Chronicle of the Unhewn Throne 02 - The Providence of Fire:

by Brian Staveley

  “So,” she said, when the Flea fell silent at last, “you going to kill me?”

  He considered her for a while before responding. “I hope not, Gwenna.” He looked tired. “I hope not.”

  Evidently, the stories squared. At least, that was how Gwenna interpreted her sudden freedom. After spending the better part of an hour tied to the tree, trying pointlessly to slip out of the Flea’s knots, she had watched helplessly as the Wing leader returned, nodded, then slit the ropes with a few quick cuts. Annick was similarly freed, although things didn’t look as rosy for Pyrre. Gwenna had no love for the woman, but it came as a shock to see her hauled into the small clearing trussed tighter than a pig for the slaughter, Newt’s knife at her throat. The Kettral had treated her more roughly than they had Gwenna or Annick. Bruises purpled her face, her nose looked broken, and her left eye had swollen shut. Despite the injuries, she managed a wink at Gwenna when Newt deposited her on the uneven ground.

  Sigrid hacked up something that might have been a laugh or a cough. Even after the fight in the Urghul camp, even after spending the end of the night strapped in to the bird’s talons, the woman looked as though she had stepped directly into the forest from some aristocrat’s ball. Gwenna’s blacks were mud-caked, blood-soaked, and torn ragged. The other Kettral looked just about the same, even the Flea. Sigrid’s clothes, on the other hand, might have come straight from the laundress, cloth so immaculately dark it looked like velvet. Only her arms, crisscrossed with dried blood and scar, suggested the violence she had just seen and wrought. She opened her mouth again in a guttural stutter, then pointed at Pyrre.

  Newt nodded thoughtfully as he picked at some scab beneath his scraggly beard.

  “What?” the Flea asked.

  “My lovely and esteemed companion suggests,” Newt replied, “that we plant a knife in the Skullsworn’s eye for what she did to Finn.”

  The Flea studied Pyrre for a moment, face unreadable, then turned back to Newt. “And you?”

  The Aphorist shrugged. “Killing is easier than unkilling.”

  “Does that mean kill her, or don’t kill her?” the Wing leader asked patiently.

  “It means what it means,” Newt replied. “I have no vote.”

  “I will abstain from voting as well,” Pyrre said, twisting her head around to face the Flea. “Though I appreciate the democratic process, I am ready to meet my god.” Her voice was as battered as her body, the words little more than dried husks.

  “You can’t kill her,” Gwenna blurted, amazed to hear herself speak.

  The Flea turned to her, eyebrow raised, but Sigrid coughed up another series of broken sounds before he could respond.

  “Sigrid also suggests,” Newt interpreted, “taking Gwenna’s tongue. As a cautionary measure. My companion observes that the girl can do her work without a tongue and will prove considerably less trying.”

  It sounded like a joke. Gwenna hoped it was a ’Kent-kissing joke, but Sigrid’s smile held all the mirth of a bloody knife.

  “I’m not taking tongues,” the Flea said flatly, as though he had to deal with the suggestion weekly. “I’m deciding what to do with the Skullsworn, then we’re getting in the air. I’ll remind everyone that there’s an Urghul army riding for Annur right now, and, unless il Tornja has better intelligence than I’d realized, it’s going to hit him like a hammer to the back of the head.”

  “That’s justice,” Annick said curtly. “Il Tornja killed the Emperor. He’s a traitor.”

  “Sounds like he is,” the Flea agreed, “but he’s also the kenarang. We all have jobs, and it’s his job to stop the Urghul. If Long Fist’s army gets past the frontier, it’ll be all over except for the screaming, at least in Raalte and the northern atrepies. Doesn’t matter who’s loyal and who’s not when everyone’s dead.”

  “But Valyn’s gone to kill il Tornja,” Gwenna said, shaking her head.

  The Flea grimaced, wiped a hand down over his forehead. “Let’s hope he fails.”

  “So,” Gwenna said, shaking her head, “you believe us, but you want to let il Tornja live?”

  “Until he defeats Long Fist, yes.”

