Breon couldn’t say why he kept provoking her. He was like a lýtling who set things on fire just to watch them burn.
Talbot finally settled herself. Still, she gripped the front of Breon’s shirt and pulled him to his feet so they were eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose. “I don’t like you,” she growled.
“I like you,” he said, which might have been a bit of a stretch. Then again . . .
“Let me be clear with you, flatlander,” Shadow said, in a voice as cold as the northern sea. “For years, your kind has been slithering into my homeland and murdering the people I care about. It’s one thing to meet enemies on the battlefield. It’s another to attack them on the streets or in their beds, to lure them with a pretty face and bewitching music. So. Before this night is over, I will know everything you know about who hired you to lure the princess heir into an ambush. How quickly you tell me will determine your condition by the time we finish.”
Shadow hadn’t been all that personable on the road, but now he’d shed whatever vestige of charm he’d shown before.
He’s lost someone in the war, some particular person, Breon thought. And you’re the handy target who’s going to end up dead if you can’t keep your smart mouth shut. But it was hard to open his mouth and answer questions and keep the wrong thing from leaking out.
Talbot pushed Breon down into a chair and darbied his hands to the arms.
Breon was used to working an audience, and he was beginning to realize that being a smart-ass wasn’t the right play here. He was beginning to realize that this might be his most important performance ever.
“I’ll tell you what I know,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to hide, and nobody to protect. But what happens if I’m telling the truth and you think I’m lying?”
“That won’t happen,” the new mage said, gazing at Breon like he was a nasty problem that needed solving. “I’ll use persuasion to make sure of it.”
Cold sweat trickled between Breon’s shoulder blades. What did he mean by persuasion? Magic? Torture? Hypnosis? Could this mage really make him tell the truth? How much of the truth would he have to tell? Somehow the truth always made him look bad. Sometimes a bit of a spin helped to—
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said to the mage.
“I’m Finn sul’Mander,” the mage said. “What’s your name, busker?”
“It’s Breon, but I sometimes go by Bree.”
“Breon what?” Talbot sat forward, feet planted, like she was ready to pounce when Breon slipped up.
“Breon d’Tarvos,” Breon said.
“Does that mean you’re from Tarvos?” Shadow asked.
Breon knew it wouldn’t play well to tell them he had no idea where he was from. So he said, “Yes. I mean, I assume so. Hence the name.”
“Where is Tarvos?” Shadow said.
Bloody bones. Who knew there’d be a geography question?
“It’s on the seashore,” he said. “A harbor. I don’t remember much about it.”
Warm brown sandstone. A sea so blue it hurt the eyes. Brilliant sunshine and cool shadow.
“Let me see this magemark I’ve been hearing about,” sul’Mander said, scooting his stool closer.
Breon leaned forward, the image of cooperation. The mage ran his fingers over the magemark, but at least he didn’t try to pry it off the way Talbot had done. “What do you know about this?” sul’Mander said, tapping at it with his finger. “Did somebody fasten this onto you?”
“It’s a birthmark, far as I know,” Breon said. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember. I know that it’s fancier than most.”
“Is anyone else in your family marked like this?”
“I don’t know. I seem to be—I assume I’m an orphan. The first memories I have are running the streets in Baston Bay, trying to stay alive.”
“Have you ever met anyone else with this mark?” the mage persisted. “In Arden or elsewhere?”
“Not that I know of. I mean, people don’t usually go around showing off their necks.”
“Could it be some kind of built-in amulet?”
“I don’t know,” Breon said. “No matter how many times you ask me, it’s the truth.”
Now Breon felt a burning sensation, as if sul’Mander were heating the metal, and he tried to shift away. “Ow!” he said finally. “Are you trying to melt it or what?”
“Finn?” Shadow said. “Could we move on to the attack on Princess Alyssa?”
