by Matthew Cook
"I fear it will scar, despite the closeness of the stitches. It should have been closed hours ago, but there were others with injuries more severe. I'm sorry."
"I understand,” I say, wondering if the reproach I hear in her voice is really there, or is merely an artifact constructed by my sense of guilt.
"It will itch abominably when it starts healing,” she continues, “so you must resist the urge to scratch or pick. Do you understand?"
I nod and hand her back the mirror. I do not tell her that I could not care less if the wound scars or not. Let it. Let it face me in the mirror every single day, a reminder of my pride and my foolishness.
Lauran looks at me for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. She draws breath to speak, then seems to think better of it, and lets it out again, unused. She turns, her things gathered in her skirt, and opens the door.
A Gray Circle man stands in the hall, guarding the door. They have not left my side. I cannot tell if they are there to protect me, or to protect others from me.
Knowing the count, probably both.
I sigh and lower myself to the thick pillows, sighing as my battered body protests. My face feels hot and swollen, and my leg throbs in time with my heart. I stare through the window, at the weeping gray sky, as night spreads its black cloak across the rooftops.
I spend the next two days in Mistress Lauran's house. My only visitors are the servants who check my dressings four times a day. After breakfast, and again before dinner, Lauran herself comes in to poke at my sutures and to be sure I am using the salve she commanded I rub into them at every dressing change.
Several times I consider simply leaving; I am well enough to travel home, and I would prefer to heal in my own narrow bed. Every time I try to leave, I am stopped by the Gray Circle man at the door.
"The count desires you to stay here and heal properly,” is the usual answer, delivered in a polite but firm tone that brooks no disagreement.
I do not know when the Gray Circle tracked me here, or how many of them guard the healing house. For all I know, they followed me all the way from the Gold Road to Mistress Lauran's front door. The idea reassures and troubles me in equal measure.
I cannot see the aftermath of the Mor attack from my vantage point, but from my window I can see the cloud of smoke and dust hanging in the air near the Lion's Mouth. The sound of hammers can be heard, even through the closed pane, day and night, and I must assume that work to replace the shattered gate is proceeding. My guards, despite my repeated questions, will tell me nothing, saying only that the count will be along soon to speak with me.
As frustrated as this lack of information is, it pales in comparison to my hunger for knowledge of Lia. The last time I saw her, she was battered and bruised, dazed with shock at the death of her father. Lost and alone. I wonder where she is now; who is consoling her.
I look down at my hands, recalling the sensation of my borrowed sword chopping into Argus Cho's neck, the blade parting muscle and vertebrae; recall the feel of his dead flesh twisting and shifting in preparation for the imminent birth of the sweetling inside of him.
What must she be feeling now, after my refusal to heal him against his will? After she watched me decapitate him? Does she even know I still live? Does she care?
The desire to go to her is overwhelming, and I find myself in the hall, struggling with the Gray Circle guard. My voice rises from a whisper to a full-throated shout before Mistress Lauran comes to silence us.
"This is a house of healing, not a cliffside tavern!” she hisses at us. “You will be quiet, or you can leave right this instant!"
"Fine, I'll go,” I say.
"My orders are for her to remain here until the count comes to collect her,” the guard replies at the same moment. “I apologize for my behavior, mistress."
The guard's good manners shame me into silence, and I retreat back to my room.
On the third day, Count Savard comes to visit me. I look up from my breakfast tray as the door opens, revealing his slender form.
He looks terrible. Dark circles ring his dog-brown eyes, and deep creases frame his narrow mouth. His complexion is sallow, and his unwashed hair, limp and sparse at the best of times, stands up in a greasy mat.
Still, he is a noble. I put down my fork and lean forward, preparing to haul myself up on my good leg. Savard waves aside the gesture and drops into the chair beside the bed.
"Gods above and below,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes, “it is a madhouse out there."
