The Women's War

by Jenna Glass

  But regardless of whether their complex, Kai-fueled flier spell worked as planned or didn’t, it was unlikely its secret ingredient would be revealed. Tynthanal might not be the only male in the world who could see women’s Kai, but there was as yet no sign of any other man seeing it. The flier would not reveal the existence of women’s Kai, but it was still clearly a malicious spell, and if it was traced back to Women’s Well…

  “The women Melcor savaged deserve justice,” Alys said. “It’s worth the risk.”

  She knew she wasn’t alone in wishing they could send the spell to Delnamal. He might not have raped any of the abigails himself, but it had been done on his orders, and he was arguably more deserving of punishment than anyone. But though odds were slim that Shelvon could provide him with an heir and thereby save Jinnell, Alys wasn’t prepared to give up that last sliver of hope. Besides, there was no question that Faltah would rather target Melcor than the man who’d held Melcor’s leash.

  Tynthanal glanced quickly at Faltah, then away, his jaw working as he ground his teeth. “If a man of mine had done that, the whipping would not have stopped until he was dead.” Even Faltah couldn’t have missed the chilling truth in those words. “If this works, then one way or another, we will make sure all the men responsible are punished.”

  His eyes went white, and he fed some Rho into the flier, scooping it into his hand so it would not immediately fly away. His eyes cleared, and he held the flier out to Faltah, still keeping its wings trapped. In all their testing, they had been unable to find a way to bind Kai into a magic item; however, it could be used to trigger a spell in a magic item in the same way that men’s Kai could. This flier contained a total of five spells, and all of them had to work correctly and in tandem.

  Alys licked her lips and squirmed. She had tested the targeting spell she’d invented many times now—based on the spell that allowed fliers to be directed to specific people, it was one of her most heartening successes—and it had worked with everything she’d tried. When she attached the targeting spell to a sleep spell, the sleep spell would only work on its intended target, making the magic item that contained it entirely safe to handle even when the spell was active. But would the targeting spell work successfully with this untested Kai spell?

  Faltah’s eyes went white, and she reached above her. Alys knew she was plucking the mote of Kai that was the final element needed to complete the spell they had named Vengeance. She gripped the table with both hands, her body drenched with sweat as she wondered how she would live with herself if her spell failed.

  For all the anger and hatred Faltah carried, she had not completely lost her better nature. Her hand halted just short of the flier, and her unfocused eyes rose to Tynthanal’s face.

  “Are you sure?”

  Tynthanal looked distinctly nervous, with a thin sheen of sweat glowing on his upper lip, but he did not hesitate. “I’m sure.”

  I’m not! Alys wanted to shout, but she bit her tongue. Her brother was far too honorable to let any other man take this risk, and she loved him for it even as she feared for him.

  Faltah pushed her Kai into the flier, speaking the full name of its intended target, and everyone held their breath. Alys opened her Mindseye to look, but the only elements she could see in the flier were components of the ordinary flier spell. The other spells they had put into the flier were well hidden.

  Alys closed her Mindseye in time to see Tynthanal open his hand. The flier rose into the air and flew out the window he had left cracked open just for that purpose. Tynthanal closed his eyes, possibly saying a silent prayer that the Kai spell had not affected him. The fact that the self-destruct spell had not been triggered was a good sign, but because it was so difficult to test malicious spells—especially those using Kai—Alys didn’t feel entirely comforted.

  The corner of Tynthanal’s mouth lifted in a smile, and he opened his eyes. “You can all relax, ladies. The spell didn’t strike me.”

  Chanlix frowned at him in concern, putting her hand on his arm and biting her lip. “Are you sure?”

  He covered her hand with his own and gave her a wolfish smile. “I’ve been imagining ways we can celebrate our success tonight, and I can tell you unequivocally that I am not affected.”

  Chanlix blushed like a virgin, for though everyone knew she and Tynthanal were sleeping together, she still seemed uncomfortable with acknowledging the relationship.

  Alys grimaced, though she suspected her eyes were twinkling. “I did not want to know that about my little brother,” she said. Tynthanal laughed, and even Faltah smiled.

  Now there was nothing to do but wait. It would be a delicate matter to determine whether the spell was effective or not. They would not be present to see it strike, and Melcor was unlikely to want to talk about the effects if it worked. But Chanlix had some contacts among the madams who worked the brothels in the Harbor District, and when the flier had had enough time to reach its destination, she would discreetly contact them and inquire. If Melcor suddenly had trouble performing, the madams would tell her—and the experiment would be a success.

  * * *

  —

  Chanlix laid the dress across her bed and shook her head in wonder. She had not worn an actual dress for twenty-five years, and the red robes she’d once hated had now become familiar and almost comforting. She donned those robes, and she knew exactly who she was, what her place in society was. But tonight when she’d returned to her house after sending the Kai flier on its way, she’d found this neatly packed little bundle on her doorstep.