“Finn” reached out and pressed his right hand over Breon’s, cradling his amulet with the other. Heat poured in through the mage’s fingers, shooting through Breon like blue ruin, but at the end of it, he felt no different. It was like it came and went and left nothing behind.
That wasn’t so bad, Breon thought. Maybe magic is vastly overrated, like so many other things.
Finn frowned, as if puzzled.
“Well?” Talbot said, leaning forward.
“It’s not working,” Finn said. “He’s resisting it.”
“I’m not resisting,” Breon said, stung. “I’m an open book. Ask me a question.” Turning his head from side to side, he mimicked both sides of an interrogation.
“Young man, tell us what happened the night the princess was attacked.”
“I’d be glad to, Your Honor. I was—”
“I don’t have to ask you a question to know that it’s not working,” Finn said flatly. “And your answers mean nothing if we don’t know that you’re telling the truth.”
The only thing worse than lying and getting caught was telling the truth and being called a liar.
“Did you search him?” Finn said. “Could he be wearing or carrying a talisman against high magic?”
“We took a pendant off him,” Talbot said. “That was all.” She patted him down again, just to make sure. “Unless it’s that thing on his neck that’s interfering.” She made it sound like the magemark was an ugly wart or a tumor. Pulling out a wicked knife, she said, “I could try to pry it off him again.”
Breon pulled in his head like a turtle and strained at the darbies fastening his wrists to the chair. “I told you—it doesn’t come off.”
“It’s too risky,” Shadow said. “We don’t want to kill him before we get some answers.”
What about after, Breon thought as Talbot put the blade away.
“Let me try again,” Finn said, opening the magical floodgates once more. “I’m trying to break through the barriers, but I don’t want to injure him.”
No, Breon thought. You don’t.
Breon felt the burn again, scouring out his insides so that he felt like he did after suffering through a bad case of the trots. But, at the end of it, he felt no more likely to tell the truth than usual.
Finn sat back, rubbing his chin and frowning. “Strange.”
“What’s strange?” Talbot eyed Breon like he was, indeed, something strange.
“It doesn’t seem like I’m connecting with him.”
We’ve only just met, Breon thought. These things take time.
Seriously, though, he had no idea why Finn’s magic wouldn’t work on him. And why he wouldn’t at least try to ask a question.
“If we’re not connecting, then how do you know I’m lying?” he said out loud.
“Shut up, busker,” Talbot said.
“Make up your mind. Do you want me to shut up, or do you want me to talk?” Breon said. Then immediately regretted it when Talbot backhanded him across the face.
“Sasha!” Shadow shook his head, frowning at her.
Talbot hung her head. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, staring at her boots. “I shouldn’t have done that. He just gets to me, you know?”
Breon could feel the blood trickling down from his cut lip. The leaf is making you reckless, he thought. You can’t afford that now. He was beginning to wish the mage’s truth-spell would work—that way he’d be believed. But maybe connection and persuasion was a two-way street. On impulse, he leaned forward, looked into Finn’s eyes, and a
ttempted to catch the thread of his music. Even if he couldn’t give it back to him, he’d have more information than he did before.
But Finn’s eyes were like iced-over pools that he couldn’t penetrate. Breon could hear no song at all.
Was it because Finn was a wizard? Had he ever tried to charm a wizard before? Maybe not.
That was when Breon’s chair burst into flame. Breon screamed, twisting and turning, unable to get free. Quick as thought, Talbot snatched the quilt from Breon’s bed and tried to smother the flames with it, but the chair kept burning. Finally, Talbot cut through his bonds with her knife and freed him from it. Then Finn put it out with some kind of charm.
“What was that all about?” Finn demanded, kicking at the heap of charred wood. “What purpose did that serve? If you were trying to kill yourself, there are easier ways.”
“Me?” Breon gasped, tears leaking from his eyes. His arm was blistered from wrist to elbow. “I don’t know what the hell happened, but it wasn’t me that did it. Do you think I’m s-stupid enough to set myself on fire?”
