At last the blightyard appeared up ahead. No one guarded the place, for there was nothing to steal: witches and warlocks took only rags to the grave. She hesitated a moment in the black iron gateway before riding in, picking her way through the markers to the rounded stone of Kolos, Magus’s fallen apprentice. After dismounting, she took the spade from its hiding place and gave Kiyandla a few handfuls of oats, as there was no forage in the blightyard.
She skinned down to small clothes and then set to digging. Soft ground and no roots made for fast work, but she had to proceed carefully to avoid accidentally shattering the skull. The dirt looked like any other, but it stung her skin and eyes. No wonder nothing can grow.
It was a long while before she found the first bones. They looked like ribs, with cloth and melted skin stretched over top. Widening the hole, she finally unearthed the young man’s skull. His body didn’t smell as badly as she had expected, but the sour, moldy odor was still revolting; worse was his noseless, leathery face.
It was awful crouching in a grave with Kolos’s body and she fought the urge to scurry out. Calm down. Concentrate. How had she interrogated the witch’s residuum? She stared into the empty eyes, looking for the shining substance. Nothing. Kneeling on the bones, she leaned in as close as possible. Inside was the faintest of glimmers. Larissa extended a finger into the eye socket and felt an eerie prickling as the light took hold. Gingerly she drew it out, sensing it could easily tear.
The resulting form was twisted and grotesque, barely human. Kolos had truly been evil. His specter was little more substantial than steam from hot kaif, probably because it was so old. Now that it was resurrected, Larissa realized she had given no thought on what to say. “Kolos, will you speak with me?”
The specter blinked its eyes and spoke faintly, only inches away in the narrow grave. “Do I know you, child?”
“We never had a chance to meet. Magus executed you before I came to Chimkant.”
“Tancred. I remember him…”
“You were his apprentice.”
“Was I?” Kolos tilted his head. “I was. I served him.”
“Was he a good master?”
“He … cut my throat.” A hand rose to his ruined neck. “Because of my sacrifices.” Larissa felt a rush of relief, but then Kolos said thoughtfully, “Our sacrifices.”
Her pulse quickened. She whispered a prayer to the High King, Please, don’t let this be true. “Tancred did the sacrifices with you?”
Kolos nodded vaguely. It could be a trick of the light, but he looked fainter than when they began. Larissa feared the residuum would soon be used up. “Does Tancred belong to Avishag?”
“We both do.” Larissa could hear the steel of his devotion even through the rasping voice. “I gave her so much blood.” He laughed malevolently, with an edge of madness that made Larissa huddle in her corner of the grave. “I came to my Lady willingly. He came to save his li—.” The specter dissolved into the air even as she called for him to stay.
Larissa filled in the grave, dressed, and then rode until she found a stream. The water was cold, but she scrubbed until every scrap of dirt was gone. She was living with a servant of the dark faie, and one thing was certain – if Tancred suspected anything, she would end up in that glassblower’s house with a dagger in her chest. Sick with fear, she guided Kiyandla back to Chimkant.
CHAPTER 43
M irko Bowback peered through the shutter slats of the window, enjoying glimpses of freedom. Yellow-winged birds dove in and out of view chasing insects. A group of knights played at quoits, laughing like children as they tossed hempen rings at a stake. Sunlight was warm on his face.
At the other end of the chain, Wicke was squatting over the chamber pot. Last night’s oxtail had tasted gamy and the two of them had suffered ever since. He heard a slosh as Wicke took the cleaning sponge from its bucket of water and washed himself. “Done, you can turn around.” The two of them shuffled to the door and left the pot for the guards. Wicke hummed a few bars of some Jandari tune, much livelier than the dirges of Mirko’s homeland.
It was strange – after many days spent shackled to the nobleman, his respect for Wicke’s decency and wisdom had only grown, but his awe of nobles was gone. They were just men. Men who snored and wept and shat like everyone else.
All the same, it felt as if he had learned more from Wicke in this short time than in all the years before. More than knowledge, he had learned to question. Why must things be as they are? By what right did the nobles take half of all he grew, while giving nothing in return? Hesitantly, he asked Wicke the twin questions that itched him most of all. “Can the Belgorshans drive out Leax and his nobles? Can we live as you do?”
