by A A Woods
As children, Carlette and Quaina had snuck up through the tunnels to explore the Geldrue, darting through shadows as they flitted from mansion to mansion. They gaped at the finely dressed merchants and visiting nobles, giggling as they scampered away from patrolling soldiers. There wasn’t much wealth in Tuleaux, but what little there was clumped on the hilltop like a tumor, as different from the world below as Tuleaux was from the wild tribal cities. Inevitably, their trips to the wealthy sector ended with them being carried out under the arms of grumpy guards, tossed back into the Slants like bags of potatoes. But it never deterred them. Quaina was infatuated by wealth and luxury as much as Carlette had been obsessed with the Giant’s Wood.
She paused in front of the Magistrate’s front gate, an intricate work of wrought iron inlaid with an overlapping design of anchors. It was strange for her to be standing in the open, surrounded by painted walls and fine, imported gardens. She felt the itching urge to run, duck into the shadows, disappear like the ghost they thought she was.
Carlette took a deep breath and shook herself.
She had a mission here.
Forcing her feet to step through the monstrous iron doors, she tried to empty her mind. The men protecting the front gates examined Grand Mera’s edict of free passage, watching her as if expecting a Bloody Paw rebel to leap out from beneath her hood. She ignored them, keeping her face still and her eyes down. She was a tool, sent for a purpose, not a tourist here to gawk at the sights.
But when the men finally waved her in and she entered the main hall, Carlette couldn’t help but gasp.
Ferren had originally been discovered by Delasir after they’d run through their own iron ore. Desperate for more metal, the hungry nation had stumbled upon this island. And the city of Tuleaux was born, as they now said, between the anvil and the hammer. For many years, iron was Ferren’s only export, hard-won and precious. Then the tribes began to attack the settlers with strange powers and instinctual gifts. Magic. The founder of the city—Micros Gaul himself—was the first to realize that this extraordinary new place could be far more valuable than just a glorified mine.
Despite his discovery, Gaul’s once-home and statehouse was a testament to the power of iron. Obsidian stone columns were wreathed in twisted metal that had been shaped into leaves and flowers, soft but somehow still threatening. The tiled floor was outlined with hammered steel and the monstrous main hall – large enough to fit the entire population of Jemelle and have room to spare—seemed like one of the Moian gods, vast and grand and echoing of violence.
Carlette paused in the doorway, gaping. She had never felt smaller.
No wonder Voka’s rebellion had failed. Any culture that could create something like this must be unstoppable.
She was glad to be on their side.
“Move along,” snapped a voice behind her. Carlette started and forced herself to walk forward, following the welcome mat of light at the back of the entrance hall. It was the Magistrate’s office, placed carefully like a prized jewel overlooking the glittering sea.
As Carlette approached the open door, three figures appeared, silhouetted against the sunset. Carlette blinked. Her eyes adjusted as they moved towards her.
It was two guards in full Tuleaux regalia, hauling a slumped woman between them. Carlette stepped aside, bowing her head so that she disappeared into the shadow of her hood. But her eyes strayed curiously to the figure in the middle. The woman was tall and narrow, with a vaguely stretched quality. Long neck, long legs, long arms, swathed in dark prison clothes. A blindfold was tied tight around the woman’s eyes and her hands were bound in Iron Gloves, the locked metal blocking her magic.
As the guards strode past, barely acknowledging her presence, Carlette saw tiny tufts of what she was sure had once been feathers woven into the prisoner’s black braids. And even dragged along, barely keeping herself upright, this creature radiated authority like a stink, her face etched with the lines of an arrogant grin.
The Pirate Queen, Carlette thought, thinking of Mya’s news.
As if hearing the thought, the woman’s head pulled up. Carlette felt a surge of nameless things as her mind touched the woman’s, as she smelled the streak of blood on her lip and the distinctly avian scent beneath the haze of pain and captivity. Carlette found herself thinking of blue skies, wide open water.
Freedom.
