“My king!” a voice cried. A speck later, a mousey, spectacled man in gray interrupted the gathering. It was Rasputhane, wetly disheveled from exertion. A skycarriage gleamed in the woods far behind him. “My liege, you must come at once. Our city has been breached.”
“Breached?” exclaimed the king.
“By whom?” demanded Gloriatrix, equally aghast. Standing, she scanned the city for smoke, fire, or signs of chaos but saw nothing.
“Your queen,” whispered Rasputhane. “And an army of Arhad.”
“Come again?” asked Gloriatrix.
“You heard me,” replied Rasputhane, and began to hurry with the monarchs toward a skycarriage that had stealthily landed along the precipice. “She’s come back to Eod; she waltzed right in through the Southern Gate. Her army is one, maybe two thousand strong.”
Magnus repeatedly tripped over his tongue, trying to discover words. At least his feet proved more capable. Still, he possessed no voice at the moment. The Iron Queen was more communicative. “How could this have happened?” she demanded.
“We don’t know. Some minor disruptions and chaos occurred at the Faire of Fates sands back: noise, harmless fires, nothing you’d note from way up here; I still don’t have a full report. Now, like the smoke clearing from a magikian’s stage, I’ve been told that an army stands where none had been before. It is said that your queen holds the whole of the Faire of Fates hostage with some kind of enchantment. It is possible that she had agents on the inside. I can’t see how any fool manning the gates would have allowed her army through otherwise. We’ve sent patrols of watchmen into the Faire, and none have reported back.”
“Magik? Enchantment? A coup?” asked Magnus, finally.
“Something like that, yes,” replied Rasputhane.
They reached the skycarriage, and the pale-faced watchmen stationed by the stairs bowed and then motioned the monarchs up and into the vessel. Gloriatrix cast a look back at her friend—her only friend—who was now merely a lonely white dot on the green, and wondered if she should have dragged Elissandra along.
As the skycarriage lifted off, Elissandra, with her omniscient gaze, noted that Gloriatrix and the king peered out the window portals: lost, white, and afraid. His demons barked at the door and would soon be let out. Flickers of Fate drifted around her in a firefly cloud, and silver threads laced land and sky. Magnus wouldn’t have enjoyed her forthrightness over what was to come in the Faire of Fates. Instead, she shared her insights with her children. The three witches watched the world of fire together, and planned how Tessa and Eli would survive the floods and lightning bolts that would strike Eod with a storm of doom—beginning with the arrival of Magnus’s vengeful wife. Such anger Lila had returned with; all three shivered from the fury of it. A dreadful thirst filled the queen that could be slaked only with blood justice.
Should we go and see, Mother? asked Tessa.
We can watch from here, my lamblings, replied Elissandra. We shall see nearly everything aside from the earthly details, which do not matter as much as those of spirit. And when the sun sets, when the fury of queen and king has been spent, we shall see it. The children swallowed; they were afraid of it. Elissandra gathered them close once more. Do not fear, my lamblings. It will be a grand event. Tonight, the War of Wars will begin. If you look to the sky, you can almost see the herald of the war. A slick gleam of darkness. A smudge of ash floating in the heavens. It’s almost here. We are running out of time. Do not be fearful, but look to our doom, and gain from it your strength.
Stealing a bit of their mother’s fearlessness, the children looked. Gazing through the wavering gauze of Fate’s weave and the shine on the Witchwall was no easy chore. But their stares were bright silver knives, and they cut through the splendor, through the atmosphere, and out into space. In the vacant dark, they saw it: hovering, pulsing, and curling with tendrils of black light.
The Black Star.
IV
“You seem remarkably at ease for a woman involved in a rebellion,” said Lowe.
“That’s because it’s not my first, I suppose,” replied Dorothy.