The older man brushed at the tangles in his beard a long while before answering. “If Leax loses this war, the Belgorshans will have their chance. The priest-king’s coffers will be empty and his nobles angry.” He plucked a louse from his beard and squashed it into the rushes. “Most importantly, war stirs things up. Thousands of Belgorshans peasants and slaves will know how to grip a spear, and many won’t want to go home to their fields now that they’ve tasted the world. If the right man lights a spark, he could set the whole country ablaze.”
“But is Leax going to lose? You said his army is the largest you’ve ever seen.”
“Difficult to know. I always tell you what the guards have to say, which isn’t much. Victory depends on many factors. King Randolf could march north, as he should. Aventir or the Swans could ride to Jandaria’s aid. Leax could run out of gold for his mercenaries. For now, though, the Belgorshans are clearly winning. The first storm of Nineacre was a disaster, but Leax has plenty more men. Selwyn is slaughtering his foraging parties and raiding outlying camps, but none of it changes the fact that Nineacre is doomed. And once it falls, Leax can march south on Chimkant.”
They heard an angry voice outside. Someone unlocked and opened the door, and Priest-King Leax burst into the room.
Mirko bowed to the floor, as required, but realized that even the priest-king no longer filled him with dread. Wicke and Leax spoke in Oberyn, the priest-king’s voice brittle with anger. In the end, he clamped a giant hand on Wicke’s shoulder and muttered something in a low voice before leaving the room.
“What did he say?” Mirko asked as soon as the heavy footsteps faded.
Wicke’s voice was thick. “Jandari troops scattered giltwort in the nearby pastures, and his lead chariot horse just died twitching.” He took in a ragged breath and sighed. “Leax loved that horse. He’s bored with the siege and wants to punish Selwyn. Threatening me drew the boy out before, so Leax thinks that my execution will goad Selwyn into a pitched fight.”
“Now are you afraid to die?”
“A bit, yes. But I’m at peace with God and a friend will be at my side.” He placed an arm around Mirko’s shoulders. “You will be the one to end my life. For that, I am sorry.”
Fighting back tears, Mirko shook his head violently. “No. No. They cannot make me.”
“True enough. But they’ll just kill us both and what would that accomplish? God didn’t put us together without a purpose, and I didn’t spend these days filling your head just so it could be cut off.”
Do Jandari not know of blood guilt? “Dark faie wait for the one who sheds innocent blood.”
Wicke stood with a weary groan. He turned to Mirko and rested a hand on his head. “Before the Hidden Throne of the High King, I declare you free of blood guilt. May judgment pass from you to him who deserves it — Priest-King Leax. May the light faie and my ascended ancestors bear witness. So be it.” He gave Mirko a pat on the shoulder. “Now no more sorrow. Don’t give the bastards that satisfaction.”
Mirko nodded fervently. “I won’t forget what you have taught me.”
“That’s good but remember that the peasants often rise up in Belgorsk. Your rebellions fail because they lack vision. It is not enough to fight against the nobles – someone must give the people something to fight for.”
The bolt slid open once more and Mirko had no time to answer as guards dragged them out into the light. A serjeant motioned with his halberd and they began the final walk to the riverside.
They marched along the bank to a wide dam, probably built by the stone men. It had stoppered the Green Lady, which now spilled out into a vast, new lake, its surface broken by hilltop islands and flat acacia trees.
Leax waited for them near the dam, sprawling on his Amber Throne, flanked by guards in amber-lacquered armor. Nearby stood imperial priests and a woman in a gauzy, yellow dress embroidered with birds and flowers. At first Mirko thought she wore a mask but realized the upper half of her face was covered in tattoos. A scabbard hung diagonally across her back. She frightened him more than Leax and all the soldiers. “What is she?”
Wicke uttered words Mirko recognized as Oberyn curses. “Leax hired a witch from Aralgameshu. The whoreson means to sacrifice me. Should have known he wouldn’t let eldritch dignity go to waste.”