"What news of Lia?” I say, ignoring his opening. “I've been here for days and I've had no news at all, nor been allowed visitors. Your men haven't done me the courtesy of even—"
"You're here in secret because if people knew you were here, they'd storm the doors, break them down, and drag you, screaming, to their idea of justice. You'd be dead, yes, as would mistress Lauran and gods know how many others for sheltering you. I told Lady Cho where you were, because I know I can trust her discretion, but none other."
I blink at his words, then nod. I had feared such a reaction from the city's populace, but hearing it said so bluntly rocks me back. Still, my pride will not allow me to meekly submit to this man. Not after all I have endured.
"Well, at least allow me visitors, then. If Lia would be allowed to come to me, I—"
"My men are under no orders to turn Lady Cho aside,” Savard says softly. “If she has not visited, then it is none of my doing."
I blink into his eyes, seeing the trace of a smile at the corner of his droll mouth. I feel the red tide of the blood magic shift in time to the pulsing of my anger, slithering in my belly.
The sensation evokes a feeling of revulsion so intense that I must turn aside, gagging.
"In any event,” he presses on, as if my choking were inconsequential, “perhaps you will allow me to properly brief you on the current situation with the Mor?"
I nod and spit a thick glob of bile-tinged spit into the bedpan on the table. Inside, my sister gasps at this most unladylike behavior, and despite myself, I must smile. Even now, after everything we have endured, she still cares about such trivialities.
The count tells me, quickly and efficiently, of the efforts underway to repair the shattered Lion's Mouth. About the rediscovery of long-dormant construction engines, and of the geomancers and their heroic efforts to repair the sundered stone of the gates.
He tells me the remaining Mor have retreated, heading back to their mountain lairs in droves. Scouts have followed them as far as the entrances to their caves but no further. Already dozens of doorways have been discovered.
"It was a bad defeat for them, so there's the possibility they won't come back,” the count says, rubbing his eyes. “But the emperor does not want to count on that, and neither do I, so we're shifting troops here, to protect the City and the cliffside cranes and the Gold Road. We lost many troops, more than two thirds of the city's defenders, so we have had to recall troops from as far away as Greenwich, nearly one hundred miles distant.
He turns away to stare out the darkened window. “The decision has left many of the Armitage's guardhouses either lightly defended or abandoned altogether. If they decide to return, or if their retreat is a feint, then they'll have any number of places to cross."
"Then we should protect that which is most important: the people,” I reply, “The emperor must command the refugees to remain here, in the city, where they can be defended. The winter will be easier to endure within the city as well. I'm sure the Mor destroyed every granary and warehouse they could find. Anyone who tries to go home will be in danger of starvation."
Savard nods. “A good suggestion, one the emperor shares. If the winter is long, it will be more than a year until the farmers can plant again. Thank the gods the southern lands were not affected; our storehouses will be empty from having to support so many by the time of the first thaws."
"What now?” I ask, after the silence lying between us has deepened for a time. “Surely you didn't come here just to
tell me the good news of the enemy's retreat?"
The count shakes his head. “No. Not just for that reason. I've come to tell you what the emperor has decided to do with you."
"Do? What do you mean? We've won, sir, and driven the enemy back. With luck, we will all be dust before they decide to emerge again."
"Lady Kirin, please. You and I both know this is not over.” The count's eyes go hard when he says this, like age-darkened amber. Any human warmth I might have seen in them is gone, submerged beneath the mask of the emperor's spymaster. Still, I cannot help but to try.
"Of course it is,” I laugh. I hear the tension in the sound, the quiver of dread. I know he does as well. “I came here to fight the Mor, and that's what I did. Now that they're gone, I plan to spend my days with those I love. I'm through with the court and the army. The first thing I mean to do is burn my leathers and learn to dress like a proper lady."
The count sighs and walks to the clock on the mantel, then adjusts the hands on its face minutely. He turns to me, his face grave.