“We have no idea how stupid you are,” Finn said.
Breon didn’t even try to respond. He was in a sea of agony that rolled over him in waves. Even adding up all the painful experiences he’d ever had, nothing compared with this. If he’d ever had any plans to set himself on fire, this experience had set him straight. Just kill me, he thought. Or cut off my arm, which has to be less painful than what I’m feeling now.
Finn looked up at Shadow and Talbot. “Shall we continue with—?”
“No,” Talbot said. This was so unexpected that everyone turned and gaped at her.
“Can’t you see how much pain he’s in?” she said, looking stricken. “We have to take care of his arm.”
“Look, why don’t I come back and try again on my own,” Finn said. “As soon as he’s feeling better.”
“Let’s hold off for now,” Shadow said. “We’ve sent word to Captain Byrne and the queen. I’m sure Princess Alyssa will want to question him herself.”
With his mind in a fog of pain, it took Breon a moment to process what he’d just said. “Wait—what? She’s alive?” Breon looked from face to face, sure this was some kind of ruse, or trick, or ugly joke. “The princess is alive?”
“Aye. She is,” Talbot said. “Lucky for you. But two of her escorts was killed in the attack. That ought to be enough to hang you.”
From Good Charley to Bad in a twinkling, but Breon didn’t care. He hardly noticed when the healer came in. Having that guilt over the girlie’s murder lifted from his shoulders was almost worth the pain.
30
GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS
After the disaster of his interview with Captain Gray, Hal continued his tournaments, but once again restricted them to his own soldiers. Gray came and watched the workouts two days in a row. Hal assumed it was to make sure they weren’t stockpiling weapons or planning an escape or playing with the other team. On the third day, Gray called him in after the competitions were over and suggested that they organize a series of meets between volunteers from both the Highlanders and the Ardenine army.
Hal tried to see a trap in that. Were they looking for a sporting way to finish them off? Food was in short supply, after all. It must be costing them to feed the remnants of his squadron. “You’re not worried that either side might forget that it’s a game?” he said.
“We’ll still use rebated and wooden weapons,” Gray said. “I’m thinking we could field mixed teams, designated by color, so it’s not northerners fighting southerners. We’ll start with competitions that don’t involve one-on-one fighting.”
“No mages?”
She nodded readily. “No mages.”
“What about women?”
“What about them?”
“Would they be participating?”
“If they volunteer,” Gray said, lifting her chin, that familiar flame of warning lighting in her eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“I just . . . wondered,” Hal said, shifting from foot to foot.
“As long as your soldiers know the risks, and as long as they volunteer, I can’t imagine there would be a problem,” Gray said, stuffing her hands in her jacket pockets.
From her expression, she’d scored a point on him, but it took Hal a moment to work it out. His upbringing had given him no skills to deal with this.
“Why are you doing this?” he blurted.
She looked at him as if it must be obvious. “I’m impressed with your program, Captain. I’m hoping that we’ll all learn something.”
Again, some of Hal’s men were wary of the matchups after their previous experience, but others clearly looked forward to demonstrating their skill with martial arts.
Generally speaking, the northerners were not highly skilled in classical longsword fighting of the sort Hal had been brought up on. That made sense, since they did most of their fighting from cover and from horseback, in a hit-and-run fashion. When they did fight with swords, the match was not always decided at the end of a blade. They cunningly combined grappling and footwork with swordplay and could often gain the advantage over a stronger arm.
That came to be called “northern rules” in their bouts, and it leveled the field between men and women more than Hal had expected. Most men were stronger, and taller, with a longer reach, but that didn’t mean that they would win every single time.
Hal had to admit that, in a real battle situation, there were no rules.
The clans did not deign to participate in most of the contests, since they used few of the weapons Hal’s men employed. The exceptions were knife-throwing and wrestling, skills they excelled in. Time and again, Hal ended up pinned to the ground. Some of Hal’s men grumbled at that, but the bouts were, after all, voluntary.
