With that, the look of alarm faded from Samara’s face. “I agree, Your Eminence,” he said. “I find that a bout between the sheets stirs my blood and prepares me to shed the blood of others.”
See? Lyss thought, struggling not to roll her eyes. Everyone’s different.
Tully Samara continued to be a thorn in Lyss’s side. Though he had little to no experience at fighting on land, that did not prevent him from having an opinion on nearly everything—usually the direct opposite of Lyss’s. He must have suspected that Lyss was trying to redirect any attack on the Seven Realms toward Arden, because he did his best to undermine everything she said.
“I’m impressed by how the cavalry is coming along,” Lyss would say. “I’ve never seen horses like those. They are completely different from our military mounts at home.”
“Our bloodlines are pure,” Samara said. “We refuse to mount an inferior beast. That is why we have off-loaded several hundred of our horses at Chalk Cliffs, so that we can ride down the soldiers of the northern queen.” Having thrown down that verbal gauntlet, he waited for her response.
“That might work well on the Alyssa Plateau,” Lyss said, wishing that geographic feature were named anything else. “But once we get to Fortress Rocks, we’re in the mountains, where everything changes.”
“I have no doubt that our horses—and our soldiers—are up to the task,” the empress said.
“I am doing my very best to make it so,” Lyss said. “However, having fought in the north for so long, I am choosy about where I spend soldiers’ lives. It’s a matter of tactics.”
“Our soldiers do not go down easily,” Samara said. “You’ve seen that for yourself.”
Lyss nodded. “I have. But our horses go down, just like wetland horses. They are built for racing across the desert, not climbing the narrow, steep trails in the uplands. And even the bloodsworn can be stopped where geography makes it difficult for them to engage.” She paused, hesitating about whether to go on. “It’s not enough to have the best soldiers, and the best horses. You have to have the right soldiers, and the right horses, in the right place.”
“It sounds to me like you are making excuses in case you are not successful in the north,” Samara said.
“Oh, I have no doubt we’ll be successful,” Lyss said, skin prickling under Celestine’s gaze. “But at what cost, in terms of time and treasure? And what will we have, at the end of it? A mountainous queendom whose people are its greatest asset. They know how to make a living off an unforgiving land, and how to keep their enemies out. If you enslave them, their value is lost.” She realized that her voice was shaking, so she stopped with that.
“I can understand why you would want to protect your homeland, Captain Gray,” Samara said, with a serpent’s smile, “but right now your loyalty is to the empress—or it should be.” He turned his cup between his hands.
The empress pressed her lips together, her eyes shifting to a frosty blue. Lyss suspected that part of this was playacting. Celestine seemed to feast on whatever discord and competition she could foment between Lyss and Samara, just as she reveled in watching the bloody tournaments among the bloodsworn.
“Your Eminence, I am giving you the very best advice that I can,” Lyss said. She searched for an argument that would make sense to these seafarers. “Tell me this—do you sail straight into a storm or do you try to avoid it?”
“I sail into a storm if it’s necessary,” Celestine said.
“But what if it’s not necessary?” Lyss said. “What if you can go another way, or wait a day until it passes?”
“I would avoid it, of course,” the empress said grudgingly, “if, in the end, I’d still get where I wanted to go.”
“Do you spend much time in the Dragonback Mountains?”
Samara and Celestine looked at each other, perplexed by the apparent change of subject.
“Why would we?” Samara said finally. “It’s infested with dragons, and there’s nothing to steal but sheep.”
“That’s my point. Marching into the Heartfangs is like sailing into the worst storm ever—and that’s in summer. In winter, it’s impassable. Once you’re through: more mountains, and nothing to live on. Why would you do that, when you can land in Baston Bay and march straight down the fertile valley of the Arden to the capital, with plenty of forage along the way?”
“But we’re already in Chalk Cliffs,” Celestine said. “We’ve landed soldiers, horses, and supplies.”