Guards forced them to their knees on a long mat of rushes. Soon after, Mirko could hear chains dragging on the cobbles and shouted commands. Four Jandari prisoners, shackled at ankle and wrist, stumbled down to the riverside and joined them on the mat. They had thick braids and wore the strange wrap skirts of Jandari peasants.
At a command from the yellow witch, guards unbolted Wicke and the others from their restraints and led them down into the river. They stripped the prisoners of their filthy garments and scrubbed them head to toe with blocks of lye soap. Once clean, the prisoners received white, linen breechclouts to cover their nakedness. Guards herded them into a line and imperial priests came forward. They began to chant words over the men, anointing their heads with a paste smelling of ashes and mint. Mirko stood helplessly as a green-robed priest prepared Wicke for slaughter.
The witch called to the guards, motioning with a sweeping gesture. The guards forced the prisoners to kneel once again, then yanked their heads back by the braids, exposing their necks. Mirko knew what was coming. His fists clenched and he resisted the urge to rush at the woman. She drew the thin, curving sword from her back and began a singsong chant that was neither Belgorshan, nor Oberyn. Then she danced around the doomed men, a whirling, joyful dance, skirts reeling and teardrop sleeves whipping through the air. Her cheeks and neck grew flush. Mirko’s eyes flitted between the flashing blade and the curves gyrating beneath her flimsy dress.
Circling back in front of the prisoners, she let out an ecstatic cry, spinning this way and that, laying open their throats with deft slashes. Gurgling screams and pleas for mercy filled the air. Her yellow silks grew dark with blood, clinging to her like a wet skin. Only one prisoner remained between the witch and Wicke. Mirko half-hoped she would continue and kill his friend, sparing him from doing it, but she laid open the final peasant’s throat with a deft flick of the wrist and then her body went rigid, the blade slipping to the dirt. All was silent for a long moment, except for the last, gurgling moans of the dying.
The witch turned to Leax and extended her hands. Despite his fear, Mirko watched in fascination, but saw no trace of the magic. To his eyes it looked only as if the witch were trying to push the air itself at Leax. Then he saw the priest-king’s eyes widen in their fleshy pouches and his nostrils flare like a horse. His voice thick, Leax spoke with the witch in Oberyn. Something she said made him chortle.
“The witch says he’s protected from all magical influences until the next moon,” Wicke whispered. “She called Leax her Serene Majesty, which made the old goat laugh. He told her to finish the last pact quickly, as he finds it distasteful.” A bitter laugh. “I feel the same way.”
The priests stepped forward, the lead carrying a corded rope with wooden toggles at each end. Two grasped Wicke by the arms, while another looped the cord around his neck twice. The last priest yanked Mirko to his feet, then positioned him behind Wicke and pressed the toggles into his hands. Reeking of blood, the witch approached Wicke and placed a red hand on his chest. Her eyes met Mirko’s, and he saw hunger in them.
It was time, but his hands would not obey. Wicke was the only man who had ever shown respect, who had refused to call him Bowback.
One of the priests swatted the side of his head. Leax shouted with impatience.
“Do it, friend. One of us has to live.”
Eyes burning, Mirko gripped the toggles and pulled, half-heartedly at first, but then he realized that was only prolonging the suffering. He wrenched the cord taut with all his considerable strength. Wicke struggled at first, arms flexing against the priests, his back arching as if it would snap and his eyes bulging out. An eternity later, his legs began to kick in a mad dance, digging furrows in the mud, and then Wicke went limp, dead eyes staring from of a purple-red mask of horror.
The witch inhaled deeply, clearly savoring the power. She faced the dam and muttered words in her strange tongue.
Sounds like a crackling fire came from the dam and those logs and stones nearest the bank seemed to quake. Mirko watched in horrified fascination, wondering if she was going to break it, but instead, a section of the dam melded together into a single, smooth front. Then the witch turned back to Wicke’s body, cupping his cheek and murmuring something like a prayer. She took up her sword, wiped it clean on his breechclout, and strode away.
Looking down at his murdered friend, Mirko felt his own soul harden into a core of hatred, like the heartwood of a tree. A lifetime of humiliations and mistreatment suddenly came together in a thousand rings of hate. The fear that had ruled his life was gone.