"Surely you don't think it will be that easy?” he asks. “Do you really think that someone of your ... abilities ... can live here as if nothing ever happened? Thousands saw what happened in the square. By now the entire city knows of it. Do you really imagine there is a single person within the city who doesn't know your name? The emperor cannot let such a thing stand unanswered. He must do something."
A chill twists through my spine. Of course the emperor would want something done about me. I share Rath's knowledge of necromancy, a power that nearly destroyed us all, even as it spared us from the Mor. Such a weapon cannot lie on the ground, unused; men like Savard will not allow it.
"So he has sent his chief assassin to be rid of me?” I ask, pushing down the cold panic unfolding in my stomach. I feel the blood magic respond to my fear, but grip it savagely, teeth bared in a snarl of concentration. No matter what, I will not let it out, even of the cost is my own life. I will not.
Savard shrugs. If he notices the effort in my face, he does not show it. “That, milady, is entirely up to you."
"I don't understand,” I hiss. “Have you come to capture me then? To hold me in some dank cell in case the emperor has use for me? I warn you now, I will never use my talents again, or pass on what I know. There is nothing you can do to make me."
He looks at me then, his expression softening, approaching something approaching humor. His eyes sparkle with black amusement. “Don't be so sure, milady. I'm something of an expert in the art of ... persuasion. Pray I never need demonstrate my own skills."
I sit, motionless, refusing to respond to his threat. The count shakes his head, as if regretting his words. He sighs, and scrubs his hand through his tangled hair.
"In any case,” he continues, “if you are to remain in the City, there are certain arrangements we'll have to make. The changing of your physical appearance, for example. The establishment of a new household. Something modest, of course, but elegant, as befits your status. Something close to the palace."
"I already told you, sir, I will never—"
"The emperor is many things, milady,” the count interrupts, his voice soft and steely as a rapier in a satin sheath, “but wasteful is not one of them. He values those who can assist him in ruling the Empire. In defending it. But he also is a cautious man, who never ignores a threat to his power. I beg you, do not spurn his offer."
I think on this for a time, listening to the gentle tick of the clock. A chime sounds, announcing the newly-minted hour. I sigh and look up from where my hands have twisted themselves in the bed sheets, and force myself to let them go.
"I can advise him. For as long as he has need of me, I will share what wisdom I have with him and his generals. But I will never ... never ... use my powers, for him or for anyone else. Even if he commands you to break my body, I will resist you with everything I am. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, yes, of course, milady, if that's how it must be,” he replies with a mocking bow. I can tell he does not believe me. He thinks I will break my promise, one way or another, either as a result of his will or from my own weakness.
Let him. He did not see the look in Napaula's face when she looked at her son. He is not a mother, and can never know a fraction of that satisfaction, of that love. Let him think he can make a pawn of me, if that is what it will take to leave this room alive, and to see Lia's face once again.
Savard retrieves his cloak from the chair and shrugs it over his shoulders. “I'll make the necessary arrangements. Yusif will come to collect you later this evening. I've already taken the liberty of finding you a selection of homes; all you have to do is chose one."
"That won't be necessary,” I rely. “I already have a house, and I will not leave it."
He pauses in the doorway, but does not look back. The gesture deepens the anxiety tightening my chest.
"Talk to Lia, then, but know my offer stands if you need it.” He walks out, his boots clomping on the wooden floor boards.
"Wait!” I call out, rising from the bed. The tray tumbles to the floor, knocked aside in my haste to follow him. “What have you heard?"
I hurry into the hall, and am stopped by the guard's raised hand. “What have you heard?” I call out again, uncaring if the count or Mistress Lauran or even the gods themselves take offense at my tone.
He does not stop, or even slow, his reply floating back to me from the staircase.
"Talk to Lia."
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CHAPTER THIRTY
Rain falls from the leaden sky. It soaks through leather and wool, running in chill rivulets down shivering skin. The wind blows the fat drops slant-wise, enough to defeat the umbrellas and hoods the small knot of mourners have brought to protect themselves.
