“Yes, Your Excellence.”
He bent close to each man in turn and spoke a single word to each. Something he’d never told anyone. The first and last names of a boy he’d once kissed, in a youthful moment of weakness. A boy whom he’d shoved from a wall walk, and then told the master of acolytes, through sobs, that his friend had slipped . . .
The door slammed behind him, and the key turned in the lock with a well-oiled clank. The pontifex regarded the Beast.
The priests took every care with the host, so that she would live a long and healthy life before another host needed to be found. She was cleansed daily, to keep sores from developing, and well fed. Red hair stuck out in tufts between the iron bands of the blindfold wrapping her head. Her skin was pale after so long in the dungeons, and he could see a wormy blue vein wriggle along her collarbone and down across one heavy white breast.
“If you destroy me,” he said, stepping closer, “it will do you no good.”
“It won’t,” the Beast agreed. “As I’ve told you, our interests align in this.”
It lies. His breath came fast. But it doesn’t matter. The Lord’s strength is with me. I will master it, as Karis did.
Another step, and he was beside the creature. He lifted the largest of the silver keys and fitted it to the lock on one side of the iron blindfold. A turn of the wrist, and it clicked, the restraint opening smoothly like an iron flower. The pontifex willed his hands to stop trembling as he lifted the metal crown away from the host’s head and let it crash to the ground.
The Beast blinked and looked up at him. The host had a lean, pretty face, and her eyes were shockingly green. The pontifex stood only inches away, close enough that he could feel her breath against his mask.
There was a moment of uncertainty. He cleared his throat.
“How exactly,” he said, “does this—”
A crimson light bloomed in the depths of the Beast’s pupils. It expanded outward, swallowing the black and the green, and then further, spreading like a stain across his vision, devouring the entire world. An instant later it was pressing inward, lancing through his eyes and into the depths of his soul.
Strength meant nothing. Not against this. It was like being the strongest of ants and trying to resist a man’s boot. There was no mastery, only the grinding weight of oblivion.
It lies. The Beast always lies. It was his last thought.
—
The Beast’s new body straightened up and brushed itself off.
Poor, foolish man, with his pathetic gambit. Everything that Zakhar Vakhaven had been was splayed out in front of the Beast, the contents of his mind and memory neatly arranged and available, like a rabbit skinned and gutted for butchering. Every reminiscence, every hidden guilt, every secret fantasy the man had entertained while he grappled with himself in the darkness of his cell. Every skill he’d possessed was the Beast’s to call on as it wished.
The pontifex turned to the door and tugged off his obsidian mask.
“Let me out,” he said in a loud voice. “Elijah. Quarnoff.”
There was a pause, and then the keys turned in the locks. The door opened.
“Come here,” the Beast said in the pontifex’s voice. The two priests entered. The pontifex beckoned one of them closer, and the man obediently stepped forward, looking directly into his superior’s eyes. Crimson light flared.
The second priest had time to start with surprise as his companion whirled, grabbed him, and dragged him close, tearing off his own mask as he did so. Another flash of red, and it was done.
Four bodies. Once it had had thousands. And now I will again.
The pontifex and one of the priests unlocked the chains binding the original host’s arms. Jane Verity was still the seat of the Beast’s power, from which it operated the other bodies like limbs. She would remain so until she died, and then another would take her place. And another, and another, and another, forever.
Last time, it had been young, barely born and ignorant of its own limitations. It had learned, but not quickly enough. But thirteen hundred years had passed since then, thirteen hundred years of study and planning. It would not make the same mistakes again.
Above it was the fortress of Elysium, full of panicking priests. Beyond that, Murnsk, and Borel, and Vordan, and the cities of the League and the Old Coast. Beyond that, the world, packed with scuttling, frantic humans.
Jane’s lips twisted into a broad grin, and the Beast thought, I will take them all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RAESINIA
Though the sky stayed dark with clouds, only a few flurries of snow fell, for which Raesinia was desperately grateful. Blue fissures grew in the blanket of gray, and the wind blew only from the south. Even with the return of the sun, though, it rarely rose above freezing at midday, and the winds whipped loose snow in the faces of struggling men and horses.
The Pilgrim’s Road, never friendly, had turned into a nightmare. Men and horses struggled along through the snow, but guns and wagons constantly foundered or broke down. If they went ahead of the rest of the army, progress slowed to a crawl, and they splintered wheels and axles on hard-frozen ruts. If they came behind, the tramp of thousands of feet had crushed the trail into slimy, clinging mud, which sucked at anything that passed as though it were made of glue. Raesinia ordered anything that could be abandoned left behind, and the army dribbled a constant stream of caissons, empty wagons, and broken wheels. Even some cannons were sacrificed when they sank into mud that refroze overnight; a team of men with picks was unable to work them free before the army had to move on.
Fortunately, if such a word could be used, they didn’t need most of the wagons, because there was so little to carry. Food supplies continued to dwindle alarmingly, and forage brought in nothing, since they were now recrossing terrain stripped bare on the way north. Dead horses provided brief bounties for those who were willing to stomach them, though there was increasingly little meat on their bones.
