The Women's War

by Jenna Glass

  “That’s impossible,” she whispered.

  “It’s Kai,” Maidel responded. “It must be.”

  Chanlix shook her head. “Impossible,” she said again.

  Kai was a masculine element. Only visible to men—and powerful men, at that—and only generated by a violent, bloody death. It was the most powerful of all elements, and the terror of the battlefield. A mortally wounded man could use his Kai to cast spells of devastation. But only the dying man himself could use his Kai, and there was a great deal of battlefield magic meant to prevent the kinds of slow death that could produce usable Kai.

  Chanlix closed her Mindseye once more, looking around the room just to make sure there weren’t a bunch of dead men within the walls of the dining hall. But even if there had been, it wouldn’t have explained why she could suddenly see a masculine element. Yet there were no men of any kind in the room.

  “Look again,” Maidel urged. “Look where the Kai appears.”

  Chanlix frowned at the girl once more. “Can you see it?” Maidel had many sterling qualities, but her magical talent was negligible. There was no official ranking or testing of women’s magical abilities, but if there were, Maidel would rank as a Novice, capable of seeing only five elements. In all likelihood, a man ranked lower than Prime would not see Kai, and even many Prime men couldn’t see it, as ranks were assigned based on the number of elements a man could see, not which elements.

  Maidel nodded. Chanlix refrained from saying “impossible” yet again, tempted though she was. One more time, she opened her Mindseye and looked around the room. And there was the Kai, maybe eight or ten motes spread throughout the room.

  “Look above your head,” Maidel said, and Chanlix did.

  She gasped yet again, reaching up to touch the jagged black, red, and white mote that hung in the air above her. It felt like a crystal that had been sitting out in the snow, so cold her hand jerked away at first touch. Then she closed her fingers around it and dragged it down to eye level, turning it this way and that.

  She had never seen a mote of Kai in her life, but she had seen pictures of it in the Book of Elements, several copies of which resided in the Abbey’s library. It was traditionally pictured in solid black, though the color and form were supposedly different for each person. But no other element was crystalline in structure.

  Chanlix closed her Mindseye, because with it open, her physical vision was too obscured to make out the faces of the other women to whom motes of Kai clung. But when her physical vision became clear once more, so too did the nature of the black, red, and white Kai.

  The motes clung only to the women who’d been brutalized in the courtyard.

  “We’ve been talking about it ever since we first saw it,” Maidel said. “The men beat Gruneen to within an inch of her life, but she was not raped, and she does not have Kai. And there are several who have lain with men willingly since the spell was cast, and they do not have Kai. Only those women who were taken by force have it. And we all—even the weakest of us—can see it.”

  The implications made Chanlix’s head spin, and not because of any concussion. If this was true, and if this was not just an isolated incident…

  “There was nothing in Mother Brynna’s letter that spoke of this,” Chanlix murmured. Every woman in the Abbey had read Brynna’s explanation of what she had done, as well as the dire warnings and the heartfelt apologies for the price they would pay for her crime.

  “But she did say there were likely to be unintended consequences,” Maidel reminded her. “Surely this is one of them.” Her eyes were practically glowing with excitement, and Chanlix couldn’t blame her.

  If the women’s Kai had all the same properties and powers as that the men produced, it could serve as a very strong disincentive for men to commit rape. But Chanlix was forty-three, and she’d seen more ugliness in the world than young Maidel could ever imagine. The Kai motes hovering in the room would give the violated women a powerful weapon for revenge, and it would make many men think twice before taking an unwilling woman. But the worst of them—men like the crown prince, for example—would not see the Kai as a reason not to rape a woman.

  They would see raping a woman as a way to produce Kai—and because the woman didn’t have to die to produce it, she could then be forced to use it to the man’s advantage.

  Chanlix did not immediately give voice to her concern, because she wanted a little more time to think about it. But before the day was out, she would gather the violated abigails in her office and discuss the critical importance of keeping their discovery secret.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Delnamal was hard-pressed to say which of his half-siblings he hated the most. Alysoon was a harpy of a woman who had never shown any sign of knowing her place, and he couldn’t be in her presence for more than a handful of minutes without wanting to stuff a gag in her mouth. But despite her delusions of grandeur, she was just an ordinary noblewoman, the widow of a minor lordling whose only possible appeal had been his fortune. Tynthanal was a different story.

  If there were any justice in the world, the man who had been crown prince for the first six years of his life would have retired to genteel obscurity when he was declared illegitimate. It was hardly rare for kings to have illegitimate sons scattered around, and though those sons—the ones who were acknowledged and had mothers of consequence, at least—enjoyed a certain level of prestige, they were rarely so steadfastly in the public eye as Tynthanal Rai-Brynna. And never were they so gifted with unfair advantages.

  At thirty-five years old, Tynthanal had become the youngest man ever to attain the rank of lieutenant commander at the Citadel, the heart and soul of Aaltah’s military. Now at thirty-nine years old, it was widely believed that he would eventually be named the lord commander and take a seat on the royal council. Every night, Delnamal prayed for the health and stamina of the current commander. He was the most disloyal of sons for even allowing the thought to enter his head, but if the current commander could outlast the current king, then it would be Delnamal’s privilege and duty to name the next commander. And he would rather name his horse to the post than his half-brother.