“I’m not saying we should give up Chalk Cliffs.” Though if you want to, I won’t stand in your way. “As long as we hold it, we can keep the northerners bottled up with no deepwater port to the east. If we take Baston Bay, and then Ardenscourt, you’ll have control of the empire, for all intents and purposes. You can march west across the flatlands for hundreds of miles. Everything you win in the south makes you richer. The north will make you poor, I guarantee it.”
Celestine and Samara looked at each other as if Lyss was dropping the names of places they’d never heard of. She hoped that would reinforce her value to the operation.
“Your Eminence,” Lyss said, “at first, I could not understand why you would put a wetland captain at the head of your bloodsworn army. Now I see that it was a stroke of genius. You are wise enough to know that the tactics that have been successful in Carthis may not work as well in the Realms. So you chose a commander who’s fought there before, who knows the terrain, the climate, and the people.”
By now, Celestine was smiling, basking in the tripe Lyss was shoveling.
“That may be true,” Samara said, “but putting a foreigner at the helm of our army carries with it the risk of betrayal.”
“As does promoting an ambitious local,” Lyss said. “That causes jealousy among those who were overlooked and a sense of entitlement among the chosen. Tell me, Your Eminence, who has betrayed you in the past?”
Celestine blinked at her. “Friends and family, I suppose,” she said.
“That’s my point. It’s not always strangers we have to worry about—often it’s our closest allies.”
“Perhaps, Your Eminence,” Samara said, eager to change the subject, “we should capture a commander from the Ardenine army and have him argue for an invasion in the north. It would be a deadly dull tournament of words. In the Nazari empire, we do our fighting on the seas and in the field, not at the dinner table.”
Lyss shrugged. “In the Fells, we have been making our arguments on the battlefield for more than a quarter century. I would challenge your Ardenine commander to explain why they have failed, year after year, to win that debate.”
Celestine had been looking back and forth between them. “Perhaps,” she said, “I should hold a tournament between the two of you, and see who wins.”
“Perhaps it will come to that,” Samara said, leaning back, lacing his fingers behind his head, his jewelry reflecting the dying sun.
“I’m in,” Lyss said, “as long as we hold the contest on dry land. I also suggest we wait until after we win the wetlands. Captain Samara will be needed to ferry us back across the sea.”
Celestine laughed, banging her cup on the table and wiping tears from her eyes while Samara scowled. Lyss knew it was dangerous to taunt the naval commander, but he was the sort to keep pushing until someone pushed back.
Also, it occurred to her that, with practice, she was getting better at fighting in the arena of words.
“I’m curious, Your Eminence,” Lyss said, to change the subject more than anything else. “Why did you choose Chalk Cliffs as a target in the first place? Was it the element of surprise, or—”
“There’s someone that I’m looking for,” Celestine said. “The last time I saw her was off the northern coast. That is why we took Chalk Cliffs.”
Ah, Lyss thought. Someone marked like Breon? “Does she know you’re hunting her?”
Celestine hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “She does now.”
“So she’s on the run?”
Celestine nodded. “I suppose so.”
“Do you really think she’s still there?” Lyss said. “I mean, she couldn’t have missed the attack on Chalk Cliffs. She knows you’re coming. It’s easier to hide in the south. More people, better weather, friendlier terrain. Though Arden and the Fells are enemies, the borders are more porous than you think for one person traveling. If I were her, I’d be in Bruinswallow by now, on my knees in a desert temple, disguised as a flatland priest.”
Celestine laughed. “I would very much like to see that.”
Lyss could tell the empress was wavering, and moved to press her advantage. “If you’re in no hurry, of course, we can fight in the north for however long it takes, and then go south. But I recommend that you gain control of the south before you go north. The Fells had only one deepwater port. Arden has a half a dozen. That will enable us to use our strength at sea. It may be that realms like We’enhaven, Bruinswallow, and the Southern Islands will throw in with us. That enables us to build our numbers and march on the Fells in force.”
