The Infernal Battalion

by Django Wexler

  “Only that it was difficult,” Marcus said quietly.

  “Difficult is one word,” Winter said carefully. “We were stuck in a Murnskai port called Dimiotsk when Sothe found us. She had a ship all ready.”

  “Yes, she did tell me that. Janus talked to her, somehow, and told her to go and get you. But—”

  Winter held up a hand. “While we were aboard ship, Sothe and I talked. She told me about your parents.”

  “Did she tell you,” Marcus grated, “that she killed them?”

  “She did. She also told me she’d been looking for your little sister, Ellie.”

  Another silence. Wood in the fireplace popped with a sound like a musket shot.

  “Did you...?” Marcus’ voice was thick. “You were at Mrs. Wilmore’s. Did you know her?”

  “Not exactly,” Winter said. “Marcus, she told me I am Ellie d’Ivoire.”

  She watched his face pale by several shades, blood running out of it like his throat had been slashed. His eyes never left hers.

  “You?” he said. “E-Ellie?”

  “I don’t remember the name,” Winter said. “I don’t remember anything, really. Except fire.” She took the small notebook out of her pocket, held it in front of her like a peace offering. “This is the information Sothe copied from the Concordat archives. It’s... convincing.”

  “But...” Marcus blinked.

  “Look.” Winter shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what to do with this any more than you do. I wasn’t sure whether I could tell you I was a woman, for God’s sake. I don’t know what this means, or how it affects us, but I just thought...” She paused for breath. “I thought you’d rather know than keep wondering.”

  Abruptly, Marcus got to his feet. Winter stood, cautiously, eyes still on his pale face.

  “Marcus?” she said. “Please say something.”

  The last thing she was expecting was for him to lurch forward. At first she thought he was attacking her, mad as that sounded. By the time she realized he wanted an embrace, she was already twisting away, slipping under his outstretched arms, and backing rapidly against the wall. Her heart was pounding. Marcus looked at her, his arms falling to his sides.

  “Sorry,” Winter said. “I’m sorry. You... surprised me.”

  A log in the fireplace collapsed with a crackle. Marcus blinked, turned away, and left the room without a word.

  *

  A messenger found her not long afterward, and told her that General d’Ivoire was otherwise occupied for the evening, but would be available to see her tomorrow. In the meantime, the young ranker said, he would be happy to escort her to where the Second Division was being quartered.

  “They’re here?” Winter said, her heart still slowing down. “In the palace?”

  “The officers have quarters here,” the ranker said. “The rest are under canvas in the gardens.”

  “Is Cyte—​is Captain Cytomandiclea here?”

  “Of course. I can take you to her.”

  Once again Winter found herself walking through the complex maze that was the palace, though this time they stuck to the lavish main passages instead of taking the servants’ corridors. Still as statues, the Grenadier Guards in the hall let them pass. Winter found herself subconsciously waiting for salutes.

  She felt strange. Light, somehow, in the way she could be in dreams, as though each step might end with her floating away. Or like she’d walked off a cliff and was still in midfall, momentarily weightless until the ground arrived.

  I told Marcus. My brother. It was strange to think that while the second half of her revelation had undoubtedly been what had shaken Marcus, it was the first half that had been the most difficult for Winter to nerve herself up to. I learned who Ellie d’Ivoire was only a few days ago. I’ve been hiding who I am for more than four years. Her mood shifted from a slightly hysterical calm to a certainty of imminent doom and back again every few steps.

  Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should find somewhere to sleep until I calm down. She wouldn’t, though. Not now. She’d already taken the plunge by talking to Marcus. Besides, it won’t be long before rumors that I’m back start to spread. The thought of Cyte finding out like that, before Winter had come to see her, made her quicken her steps.

  The messenger left her in front of an imposing carved door, and bowed respectfully when Winter told him to go. His retreating footsteps matched the hammering of her heart as she raised her hand and knocked, almost inaudibly.

