Werner’s big hand rubbed the back of Mari’s neck, trying to calm her. She looked over her shoulder, seeing the terror in the girl’s eyes as the executioner stepped back. And lit a torch.

  “This is insane.” Tears brimmed in Mari’s eyes. “Werner, make him stop. This is so wrong, you know it’s wrong—”

  The mayor poured his handful of coins into a cheap leather pouch, offering it to Werner.

  “This transaction is concluded,” he said primly. “Kettle Sands thanks you for your service.”

  Werner took the pouch and gently tugged Mari away from the table.

  “C’mon, Mari, this isn’t any of our business.”

  The torch arced through the air, landing in the kindling with a crump of flame and a puff of black smoke. The girl shrieked through her gag as the flames inched toward her.

  “You bastard,” Mari shouted, lunging at the mayor with fists flailing and her cheeks wet with tears. Werner got his arm around her waist and hauled her back. “You fucking bastard, you can’t do this!”

  The mayor glared at Werner. “I suggest you shut your apprentice’s insolent mouth and leave town before sunset. Otherwise, we might have to find more witches to burn.”

  * * *

  Mari recognized the man on the slab. The mayor recognized her, too. Mari could see it in his eyes. Pleading eyes. Like Squirrel’s had been that hot afternoon in Kettle Sands.

  “Everyone has been punished, save one. That changes tonight,” Nessa said, taking Mari’s hand. She pressed a dagger with a wavy blade—long, gleaming—into Mari’s palm and curled her fingers around the corded hilt.

  “And you, Mari, will be the instrument of our vengeance. The instrument of justice.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was a slow afternoon at the Rusted Plow. They were, as Renata Nicchi had quickly learned, all slow afternoons. The Plow may have been the only tavern in Kettle Sands, but for a town that small, the shine of exclusivity didn’t mean much. She moved from empty table to empty table, her patched skirts swirling around her ankles as she wiped down the ale-sticky walnut wood.

  Gianni—crook-shouldered, with a bulldog’s jowls—looked over from the bar and gave her a broken-toothed smile. “So when are you going to take this place off my hands and let an old man retire in peace?”

  “The day my fiancé arrives with the money,” she said. “And thanks again for taking me on in the meantime.”

  He waved a polishing rag at her. “Feh. Only makes sense you should get to know the place before you’re running it yourself. And it gives the customers something pretty to look at. You know, besides me.”

  She’d arrived four days earlier, saying goodbye to Hedy on the road south. They’d met as coworkers in Renata’s father’s tavern. They parted as…friends, she liked to think. She and Hedy had walked through fire together, surviving as the captives of a bandit gang.

  Renata thought about Hedy often. Sometimes remembering her as a young, bright-eyed and jubilant girl. And sometimes, though she tried not to, she thought back to the night they’d escaped. Watching Hedy triumphant in her mask of white bone, strolling through the bandit camp and admiring her dead and dying victims like a patron at an art gallery.

  Our victims, Renata reminded herself.

  “Any word on Constantin?” she asked. Gianni gave an expressive shrug.

  “You know what I know. Damndest thing, the mayor up and leaving town in the middle of the night like that. If he didn’t want the job anymore, least he could do was appoint someone in his place. I guess we’ll have to have an election.”

  “An election?” she said, surprised. “You choose your leaders here?”

  “Welcome to Carcanna.” He chuckled and picked up another dry tankard to polish. “We’re friends of the Empire, but they don’t get to appoint our bureaucrats. Not yet, anyway. The kingship’s hereditary, but pretty much everything on down from there gets voted on. Your husband’ll have a vote, as soon as he legally owns some land.”

  Husband. Renata liked that thought. She’d even picked out a place to hold the wedding, an ivy-twined arch behind the town’s tiny chapel. Outside, in the cool autumn air, Felix’s hand bound to hers. Together again, at last. It helped, imagining it. The happy image kept her from wondering, too much and too often, if her lover was safe.

  If he’s still alive. She held the thought just for a heartbeat, then banished it from her mind.

  The tavern door slammed open. She knew the stocky, out-of-breath youth on the threshold—he was from one of the farming families in town, always loitering around the market square and quick with a jest. His expression was far from humorous now, though. He looked terrified.

  “Trouble,” he panted. Gianni set his rag down and stepped out from behind the bar.

  “What is it?” Renata said. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s not me, it’s—” he took a deep breath and shook his head, starting again. “Strangers, on the outskirts of town, near my mother’s farm. They’re wearing crusaders’ tunics, but they look like brigands to me and I don’t know what they’re going to do.”

  “Damn fine time for the mayor to quit,” Gianni grumbled. “I’ll head to the square, see if I can’t round up some of the menfolk.”

  “Do we have a militia?” Renata asked him.

  “We’ve never needed a militia.”

  “Renata,” the boy said, “they look Verinian, like you. Could you come to the farm? Maybe if they see one of their own kinsfolk, they won’t…do anything.”

  “Of course,” she said, already untying her apron.

  She didn’t know where he found the energy
to run, but he did, and she sprinted fast on his heels. Up the sleepy brushed-dirt street, past houses of white stucco and salmon-shingled rooftops, and under the tall, tan arch that marked the boundaries of Kettle Sands. The Sanna family farm wasn’t much farther, nestled in a lush, rolling valley.

  They found Elisavet Sanna at the mouth of a leaning clapboard barn. The rugged woman had a red face and wide, sweeping gestures that spoke to her frustration even before Renata heard the tension in her voice.

  “—of course I’m faithful to the Church,” she was saying. “We aren’t heathens in Carcanna.”

  Four men loomed in a ragged line before the farmer, and Renata knew exactly what Elisavet’s son had meant about their looks. Three of them had hard, beady eyes like the bandits who had held her captive, despite the black tree silhouettes sewn onto the chests of their ragged and muddy white tunics. The fourth, locked in argument with Elisavet, had a different bearing. Square-shouldered, with an upturned chin and uncallused hands. The air of a man who was used to getting whatever he wanted just by demanding it. He wore a loose mail shirt under his tunic, and the rapier on his hip sported an ornately spun basket hilt.

  Curiously, Renata noted, he was the only one with a weapon. Two of his followers wore plain belts of rope, and one had a sword sheath but nothing to put in it.

  “If you were truly faithful, you would not hesitate to render the aid that our Holy Father requires of you.” His gaze flicked to Renata and he snapped his fingers at her. “You there. You’re not a native, are you? You’re a northerner.”

  “From Mirenze,” she said.

  “Excellent. You will understand. I am Duke Cosimo Segreti of Verinia, and leader of a full column of crusaders bound for the heretic east. We require food and lodging.”

  “Isn’t the Church supposed to supply your food?” Renata asked. “Or the Empire?”

  He sniffed. “Ideally, yes, but there appears to have been some sort of…miscommunication. We, ah, haven’t been able to make contact with the supply lines. As such, I have a company of hungry men at my back, and it is your duty as a faithful daughter of the Gardener to provide for them.”

  “I told him,” Elisavet said to Renata, fluttering her hand, “it’s past harvest time. They’re welcome to the gleanings of the fields—”