At the same time, she’d been given a wardrobe to match Escamilla’s, a quartet of guards who shadowed her everywhere, and essentially limitless authority as the voice of Escamilla. Men bowed when they saw her coming, and she was afforded only the best treatment.
For so long, Emma had simply been an observer of great people and great events. She had been nothing to these people. Background. Furniture. An oddity, sometimes, given her disabled hand. She had watched quietly as dukes and barons and rich merchants discussed matters of national security or the dispensation of tens of thousands of yets.
She’d had no utility, no influence on such events, and she’d wanted neither. It had been a hard life, but usually a safe life. It had been the life of a servant. And now, she had been thrust into this position of authority, given true power and responsibility.
She felt considerably overwhelmed.
“And have the outrider reports come in yet?” asked Escamilla. The two rode together near the middle of Escamilla’s forces, which stretched more than a mile down the road. It was a straight shot from Brockmore to Florens—at least, it was if you didn’t mind a little off-roading through grassy fields and farmlands. Given that time was a factor, that was exactly what the army was doing. Farmers watched, stunned, as their livelihood was trampled underneath the boots of men marching to war. These farmers’ children might starve this winter, and the army had not yet crossed the borders into the duchy of Florens.
At least Escamilla and her staff had strict rules regarding foraging, looting, and misconduct. Four men had been lashed already for sneaking off to a tavern at a small town, near which the army had camped. They might have gone undetected, too, had one not started a bar fight, causing hundreds of yets worth of damage. Two separate men had been hanged for rape that same night.
Three others had been responsible for beating to death an old man thought, by the locals, to be a heretic, a worshipper of Ultner. The report said that they hung the man by his ankles over a fire, taking turns beating him with burning brands. This had gone unpunished. The Army of Brockmore was marching for Yetra, after all, and such acts were nearly unavoidable.
Emma liked to think that they were fighting on the side of right and justice, but she’d read enough of the disciplinary reports to doubt the justice part. Sometimes, it seemed, bad men were needed to do the right thing. And these reports hadn’t even included Ferl’s Company.
“The rear outriders from Brockmore have caught up, yes. That’s what I came to report. Two hundred-and-twelve more men have been equipped and are marching to catch up as of thirty-six hours ago. At our current pace, it’s unlikely that they’ll catch up until we meet the enemy.” Meet the enemy. Emma had said it so casually, though the prospect held nothing but uncertainty and death. As it was, even including the Florens army, they were outmanned and probably out-trained. Though a chunk of Rostane’s army was made up of conscripts, many were career military. Escamilla’s men, though soldiers in their own right, were primarily guards and peacekeepers, largely untested in battle and certainly not trained in fighting as a cohesive unit (aside from what little training they’d gained over the past few weeks, which wasn’t much).
And yet, they were what stood between Duke Penton and Florens. Perhaps all of Ardia.
“What of the forward scouts?”
“Let me think—” said Emma, reluctant to share this part. Escamilla, though unbowed, was wearing the strain of the march on her face.
“Emma. Now,” Escamilla said sharply.
“The Rostanian Army has halted its desertion problem. They… dragged… several men to death, and lashed dozens more, to the bone. One of your spies, a camp-follower, saw the bodies. They were, her missive reported, shredded beyond recognition.”
“Brutal.” Escamilla said, reacting less than Emma had expected. Her mask was firmly fixed, as it was most of the time, these days.
“Yes, quite brutal.” Emma shuddered. She couldn’t imagine. “The Rostanian Army has finally caught up with their forward forces, and they are scant days from Florens. There is a messenger, newly come, from Malless, who seeks to speak with you. He wouldn’t share his message with me.”
Escamilla sighed. Another problem needing an answer, no doubt. Malless had been sending out multiple messengers daily, requesting that the Army of Brockmore arrive with all speed. Each messenger would report only to Escamilla. At this point, it was an annoyance.