  “Come in.” Cyte’s voice, harried and distracted. “If it’s a note, leave it on the table.”

  Winter opened the door. Inside was a small suite, suitable for housing a minor noble and his servants. The main room had a large dining table, a sofa, and a couple of armchairs, all of which had been converted to serve as storage for stacks of paper and rolled leather maps. A big one, held flat by a pistol at one end and a sword belt at the other, showed the land north of Vordan City and was covered in grease-​pencil markings. Cyte stood in front of it, looking down, comparing the map with pages from a loose pile and scribbling notes on foolscap.

  She was just as Winter remembered her, slim as a dagger in her blue uniform, dark hair falling to her shoulders over too-​pale skin. Her face bore the same signs of overwork and lack of sleep that it had in Murnsk, when Winter had left, though at least the weathering of the north had faded somewhat.

  “Yes?” she said, without looking up. “Is there a message?”

  Winter found that she couldn’t speak, could only stare greedily. The soft, pale curve of Cyte’s bent neck attracted her eyes like a magnet. A lock of dark hair slipped forward, and Cyte’s hand came up automatically to tuck it behind her ear, a gesture so familiar that it made Winter’s heart ache.

  “If there’s no message,” Cyte said, turning, “then what’s... going... on...?”

  She stopped, eyes wide, mouth open. Winter felt her cheeks flush under Cyte’s gaze.

  “Winter?” Cyte’s voice was almost inaudible.

  Winter nodded slowly. The air felt fragile, as though too forceful a movement might shatter the world.

  Cyte crossed the room one step at a time, still staring. She stopped a few feet away, her throat working as she swallowed.

  “I knew it,” she whispered. “Even before we heard from Janus, I knew you were alive.”

  “I...”

  Winter stopped. What am I supposed to say? That she’d felt no such certainty? That standing here, finally seeing for herself that Cyte had survived, released knots of tension she’d held for so long she’d almost forgotten it could be any other way? That I’m not sure whether I want to laugh, or cry, or just kiss her until I run out of breath—

  Cyte solved that problem, stumbling forward the last few steps, wrapping her arms around Winter’s neck like she was clinging to a life rope. Winter had the presence of mind to kick the door closed behind her, and leaned against it for support. Her arms went around Cyte’s shoulders automatically, hands clasping at the small of her back.

  They stayed that way for a long interval, the soundless shaking of Cyte’s slim body the only evidence of her tears. Her face was buried in the crook of Winter’s neck, and Winter gripped her tightly, as though sheer pressure could erase the time they’d spent apart.

  “I’m sorry,” Winter whispered into the mass of Cyte’s hair. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

  Cyte’s shoulders only shook harder. Winter held her close until the shudders subsided. Eventually Cyte took a long, slow breath and raised her head. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but her lips stretched in an awkward smile.

  “God. I’m sorry.” Cyte gave a laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. “You step through the door and I just—”

  “It’s all right.” Winter squeezed Cyte a little tighter, blinking away tears of her own.

  “You’re okay?” Cyte said.

  “I... think so.” Winter sucked in a deep breath. “It’s a long story. Are you...?”

  “I’
m fine,” Cyte said, when Winter trailed off. “It was touch and go a few times after Alves, but I’m still here.”

  Silence fell, tight and awkward. Where they were pressed together, Winter could feel Cyte’s heart beating fast as a songbird’s.

  “You probably want to know what’s happened to the Second,” Cyte said, her eyes never leaving Winter’s. “I have the... the strength reports, and...”

  “What I want,” Winter said carefully, “is to kiss you.” And never, ever stop.

  “Oh,” Cyte said quietly. “I would, um, like that? More than... you know. Anything at all, really.”

  From the moment their lips met, it was as if Winter had been hit by a bolt of lightning, heat running through her body like a tide. Cyte’s breath tickled her cheek as they staggered together across the room, unwilling to part even for an instant.