Just who was in command of the bedraggled army was a touchy question. After the disaster at the bridge, Raesinia had given the order to move south, and no one had spoken against her. The divisions remaining with them—the Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Eighth—each obeyed their own commanders, without much need for mutual decision-making. The only authority they all acknowledged was Alek Giforte’s supply train, protected by five hundred or so soldiers of the First Division who’d made it over the river.
Giforte himself accepted Raesinia’s authority cheerfully enough, and she would have been utterly lost without him. She’d never quite appreciated what it was all those military officers did with their time, but even organizing daily meals would have been impossible without Giforte’s tireless, efficient staff. The rest of the generals were another matter, though. According to Giforte, on paper, the command of the army ought to descend on Morwen Kaanos, commander of the Third Division, who had seniority over the other division-generals. So far he hadn’t pushed the matter, and neither had Raesinia. Time enough to sort it out after we get to Polkhaiz.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Marcus. Raesinia didn’t sleep, and therefore didn’t have nightmares as such; instead, at odd moments she found herself involuntarily constructing elaborate, awful daydreams. She watched him die in half a hundred ways, cut down by enemies, frozen or starved, carried away in another flood of broken ice and churning water. Every time, he turned to her, one arm extended, as though begging her for help.
I had to go, she told him. You told me to go! But he never answered.
For the first two days, the white riders had not bothered them, and Raesinia had hoped that meant they wouldn’t attack the army now that it was in retreat. When the strikes at their perimeter had begun again the following day, she’d realized that the respite had only been the relentless tribesmen finding another way over the river, then hurrying their sturdy ponies to catch up with
their slow-moving opponents. Pickets guarded the flanks and rear of the Grand Army, and the fast-dwindling cavalry was split into sections ready to gallop to the aid of any unit that came under attack. Every engagement left white riders lying dead in the snow, but Raesinia feared that the Grand Army was growing weaker faster than its enemies. At least warm clothes and a little food could be scavenged from the dead.
—
Raesinia looked down at the map as though she could press the inked lines closer together by strength of will. It overlapped the edges of her desk; the command tent, with its big map table, had been left on the north bank of the Kovria.
“Nearly there,” she said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Alek Giforte had lost weight in the retreat—they all had, except for Raesinia. The roots of his beard were now snow-white, and there were streaks of gray at his temples. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, but they still held an alert spark. “Scouts should reach the Syzria by midday tomorrow.”
“And the depots of Polkhaiz? Are we certain they’re stuffed as full as we think?”
Giforte hesitated. “If the orders the First Consul left behind were carried out, they should be.”
“Do we have any reason to think those orders were disobeyed?”
He frowned. “We have not met any supply convoys coming north. The threat from the white riders slowed shipments, I know, but we ought to have seen something. I’m worried.”
“What happens if there’s no food at Polkhaiz?”
“We have been rationing on the assumption that there will be,” Giforte said. He straightened up. “If there’s nothing, then we will all starve.”
Raesinia brushed the map with her hand, then looked up at him. “Then we had better hope you’re worried for no cause, Colonel.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
And then what? She hadn’t thought any further ahead than getting the army to safety. Go into camp and send out messengers, I suppose. Speak to the Borels and the Murnskai. Her stomach churned. Find out what happened to Marcus. And then . . .
“You should get some sleep, Colonel Giforte.” The name pricked something in her memory, and she frowned. “Are you related to the Colonel Giforte who commands the Girls’ Own?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “She’s my daughter.”
Raesinia gave a startled laugh. “It must be interesting having a daughter who nearly outranks you.”
“I am . . . very proud of her, Your Majesty.” He paused. “Though it has been some time since we’ve spoken as family. We have not always seen eye to eye.”
“You should talk to her,” Raesinia said. “After everything that’s happened . . .”
Giforte nodded. “Our quarrel does seem a bit petty. I’ve had the same thought. But there’s always so much work to be done.”
“Take the evening off,” Raesinia said. “Your queen commands it. Find your daughter, clear the air, and then get a good night’s rest. There’ll be even more work to be done once we cross the river.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Giforte bowed. “Thank you.”
He left the tent, and Raesinia slumped bonelessly into a camp chair. One more day. Once they made contact with the forces they’d left south of the river, they could arrange shipments of food, form a proper defense against the raiders, and begin the task of getting the army back into shape.
And start thinking about what it would mean if Janus doesn’t return. The idea seemed ludicrous on its face; the First Consul had always been prepared for every eventuality. But he pushed his luck too far this time. She hoped Marcus and the First Division made it back; of course she did. But Janus . . .
It might be easier for everyone if he didn’t survive. She felt a flood of guilt at the mere thought. Janus had, after all, saved her many times over, saved Vordan itself, as good as won a war against every other power on the continent. But now that it’s over, Vordan has very little use for him. He’s dangerous. Dorsay had demanded his dismissal as a precondition of peace, and Raesinia couldn’t blame him.
