by Matthew Cook
"Aye,” she agrees. “It is so. None are allowed in the presence of the wizard except our rightful ruler."
A wave of weakness runs through me, stealing the strength from my knees. Lia tightens her grip on my arm, catching me before I can fall.
"Mistress Lauran said this might happen,” Lia says, helping me back towards the bed. “You will be prone to bouts of weakness for a while longer. Rest now, and I will fetch food."
Do as they say and recover your strength, for there is much to do, my sister gently chides. The sooner you heal, the sooner you can join the defenders on the wall.
I flop into the cool sheets, wincing as my injuries protest. The room seems to sway, like a ship on rolling seas. Lia pulls the duvet over me, tucking me in as if I were a child. She leans forward and kisses my brow, tenderly.
I close my eyes and let sleep's undertow pull me down.
* * * *
Two days after waking in Lauran's bed, my wound swells and sickens, kindling a fever that nearly kills me. I do not recall much of the days that follow; my world is reduced to a lantern show of looming faces and murmuring voices. I remember the sound of crying, Lia's heartbreaking sobs. It is not until later that I realize her tears were for me.
I wake in the stillness of night. The sheets are stale and soaked with cold sweat. A candle burns on the bedside table, casting its dim radiance through the room. The curtains are pulled back, and I can see Lia, sleeping in the chair beside the bed. The clock on the mantel says that dawn is still hours away.
I feel hollow, like a scooped-out harvest gourd. Sitting up is almost beyond me; no sooner am I upright than the room gives a mighty lurch, nearly pitching me from the bed. I flop back into my sour pillows, defeated.
Lia opens her eyes. When she sees me looking back at her, she rises and walks to my side.
"Welcome back,” she whispers, stroking my greasy hair.
"You've spent many nights sleeping in chairs beside my sick bed since we met,” I croak. My throat is swollen and raw. My chest hitches as I swallow a sob. Lia smiles and nods. Tears glisten in her eyes.
"Aye,” she says, cupping my cheek. “But I do not mind. There is nowhere I would rather be."
"Liar,” I say with a pained smile.
She sits beside me and tells me of the last few days. Of the healers’ desperate efforts: the bleeding and the leeches. The poultices and powders. I am only a fraction of the healer that my mistress, Edena, was but I can recognize the severity of my condition. I could have died. Lia does not mention the priests of Shanira and I do not ask.
We talk until dawn tinges the sky outside my window. I have slept for days, she tells me. I am tired, but I do not want to sleep any more.
I throw myself into my recovery, pushing myself to the edge of my endurance; often beyond. By the end of the day, I am roaming the upper halls of Lauran's house, annoying her staff with my endless questions and suggestions. By the end of the week, I can walk up and down the stairs without feeling faint.
The healer's home is large and sprawling, a roomy three-floor townhouse. Lia tells me that Lauran is the youngest daughter of Lucas Wainwright, scion of a very wealthy merchant family. The home, and the hospital she has built from it, is the result of her years of training in the healing arts coupled with her unused dowry. Good for her in never succumbing to the temptation of marriage; at least something positive came from that money.
The garden out back is narrow but deep, surrounded by high walls. Exotic plants and flowers, brought here by countless Wainwright merchant ships from the farthest corners of the empire, perfume the early autumn air. Patients, wounded soldiers mostly, convalesce in the sunshine beside the ponds and the intricate footpaths.
At night we dine on rich meats and fresh vegetables, entertaining ourselves with war stories and ribald songs. Lauran usually joins in the singing. Her voice is surprisingly bold and strong, and she always knows all of the words, no matter how risque. Mother would be appalled.
Some of the soldiers are troubled by my black eyes. I see more than one sketching warding symbols at me when they think I am not looking: to Ur or to Loran Lightbringer, but none challenge me openly. Whenever this occurs, my sister growls her disapproval in my head, but says nothing more. I try to avoid the most fanatical-looking ones whenever I can; a confrontation would spoil the air of tranquil peace that hangs over Mistress Lauran's home, and I would not spread discontent over such a trivial matter.