The empress rose from the table, flinging her napkin down. She crossed to a large map on the wall that showed the Desert Coast and Northern Islands in great detail, but only the coastline of the Seven Realms. “If it were up to you, where would you land our armies in the south?”
Lyss joined her at the wall. “If we act quickly, we’ll have the element of surprise. King Jarat knows by now that you’ve taken Chalk Cliffs. He’ll look for you to continue inland there. If it were up to me, I’d suggest Baston Bay, which gives you a good road all the way to Ardenscourt.” She traced it on the map. “That allows us to use our long-legged horses and be there inside of a week.”
Knowing that it was important to Celestine to make strategic decisions, she said, “If you want to keep marching to a minimum, I’d sail around the claw all the way to Southgate.” She ran her finger along the sea route, even though she dreaded the notion of spending so much time aboard ship. “That gives us a shorter road to Ardenscourt. We can bite them in the ass before they know what’s happening.”
It also put the empress’s army as far as possible from the queendom.
The empress stood, hands on hips, studying the options. Then touched the spot on the map that was Spiritgate. “Here, I think. That way, if we need to change our plans and go north, we can.” Celestine slid a look at Samara, who was trying to rearrange his scowl into something resembling agreement.
To Lyss, the message was clear: the empress was keeping her options open. Spiritgate was a gateway to both Arden and the Fells.
Celestine turned then and smiled crookedly at Lyss. “When you came here, Captain Gray, I accused you of being a poor sailor. I asked if you were better on land. I believe you are.”
Don’t give me too much credit, Lyss thought. I’ve been planning an invasion of Arden ever since my father was murdered. I just never thought I would do it leading a Carthian army.
25
MAGE MISCHIEF
After the meeting with the thanes, Hal rode back to the valley camp to meet with one of the mages he had socked away.
He was wary of mages, after his experience at Queen Court, and they were wary of him, too, so that made them even.
The mage’s name was Marc DeJardin. Unlike most mages in Arden, he’d been a blackbird—a member of the King’s Guard, and not the regular army—so Hal’s contacts had little information about him. He had little to say, and the other mages kept their distance, possibly because of his history in the feared King’s Guard. There was a chance he was here as a spy for the king. If that was the case, better to find out sooner rather than later. But there was something about him that drew Hal’s trust. Maybe it was the ring of scar tissue around his collar that suggested he had not always been as steady and docile as he seemed. Hal also hoped that, having been a member of the king’s elite guard, he might know more about how the collars worked than most captive mages.
Hal was in the command tent with LeFevre when DeJardin was shown in. He offered a perfunctory salute, either because he wasn’t military, or because that was just what he thought Hal deserved.
“That will be all, Captain,” Hal said to LeFevre. “We’ll talk later.” The officer saluted and left.
“Sit down,” he said to the mage, gesturing toward a camp chair.
DeJardin sat, as if it was a pleasure to take a load off. He was decades older than Hal, with steel-gray hair and the sturdy, broad-shouldered build of someone who’d been physically active all of his life.
“I’m General Matelon,” Hal said, the word general all but sticking in his throat. In the Ardenine army, there was so much bribery, politics, and skulduggery involved in getting to the point of being a general that a man was used to the title by the time he claimed it.
“I know,” DeJardin said. “Congratulations on your promotion, and your recent resurrection.” He paused. “Assuming you were in favor of it.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Hal said. “So you can hold the congratulations for now.”
DeJardin did a kind of double take, as if not expecting humor from an officer in the Ardenine army. He then smiled crookedly. “Consider them held.”
“You are most welcome to join our forces,” Hal said, “but I’m wondering how much freedom you’ll have to fight with us, given that you’re collared by the king.”