  Gwenna’s head throbbed. She’d been up all night fighting, running, flying, feeling, most of the time, half a heartbeat away from a knife in the neck. It was a relief to be free, finally. A relief not to be dead. She was ready to fly some more, or ride some more, or even to fight some more, but the thing she just couldn’t take was talking anymore, especially when all the talk led nowhere, twisting back on itself until she wasn’t even sure which end was up.

  “Valyn can kill il Tornja,” she said, sick with frustration, “and someone else can fucking defeat Long Fist. Doesn’t Annur have five ’Kent-kissing generals?”

  “Ten,” the Flea replied, “if you include their seconds, but they’re children next to il Tornja. I swear, that bastard is smarter than Hendran and twice as ruthless. If Long Fist breaks past the border, we’ll need il Tornja if we ever hope to bottle him up again. As Newt says, ‘Killing is easier than unkilling.’ ”

  “So what’s the play?” Annick asked. She was staring into the trees to the northeast, as though she could see all the way to the approaching mass of Urghul. If her recent captivity bothered her, she didn’t show it. Always the mission, with Annick, and to Hull with normal human things like emotions. “What do we do?”

  The Flea spread his hands. “Not a whole great pile of choices that I can see. Long Fist’s already crossed north of the confluence, which means he just needs to get across the Black. There are no garrisons out here because even if he gets across it, he’s still on the wrong side of the Thousand Lakes.”

  “So he’s screwed, right?” Gwenna asked. “Even without the garrisons, given the terrain, he’s totally buggered.”

  Sigrid made a disgusted sound and walked off across the meadow toward the bird.

  Newt watched her for a while, whistling tunelessly between his crooked teeth, then turned back to Gwenna. “A net,” he said, “is not a wall.”

  “What he means,” the Flea said, “is that the lakes are just lakes. Lakes and bogs. There’s a lot of them, and it’d be a bitch trying to move an army through, especially an army on horseback, but that’s not to say it can’t be done if you have the right maps and a few dozen good scouts.”

  Gwenna stared. “So why aren’t there any garrisons there?”

  The Flea shrugged. “Lot of frontier. Not so many soldiers. The Urghul never had a chief like Long Fist, so we never bothered worrying about one.”

  “This is edifying,” Pyrre said, “but I can’t help feeling as though we’ve strayed from the original—”

  The Flea’s backhand caught her square in the jaw. It didn’t look like much of a blow, but it knocked the woman clean off the log and into a patch of thorns beyond. The Wing leader didn’t so much as glance over. “I don’t like many people,” he said, gazing into the cool shadows beneath the trees, talking quietly, as though to himself, “but I liked Finn. We were in the same group of cadets. Went through the Trial together.”

  He looked over at Pyrre finally. “It’d feel good to kill you.”

  The Skullsworn, unable to break her fall, had landed awkwardly, face half in the moss, half pressed against a rotting stump. With an effort, she hauled herself up, then rose to her knees to meet his eyes. The fall had tightened the noose around her throat, and Gwenna could hear her laboring to breathe.

  “You know what the difference is between the Kettral and the priests of Ananshael?” she rasped.

  The Flea watched her, but didn’t respond.

  “We’re all fighters,” Pyrre continued after a pause. “We’re all killers. The difference is that you kill in order to keep something else alive: your empire, your Wing, yourself. The death is incidental to the life.”

  “And you?” the Flea asked.

  Pyrre smiled. “For the priests, death is the point, the ultimate justice. You hold the knife, but death belongs to Ananshael, and I will ne
ver fear my god.”

  The Flea watched her awhile longer, his head tilted to the side, then ran a hand over the graying stubble of his scalp.

  “Well,” he said, “you’re going to have to wait awhile longer to meet him.”

  The Skullsworn raised her eyebrows.

  “My god is patient, but I’m surprised that you are.”

  “I’m not patient,” the Flea said. “I’m practical. I can use you.”

  Pyrre shook her head, the motion limited by the rope around her neck. “What is it with the Kettral? Why does every Wing leader think I’m a part of their Wing?”

  “You’re not coming with my Wing,” the Flea said. “I need you to stay with Gwenna and Annick. To help them.”