  When they reached the sofa, Cyte swept several piles of reports onto the floor with a soft susurrus of sliding paper, punctuated by urgent gasps that Winter no longer knew who was making. Cyte sat down, breathing hard as Winter’s lips slid down her cheek and along the delicate curve of her neck. One of Cyte’s hands worked its way under her shirt, slipping up the curve of her back, sending waves of fire along her spine.

  How could I have considered not telling her I was here? The fear that had driven her seemed incomprehensible now. I might not come back from stopping the Beast. I might fail, and all of humanity might die with me.

  But for the moment, at least, I’m still alive.

  *

  They’d made it to the bedroom, eventually, after knocking over a few more of Cyte’s carefully balanced piles of paperwork. After the initial rush had worn off, they’d had time for things like buttons. From the couch to the bed, the pieces of Cyte’s uniform made a kind of trail interspersed with Winter’s rough, dirty clothes. The bed was another big four-​poster, with a down mattress that felt far too soft to be real. Cyte lay in the center of it, where they’d come to rest, her arms spread wide and Winter’s head pillowed against her cheek.

  Her breathing had soon taken on the soft rhythm of sleep, but Winter felt too keyed up for that. After a while she rolled out of bed as carefully as she could and padded naked across the thick carpet to the toilet. When she was finished, she ran hot water from the tap—​hot, running water, that unimaginable luxury—​and splashed it over her face and some of the more obvious grime. She went back into the bedroom, air cool against her damp skin.

  Climbing back into bed, she paused for a moment, looking down at Cyte. With her eyes closed, some of the tension was gone from her face, making her look younger and more innocent. Her beauty brought a lump to Winter’s throat. She let her gaze run across her, deliberately—​milk-​pale skin; small, perfect breasts; stomach hard and muscled from life in the field; the thatch of dark hair between her legs. Watching Cyte like this, acknowledging her desire for her, felt wrong, vaguely obscene. It added a thrill of the forbidden that pebbled Winter’s skin into goose bumps.

  She slid back into the bed, alongside her lover, feeling Cyte move sleepily as she draped an arm across her. Winter pressed her head against Cyte’s and let her eyes close.

  Is it really okay to feel like this? On its face she knew it was a silly question. But she couldn’t help feeling like she needed permission, or else the universe was going to come down on her hard.

  Well. If it does, then the hell with the universe.

  *

  When they awoke, it was well after sunset. Cyte got out of bed, stumbling and giggling in the dark, until she managed to find a candelabra in its nook and get it lit. From there, she bustled around the bedroom, lighting more lamps.

  “Okay,” Winter said, eyes on Cyte’s naked backside as she bent over to retrieve her uniform shirt from the floor. “Now you can tell me about the Second.”

  Cyte laughed, and obligingly gave an abridged recitation of the events of the Pale campaign. Winter winced at her description of the fighting at Satinvol and Alves, the long march that followed, and the death of Colonel Erdine.

  “Damn,” she said. “He was a good officer, for all that he liked to puff himself up.”

  “I know.” Cyte slid her trousers on. She still had her shirt hanging open, and Winter found the resulting half-​dress incredibly appealing. “I’m worried about Abby.”

  “She’s not taking it well?”

  Cyte shook her head. “I don’t know if they were... I mean, I don’t think Abby had any illusions about their relationship. But it was something for her to hold on to, and now she doesn’t even have that.” She sighed. “You should see her as soon as you can.”

  “I will.” Winter shook her head. “Though I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Cyte said. “The Girls’ Own is going to go mad just hearing you’re back.”

  Winter hesitated. “I’m... not sure we should tell them.”

  “What?” Cyte turned. “Why?”

  “There’s something I have to do,” Winter said. “It’s—

  “The Beast?” Cyte said.

  Winter blinked. “How do you know about that?”

  “Marcus and I have been putting some pieces together,” Cyte said. “Not everything, but enough.”