She and the seamstress hunkered down on one of Eod’s ancient battlements. Noon’s rich shadows, reaching everywhere the beams of light did not, made the women black as villains. Given the dust-coated bunks, the windowsills covered in cobwebs, the racks emptied of spears, and the military cleanliness and order of a place so clearly disused—bedding folded, not a single personal article or scrap of paper to be seen—the mater assumed this had once been a barracks. From here, men could head up or down into the passageways within the Great Wall, which was a city all to itself. This particular wing, placed along the Southern Gate from which no threat ever came, could easily have been forgotten for one hundred years. Regardless of the neglect, the women kept their voices to a whisper and moved little from the banded chests they’d claimed as seats. Once, poor Dorothy had started coughing from her allergy to dust. She appeared to have that condition under control now, though, aside from her perpetually pink eyes and the occasional sniffle.
Dorothy’s remark had hung in the air for what Lowe felt was a respectable period of time. Lowe handed Dorothy her flagon, which was filled with liquid courage—brandy—and hoped that would make the woman more talkative. Although she could have offered the seamstress one of the delicious, butter-sweet treats from the large wicker baskets near their feet, she did not; they’d be needing those later. Dorothy gave the brandy a sniff, liked what she smelled, and had a few swigs.
“Not your first rebellion?” asked Lowe.
“We have all wanted to change something in our lives once or twice,” replied Dorothy.
Carefully, Lowe asked: “What is it that you wished to change?”
“I wanted to change myself. My feelings.” The seamstress sighed, and played with the silver-and-white tunic she’d woven, one identical to the one Lowe wore and to the light uniform of Eod’s infantry; it looked as if it had been sewn by a royal tailor. She was no such woman of stature, though. What riches and talents she possessed, she’d earned after crawling from the desert and clawing scraps of whatever she could lay her hands on or fairly earn: food, clothing, favors owed. Eventually, she had enough scraps to make a home and then a business. She considered how to explain all of this to the mater. “Rowena,” she finally said. “The sword of the queen. Do you know her?”
“Yes.”
“I know her story very well. She was blessed to have been found in the desert before all the water ran out of her veins. Twice blessed to have been found by Her Highness and taken in through the great White Gates of Eod—these very stones beneath us—and into the wonder of the city. I can imagine her jubilation. Her sense of triumph.” Dorothy clenched her tunic. She looked as if she wanted to tear it. “Well, some of us khek—that’s the Arhadian word for shite, by the way—were not such favorites of Fate. We either died in the desert, or we found the white mirage of Eod on the horizon and wept when we did. Then we wept again when we realized that the mirage was no more welcoming than the scorching terror we’d left.”
“You…You’re a cast-out child of the Arhad?”
“One of many.” Dorothy sniffled and pinched shut her eyes to hold in tears. “Too many…Three of us were sent into the desert that season: Ashrafa, Cassala, and myself. Ashrafa dried up in a day. We left her bones for the buzzards and took her waterskin as if we were murderous thieves. Survival makes you into a terrible person. I think you understand a bit of that yourself; I sense that in you. Cassala and I made it to the white mirage: the dreaded and desired city of the Everfair King. Every Arhadian child knows the legend of the golden-haired bride stolen from her rightful husband by the Everfair King. We were warned that in Eod every indulgence and sin was for sale and we would become just as corrupt as she.
“We came in through the gates and met the strange Silver guardians of Eod. Every lie about the city shattered. Men were kind to us: they looked us in the eyes and asked what they could do for o
ur comfort. They treated us as if we were men ourselves. It was an unforgettable courtesy, it filled us with a warmth that made us giddy. I don’t think that Cassala ever forgot that warmth. She soon forgot me, however.”
Lowelia leaned in, glowing with concern. “I’m sorry. Were you close friends?”
The seamstress glared at the mater. Proud and firm, Dorothy rose in her seat. “We were lovers. That’s why she and I were exiled. We were caught sinning together. Only a kiss—that time—though it was enough to make us worthless as wives, and useless even as sewn slaves. Our tainted love damned us, but also somehow freed us. You would think that in the City of Wonders, a love such as ours could have flourished. Yet here is where it died. That first soldier that showed us kindness...Hmph. Cassala never forgot his generosity. Nor his hands, his voice, and all the other virtues of the man. She could not stop fawning over him. I realized I was a convenience to her. I was what she had wanted at the time. An escape. So what have I learned? After spending years wishing I could transform my feelings as Cassala did, I stopped. I stopped lying to myself. I accepted that I am who I am, even if that means I might remain alone. I have learned that we are perfect in our evils and faults. What I would change is the unfairness of a world that dictates who we are to be before we ever have the chance to take that journey and decide for ourselves. Perhaps then Cassala wouldn’t have been so confused. They’re married now, and we used to see one another for tea every few months.” Dorothy turned up her nose. “Once her husband discovered our past, our get-togethers ceased. She has several children, last I heard. I would have liked some myself, children, but you can imagine the complications. I’m too old now. A spinrex past her prime and empty of milk.”