“It’s a risk,” DeJardin said, “for you and for us. It’s a risk I’m willing to take, because this is the first viable challenge to the empire since Gerard killed off his brothers and took over. I can’t sit by if I might be able to help.”
“I’ve commanded mages on the battlefield,” Hal said, “but, to be honest, I don’t know that much about how the collars work. What can you tell me?”
DeJardin reached up and ran his fingers over the collar. “Do you want the long or the short of it?”
“You choose,” Hal said.
“They were invented by the copperheads in the north to control captured mages during their civil war.”
“Is there a way to get them off?”
“Short of cutting off my head?” DeJardin snorted. “They can only be opened using a magical key. It used to be that each collar had a unique key. If the key was lost, too bad. It was a major design flaw, but the copperheads never much cared, because captive mages never lived very long anyway.”
It was Hal’s turn to be surprised. DeJardin spoke like a scholar who’d finally been asked to discuss his life’s work. “You’ve made a study of this, haven’t you?”
DeJardin templed his fingers. “I spent the first ten years of my captivity studying the collars, trying to figure out how to get rid of mine. In the process, I’ve become something of an expert.” He waited, as if expecting Hal to argue that mages were better off being enslaved. When he didn’t, the mage continued on. “During the Ardenine civil war, when Gerard was killing off his brothers to get to the throne, it was General Karn, a mage himself, who realized the value of mages on the battlefield. But he had to have a way to remind the mages whose side they were on and to reassure the church that their demonic energy was under control. So he began collecting collars and amulets to outfit the mages he kidnapped in the countryside. To this day, that’s been the bottleneck in increasing the size of the mage division.”
Something DeJardin had said caught Hal’s attention. “You said that it used to be that each collar had a unique key. Has that changed?”
DeJardin nodded. “Recently, Karn found a supplier who could provide new collars in quantity that could be controlled with a single key. Not only that, they combine the function of amulets and collars. They can be removed from a dead mage and applied to a live one. The perfect solution. So the king has been buying every one he can get his hands on. He’s refitted as many mages as he could with the new gear.”
Hal thought about this. “Do you have any idea who’s been selling them the gear?”
“I don’t know who’s making it, but the intermediary is someone named Lila Barrowhill.�
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Lila Barrowhill, Hal thought, his heart beating a little faster. Everybody’s girl. And nobody’s girl. Who’d sent the message that the flash used by the Ardenine army was “special issue.”
“Is that one of the newer collars?” he said. “The one you’re wearing?”
DeJardin nodded. “The King’s Guard mages were the first to be fitted out.”
Hal pulled out the pouch that had been “delivered” to Robert in Ardenscourt. “I want to show you something,” he said. Untying the cord, he shook the pendant out onto his palm.
The mage stared at it. He reached out a finger, and it lit up in response. “That appears to be the kind of key used to open collars,” he said. “Where did you get that?”
“From someone working for Barrowhill,” Hal said. “The thing is, I don’t know exactly how it works, or what will happen if it’s used. The only message we have is that most of the collars in the king’s armory are ‘special issue,’ but I don’t know what that means. I assume the collar has been working as expected up to now?”
DeJardin nodded, his eyes still fixed on the key.
“Consider the fact that these new collars—and this key—were made by the copperheads in the north. Mortal enemies of the empire. Now, those involved might be traitors, selling out the northern queendom for a price. Or this could be part of a plan to sabotage the empire’s military efforts.”
“How so?” DeJardin said, cocking his head.
“One key opens all of the collars. One key controls all of the collars. Nearly all the mages fighting for the Ardenine king are wearing them now. What if this one key”—Hal hefted it in his hand—“could kill all of the mages wearing them in one stroke?”
DeJardin’s eyes widened marginally. “I’d say that would be very, very clever on their part.”
“So. If we try this, it could kill you. It could kill you and all of your fellow collared mages. It could allow me to take control of the collared mages. Or it could open the collar.” As Hal said this, he thought, Why do you have to be so damnably honest?
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