The woman’s lips quirked in a brazen smile and then she was gone, dragged to the side and towards the cliff cells below their feet.
Carlette could only imagine the security that would surround that cell.
It was an unprecedented victory, for Tuleaux to hold the Ceillan leader, head of the pirates who had destroyed so many of their shipments. The Featherhands, they called themselves. The Pirate Queen’s crews had pecked away at Delasir’s defenses like patient birds, and she herself had become infamous, an indomitable force of nature that bent all men to her will and rode a raptor like a man rides a horse.
Suppressing a chill, Carlette adjusted her hood and handed her letter to one of the men guarding the Magistrate’s office. She could see an additional six guards inside, backlit against the glass that overlooked the sea. According to gossip, the old Magistrate used to keep only two personal guards for protection. But after Voka and the sweeping restlessness that had followed her rebellion, his replacement had tripled that number.
The guard peered at her, yanking her hood back and examining her face as if treachery would be written across her forehead. Then he nodded and escorted her inside.
“She won’t break,” said a deep male voice as Carlette’s eyes adjusted to the room. It was cold, metallic, and comfortless, filled with an enormous table—Goddeau wood rimmed with iron. Maps and edicts papered the walls. And there was Magistrate Luis Zingal, standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the sea. Like Grand Mera he was vine-thin, salt-and-pepper hair brushed back from his forehead and brown Delarese eyes. He reminded Carlette of a fox.
On the left side of the table stood three other figures—two hoods, blue and yellow, hovering behind a broad-chested giant with rippling muscles and a bearded, incongruously kind face.
The Woodsman.
Carlette swallowed bile. She hadn’t expected to run into the man himself, her future commander. She kept her eyes on the table, wondering what she should say. Could she prove herself to him now? Try to earn his favor before facing him on Gaulday?
“I thought you were supposed to have experts in this sort of thing,” drawled another voice to Carlette’s right, the snide tone instantly unlikable.
Jerking her head up, Carlette saw the source of the noise and felt herself shrink even more.
It wasn’t obvious by his look. Brown hair, brown eyes, tall and pale from years of pampered Northern luxury, he could have been any other Delasir merchant come to try his luck at a new life. But his clothing gave him away. A finely cut coat with a sash of embroidered anchors, pinned together by a gilded iron crown. Only commanders and generals could wear that pin…
Commanders, generals, and the royal family themselves.
It couldn’t be anyone but Prince Dirlen, illegitimate son of the king’s mother, older brother of King Elan.
“Our Skin Smith is currently needed in Jemelle,” the Magistrate responded. “And sending the brat away would be unwise, what with half her fleet bobbing right outside Commercant Bay.”
“We need a way to scatter them,” said the Woodsman, his voice earthy and comforting, like a warm cider on a cold winter night. “And soon. I fully intend to return to the front after the Gaulday presentations.”
“Be my guest, Commander,” drawled the Prince, his expression infuriatingly indolent. “Although it does seem a waste to lose half the new recruits to pirates before they even see battle.”
The Woodsman’s gaze snapped to the Prince at then back to the Magistrate, unable to hide his irritation.
“This is not a good time to be stalled, Luis,” he growled, bear-like in hi
s intensity. “Nurkaij is using magic. In battle. We defeated their first battalion of Ferrenese recruits recently, and by a thin margin at that. If we don’t find Caika soon, if they manage to start a breeding program—”
“We are doing everything in our power, I assure you,” said the Magistrate, turning away from the sunset to face the men. His eyes passed over Carlette as if she was part of the décor.
“What of the spy? The Nuri mechanic?”
“I’m sending him to the Skin Smith tomorrow.” Carlette stood up straighter. “He will be broken by the time the scouts return and will show them the way. We should be able to deliver Caika to the king by the next full moon.”
“Don’t think you’ll be delivering much of anything with those pirates at your front door,” said the prince.
“Perhaps I should put you in charge of questioning our captive, Prince Dirlen,” snapped the Magistrate, eyes flashing. “After all, weren’t you sent here to learn how your father’s empire works?”