When I am able, I help Lauran's staff, bringing my fellow patients food, or medication, or anything that will ease their pain. I change bandages and look for infection. I am often tempted to open my secret eye and see if my blood magic can aid them, but fear always overrides my good intentions. In my weakened condition, the risk of losing control is far too great.
Soon my strength is restored, and Lauran pronounces me ready to depart. “You don't have to go,” she says. “I can always use more help, and I don't see our beds being empty any time soon."
Her offer touches me. It has been so long since my talents were valued, particularly by one of Lauran's skill.
My eyes travel to the window, and the sight of the Armitage in the distance. Smoke drifts from its summit, whether from some new attack or some more mundane source, I do not know. All I know is that I want to be there, fighting alongside the defenders.
"I'm sorry, but I can't,” I tell her. Lauran follows the line of my gaze and nods, sadly, saying no more.
My side still aches—Lauran says that only disciplined stretching and exercise will restore me to my former condition—but I can work, and fight, once more.
I depart with many tearful hugs, from Lauran and from her staff. I will miss this place of healing. I promise I will faithfully perform my exercises and Lia swears that she will take me to account if I do not. We walk through her open front door and into the teeming streets. For the first time, I am truly in the City.
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CHAPTER SIX
I stand atop the wall.
To either side it stretches away, a river of stone and clay mortared, if the stories are to be believed, with the flesh and blood of countless workmen.
At my back is the City, the labyrinth of rooftops and spires the Armitage was built to protect. Before me lie the open plains of the north. Below stand the massed forces of the Mor. They are as implacable and awe-inspiring as when I last saw them.
As always, when they are not attacking, they stand silent as statues, only moving occasionally, just enough to remind me they are indeed alive. How they can remain motionless for so long is, like many things about them, a mystery. Their helmet-like faces are raised, green-glowing eyes fixed on the summit with terrible intensity.
I am only a bit winded from my ascent. The way to the top was heavily guarded, with many switch-backed stairwells and garrisoned doors. Every step I took on my way through the massive structure was taken past a nonstop array of concealed deadfalls, arrow-slits and spear ports. Murder holes lined the ceiling at frequent intervals, ready to drop rocks or burning lead upon any invader powerful—or suicidal—enough to actually breach the outer wall.
The directions on my orders have brought me to one of the fortress-like watchtowers arrayed along the great wall. It soars above me, taller than the walls of Castle Dupree, where I last stood and looked down on the Mor. A surcoated herald, a boy no more than twelve, scurries forward and, without a word, takes my papers.
I open my mouth to call after him, but he is gone before I can finish drawing breath, scurrying between two lines of marching soldiers. “Wait there!” he calls over his shoulder. He disappears into the tower.
I shrug and move toward a group of archers further down the wall. They sit in a loose circle, chatting amicably as they tend to their weapons and arrows. Many carry the short, deeply-curved bows common to the south. Only a few seem to favor the long, straight hunting bow I am accustomed to.
As I approach, one of the men elbows the sergeant, a deeply tanned man wear
ing a tunic of saffron yellow beneath a leather breastplate. An archer's helmet, a conical cap of leather stiffened with horn, sits atop his black, curling hair. He turns and fixes me with a wary eye. His gaze runs along the length of my bow and his frown deepens.
He turns away, muttering something to the man beside him, and both explode in raucous laughter. I feel my face grow hot.
"I cry your pardon,” I say, polite but cold. “Something amuses you?"
The sergeant chortles again, and says, without turning, “Begone, wench. This spot's reserved for the Emperor's Archers. I think the place you're looking for is inside the wall, on Redfallow Lane. You should be able to find someone to buy what you're selling, despite those freakish eyes of yours."