“Another one. I’ll meet with the man when we make camp. It’s time we finalized our strategy for the coming battle. No more dawdling and wavering.” Escamilla’s eyes had a distant look in them, and they rode in silence—or, whatever silence could be found in the midst of a marching, swearing, and shouting army. Several quiet minutes passed.
“Camilla, what’s on your mind?” asked Emma, seeking to break the silence.
“What, aside from war, death, destruction, and the rapid depletion of my fortune?” she asked with a weary half-smile.
“Yes, aside from that,” Emma returned the smile.
“I’m an old woman, Emma. An old, tired woman who wanted to spend the end of her career quietly relaxing in one of my estates. But, instead, I find myself organizing and leading an army, fighting an unwinnable fight against a much bigger force. I’m not cut out for this, Emma. This is young people’s business. I don’t have the energy, anymore.” Escamilla’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, but clearly her mind was elsewhere.
“You’re not old—you’ve many, many years left! You were never going to retire, and you’re sprier than someone half your age,” said Emma. It was unnerving for her to hear Escamilla speaking like this. She was too strong to talk as if she was already defeated. And, Emma didn’t want a reminder of the hopelessness of their situation.
“Spry? My knees ache, my hands are stuck to these reins, and I am dying to relieve myself right now.”
“Yes, spry! Do you remember catching that vase that I was going to clobber Fenrir with? Or, remember the way you handled that spear, when those monsters attacked? I, in my youth, was paralyzed in fear, and you struck true. Where did you learn to handle weapons like that, anyhow?” Emma asked the last somewhat offhandedly, hoping to change the subject from whatever was ailing Escamilla.
Escamilla was silent, her face suddenly hard. She didn’t say anything in response.
“I’m sorry to offend, my la—”
“No, Emma. No ‘my lady’ right now. ‘Camilla’ will do,” Escamilla said wearily.
“Of course, Camilla,” said Emma, watching Escamilla ride through the corners of her eyes.
“You have never asked how I ended up where I am: a wealthy, powerful old woman.”
“Everyone knows that, Camilla. Your father died and you sold his last bag of fruit for far more than what it was worth, giving you more yets to work with. You sold and sold and sold, until you ended up with land, and so on.” Emma gestured to the apple standards and tabards. “We are surrounded by reminders of your first sale and first major venture.”
“And how did my father die?” Escamilla asked, looking at Emma askance.
Emma didn’t know. No one ever mentioned the Garrick Breen part of the story, aside from the fact that he’d been a poor merchant.
“You don’t know, Emma. No one does, as the truth is not worth telling. My father was a thief, a drunk, and a liar. No one would deal with him where I grew up, so we took to traveling. Him, my sister, and my mother.”
“You have a sister?” Emma was stunned at this. Escamilla had never mentioned family, not a single time in their years together.
“Had a sister. My father sold her to slavers in Rostane when he needed money for liquor.” Escamilla said in a monotone.
“There aren’t slavers in Rostane!” Emma said, unwilling to believe this story. It was terrible—to sell your child for extra spending money?
“Silly girl,” Escamilla said, with some affection. “Anywhere there is water and ships, you will find slavers. Either for galley slaves or domestic house
hold slaves in Sestra or Algania. I don’t know where Alesha ended up. I’ve since spent a good deal of money trying to track her down, but to no avail. You can’t track nothing, and slaves are less than nothing.”
“I’m so sorry, Cami—” Emma began, but Escamilla cut her off, her voice finding some urgency, some emotion.
“And my mother? She was a wisp of a woman—would never have stood against Garrick’s wishes. She knew about his plans for Alesha, and yet she did nothing.” Escamilla was growing heated, gesturing as she rode. “She had opportunities, plenty of opportunities, to report him to authorities. He beat her, you know. The same way he beat me. And she never said a word. Not for herself, not for me.”
“Camilla, I—”
“It caught up with her. He knocked her down one night at a campsite, and she hit her head on a rock. Something broke in her brain. After a couple weeks of hauling her around while I cared for her, he left her behind. Or, at least, she wasn’t there one morning.
