by Callie Bates
“I think it’s rich that you talk of safety, Rhia Knoll,” I burst out. “And a lack of leaders? What about you, the future warden? What about me, the Caveadear? What about Jahan—he’s the Korakos!” I fling a hand toward the croft. “What about Sophy? She’s the king’s bastard. Why shouldn’t she be queen?”
Rhia opens her mouth, but I don’t let her speak.
“And the land hardly gives us real safety. Denis and the Butcher won’t give up till we’re locked in prison with our orders for execution. I don’t know why you talk of giving up when we have hardly even begun.”
There’s a noise from the croft’s open door. Sophy and Alistar stand there, staring. I don’t know how much they’ve overheard. I’m panting, shaking with fury and exhaustion.
Sophy shakes her head. She takes one step forward. Another. Her eyes are bruised, but the terrible, flailing rage seems to have gone out of her. “What would you have us do, El?”
I close my eyes. I think of the king, Ossian, kneeling in the stones above Dalriada, in the memory of the past come alive. His hands open on his thighs. How he claimed not to be afraid.
I must be like him. I must not be afraid, no matter what sacrifice the land asks of me.
“We need to find another way to win,” I say.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Did you hear that?” Jahan says. He’s stopped short, pulling on my arm, so that I swing back to face him. The moon is lowering behind the trees that buffer our narrow track, and it’s hard to make out his face. I’m not sure how much time we have before dawn—an hour? It’s taken us at least an hour already to get here from the Knolls’ camp on the north side of Lake Harbor, where our small force is hidden deep in a valley, protected by the land as much as I can manage. We had to walk through the hills, rocks and roots parting to let us pass safely in the dark, so there was no chance of us being seen by the guards on Barrody’s ramparts. We’re both dressed in shepherds’ clothes, and we blend into the shadows, but I’m still afraid that any movement out here, in the wee hours of the morning, will make them suspicious.
I listen through my feet. Nothing comes to me but a strange quiet—strange because we are close to Barrody now, and I should feel the tremor of the city even so early in the day. I concentrate. It does not feel like a threatening quiet. It feels like nothing at all.
Perhaps it’s because Denis and the Butcher think they’ve defeated us in battle; they killed our prince, after all. The bulk of the Ereni army is camped just north of the city, while the Butcher reportedly returned in triumph to the castle. Perhaps they think they can rest on their victory.
But they don’t know that Jahan, Sophy, Alistar, Rhia, and I reunited with Ingram Knoll and the mountain lords after the battle in the town, traveling back through the folds in the land to find them. They don’t know that Ingram Knoll had gotten word to Hugh, who arrived soon after, bringing with him additional supporters from the lowlands, including the soldiers who fled the disastrous battle. They don’t know that we walked the folds of the land and pitched camp directly between Barrody and the Ereni army.
They can’t even imagine that my plan is to break the bindings of the earth at the stone circle in Barrody, to ring the city in impossible mists and forests and water, cutting it off from the army to the north—and from its supply lines and roads to the south.
It will be harder still for them to imagine that I’ll rejoin Rhia and Hugh and walk the folds to the place where the army is camped, where Ingram Knoll waits with a force of lowland soldiers. They’re near a town, and of course there’s a stone circle above it. I’ll wake the land there, as well.
Then our small army will march on Barrody, our ranks swelled by the specters of the past, the ghosts I will summon from the land. We will scare the Ereni out of their wits, and remind the Caerisians of the power of our land. We will win.
Circle by circle, I will break the bindings and reclaim Caeris. Then we will move into Eren and do the same.
And then we will be free.
If waking the land and the ancestors goes in the way Granya and I expect. If I can control my power and act quickly enough. If the Ereni surrender.
Jahan stops, then grabs my arm and slows us both. The moonlit path curves ahead of us. “Someone spoke my name.”
A shiver runs over my skin. “Who?”
“It’s nothing,” he says. “It could be anyone.” But then he pauses, and I hear him take a breath. “El. Whoever it is, they’re not far from us.”