Prince Dirlen’s face shifted. Carlette caught the pungent scent of anger.
“Among other reasons.”
“She won’t break,” the Woodsman repeated. “I’ve seen her kind before. She will die before she agrees to help us.”
“Then we must find another way to get the pirates to behave. Perhaps the threat of a public execution?”
“They know we can’t kill her. She’s our leverage.”
“Pain can be motivating,” the Magistrate said, eyes drifting over the papers scattered on the enormous table. “A finger, perhaps? A gift to her fleet to remind them of our intentions?”
The Woodsman pursed his lips but said nothing.
“Gentlemen,” came Prince Dirlen’s voice, infused with bored disinterest. “Not that watching you two flounder to control this place isn’t fascinating, but you do have company.”
Carlette flushed as all eyes fell on her.
“I am aware, Prince,” said the Magistrate in a tight voice. “I sent for her. She’s here to escort the Nuri spy to Jemelle.”
“Ah yes, the beginning of our great Caika adventure,” said Dirlen with a half-smile. “Do you intend for her to stand there all night, listening to the details of your plans?”
Dirlen’s expression was apathetic, but Carlette could see the glimmer of cleverness in his eyes, hidden but not well enough. She’d heard from the soldiers about the bastard son of Queen Aenna, born before she’d married King Asbel. Somehow the clever youth had managed to win the king’s heart at only five years old. He was adopted, given rank and trained in the best schools while young Elan was raised to rule.
And now he was here, no doubt sent by General Gulon, who had taken over the war after King Asbel’s death.
He didn’t look pleased about the change of scenery.
The Magistrate seemed to be holding his breath so he didn’t commit an executable offense and punch a prince. Carlette kept her eyes down. Finally, he addressed her.
“You’re late.”
“Apologies, sir,” Carlette said, biting her tongue to swallow a defensive retort. She wasn’t late; in fact she was early. The sun had not yet set, hovering above the ocean behind the Magistrate like a Gaulday bauble. “I was held up at the gates.”
“I don’t want excuses. You’re Grand Mera’s best?”
Carlette’s cheeks reddened even more, but she kept her expression schooled and emotionless, fighting the urge to look at the Woodsman.
“I honor my country as best I can, sir,” she said.
“Well, I expect you to do more than your best tomorrow. It is critically important that the young man we’ve captured makes it through the mountains quickly and quietly. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Carlette said, bowing her head.
“Isn’t it, er, unusual to put so much trust in one of them?” Prince Dirlen interjected.
“They are our front line,” the Woodsman said in a dangerous tone. “I trust them with my life every day.”
“Perhaps the war has affected your logic,” Dirlen answered carelessly. “With the Bloody Paws so active, it seems foolish to entrust our one hope of finding Caika in the hands of a girl with more attachment to this land than our home.”
Carlette straightened, biting her cheek, holding back her anger. Luckily, the Magistrate spoke first.
“Prince Dirlen, you are new to Tuleaux so I will explain things to you. Without the Order, we would have lost this city decades ago. Our hoods have proven themselves invaluable assets both here and abroad. While your suspicion is understandable given your… new understanding of how things work here, it is unwelcome in this room. As is your pessimism. We will find this base, rid Ferren of Nuri soldiers, and we will do it with Jemelle’s continuing assistance. There is no need to worry the king.”
“Oh, my brother isn’t worried about much,” Dirlen said airily. “I get do all the worrying for him.”
The Magistrate’s face twisted into a frown. He waved one hand at Carlette. Taking the dismissal, she retreated into the great hall, all but grinning to herself.
The Magistrate had called her the best, in front of the Woodsman. She couldn’t have asked for a better first impression. Her feet all but skimmed the ground as she was led to the Order’s barracks beneath the statehouse and locked inside for the night. She wasn’t even bothered by the dampness of her bed or the bone-deep chill of the room, carved from the mountain itself.