I am free now.
Unwinding the rope from Wicke’s neck, he looked blandly to the priests for orders. They could take nothing from him. They were nothing to him. Now he would wait for his moment. While they were busy with the bodies, he tucked the corded rope inside his sleeve.
CHAPTER 44
H elaena stood with Lyle, Addison, and Uncle Waldrich by the entrance to the Family Hall in Swanthorpe. In any other kingdom, it would be the High Council, or the Assembly of Nobles, but everything came back to family in the Swanlands. Indeed, even the king was no king inside the Family Hall — there he was only the patriarch, first among equals.
As barons and baronesses approached the towering archway to the Hall, Helaena greeted each with a courtesy. She had spoken with most of them in the preceding days, and gave a deep curtsy to the stuffy ones, a cheery good morning to the friendly ones, and a demure smile to the rakes.
Uncle Waldrich and Prince Lyle did their part as well, clasping hands and slapping backs, but more importantly, showing everyone that they stood with Helaena. Brother Addison, meanwhile, gave dignified nods, silently lending support from the Order of the Hidden Throne. While the Swans might not be impressed with the Order as a military force, they respected its merchant strength.
During a break in the flow of nobles, Helaena turned to her uncle. “You know them better than me. What’s your read of the crowd?”
“Hard to tell.” He squirted a stream of brightleaf juice into a pewter cup. “We have the right of things, but that damned imperial princess has poured honey in their ears and money in their purses. Could go either way.” A handful of others passed by, including Jost Swan, Principal of the Reds, who spared them no more attention than he gave to the bronze and alabaster busts of dead Swans lining the entryway. Her uncle gave him a baleful look. “I’ll likely have wrung his neck by the end of the day.” He meant it, Helaena knew. Brawls were common on the Hall floor.
An officer of arms, his tabard striped in red, white, and black, swept into the anteroom. “The family convenes! The family convenes! This is the final summons.”
“Be brave, Little Kestrel. I’ll see you inside.” Uncle Waldrich took her hand and swept his lips across the knuckles, leaving a pink residue of brightleaf juice.
The officer of arms followed him inside and shut the thick doors with a grunt of effort.
Soon after, Zealots of Irmgaard marched into the hall, their massive, ar
mored forms all but hiding Princess Clarice from view. The warriors halted and took up a loose perimeter at the ready. Clarice inclined her head, and Helaena and Addison responded with the curtsy and bow required by custom. “My friends, I appeal to you,” Clarice said gently, “withdraw your call for war. Nothing good can come from this. If you would only allow the emperor to mediate, I know a compromise is possible.”
“Princess, that would be like asking the wolf to mediate between fox and hare,” Brother Addison answered drily. Helaena noticed more than one Zealot tighten the grip on his sword-staff at the insult.
Any reply was cut short as the officer of arms tugged the doors open once more. “Supplicants may enter the hall,” he said, noticeably short of breath. “Unarmed.”
Helaena unsheathed her belt knife and passed it to Addison. “Wish me luck.”
He gave her wrist a squeeze and took the blade. “I will pray for you. Your cause is just.”
If only that were enough, Helaena thought, following Princess Clarice into the Family Hall. She did her best to match the woman’s poise, surveying the intimidating room with a cool glance: white stone arches curving upward to meet a towering, gold leaf dome, wainscoting done in exotic woods and shining silk, and tapestries of past Swan glories covering the walls. The Swans do so love themselves.
Ascending rows of nobles sat in high-backed chairs on three sides of the room, Reds to the left, Whites to the right, and Blacks in the center. Grandfather, the patriarch, sat just in front of the Blacks, on a chair no different than the rest. He ruled in matters of protocol, but his vote counted like any other.
Helaena and Princess Clarice took their places at the front of the room, on plain wooden stools. Grandfather stood to address the crowd. “Brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews, we join today to consider a weighty question: should the Kingdom of the Swans lend aid to our Jandari allies?” He stroked his close-cropped beard with thumb and forefinger. “My own thoughts on this matter are plain. I believe it is in our best interest to assist Jandaria, and a matter of honor as well.”
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