I feel a burning heat against my hip. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the witch stone in my pocket. I pull it free. It lies in my hand, vibrating with energy.
A distant boom breaks the quiet. As explosions go, it seems small, shrunken.
“The garrison,” Jahan says, half to himself.
After our meeting with the army, Sophy and Alistar went straight to Barrody to alert the underground and to claim the ammunitions our supporters have been stealing from the deposit in the nearby port town. They’re in the city now, coordinating an attack on the garrison to coincide with our arrival at the stone circle. In the dark, it will send the garrison into complete chaos, diverting attention from what we’re doing—and keep the Ereni busy so they don’t think of sending for help until it’s too late and they’re surrounded.
If all goes well, after the attack on the garrison, Sophy will bring the Barrody underground to meet us at the north gate. We will flood through the city and claim it.
But we could not get word to my mother. We don’t know what, if anything, she’s accomplished inside the castle—or even if she’s been forced to betray us. Somehow, I have to reach her.
Another small explosion shakes the air. It still does not seem loud enough—and I realize it’s because I am hearing the noise with my ears, not through my feet. Not through my whole body.
I shake my head. My heart is pounding. It’s nerves. I don’t feel the land because I am afraid.
I must not be afraid.
We continue, Jahan’s arm tight through mine. On this deer path, winding down the hill toward Barrody, no one can possibly see us in the darkness.
All the same, I whisper to the trees to draw closer.
Nothing happens.
“Jahan,” I whisper. My voice is catching in my throat. It should be easy. We have avoided Ereni regiments thus far. No one, not even Denis—not even the Butcher—would think we’re fearless enough to walk right into Barrody—right into the stone circle above the castle, where the whole city could see us, even if it is still night. But do they know that I can wake the ancestors in their midst, that I can bring the land alive? If they have Caerisian maps, they have more than that; they have Caerisian help, coerced from either my mother or someone I don’t know. They saw what I did to the scaffold. They know the stories about the Caveadear are true.
An enormous boom shakes the air. In the distance, orange sparks shatter the darkness.
I don’t know if it’s Jahan or me who starts running first. But we’re both racing through the black forest, skidding around the tightly nested trees. His hand is hot in mine. Then we hurtle out into the open, onto the ridge overlooking the shadowy bulk of the city. On a ridge below us, limned by moonlight, sits the stone circle. And beyond that, Lake Harbor, the castle, the city.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Even in the dark, we are too much in the open here, too exposed. But we had to come to Barrody, to cut the Ereni army’s head from its body. We have to chance this bold maneuver in order to force Denis and the Butcher to surrender, thinking their forces lost.
It’s too late to retreat now. The circle sits empty on the ridge below us. The lingering moonlight shows that the ridge is barren except for a cluster of darkness off to the left of the circle—trees.
“Remember what we did?” Jahan pants. “You don’t see me. I am a—a—”
“A fox.”
But even I can feel that it’s not working—for either of us. We haven’t shrunk into invisibility against the
bare shoulder of the ridge. We are definite points—shadowed, yes, but still exposed to any eye that’s looking.
Yet we don’t have a choice. We have to trust the night to protect us. I plunge over the edge, down to the stone circle.
More booms echo across the city. Smoke hangs over the garrison, lit by the stars. Distant sparks shine and vanish.
For Finn. I am doing this for Finn. For my father. For my mother. For all of Caeris. For the land.
For Jahan. For me.
The dagger makes a snug weight against my waist, where I strapped it in under a belt.
The ground levels out beneath me. The stone circle waits ahead.
“El!”
Jahan bellows my name. I skid to a stop, falling hard against one of the stones.
The dark wood on the other side of the stones has begun to move. I peer around the stone. I still don’t feel the land shifting under my feet. How can the trees move and I don’t feel it?
That’s because they aren’t trees. It’s not a wood.