  As a lieutenant commander in a time of peace, Tynthanal should have spent most of his days behind a desk, with occasional forays out to inspect his troops and remind them of his existence. Any self-respecting officer of his age should possess an expanding middle and a retreating hairline, but no, not Tynthanal. The bastard was as lean and well-muscled as any twenty-year-old, and not only did he possess a full head of raven locks, there was not a strand of gray to be found. Delnamal was eight years younger and already had streaks of gray in his thinning brown hair. Not to mention the paunch that had defied his every attempt to lose it. His valet had just this morning suggested it was time to consider putting some discreet stays under his doublet, but Delnamal would be damned before he’d resort to wearing women’s undergarments, no matter how well-hidden—or how commonly used at court—they might be.

  When Delnamal and his men passed through the front gates of the Citadel, he was instantly impressed by how well the ancient military complex had held up to the flood waters. The last time Delnamal had set foot inside, there had been any number of small wooden outbuildings within the complex, and it looked as if all of those had been swept away. But the stone walls appeared none the worse for wear save for the occasional water stain, and while there was certainly still repair work being done, the soldiers appeared to have for the most part resumed at least some of their normal routine. There were marksmen taking target practice with their longbows and crossbows on one side of the entrance, and on the other, men were standing in orderly circles to watch one another spar while a trainer bellowed critiques of each man’s performance.

  Delnamal only noticed how tightly his fists had closed on the reins when his horse tossed its head and started doing its annoying, side-stepping dance for the thousandt
h time that day. And he was tired enough from the agonizingly long day on horseback that he didn’t immediately recognize what had caused his whole body to clench. Until he glanced around at his men to make sure no one was laughing at his horsemanship and found they were all watching one of those sparring circles with rapt attention.

  Delnamal gritted his teeth and held back a curse. Of course his preening ass of a half-brother would arrange to be showing off his skills in one of those sparring circles when Delnamal and his men arrived. There was no doubt they had been seen long before they reached the gates, and Tynthanal would welcome any excuse to make himself feel superior to the man who would be king.

  The air was crisp with the bite of autumn, but the chill had not discouraged Tynthanal from removing his jacket and shirt. His nut-brown skin gleamed with sweat in the sunlight, and every muscle in his back, chest, and arms stood out in sharp contrast, dancing lithely with his every move. His sparring partner was half a head taller, at least a decade younger, and every bit as chiseled. A man in his prime, who moved with the practiced ease of an expert swordsman. Someone who by all rights should make easy work of Delnamal’s middle-aged half-brother.

  The other sparring circles were breaking up as men began to notice their lieutenant commander putting on a show. Men murmured and nodded approval, gathering around, making a wider circle so that more of them could see. Tynthanal was grinning broadly, eyes glowing with a combination of focus and pleasure as he danced and parried a couple of blows from his opponent’s sword. Delnamal himself was as unskilled a swordsman as he was a rider, but sparring had been a routine part of his education as a prince, and he knew from way too much personal experience how much it hurt to be hit with those sparring swords despite their blunted edges.

  Circling each other, making the occasional exploratory jab, the two men traded insults and taunts, although the smiles on both their faces revealed that the insults had no teeth. Delnamal was sorely tempted to spur his horse forward and break into the circle, interrupting the show he was sure was being put on entirely for his benefit. If he weren’t worried that his horse would refuse him, he might have given in to his urges.

  Tynthanal surged forward, swinging his sword as if it weighed no more than a teacup and slipping under his opponent’s guard. At the last second, with almost superhuman reflexes, Tynthanal slowed his swing so that when his blade hit his opponent’s ribs, the force was enough to knock the larger man to the ground but not so hard as to break any bones.

  The gathered soldiers burst into cheers, shouting congratulations to the winner and a combination of encouragement and jeers to the loser. Delnamal felt blood rising in his face as he noticed the smiles and nods of approval among his own men. And though he immediately hated himself for it, he dreamed of the day the king would die and leave his bastard son unprotected.

  Tynthanal offered his vanquished foe a hand up, a picture of charming sportsmanship. Delnamal’s lip curled in distaste as his half-brother retrieved his shirt and jacket, covering his gleaming chest. It was, of course, ridiculous for Delnamal to be jealous. Tynthanal had enviably good looks, was disgustingly skilled with the sword, and had tested as an Adept—the highest possible magical rank—though he had chosen a life at the Citadel rather than the Academy. But for all those advantages, he was still a bastard who owned no land and made his home in a military barracks. Even if he became the lord commander—a rare honor for a bastard—he would always be Delnamal’s social and political inferior. And when he became king, Delnamal would have the power to make his half-brother’s life a living hell.

  Fully clothed once more, looking barely winded after his efforts, Tynthanal commanded his men to resume their training as he crossed the field toward Delnamal and his entourage. Simple politeness would have Delnamal dismount to greet his brother. However, even if Delnamal were inclined to be polite, he had never in his life spent so many hours on horseback. He wasn’t certain his legs would hold him if he dismounted, and he was certain getting back on the horse afterward would be an epic struggle and a source of amusement for all who witnessed it.