Lowelia laughed, dispelling any awkwardness. “I’m the only cow in the pasture myself, so I know the feeling. Still, we old dames have more fight in us than some of the young—those who haven’t had to battle for an ounce of decency or morality in all their lives.” Lowe stood and offered the other woman her hand. “Tell you what, if we don’t end up in shackles after today’s escapade, I shall take that tea with you. Once a week, schedules permitting.”
There was no offer of romance in the mater’s steel expression, and Dorothy was quite done with all of life’s starry-eyed pap. But a friend would be nice. Dorothy shook Lowelia’s hand. Then the mater helped her friend to her feet, and they made anxious circles of the room while being tempted by the waft of the narcotic-laced pastries. We shouldn’t eat those, they thought, tempting as they were, or they’d be on the floor sleeping when their co-conspirator arrived. Soon, the sun started to fall, and twirls of golden light ran red. They waited.
The door creaked open. A huge hooded man entered carrying a sack.
“You’re running a little late,” snapped Lowe.
“I was delayed for a sand,” replied Leonitis. “And I needed to check on the other relays and deliver their arms.”
“Give it here. Let’s see what you’ve made off with.” Dorothy beckoned the legion master over to the nearest bed. There, he carefully removed the contents of his bag and laid them across the mattress. The Menosian firearms gleamed like black horns against the dusty sheets. They were frightful-looking weapons, ornately hooked and embellished with sharp curves that would wound a hand if improperly gripped. Luckily, Dorothy had sewn some workman’s gloves for them. The seamstress already wore her pair, and she picked up a firearm, steadied it on her forearm, flicked back the hammer with a thumb, and pointed the flame-tipped weapon slowly about the room.
As the legion master changed himself into the garb of a lesser servant of the crown—a silver-embroidered watchman’s uniform—he commented on Dorothy’s ease with the firearm. “You seem familiar with the weapon.”
“A lady should know how to defend herself,” replied Dorothy, then made pew, pew, pew noises. “I took an archery course back in the day, though this looks far more enjoyable.”
CREEK.
The door was pushed ajar, but there was no wind inside the fortification. Leonitis was caught with his pants half on, and in a moment of unusual clumsiness, he stumbled and hit the bed. What a blessing that Dorothy was such a calm woman; otherwise, her finger would have twitched and she would have shot the arm-waving giant that entered their secret enclave. Giantess, she realized, for the lack of facial hair and the delicate eyes told her this was a woman. She then recognized a face she’d seen in phantographs and printed news: brown, masculine, and with short-cropped hair. Rowena, sword of the queen.
“You came.” Leonitis gasped from the floor.
Last night, a letter had arrived at Rowena’s quarters, slipped under her door by a shadow. The scrape of paper over stone had been enough to wake the vigilant Sword. Not that she slept with any great serenity these nights with Menosian murders and cannibal priestesses wandering her fair city. After she’d bolted out of bed and thrown open the door to try to catch a glimpse of whoever had been creeping around outside of her chamber, she’d noticed the note by her feet. A single sheaf of paper, upon which was written: If you wish to ensure that our city is not consumed by darkness, if you wish to become a sword to cut the night, a sword for your queen, then meet us tomorrow, at sundown, at the place where you spilled your first blood.