  For whenever you’re ready, Tynthanal’s note had read when she’d opened the package to reveal its contents. As if he knew something had permanently changed within her when she’d finally given herself to him, that she could no longer be Mother Chanlix. And yet even so, he was gentle and thoughtful about how to communicate his message. He did not hand her the package in person, which might have made her feel honor bound to accept and wear it immediately. There was no pressure, no demand. Merely an invitation.

  She reached out to stroke the soft blue fabric. The dress was simple and modest, with few embellishments beyond a pleat here or there and a few accents of darker blue around the waist and neckline. Her eyes misted as she realized Tynthanal had known she would not want something exceedingly ornate and eye-catching, even if such might make a more extravagant gift. If she were to wear so simple a dress in the cosmopolitan center of Aalwell, people would assume her a commoner, for unlike the typical dress of a noblewoman, it was clearly designed to be donned without the help of a lady’s maid. Which made it perfect for her at this moment.

  Her belly fluttering with nerves, Chanlix reached up and unpinned her wimple, setting it aside. Then, she removed her red robes, smoothing the fabric in a gesture that was almost affectionate as she carefully folded them.

  There was a single layer of petticoats attached to the skirt of the blue dress, and the fabric settled comfortably over Chanlix’s hips. Laces along both sides of the bodice allowed her to snug the fabric around her waist and chest, though if she wanted the dress to show to its best advantage, she would have to invest in a more shapely set of stays.

  Her only use for a mirror in the years since she’d been confined to the Abbey had been to help her pin her wimple in place. The single mirror in her possession was too small for her to examine the overall appearance of the dress, and she added a floor-length mirror to her list of needs. She moved this way and that, catching glimpses of herself in that small mirror, noticing how the dress accentuated curves the shapeless robes had long hidden. She did not flatter herself with delusions of beauty, but she would not be an embarrassment to her sex if she appeared in public in this dress. Provided she had a matching headdress and shoes, which of course she did not.

  Did she dare imagine herself going shopping? For something she didn’t actually need? That in itself would be a courageous act,
even if she never mustered the courage to wear the dress for anyone’s eyes but Tynthanal’s.

  Chanlix bit her lip as she examined herself in the mirror one last time. She had no personal finances whatsoever, for any money she earned belonged to the Abbey and the Crown. Perhaps she should settle for wearing the dress in the privacy of her own home. Certainly that was not what Tynthanal had had in mind when he’d bought it for her, but she suspected he would understand.

  Nervous and excited in equal measure, Chanlix carefully removed the dress and changed back into her robes. Tomorrow, she would sell several potions with no intention of turning any of those profits over to the Crown. And with those profits, she would purchase everything she needed so that by dinnertime, she could dress like a free woman for the first time since she’d passed through the Abbey’s gates as a heartbroken girl of fifteen.

  A small smile tipped up the corners of her mouth as she imagined the surprised looks her abigails would give her. Everyone had been urging her to set the robes aside for weeks now, and yet she suspected they did not expect their persuasions to succeed. And the smile grew even broader when she imagined Tynthanal’s reaction when he saw how she had embraced his gift.

  She had a feeling she would not be wearing the dress for long after he set eyes on her.

  * * *

  —

  Delnamal was shut up in his private study with Melcor, going over his schedule for the following day, when one of his guards knocked on the door. Delnamal grumbled at the interruption. It was past dinnertime, and his stomach was anxious to be done with the tedious schedule review so he could retire to the dining hall.

  “Come in,” he snarled with poor grace. His guards knew better than to disturb him when the door was closed, and they wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t important.

  The guard opened the door and stepped in, bowing. “Forgive the interruption, Your Highness. A page has a flier for Lord Melcor. It was trapped in a stairwell, and its message is marked urgent and confidential.”

  Melcor frowned, and Delnamal glared at the man for allowing his private business to interfere with his liege’s schedule.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” Melcor said when he saw the glare. “I have no idea what this could be about. I can see to the flier after we’re finished.”

  “No, no,” Delnamal said, leaning back in his chair and making an impatient gesture toward the door. “Send the boy in. Clearly this message is of vital importance, and far be it from me to cause you any delays.”

  Melcor’s face lost some of its healthy color, and the man’s obvious fear and discomfort restored some of Delnamal’s good humor. Melcor was an excellent secretary, but he had a somewhat inflated view of his own importance and dearly loved hearing himself talk. The only reason they were still shut up in this study going over the schedule was because of Melcor’s insistence on discussing in great detail every silly rumor that reached his ears.

  A young page, maybe about ten years old, with aggressively red hair and freckles, stepped into the room and bowed, holding the ugliest flier Delnamal had ever seen in his cupped hands.

  “That thing could fly?” he found himself muttering in amazement. The child had plucked out the Rho that had powered the flier when he’d captured it, so that it lay inert in his hands.

  “It was trying to go through a closed door in the stairwell, Your Highness,” the page said in a piping voice. “It damaged itself.”

  Delnamal snorted. From halfway across the room he could see the clumsy knife marks that covered the entire flier and knew that damage had nothing to do with battering itself against a door. The page held the flier out to Melcor, whose frown had grown even more puzzled. Melcor shook his head and took the flier.