One afternoon, Hal found himself facing off with Captain Gray at the longsword. He’d been matched with her twice before. He’d won both of those matches, but it hadn’t been a walk in the park. She was tall and strong for a woman, and she had a long reach as well. And it seemed like she’d watched every one of his matches since.
They came up face-to-face and bowed to each other, and Captain Gray said, “Northern rules?”
Which, to Hal’s mind, meant no rules at all. “Northern rules,” he said, with a shrug.
“Go to,” the matchmaster said, and they went at it with a will.
It seemed Gray had learned something from her study of his previous matches. Almost immediately, she drove in close, so they were all but nose-to-nose. Hal couldn’t recall fighting so close-in before, where his size and reach did little good.
Not only that, her scent filled his nose—a musky mix of sweat, and sunlight on skin, and lanolin. She thrust out a foot, entangled his ankles, and he went down hard on his back, the air exploding from his lungs. Laughter rained down on him from all sides, even from his own men.
“Point to Captain Gray,” the master bawled.
She’s been spending time with the Demonai, Hal thought crossly, as Gray extended a hand and helped him up.
The next match ended about the same as that one, though it did take longer.
“Match to Captain Gray,” the onlookers shouted in unison. There followed scattered howling.
There was nothing witchy about her tactics—she used speed and agility and focus, just like any other soldier.
But she wasn’t like any other soldier. Not like any he’d encountered, anyhow.
Despite the cold, she shed her jacket and rolled back her sleeves, revealing corded biceps gleaming with sweat, and a puffy scar that ran the length of her left forearm.
Her top two shirt buttons were undone, and Hal could see a pendant glittering at her neckline and a tattoo on her collarbone—a gray wolf.
Don’t get distracted, he thought. Focus. In the next match, she slipped past his sword and drove in low, plowing into his middle, but this time he grabbed onto her so they both went down, with Hal on top. He found himself pressed flat against her from
chest to knees, their faces again just inches apart. Some devil spirit seized him, and it took everything that was in him not to finish their match with a kiss.
He could guess how that would be received.
Overhead, he heard the boutmaster call, “Match to Captain Matelon.” But he scarcely noticed.
Gray squirmed under him, trying to flip him off her, and to his mortification his traitorous body reacted to this with great and obvious enthusiasm.
Captain Gray noticed, of course. She didn’t pretend not to, like any southern lady would do. She didn’t seem embarrassed at all. Instead, she lifted her head so her breath warmed his ear, and said, “Sword in your pocket, Captain?”
Hal pitched himself to one side, landing face-first in the snow, afraid to roll onto his back. Fortunately, the snow melting underneath him put an end to his dilemma rather quickly. When he thought it was safe to do so, he propped up on his hands and knees and looked up. Gray was grinning and extending a hand to help him up.
He accepted, because it would have been childish not to, but when he was on his feet, he pulled free immediately.
“No harm done,” she said, looking highly amused. “Good match, Captain.” She looked around. “It seems we have lost our audience.”
A commotion in the manor yard had drawn the attention of the match spectators, who had lined up along the wall and were gawking at a crowd of newcomers gathered in front of the door. Hal heard shouting and cheering and general merriment. Then the bells in the manor chapel began to ring—not the familiar, measured cadence he associated with loss, but the pealing sound of good news.
His present worries were replaced by new worries. Good news for the Fells was likely to be bad news for his homeland. When fireworks began going off, he was certain.
Bad news or good news, Hal thought. It’s all a matter of perspective.
“Well,” Gray said, “either somebody got married, the queen’s delivered demon twins, or we’ve won the war.”
She seemed to be waiting for a reaction to this latest poke, but Hal declined to play. He’d had enough schooling for the day. “Which of those possibilities do you think is most likely, ma’am?” he said stiffly.
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