It’s a blind of some sort, stuffed with stubby shapes that I now realize are brush. Someone’s hiding in there; someone’s seen us. They’ve been waiting. They knew.
Someone told them—or they intercepted some of our intelligence. I can’t imagine who would betray us now; I don’t want to.
Unless Mother guessed this, too.
Sparks flare. Musket fire reports toward us.
I duck behind the stone. Jahan calls out. I glance around; the moon and the flaring muskets light him up. He’s holding up his hand, trying to break their guns.
But the guns don’t break.
He does.
I see the musket shot catch him—a spreading darkness in the shoulder, in the chest. He twists to the side. A soft, shocked sound puffs from his mouth. He falls.
I’m on my feet. I can’t even scream.
The soldiers pound between the stones behind me. “Halt in the name of the queen!”
Jahan is hit. Jahan could be dead.
I scrabble for my dagger. There’s not much I can do—stab one person. That’s all I’ll have time for. And there are many of them.
Or I can try to slip past them in the dark, while they’re distracted by Jahan. Paint my blood onto the stones.
But Jahan—
Then a man walks past me.
Not a soldier. The moonlight illuminates a bandolier, but it’s not stuffed with ammunition. It’s covered in stones.
Witch stones.
Their hum deadens the air. The nothingness I felt before concentrates around him: this tall man who holds a bell in both hands.
A witch hunter. Denis said he would send for one. It seems he arrived.
I can’t feel the land. If I try to break the bindings with him here, I won’t succeed.
“Stand back,” he calls to the soldiers. “A sorcerer is dangerous, even a wounded one.”
Wounded. Not dead. I bite my lip against gasping in relief.
“Where’s the other one?” the witch hunter barks.
I am right here. Behind him. But there’s another man between me and him. That man turns, and sees me. In the dark, it takes him a moment to register the fact that I’m not a soldier. The bulky, unfitted shape of my clothes gives me away.
I dive to the other side of the stone just as he swears. “There!” They haven’t reloaded their muskets.
Not yet. And it’s dark.
I run, darting through the center of the stones, my heartbeat scattering in my ears.
Musket fire explodes. Just two. They must not have fired before.
I dodge behind another stone. Safe.
Except for the burning along my lower back. It rubs, raw and tender, against the rough stone. I hiss.
I’ve been hit.
I reach behind me, feel for the wound. Wetness touches my hand. I curse.
They’re reloading their muskets—I hear the clink of powder flasks. I grind my teeth together. I have to act now. Where is the witch hunter?
I peer around the stone. They’re all just shadows in the dark.
My witch stone is burning a hole in my pocket. I pull it out. It fizzes and hums. It’s not as strong as the stones the hunter has, but as I hold it, it begins to burn. Its hum vibrates with me—a deeper, stronger vibration than the witch hunter’s stones. Heat flashes up my arms, deep into the pit of my stomach. I look down. Light is vibrating out from the stone’s clear quartz surface, radiating up my arms—a brilliant white light that seems to be dissolving my body. I am no longer quite there, no longer quite substantial. It’s as if I’m becoming one with the stone, as if my body is turning into a clear surface that reflects light.
All their eyes are adjusted to the dark. If I step out…
I run into the space between two stones, burning, shining. The soldiers fling up their hands with groans, cursing me. Someone’s musket goes off in the wrong direction. I run through them, right up the slope until I see the witch hunter.
He turns toward me, his eyes squinted shut. Blinded. And unarmed.
I stab my dagger into his throat. He falls.
My witch stone hums, deeper and brighter than the stones lining his bandolier, as if in triumph.
Jahan is still on the ground behind him, but I can’t go to him. I have to run.
Muskets bellow again as I dash back down the ridge and behind another stone, my jaw tight with rage. The burning light from the witch stone subsides, shrinking back down into the stone itself, no longer radiating through my body. I run to another stone, invisible again in the dark. I have to do this—for my country, for Jahan’s sacrifice. Now.