“So, when we traveled with a caravan, I spent time with the guards. Learned how to handle swords and spears, even if I had to pay a price. Of course, I had no money to offer, so I whored myself out for a year. It’s alright, though, because Garrick already gave me practice at that.”
Emma was horrified, but Emma did not stop. This had been building for years and years, a festering excess of bile and ichor that finally had an escape.
“I could have killed Garrick in his sleep. The man drank himself into a stupor enough nights. But, that would have been too easy. He wouldn’t have known why he was being killed, or who was doing the killing. So, one night on the road, just me and him, I confronted him with a spear I’d secreted in our little rickshaw. He laughed at me. Laughed, the old bastard. He said he should have sold me, too, but I was a younger and softer version of my mother, so he’d kept me around. He grabbed the old sword that he carried around from when he served, briefly, in the military. I could have stabbed him in the back, but I let him arm himself. He came at me, trying to kill me. I wore him down, bled him with a dozen tiny wounds. When he fell, exhausted, I looked him in the eye as I drove the spear, slowly, into his gut. He swore and ranted and screamed and begged for his life, but I didn’t give it to him. I watched him die. It was one of the sweetest sights.”
Escamilla was openly weeping now, tears streaming down her cheeks as they rode.
“The next day, I waited for a passing caravan, told the story of how a robber had murdered my father while I hid in the woods. Who would think that a petite seventeen-year-old girl would have murdered her father in cold blood? They helped me bury him, that bastard. And I took what remained in his rickshaw—not a single bag of fruit among the goods, mind you—and sold it near Florens.”
She finally stopped, quickly and unobtrusively dabbing at her eyes with the white-laced sleeve of her crimson riding habit, designed to match the apple standard in every regard. There were of her guards nearby. Escamilla and Emma rode underneath an ornate tarp suspended by poles that were held aloft by four horses, which were minded by pairs of foot soldiers. It had not yet rained today, but judging from the gray weight of the clouds, it would not likely hold off much longer. Some of the soldiers were glancing over, having heard their liege lady’s voice raised with emotion. A couple even had their hands on their hilts.
Escamilla took a deep breath and composed herself.
“Camilla, I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry all that happened to you. But, it made you who you are. It made you strong,” said Emma in a near whisper, simply shocked at the story. She didn’t know what else to say—what could she say?
“You say that as I am wiping snot from my nose and tears from my eyes. My apologies, dear. This is what happens when I’m exhausted and surrounded by weapons of war. I think about the past.” Her voice was again calm, though it held a bit of a scratch. “But, think nothing more of it. You, my dear, have faced just as much adversity in your young life.”
Yes, she had faced something like that. Never knowing her father, a pretty standard situation for the daughter of a servant. Her mother had been tight-lipped about it, but he’d probably been some guardsman or minor noble. Losing her mother to the stomach flux. Racked with guilt for not being at her side when she died, and for being anxious to get her stinking body into the street for the corpse wagons. And then the ordeal with Fenrir and her hand.
She examined her mangled appendage—her thumb, pointing finger, and little stub of a middle finger attached to what remained of her hand, hidden under her custom-designed black glove. The surgeon, Martis, had saved her hand, though she recalled the pain following the surgeries being worse than the pain when she’d woken the morning after the attack. And now, the man who’d done this to her was scarcely a mile away, marching with the mercenaries. She clenched her little claw for a moment, and then relaxed it with a deep breath. Like Escamilla had told her, time and time again, she needed to push her emotions aside.
“But, maybe it is better to keep the past where it is and focus on the future.”
“You are becoming a very smart girl, my dear. Let us both focus on the future today, starting with finalizing our strategy. Let Malless’ messenger know that I will meet with him in the command tent when we camp this evening, and make sure he is rested. Until then, we have plenty to do to occupy ourselves.”
“Yes, my lady,” Emma said, tongue-in-cheek.