  “Greetings, brother!” Tynthanal called as he approached, smiling broadly as if delighted to see him.

  Delnamal ground his teeth at the informal address. If the king’s bastard had any respect, he’d have addressed Delnamal as Your Highness, as was appropriate. Even his own wife and mother addressed him as Your Highness in front of others. But Tynthanal, damn him, never tired of rubbing Delnamal’s face in their unfortunate blood tie.

  Delnamal forced a grimace of a smile, knowing that if he rebuked Tynthanal’s informal address, he would look both petty and pretentious. “You’re getting old and slow, brother. Your opponent almost had you.”

  Internally, Delnamal cursed himself for the feeble insult. No one who’d seen that performance could accuse Tynthanal of being either old or slow, nor had he come close to losing. And yet somehow when he was in Tynthanal’s presence, Delnamal never seemed able to control his own tongue. The need to put the bastard in his place was so strong that he had to speak out, even knowing he was making himself look like an idiot.

  “Perhaps you’d care to school me, little brother?” Tynthanal asked pleasantly. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he took hold of the horse’s bridle—presumably to hold the animal still while Delnamal dismounted. “I’m sure after a grueling inspection tour you would be happy for the opportunity to stretch your legs.”

  Delnamal would have loved to kick the smirk off his half-brother’s face. Clearly the bastard knew exactly why Delnamal had chosen not to dismount. And of course the thought of Delnamal stepping into a sparring circle was ridiculous. Delnamal hadn’t handled any but a ceremonial sword since he’d turned seventeen and finally escaped the tyranny of his tutors.

  “I’ve no time for horseplay,” Delnamal snapped, fully aware that his brother had merely stepped into the opening he himself had made. “I’m here to inspect the Citadel and wish to return to the palace before dark. Let us get on with it. Where is the lord commander?”

  Tynthanal made a regretful face, but there was still plenty of good humor sparkling in his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He did not know that you were coming, so he left at noon to deliver a full damage report to the palace. But I can take you on a tour of inspection if you’d like to view the damage yourself.”

  Delnamal could feel the heat of blood in his cheeks and knew it was creating a visible flush, but there was nothing he could do to hold it back. “I sent a flier this morning!” he snapped, but it was a lie. With the risers out, the lord commander had been excused from attending the daily meetings of the royal council, and it had never occurred to Delnamal that the man would undertake the long journey on horseback to deliver a report in person.

  Tynthanal shrugged. “Apparently it did not arrive, or I’m sure the lord commander would have been here to greet you.”

  The heat in Delnamal’s cheeks increased. Every word that left his mouth did further damage. It was certainly possible for fliers to be fatally damaged in transit, but the likelihood of that happening on the short flight from the palace to the Citadel was less than slim. Everyone saw the lie for what it was.

  Delnamal was not a stupid man, but something about his half-brother caused his mind and his mouth to malfunction. If he didn’t know better, he would swear Tynthanal had invented some kind of spell to turn his half-brother’s brain to mush. Perhaps he’d developed his magical skills more than he’d let on. But of course that supposition was ridiculous. Delnamal was of only Medial rank in magic, but he’d had enough education to know what magic was capable of doing and what it wasn’t. Mind control was not possible.

  If the lord commander was already presenting his report at the palace, then there was absolutely no reason for Delnamal to perform the tedious tour of inspection himself. He was not disappointed to be spared the inconvenience, but he could not bear to let Tynthanal show off
his swordsmanship, humiliate him, and then all but call him a liar in front of his men without striking a blow of his own. So far, his every attempt to put the bastard in his place had failed, and Delnamal scoured his brain for some way to leave his mark and knock that smirk off Tynthanal’s face.

  He began speaking before a plan had fully formed in his mind, because if he sat atop his horse and thought about it too long, it would be clear to everyone that he was once again lying.

  “I have no need for an inspection tour,” he said. “I’m sure the lord commander will provide a thorough report. However, that is not the only reason I came to the Citadel.”

  Tynthanal quirked a curious eyebrow and gazed up at him with an expression of polite interest. As if he already knew Delnamal was improvising and was happy to let him dig as deep a hole as possible.

  Delnamal knew a brief moment of panic as he searched desperately for something to say. Then inspiration struck.

  “The king, in his great generosity of spirit, has for the time being decided not to hold all the women of the Abbey responsible for your mother’s crime.” He had the unique pleasure of seeing the faintest twitch in the muscles of Tynthanal’s jaw. From all accounts, the man had had no contact with his mother since she’d entered the Abbey when he was six years old, but he was still her son, and it was satisfying to remind him—and everyone who so admired him—of his blood relation with the witch who’d cursed the Wellspring.

  “The three most senior abigails have been arrested and will be forcefully questioned as to the Abbey’s involvement with this abomination. We cannot be certain the remaining women aren’t traitors, and they must not be allowed to flee justice. The king commands that you personally lead a garrison to maintain the security of the Abbey and make sure none of its inhabitants leave until we’ve gotten to the bottom of their heinous conspiracy.”