  “Then you know this is about more than whether Janus or Raesinia sits on the throne,” Winter said. “I may be the only one who can stop it.”

  Cyte nodded. “And?”

  “And... I might not be coming back.”

  “You’re a soldier,” Cyte said. “So am I. So are they. We understand what that means.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Winter said. “Even if we win, even if I destroy the Beast, I don’t know...” She fought a sudden hitch in her throat. “I don’t want to hurt my friends more than I have already. I’m not sure I should have come here, but I... I couldn’t...”

  Cyte crossed the room in a few determined strides and crawled onto the bed, shirt still hanging open. Winter sat up, but Cyte put a hand on her chest and pushed her flat, propping herself on hands and knees.

  “Winter,” she said. “You are being an idiot.”

  “But—”

  “Stop.”

  “You don’t understand,” Winter said, tears welling again. “My friends—​the people I’m close to—​they get hurt. They die. Sergeant Red, the women who followed me to look for Janus. The ones who came with me to Elysium. Leti and the Haeta.” She knew those names would mean nothing to Cyte, but she couldn’t stop them from pouring out. “Bobby. Bobby’s dead, Cyte. She saved me, and then she died. I don’t—​I can’t—”

  “Please, Winter,” Cyte said. Her voice had gone from hard to gentle. “Stop.”

  The words ran out. Winter lay still, breathing raggedly, staring up into Cyte’s face.

  “Do you know why the people around you get hurt?” Cyte said. “It’s because they’re the same kind of person you are. People who put themselves in danger because they want to help others, or because they have a duty.”

  “But—”

  “You think no one got hurt after you left? No one sacrificed themselves when we were fighting Janus at Alves?” Cyte’s lip twisted, and she held up one hand, fingers an inch apart. “I came this close to getting my head shot off. You don’t get to take responsibility for that.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me,” Winter said.

  “You may have started me on this path,” Cyte said, real anger in her voice now. “But I didn’t have to keep going. Give us some fucking credit, Winter!”

  “I’m sorry,” Winter said. “You’re right. I know—”

  “You don’t,” Cyte said. “But I’m going to keep pounding it into your head until you do. You’re a commander, but that doesn’t make you a god. You can only do what you can.” She took a deep breath. “You’re going to stop the Beast, and you’re going to come back. Just like you came back this time.”

  There was a pause. Cyte shifted and rolled onto her back
, next to Winter.

  “Okay,” Winter said.

  “Good.”

  Another, longer silence.

  “When I was riding away from the cavalry at Alves,” Cyte said, quieter now, “I could almost feel them coming up behind me. I heard the shots going past. And...” She swallowed. “All I could think was that I couldn’t die, because I had to be here when you got back.”

  “Oh, Cyte.” Winter rolled onto her elbow, leaned over Cyte, and kissed her. “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

  “Good.” Cyte grinned. “Now. Did you say you went to Elysium?”

  Winter flopped back. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Cyte said. “Get started.”

  27

  Marcus

  There hadn’t been any bottles of flaghaelan in the palace cellars, but Marcus had found a quite respectable brandy from the Transpale tucked in a cabinet underneath a stairway. He’d liberated the whole bottle, despite the scandalized look he got from the steward. Once the world had a pleasant rubberiness to it at the edges, he’d made his way to the Prince’s Tower, where Raesinia had once had her chambers. It was dark and silent now, having been looted during the revolution and not yet refurnished, and he slunk through the too-​empty rooms to the roof. There, on the chilly flagstones, was where Raesinia had regularly “escaped” from her own palace by throwing herself to the gravel below.

  He leaned against the battlement, taking another swallow from the bottle and feeling it burn its way down his throat and into his churning stomach. After a few moments of silence, he coughed.

  “Sothe,” he said, and then repeated it in a shout. “Sothe! Where are you? I know you’re watching me.”

  There was nothing but silence.