“Funny, too. I wonder why you are unmarried.” Escamilla’s voice was flat. “Come to the command tent this evening when you are done with your other duties for the day.”
“My other duties?” Emma had thought to ride with Escamilla for the remainder of the day.
“Yes. I’d like for you to check in on the girls.”
Chapter 32
Merigold was tired.
It seemed that she was always tired since awaking amidst this army marching to war. Fatigued and achy, her joints felt like rusty hinges that hadn’t seen oil in ages. And, every morning, she was still torn with nausea no matter what she ate. Even most afternoons found her stomach in knots.
Unfortunately, the baby had survived Merigold’s ordeal.
Much of what had happened in Hunesa was vague in her mind—more of a general impression, a flashing of images. Dear Yetra, but her life had been a blur since her imprisonment. None of it seemed real, but her thin, weakened body and the few artifacts left from Dunmore told her the truth. Everything had changed. Again.
Days ago, she had regained consciousness in a covered wagon, the man Fenrir at her side. She had recognized him instantly, although he had changed since she’d met him at the Duckling—hair trimmed short, beard and temples grayer than she remembered. He’d jumped to his feet when she finally stirred, either in shock or excitement; which was unclear. He had seemed happy, although she’d noted that he didn’t smile.
He’d told her that she’d been attacked in Hunesa when trying to hire mercenaries. That had been her plan, hiring mercenaries to help her find Ragen. She recalled that idiotic idea. A young girl, heaving around a sack of octagonal, high value yets, walking into a nest of thieves, murderers, and rapists. She’d essentially been asking to be assaulted.
She recalled her head swimming at the vague memory, feeling herself almost shifting to a different consciousness. She’d had a vision of herself, of rough hands holding down an overweight, blond girl… Those thoughts! She’d never touched a woman like that… Those hadn’t been her hands!
Fenrir had shaken her out of the brief trance and, at the feeling of his hands on her body, controlling her, Merigold had felt a swift, panicky desire to stab him in the neck. She’d managed to choke down the urge, though, and force her mind and body to relax. She’d only pushed Fenrir’s hands away from her shoulders instead, and he’d jerked back as if burned by her touch. Maybe he had remembered what touching her cost him in the Duckling. Or, maybe it was something she’d done back in Hunesa.
Merigold probed him about what had happened in that inn with the mercenaries. He
’d been tight-lipped about it, only telling her that she had used her powers to escape from the men, but used too much and lost consciousness. She had some remembrance of the feel of the magic, the blackened vessels of the mercenaries, and of tearing out their life force, and using it to… and that was where she couldn’t remember anything more. Some fleeting memories of Fenrir and some other men talking, and then nothing, until she’d woken up here.
Throughout the next couple of days, Fenrir had visited her in the wagon while she’d regained her strength. They didn’t talk much, but he watched her often. Not in the way that Saren had, or even in the way that Fenrir himself had in the Duckling those months ago, but more in the way that Ragen had. For some reason, she wanted to tell Fenrir what had happened to her, to Dunmore, and to her family. But giving voice to those events would make them too real, creating phantasms that she wasn’t ready to face.
One evening, after they had spoken for a few minutes about the disposition of the army, and a little bit about Rostane, he’d left abruptly, leaving behind a small pouch without a word. In the bag had been her dagger, her little nail-and-linen make-shift weapon, attached to a small silver chain, the blade in a folded piece of leather made to be a sort of sheath. She had kept it around her neck since, and it gave her some comfort while she was surrounded by these soldiers. Her little weapon, returned to her. How had Fenrir found it? How had Fenrir known?
A Lady Escamilla had visited her also—a formal older woman who was apparently leading this army. She had asked Merigold a lot of inane questions about her life and had smiled a lot, wrinkles creasing her angular face. Escamilla had said that the army was going to keep Meri safe while she recovered, and would give her shelter and protection. It seemed so altruistic.
Merigold did not trust her, of course. She was essentially a prisoner, once again, though a better fed and cleaner one than before.
Solace Lost Page 42