  “Stay with us where?” Gwenna demanded. It sounded suspiciously as though they’d been rescued only to be questioned and abandoned. She might not understand a ’Kent-kissing thing about what was going on, but there was a fight coming, that was clear enough, and she’d be shipped to ’Shael before she was left out of it.

  “Andt-Kyl,” the Flea said, turning to her.

  “What’s Andt-Kyl?”

  “Small town,” Annick said, “near the center of the Thousand Lakes.”

  “A little to the north of center, actually,” the Flea replied.

  “And what are we doing in Andt-Kyl?”

  “Getting ready.”

  “For the summer fishing season?” Gwenna demanded, incredulous.

  “For the Urghul,” the Flea replied. “If Long Fist manages to cross the river, there are half a dozen ways south through the Lakes for an army the size of his, but they all pass through Andt-Kyl. We’ll drop you there. We can hope the Urghul won’t show up, but if they do, it’ll be in three days, maybe four.”

  “Andt-Kyl is a town,” Annick observed. “Not a garrison. Not a fort.”

  “Your job is to fortify it.”

  Gwenna was shaking her head. “And if the Urghul show up?”

  “Hold them. Until il Tornja arrives.”

  “Il Tornja doesn’t even know they’re coming,” Gwenna said, worry mounting inside her. The Kettral trained to be knives in the night, not to fight pitched battles against entire armies. It was hard to even imagine what they could do. Even with Pyrre, there were only three of them against the assembled Urghul might.

  “I’m going to tell him.”

  “What do you want us to do with the town?” Annick asked. Her voice was cold and measured as ever, but it was clear she felt no more comfortable with the strange orders than Gwenna.

  “It’s vaguely defensible already. Make it more so. Rally the people.” He shrugged. “We spent most of a decade training you. Do what needs doing. The assassin will help.”

  “And why,” Pyrre asked, “would the assassin do that?”

  “Three reasons,” the Flea replied. “You’re stubborn and you don’t want Long Fist spreading his pain-worship over half the earth.”

  Pyrre frowned. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “You’re not the first Skullsworn I’ve come across. I know how Ananshael’s priests feel about Meshkent.”

  The Skullsworn’s eyes went wide with surprise, then she pursed her lips appraisingly.

  “All right,” she said, nodding, “and the third reason?”

  The Flea met her gaze. “If things go wrong, there’ll be dead piled high as the eaves.”

  “Indeed,” Pyrre replied, nodding slowly, then smiling. “One could make a great prayer to the god.”

  “What about you?” Gwenna demanded, staring at the Wing leader. “Once you’ve warned il Tornja, you’re coming back? Why are we holding the choke point? I mean, I want to do it, to help, but you’re the fucking vets. . . .”

  “And because we’re the fucking vets,” the Flea replied, “we’re going to do the hard work.”

  “Meaning what?” Annick asked.

  “Meaning killing Long Fist and his ex-Kettral traitor of a pet leach before they get to you.”

  36

  The finest quarters in Aats-Kyl were not, as it turned out, particularly fine. The soldiers who had prepared for her arrival had done their best—scrubbing the wooden floors, hanging lanterns from the log walls, kindling a roaring fire in the wide hearth—but the two-story building at the center of the town was little more than a lodge, and the central hall, though cavernous, was gloomy. Adare could feel the cool northern breeze moving through the unchinked gaps in the logs. The antlered heads of moose and deer seemed to watch her with their stone eyes as she stalked across the floorboards.

  As soon as the young soldier went in search of il Tornja, Fulton scoured the room, looking behind every door, checking beneath the rustic tables and chairs, even sticking his head into the flaming hearth, as though someone might be hiding behind the roaring fire, ready to leap out. When he had satisfied himself that the room was secure, he took up a position just inside the front door, blade drawn.

  “Shall I kill him as he enters, Your Radiance?” he asked.

  Adare hesitated. Sweat slicked her palms, and she could feel it cold on her spine beneath her robe. Her heart pounded under her ribs. She could end it all as soon as the kenarang entered. And yet . . . slowly she shook her head. “There’s too much going on here that I don’t understand. I need to talk to him first.”