My hands are wet with blood. The witch hunter’s—and my own. I touch the wound on my lower back, hissing at the pain of my own dirty fingers touching it, then press my fingertips to the stone in front of me.
It begins to hum.
And from the other side of the circle, I hear a familiar, hoarse voice call out. “Take him to the castle! Where’s the girl?”
When did the Butcher get here?
Oh gods, gods! I have to act fast. I race to the next stone, smearing it with my blood. The soldiers are shouting; the Butcher is shouting. I’m practically invisible in the dark, and—I glance behind me—the ancestors are appearing from the stones in flashes of brilliant light. A man screams.
Far off, the explosions continue at the garrison.
“I’m surrounded by imbeciles!” the Butcher bellows as I reach the next stone and slather it with more of my blood. My legs are shaking; the wound gapes open on my back, spurting a fresh, hot wash of blood into my shirt.
I don’t have time to spare for pain or even rage. I have to complete this. I have to wake this circle, even if it kills me.
I run, staggering, to the next stone. I’m halfway around the circle now. The light of the ancestors jars my night vision; I can’t tell how many of the soldiers have gone, only that there seem to be fewer voices.
Of course, as I’m going from stone to stone, the ancestors flaring bright, it won’t be hard for them to track me. I should turn around, double back, try to confuse them.
It’s hard to stop, but I do. I turn.
The Butcher is stepping between the stones directly behind me.
I reach automatically for my dagger, but I left it in the witch hunter’s throat. The Butcher doesn’t know that, though. His eyes are still squinted against the light.
His hands are empty. There’s a pistol strapped at his hip. He hasn’t seen me yet.
It’s time to take the risk. We’re as alone as we’re going to get; I don’t see or hear any soldiers. Right now, despite the Butcher’s crimes, despite everything, I have to trust my mother. And I know that winning will be easier with him on our side.
“Lord Gilbert,” I call. He squints in my direction. “I could do away with you now, but I’m not going to. I know the truth about you, and I believe you can help us. I want you to help us.”
His gaze focuses on me, but he doesn’t call my bluff even tho
ugh he must guess I couldn’t really kill him. “Is that so?”
I persevere, despite the blood trickling from my wound, despite the time running out. “Under the new order, no one would force you to lead a war you don’t believe in, against people who used to be your friends. It’s a chance for all of us to make amends. To redeem ourselves. To start again.”
He’s frowning deeply, but he only says, “Lady Elanna, are you wounded?”
“When I come to the city gate,” I persist, “you’ll have your chance. One chance, to prove your loyalty to me. Do you choose me, or Loyce? It’s your decision. But I hope you choose me.”
Down the hill, someone shouts. We both startle, staring toward the source of the noise. Then the Butcher turns back and meets my eyes.
“Would you have a nation of living magic, Lady Elanna, when it means you risk the black ships and the emperor’s wrath? You aren’t saving yourself or Caeris or Eren; you’re putting all our people in greater danger than ever.”
“It’s better to stand for a cause than die in obscurity.”
“Is it?” he says, and scratches his chin.
More shouts echo from down the hill, resolving into one voice crying his name. “Lord Gilbert! Insurgents! The garrison—the city!” The Butcher half turns, but stops himself. He looks at me.
“Those are my people,” I say. “Or—ours.”
He reaches for his pistol. I tense all over, but then there’s another shout from down the hill. “Lord Gilbert! They’re storming the streets!”
I’m shaking all over with pain and the fear of the gun and the urgency of completing my work here. After all this, he’s not going to kill me now. Is he? He should. “This is your opportunity,” I say. “You could help us. You could be better than this.”
“Why would I do that, Lady Elanna?” But he doesn’t fire the gun. And as he glances over his shoulder at the latest shout from below—“Lord Gilbert! To the castle!”—I dash between the stones, back into the circle, rushing to the next stone. It flares with light, and when I peer around it to where the Butcher stood moments before, he’s gone. I see his silhouette running down the hill; shots are being fired in the streets below the castle.