If she succeeded tomorrow, if she proved herself capable of this task, she would join the King’s Axe. She would graduate, earn her battleaxe tattoo, and take her place among her brothers and sisters fighting for Delasir.
All she had to do was escort one man across Durchemin without anyone noticing them.
How hard could that be?
Chapter Nine: The Man From the Sky
The Nuri mechanic was nothing like Carlette expected. While standing in the cavernous entrance, waiting for guards to return with the prisoner, Carlette had pictured an older man, dark skin tanned from the hot Nurkaij sun. She imagined dusted black hair, eyes sly and calculating. In her mind, the spy was cold and undaunted, as sharp and inhuman as a loosed arrow sent to penetrate their lands.
But when the echoes of a struggle made Carlette turn, she found herself trying to hide her surprise at the figure being dragged up, bucking and fighting the Magistrate’s men with every step.
He was young. No older than seventeen. Her age.
And terrified.
His skin was brown, but it wasn’t the bark-like leather Carlette had seen in the older Nuri prisoners. No, the spy’s face was creamy, a smooth walnut that matched his eyes. She could see laugh lines etched around his mouth, the beginnings of a kind history written on his face. Dressed in a tattered aviator uniform, complete with fur-lined cap and scratched leather gloves, he didn’t look like the villain of the sailor’s breathless stories.
He looked too… human.
Carlette straightened her spine, watching impassively as the guards punched the young man in the gut. He doubled over, manacled hands digging into his belly, breath escaping his lips in a whoosh. She could smell the prison and sweat on him, layered upon a foundation of fear.
“You think you can handle him?” growled one of the guards, throwing the mechanic down in front of Carlette the way one might toss a rotting carcass.
“Of course,” Carlette answered.
The boy scrambled to his feet. He swung around and made to lunge at the guards.
Carlette yanked off one glove and felt the nerves of her fingers tangle in the air, wrapping around the prisoner’s will like strangler vines. The white rims around her pupils glowed. The mechanic froze, his body shaking as it tried to defy her. As his mind tried to throw her off. But holding him was as easy as breathing mountain air.
To Aheya and the other hoods—even other Prederaux—enhabiting a human mind for any length of time would be catastrophically exhausting. Humanity’s complex will was a rearing horse, violent and unruly. But to Carlette,
slipping into the brain of anyone, even a fellow hood, was like sliding into a cold river, a breathless exhale.
The boy’s eyes were wide, panicked, silently pleading. She forced her hand to shake. Frowned with apparent effort. And then dropped her hand, making a show of panting as her eyes darkened, iridescent to dull white.
The young man, though, was shaking in earnest. Carlette knew what he was going through, since it was part of the Order’s training to be enhabited. Carlette could still remember when Aheya had dominated her mind, her friend vomiting from the struggle. It had felt like a raging wildfire was climbing up the back of her neck, up her spine, into her brain. Grand Mera told them it was tissue dying, that the natural instinct to struggle cuts off blood supply and slowly drains the body of life. It was why their training was so intensive. They had to grow accustomed to the feel of a creature dying in their mental hands, learn to shrug off the nauseating shock of death and leap to the next mind. Continue fighting.
And they had to learn the limits of enhabitation for situations just like this.
Carlette didn’t so much as wince when the boy fell to his knees and retched on the marble floor. The guards leapt back with disgust.
“We need to be going,” Carlette said, grabbing the prisoner’s arm and yanking him upright. “I apologize for the mess.”
Ignoring the heat of their glares on her back, Carlette guided the staggering Nuri out of the statehouse, winding her way towards the city gates.
“I suggest you don’t try to escape again,” Carlette said as they began the long ascent up the stairs, her hand on his elbow. “Next time, I will hold longer.”
“Witch,” he spat, eyes wild as he tried to yank his elbow free. Carlette dug her nails in, one hand still ungloved.
She would not engage the prisoner, would not personify him. This was a man who had helped fly soldiers over the mountains, a talon in the reaching claws of her enemy. His people were a plague that threatened to destroy everything Carlette knew and hated everything Carlette was.