  The Aedolian’s jaw tightened. His wounds from the Everburning Well had mostly healed, and he had regained some of the weight he lost searching for her after her escape from the Dawn Palace, and yet something had changed about the man. He had always been hard, even severe. The severity, however, had been leavened by Birch, by Fulton’s obvious affection for the younger man. With Birch gone, there was nothing left but duty.

  “I would ask that you keep the table between you and the kenarang at all times, Your Radiance,” he said, gesturing to a wide pine table stained with grease and circles of ale. “I will be at your side, but added distance will serve us well.”

  “You still think he wants to murder me?” Adare asked.

  “I believe everyone wants to murder you, Your Radiance,” Fulton replied. “It is my job.”

  Adare shook her head, suddenly very weary, then turned to Nira and Oshi. The old man, oblivious to the tension in the room, had retired to a dark corner where he was gently patting the mounted head of a black bear. Adare watched him for a moment, wondering what it would feel like to have lived so long and to remember so little. Sometimes her own short life felt filled to bursting, the record of her days crammed with memories she could neither understand nor dismiss.

  “He’ll be here soon,” she said to Nira. “How about some counseling?”

  The old woman frowned. “Supposed ta be pretty bright, ain’t he?”

  “He’s supposed to be a ’Kent-kissing genius,” Adare replied bitterly. “I know next to nothing about military matters, but he certainly outmaneuvered my father.”

  “The thing about smart bastards,” Nira said, shaking her head, “can’t trust ’em, but sometimes ya need ’em.”

  Adare stared. “You’re not telling me to let my father’s murderer live?”

  The woman raised her brows at the tone. “I’m suggestin’, ya willful sow, that ya rule your bright little empire.”

  “Administering justice,” Adare replied stiffly, “is central to rule.”

  “What is central to rule,” Nira snapped, “is doing what needs doing, and if you think that’s always the same thing, then you might as well have the big man in the armor there put his blade between your breasts because ya ain’t gonna make it long, girl. Ya ain’t gonna survive.”

  Adare started to reply when the rear door to the lodge clattered shut. Nira whirled about, cane at the ready, then cursed. Oshi was gone.

  “The old fuckin’ fool never did know when ta stay put,” she muttered, striding toward the rear of the large hall. “I’ll be back in a skip. Don’t kill anyone till I’m back.”

  Adare started to protest, but the woman had already followed her brother out
the back of the building, cursing beneath her breath and brandishing her cane. Adare turned to find Fulton shaking his head. “I don’t know where you found her, Your Radiance, but she is a liability.”

  “These days,” Adare replied bleakly, “you’re about the only person who’s not a liability, Fulton. And I include myself in that accounting.”

  Before she could say more, the front door clattered open, and il Tornja strode in, his boots, breeches, and coat splattered with mud. Adare’s stomach twisted at the sight of him. He approached the table smiling, arms spread in welcome. Even after Fulton laid the broadblade calmly against the kenarang’s neck, Adare found herself stepping backward, as though she stood on the shore watching a great wave roll in. She had rehearsed the moment a thousand times on the long march north, first from Olon to Annur, then from Annur to Aats-Kyl, had prepared over and over again what she would say, how she would hold herself. Now, faced with her lover, Annur’s kenarang and regent, and her father’s murderer, it was all she could do to stand, to keep the trembling from her legs, to meet his eyes.

  If il Tornja shared any of the same concern, he didn’t show it. Despite the mud marring his clothes, he looked just as she remembered: handsome, cavalier, even a little bit louche. Instead of armor, he wore a blue wool coat over a darker blue tunic, the latter tucked into leather riding breeches that flared out above black boots polished smooth as stones. It wasn’t a legion uniform, wasn’t a uniform at all, and yet the man had a way of carrying the clothes that made them seem wholly appropriate, as though every general in Annur ought to be dressed the same, as though the half-dozen rings he wore, cut gems winking in the firelight, were somehow wholly appropriate to the business of battle and war.

  The cold northern wind had riffled his dark hair, but his eyes, those steady, unflinching eyes, studied her with the same amused curiosity Adare remembered so well. She felt like livestock, suddenly, like a horse or cow brought to the block to be picked over before the auction, and the feeling kindled a fury inside her, a red flame of rage. For a moment she almost ordered Fulton to twist his sword and have done with it.