Now all the men join in the laughter. I grit my teeth as the jibe strikes home; I have seen Redfallow Lane. Just this morning I passed by it on the way to the Armitage. The crimson lanterns marking every door; the pall of cheap, cloying perfume and rotting garbage. Slatternly women and not a few men calling out any number of crude invitations. It made quite an impression. In my mind, I feel more than hear my sister bristle.
It is this way with veterans when faced with new recruits; Jazen spoke of it often. My black eyes only serve to make things worse. And I am no longer a scout, with the outside status the position holds. If I am to be one of them, I must prove my worth.
"Archers?” I scoff, allowing my lip to curl into an expression of amused disdain. I look the group over slowly, forcing myself to meet every stare. Most, seeing my green-within-black eyes fixed upon theirs, look swiftly away. “All I see here are children playing with toys.” I toe one of the strange bows, back-bent now with its string removed, and wrinkle my nose, as if I smell something bad.
The sergeant turns, slowly, his smile fading. I offer my bow in my outstretched hand. Unstrung, it resembles a straight staff, nearly as long as I am tall, shaped from stout ash. The center swells gracefully, into a leather-wrapped grip. The ends are delicately curled outwards and tipped with notched horn. “Now this. This is a proper bow."
He looks at the weapon, then back at me, sizing me up. He shakes his head, making his long curls bounce upon his shoulders.
"I'll wager you can't even string that monster,” he finally says. The men chuckle once again, some echoing his words in cruder terms.
Without fanfare I whip the string from my tunic. I slip the lower loop into its notch, then ground the butt of the weapon behind my heel. Using my entire leg as a lever, I give the bow a hard pull and the top end of the string pops into place.
I hold the strung weapon towards him. “And I'll wager you can't draw this to your ear. Your arms are very skinny. Are you sure that you're really not a pikeman who put on the wrong uniform by mistake?"
The men howl laughter, clapping one another on the back. The sergeant's already swarthy face grows darker still.
Cafeful now, my sister warns. You might well have to fight alongside these men one day. Best to not make enemies of them.
He rises and strides to me, snatching the weapon from my hand. He tests the string with callused fingertips, then hooks them around the cord. With a stifled grunt he hauls the string back, until his crooked fingers rest beside his ear. His straightened arm trembles, the muscles at his shoulder and elbow shaking with strain. A second later he releases the pull and grins in triumph.
"Now you,” he says, clearly thinking I will not be able to duplicate the feat. He tosses the bow to me.
I walk past him, towards a set of wooden targets which have been erected against the watchtower's wall. Only one thing will impress a true archer. I stop on the mark someone has chalked on the stones and draw an arrow from the quiver on my back. The target is small, no larger than a book, drawn with charcoal on the scarred planks.
I raise the bow with both arms, then lower it, using all the strength in my shoulders to draw the feathered vanes back to my ear. I hold it there for several seconds, then look over at the sergeant with a raised eyebrow. His mouth purses and his eyes narrow, but he says nothing. Behind me, the men murmur.
I sight along the shaft. The target is close, no more than thirty paces, and there is no wind to speak of—an easy mark. I loose, knowing the moment the arrow leaves the string that the shot is true. The arrow strikes the center of the target. The men give a ragged cheer.
"A lucky shot,” the sergeant says, waving a dismissive hand. I open my mouth to protest, my hand already drifting back to draw a second arrow, when I hear my name called from the watchtower door.
"May I?” I ask the sergeant. “I have orders to report to a Captain Garrett."
"Go ahead,” he grumbles.
"Thank you, sergeant—?” I leave the title hanging, a question.
"Cyr. Sergeant Cyr, of the 103rd archer platoon. Don't forget it."
"Yes, sir,” I agree with a nod. I might as well try to repair the damage I have done. I have no doubt I will be accepted into the captain's command; the defenders have the advantage of position, but I know there's no such thing as too much strength where the Mor are concerned.
He dismisses me with a wave and I dash away, towards the voice, which even now is repeating my name. It is the youth who took my papers.
"He's waiting for you,” he says, turning on his heel and walking through the stout door.