I stand beside the simple grave, one of hundreds of fresh wounds in the soil of Griffin Park. I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to ease the pain of my wounded leg. It throbs along with my heart, sending stabbing lances of discomfort through me every time I shift. My face itches, just as Lauran warned me it would.
The priest hurries through the ceremony, inspired either by the rain or by the waiting scores of funerals he must doubtless perform this day. I barely hear him.
Beside me Yusif stands, hood thrown back, the rain running down to drip from his beak nose. Other members of the Gray Circle lurk at a discreet distance, their dark cloaks almost invisible against the leafless trees. On the other side of the freshly-turned earth stands Lia, head bowed beneath a black oilcloth umbrella. At her side is Westyn Obarre, the hydromancer. As I watch, I see Obarre reach out and encircle Lia's shoulders, squeezing them in a brief hug.
Lia looks hale and healthy, her bruises faded to a dim green mottle. At least someone has been able to enjoy the attentions of the priests of Shanira. Good.
The priest completes the ritual and the coffin is lowered into the ground. I know that one of Yusif's tasks here is to assure that no one opens that box. It contains nothing but ashes, but the count is taking no chances.
Yusif has told me that Savard believed the body of the stone baby was too dangerous to lie unguarded in the ground. As soon as it was obvious that the bodies of the dead were staying dead, both he and his mother were cremated. It was my idea to mingle the remains in a single urn: the gesture seemed appropriate, a physical echo of Napaula's and her son's intertwined souls.
I know the child's spirit is in the Beyond, with its mother's, and poses no further threat, but let the count pay to properly inter Napaula and her son in the tranquil expanse of Griffin Park if it makes him feel better. I wonder how long the Gray Circle will guard the gravesite and its unmarked headstone. Years, unless I miss my guess about the count.
The coffin reaches the bottom of the grave with a hollow thump, and we all step forward to toss in a handful of muddy earth. I feel nothing: I know that what lies below are simply shells. That Napaula is in a better place, beyond the Vale, with her beloved son. I wipe away water on my c
heek, water that is not tears, certainly not.
The small assembly breaks up as workmen begin shoveling earth into the hole. The priest hurries across the wet grass to his next ceremony. His page follows behind, struggling beneath the weight of his holy books and the umbrella he uses to keep his master somewhat dry. Lia and Westyn stand on the other side of the grave, talking softly. He looks up at me when I approach, his expression full of fear and anger, tinged with a loathing I know all too well.
"I'm glad you survived the battle, master hydromancer,” I say politely. It seems a safe enough sentiment.
He nods, the expression shifting into defensiveness, and I realize that, even with such banality, I have chosen poorly. “I was at the river at Master Cho's command, ready to fight the fires. I wish I could have been in the square with you and Lia ... Lady Cho, I mean."
"No, you do not,” Lia says softly, her eyes still on the lid of the coffin that even now disappears beneath spade-fulls of dark brown soil.
Obarre nods, his youthful face chagrined, even as his eyes shine with stubborn defiance. Fool.
"Westyn, will you please leave us?” Lia asks. “I will meet you later."
"I...” he begins, ready to disagree. Lia looks at him and pats his hand. The gesture twists something sharp and jagged in my guts.
"Of course,” he relents, bowing to her. “Lady Kirin,” he says with a nod.
"Master hydromancer,” I reply, inclining my head. My eyes never leave Lia. “You too, Yusif,” I add.
"I won't be far, but you'll have your privacy,” he promises. He signals to one of the men standing across the lawn and then heads towards the waiting carriages.
"Shall we get out of the rain?” Lia asks.
"Please. Let's go home."
Lia hesitates, the gesture speaking volumes. Then she nods, moving mechanically towards the carriage. I take her arm, and she allows me to place her hand in the crook of my elbow.