  With a suddenness that made everyone in the room jump, the flier came to life, its crude little head with its crude little beak pecking downward with vicious speed. Melcor yelped and dropped the flier as blood beaded on his hand.

  Delnamal leapt to his feet, pushing back his chair so fast it toppled over. The page cried out and backed away so fast he tripped over his own clumsy feet and landed on the carpet on his bottom. The flier, its beak red with Melcor’s blood, dropped to the floor, inert once again. As Delnamal watched, the flier suddenly burst into white-hot flame, setting the carpet on fire.

  The palace guard, who’d backed away from the flier when it first fell, acted quickly to stamp out the fire before the whole carpet was alight. The room filled with the stink of smoke, and all that was left of the flier was a crushed pile of ash.

  The guard grabbed the page’s arm in a brutal grip and shook him so hard the child’s teeth chattered. “Who gave you that flier?” he roared.

  The page immediately broke into terrified sobs, sputtering out nonsense that Delnamal was sure were denials of wrongdoing. He turned to Melcor.

  “How badly are you hurt?” he asked.

  “It’s nothing serious,” Melcor assured him, holding up his hand to show the small, bloody puncture. He put the finger in his mouth to suck off the blood.

  The guard backhanded the page, sending the boy sprawling into the pile of ash. The boy curled into a protective ball, crying piteously as the guard advanced on him.

  “Enough,” Delnamal snapped, and the guard looked at him in surprise.

  “But I can make him tell the truth!” he protested.

  Delnamal frowned at the sobbing child. Was it possible someone had hired or coerced him to bring the flier to Melcor? If so, it would certainly be important to wrest the identity of the person behind this from the boy. The guard could probably get the boy talking without having to resort to the inquisitor.

  But then he looked at Melcor, who was examining the cut again after having cleared away the blood. It was such a minor injury, and Melcor seemed more surprised by it than hurt. Surely it wasn’t worth beating a child over.

  Delnamal came around his desk and squatted by the fallen boy, wincing as his knees protested the position and his doublet strained.

  “Look at me,” he said in a voice of calm command. The tone—devoid of the guard’s anger and accusation—was enough to penetrate the fog of the child’s fear. Eyes still swimming with tears, nose running and quivering lip swelling from the guard’s blow, the child met Delnamal’s gaze.

  “Did someone give you that flier to deliver to Melcor?” he asked gently. “I promise you won’t be punished as long as you answer honestly.”

  It was a regrettably empty promise. If the boy admitted to being asked to bring the flier to Melcor, he would have to be punished harshly as an example to others. However, a child of his age was unlikely to understand such things well enough to see through the lie.

  “I swear, sir,” the child sniveled, “I found it in the stairwell. The door is all scratched up where it was trying to go through. I can show you.”

  “No need,” Delnamal said, ruffling the child’s hair then trying not to groan as he stood up once more. “I believe you.”

  The guard was still regarding the child with suspicion and distaste. Delnamal gave him a warning look.

  “There’s no reason to believe the boy was asked to deliver the flier,” he said. “There would be no point in it self-destructing if we could learn who sent it by questioning the boy.”

  The guard bowed. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Delnamal looked back at his secretary, no longer feeling so hungry. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to send that flier, using some very expensive spells. Why would someone go to that expense and trouble to inflict so small a wound?

  Melcor was looking at the little cut with some trepidation. One of the rumors he’d brought to Delnamal’s attention was that the women of the Abbey were flourishing in their exile. Delnamal knew from hearing the lord commander’s reports at the royal council meetings that the punitive exile had not turned out quite as planned. But the reports said
the women were producing potions at a pace that would be highly advantageous to the Crown’s coffers, and everyone was pleased at the prospect of unexpected profits come tax time.

  The rumors Melcor had mentioned suggested that the new Abbey was producing stronger, better potions than ever before. In fact, there had even been rumors that the Well that had sprung up in the Wasteland was producing feminine elements that were previously unknown.

  But surely the crude flier was beyond the ability of any woman to craft, no matter how many feminine elements she had access to. The flier spell itself required Dar, which was a masculine element, as well as Aal, a neuter element, neither of which was produced by the new Well, or the reports would have mentioned it. So it couldn’t have come from the Abbey in the Wasteland.

  “Let me know if you suffer any ill effects from that cut,” he ordered his secretary.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Melcor said, his face pale, his eyes filled with worry.

  “Let us send a tax collector out to the new Abbey. I would like to see some of these profits they claim to be making. And I would like him to make an assessment of the new facilities to compare to the reports sent to the lord commander.”

  Melcor’s eyes widened in alarm, and he stared at the pile of ash on the carpet. The women of the Abbey probably weren’t the only people in Aaltah who wished Melcor ill, but they certainly had one of the strongest motives to strike at him. Yes, Delnamal would be worried, too, if the Abbey turned out to be the source of the mysterious spell.