Sothe ghosted in, dressed in her fighting blacks. In the emergency, she’d given up any pretense of working as a maid. Seeing her like this, it was hard for Raesinia to believe that anyone ever thought she was harmless. She moved with a predator’s grace, lithe and deadly.
“What news from the army?” Raesinia said. Sothe spent her days wandering unseen among the troops, gauging their mood and listening to gossip.
“We’re nearly there,” Sothe said. “There’s not much food to go around, but the grumbling’s subsided for now. But there’s bad news from the Third Division camp.”
“General Kaanos?” The man had been one of Marcus’ Colonials, and fiercely loyal to his commander, but now Marcus and Janus were both gone.
“The word is that he intends to call a council of war once we reach Polkhaiz.”
“And what will he propose?”
“Supposedly, that the army remain in place while he requests new instructions from the Deputies-General.”
Raesinia let her breath out. “That’s far from the worst-case scenario.”
“It’s also far from the best.”
Raesinia shrugged. The fact that Kaanos wouldn’t acknowledge her immediate authority was irritating, but as long as he proposed to sit still rather than take action, it didn’t much matter. All she needed was time, time to set up the peace that was now the only possible solution. A message to the deputies—since Kaanos didn’t know about the flik-flik line, it would takes weeks at least—would give her some of the delay she required.
“If by some chance he forgets to invite me, make sure I know when and where this council will be held,” Raesinia said. “It wouldn’t do to seem entirely impotent.”
Sothe nodded. “That won’t be difficult.”
“Nothing from the Borelgai, I assume?”
“Unfortunately, no. It may be that Whaler finds it too difficult to reach us, with the white riders on the prowl.”
“Or he may be dead and Dorsay wondering why he doesn’t return,” Raesinia said, trying to suppress her own nerves. The silence from that direction was worrying. “In either case, once we’re over the river, we’ll make contact officially.”
Sothe gave another nod. Raesinia waved a hand.
“There’s nothing more for tonight. Go rest.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The assassin bowed and withdrew.
It was at times like this that Raesinia wished she could sleep. It would be so pleasant to pass a few hours in blissful unconsciousness, to rise refreshed with the morning sun. About the only way she’d be able to manage that would be if she blew her own head off, the results of which were generally not refreshing. She couldn’t even read all night, since a lamp burning in the queen’s quarters from dusk till morning might raise some suspicions. She lay on her bedroll, staring at the darkened cloth of the tent roof, and tried not to think about Marcus. It didn’t work well.
If you have to think about him, think about something more pleasant. She went through their invasion of the Exchange Central Office, the way they’d laughed after their narrow escape. The times she’d caught his eyes lingering on her. She wasn’t entirely sure there was anything to that, that it wasn’t more than a figment of wishful memory.
He must care for me. “Don’t give up,” he’d written in a message he couldn’t have known whether she’d receive. But is it just his proper care for his queen? Or is it for me as a . . . a woman?
She could barely form the thought, it felt so bizarre. She had simply never thought of herself that way. She wasn’t ignorant—a princess’ education was not quite so rarefied as most people believed, and in any event she’d spent her nights in with University students for years. But such affairs had always seemed like the customs of a distant land, mostly inexplicable and nothing really to do with her. Poor Ben, one of her revolutionary band w
ho’d died in her arms, had been in love with her, but she’d never felt more for him than the friendship she had for all her comrades.
Even now she was far from certain what she wanted, except that she badly wanted to know what Marcus wanted. And that she wanted him back safe, telling the story of yet another thrilling escape, laughing reluctantly when her gentle prodding broke through his shell of proper behavior.
We’re almost there. Raesinia took a deep breath and let it out. Come on, Marcus. Make it back, just one more time.
—
The news, when it came, was so incomprehensibly bad that Raesinia took a moment to fit the jagged fact of it into her mind. The young cavalryman waited on bent knee, trembling slightly. Beside him, Alek Giforte’s face was blank and unreadable.
All around them the Grand Army continued marching, trudging up the last ridge before the valley of the Syzria. Raesinia fancied she could see the information spreading, running through the army like an unstoppable virus, jumping from mind to mind without even needing lips to speak it.
“You’re certain?” she said stupidly.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The trooper swallowed. “The Borelgai flag flies over Polkhaiz. Infantry in white uniforms guard the approaches. I saw them with my own eyes. I’m sorry.”
“We had troops there,” Raesinia said. “Three divisions. What happened to them?”
“I don’t know,” the trooper said. “But my sergeant estimated the size of the Borelgai camp at forty thousand men. It may be that our forces were compelled to withdraw in the face of such strength.”
“That’s damn near their whole army,” Giforte said. “I thought Dorsay was supposed to be cautious.”
It’s Vansfeldt all over again. Marcus’ lessons in strategy came back to her. How to defeat a more powerful opponent: assume a strong position that he can be forced or goaded to attack.
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