The watchtower is roomy and open, with many balconies, standing beneath arrow slits. A stone staircase winds around the outer walls up towards the roof. The lower level is filled with desks and worktables, where dozens of scribes and clerks toil over maps and papers. Couriers run to and fro.
The boy dashes up the steps, two at a time. I follow, my long legs easily keeping pace. We emerge into sunlight. The boy seems completely unaffected by the long climb but my breath burns in my chest. Soft living and too much wine takes its toll, my sister drawls.
The center of the roof is dominated by a complex signaling mirror, a disk of flawless silvered glass the size of a serving platter set into an ornate bronze frame. Next to it stands an unlit bonfire. The square log construction reeks of oil and lard. A cage filled with pigeons stands near the stairs. They flutter and coo, their iridescent heads sparkling like jewels in the wan sunlight.
The captain stands at the battlements, looking out over the Mor host below. The bulk of their force is massed several miles to the west, under the Lion's Mouth, but a sizable contingent—two hundred at least—mill below the watchtower. A shining brass telescope stands on a wooden tripod at his side.
He is tall, taller even than Stathis was, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His iron-grey hair is worn long, in the Imperial style, gathered into a horse's tail and held with a silver ring. A heavy, plum-colored cloak hangs at his back. It is not the color worn by those born to the purple, but it is close enough to mark his noble status.
"Wait here,” the boy says, then hurries to his side. He whispers to him, and the captain turns towards me. His surcoat, worn over silvered mail, is the same deep purple as his cloak. A hawk is embroidered upon it in silver thread. His eyes are pale gray beneath unruly brows, piercing and direct. He waves me over, then puts his eye to the telescope.
"So nice of you to join us this morning,” Captain Garrett says, not bothering to look at me. His voice is soft and deep, his tone just shy of insulting.
"I will be brief,” he continues, sweeping the glass across the enemy below, then turning it to view the larger force before the main gates. “Your patron's letter of introduction was very flattering. It said you want to fight, and that you had skill with the bow. So, I have decided to assign you to the 103rd, second squad, under Sergeant Cyr."
Of course it would be him, my sister groans.
"I met the sergeant just now,” I say, ignoring her.
Garrett takes his eye from the glass. His face shows me that this is not a man accustomed to interruptions.
"Quite,” he says after favoring me with a long, icy stare. “In any case, you will report to him henceforth and follow his orders as if
they were my own. You were a scout before coming here, were you not?"
"Yes,” I say, then add, “Yes, sir."
"Well, I am not sure how you conducted yourself out in the wilderness, but here discipline and courage are worth more than skill. Follow your sergeant's orders and all will be well. Do we understand one another?"
"Yes, sir,” I say, ignoring my sister's wordless growl.
Garrett nods to the youth, and the boy unrolls my orders on the desk. The captain signs them with a flourish. “Present these to Sergeant Cyr. He will requisition whatever supplies you need. Welcome to the 103rd.” He turns back to the telescope.
I gather up my papers and move towards the stairs. Just before I can begin my descent, the captain calls my name. I pause.
"One more thing, scout,” Garrett says. I walk back. Damn these pompous minor nobles and their little games. As if a man like him needed more affirmation of his control over common men and women.
"You patron also mentioned you have some familiarity with the healing arts?” he asks.
I mutter a curse under my breath; I asked Lia to not mention that fact in her letter, then say “Yes, sir."
He looks at me once more, his steely eyes weighing me. “So why man the walls? Why not stay behind them, and tend to the wounded, where it is safe?"
I bite back the harsh words I want to speak. Even though he is my commanding officer, and a noble besides, I am a citizen of the Empire. My choices are my own. I do not need to explain to him why I will not—why I cannot—spend too much time amongst the dead. I decide to tell him the lesser truth.
"Because the Mor took away everything I hold dear.” I think of Lia, sitting beside my bed in the house of healing. “Almost everything, in any case. Such scores are best settled at the point of an arrow. Sir."