This reference to a location would have been vague and indecipherable to anyone save herself: much blood had been spilled by her hand, and in many places. However, during Rowena’s first day of training with the Silver Watch, she’d gotten separated from the other warriors—she’d not yet developed her metropolitan compass—and wandered up and into the southern barracks of the Great Wall. There, she’d become even more disoriented. She remembered swiping at a cobweb while climbing a flight of stairs and losing her balance. Then had come a tumble, a crack to her face, and a gushing, hot darkness. She had awoken in the barracks below, which featured more lavish arrangements—gold-trimmed armchairs and a crackling fire. A cold compress had been placed upon her face, and she’d clutched at it and applied more pressure to her swelling nose. She’d tasted iron all down her throat, and known that her nose had been broken—for the first, but by no means the last, time. The embarrassment of that moment had taught her never again to disobey or stray from her comrades. The man who had tended to her, the braided and handsome Ninth Legion Master, had dismissed her error. “It’s a soldier’s life to be cut and bruised,” he’d said. He had an unblemished chin and sculpted beard; from what she could see, he shouldn’t be able to understand even the concept of imperfection. And yet, they’d sat there, slowly chatting and eventually drinking away her pain. It was a memory she would never forget.
“I knew it was you,” said Rowena.
“How’s the nose?” asked Leonitis, as he righted himself and his trousers. “Ready for another smash or two?”
“I would do anything for my queen.” Rowena smiled. It seemed as hard as the rest of her. “I am glad that you summoned me to this…”
“Rebellion,” said Lowe.
“I do apologize, though,” said Dorothy. “I don’t think I have a disguise for you.”
Rowena puffed proud. “I am the sword of the queen, and if what’s been insinuated in last night’s missive is true, Leonitis, then my mistress is returning. I have no need of chicanery. I shall fight for her with honesty and honor.”
“How about a gun, at least?” suggested Dorothy. “We have one to spare. A bit more threatening than honesty or honor, and I don’t see a sword anywhere on you.”
Striding over and pushing past Leonitis, Rowena sized up the smart-talking brown woman. Dorothy withstood her scrutiny, and they decided, much as animals do, that they were of the same survivalist species. “Arhadian, I see,” said Rowena.
“The same as you,” replied Dorothy.
By then, Leonitis had finished adjusting his clothing. He tucked in his tunic, holstered a gun in his belt, and took a deep breath, as did everyone in the room. They stared at the thin windows, watching the creep of orange light to red. At last, the moment arrived.
Dusk was the signal. A fire in the sky and a storm blowing in from the South. They could feel it then: Lila was drawing nearer. They almost thought they could smell her: a perfume, a spice of myrrh, cinnamon, and mystery. The four, either smelling the enchantment or imagining it, stole down into the garrison. They were quiet for the moment, but in a speck they would be making chaos.
V
The great may sometimes be unseated by the actions of the small: soldiers, farmers, cooks, serfs—people a man bloated with power and a sense of his own superiority would never look at, let alone expect to see betray his magnanimity. Taroch’s downfall had been triggered by an angry maid who’d slipped a feliron tonic into his broth one evening. She hadn’t been a rebel; she had not been angered by Taroch’s growing regime of terror; she had been no Eodian or Ziochian loyalist. She was, simply, a woman upon whom the warlord had once forced himself, and she’d acted in revenge. History had forgotten her name. Nonetheless, her small act of defiance had incapacitated Taroch on the eve of what was supposed to have been his grandest moment. It was the night he, his great army, and the great sorcerers at his command had gathered at the edge of Kor’Khul’s sandy border, in the hills of Ebon Vale to restore the desert to its fabled verdancy. They would then ride that green road straight to Eod, which was not yet fully protected by its great wall.
Crossing the desert without transfiguring it was not an option, as Taroch’s army was not composed of Arhadians. The catastrophic terraforming spell was also a testament to the Sorcerer King’s vainglory: he would do what Magnus couldn’t or wouldn’t; he would transform the dead land into a paradise. This stubborn pride was what brought the enfeebled, poisoned warlord out of his tent that day, what made him stand in his circle of sorcerers, peers, and generals to wheeze and squeeze no more than a few green sprouts from the soil and some beads of sweat from himself. The sprouts quickly withered. Geadhain was stubborn, too, difficult to alter through terraforming; not at full strength, the warlord was unable to conduct or amplify the powers of his circle. What was to have been a grand panoply to his empire became a mocking defeat. After this, he was no longer seen as a man who might challenge the Immortals; he was only a man.
Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3) Page 74