by Peter Fane
Kyla tried to blink the vision away—and failed.
Her hands felt like ice.
“The enemy doesn’t have war dragons, that’s true.” Anna nodded. “But you know well that Ruge has recruited other airborne forces which can provide good cover for their ground troops. More importantly, his field artillery outnumbers ours ten to one. And that’s just his big iron, traditional guns forged here on Kon. He has yet to bring his ancient great cannon to bear—we don’t know why he waits or how many he has.” Anna gestured at the cave’s wall. “The Tarn is entirely surrounded, my Lady. Vymon Ruge is one of the most experienced field commanders in the Realm. He and your grandfather, the High King, might once have been close, but Vymon is Dorómy’s man now. We’re cut off from our allies. The Pretender’s local riders and infantry have almost entirely isolated us from the rest of the duchy. Yes, Lord Jor now rides to our relief, but he’s overdue. If Jor was here, if Jor approached now, then we might have a chance to push out, to break the enemy’s lines as they wheel to face Jor’s column, but where is he? Nowhere to be found, not even a messenger in the last two weeks. And what if the Tarn’s High Gate is breached by the Pretender’s adepts, what then—?”
And then Anna stopped short.
It was as if she’d suddenly remembered what she was saying, how she was saying it, and to whom she spoke. Anna shook her head, stood tall, and looked at Kyla. “I’d gladly spend my life and the life of my dragon to protect Lord Garen, my Lady. Indeed, we’d gladly die to protect all of you, to protect the Tarn, from those thrice-cursed traitors out there.” She gestured at the wall. “But as to your original question, I can say only this: Parley is a risk. I don’t know why it’s been called now, what’s changed. Perhaps it does have something to do with Lady Katherine’s return, as you say. I know not. But I do know that parley is dangerous. If something happens, if something goes wrong, many will die. Lord Garen will be at the front of it all, one scholar with a handful of ogres against the Pretender King’s entire army.”
“Then it’s settled,” Kyla said. She cleared her throat, tucked the last of her shells into a side pocket, and clicked the case closed. “We must make peace.” She slung the case over her shoulder. Bruno nudged at her thigh.
Anna stared at her; the dragon rider’s eyes were bright.
“What is it, Captain?” Kyla asked. “Yes. I said it. ‘Peace.’ That dirty word. And you have provided overwhelming evidence for the conclusion. By your own words, we are outnumbered, outflanked, and outgunned. Even with its superior quality, our air power has been matched—if not countered—by Vymon Ruge. For years, Dorómy and his agents have worked hard to turn local populations against us, and they’ve succeeded in many instances, especially this ‘Mountain King’ and his guerillas around Aaryn’s Cry. And I can tell you firsthand, from my own work with Doldon in the storerooms: We are running out of everything. We are in the middle of a logistical nightmare. Why am I here, using this storage magazine as a firing range? Because there’s nothing to store, Captain. The only things keeping us alive are our High Gate, our last great cannon, and Garen’s ‘star trees,’ entities which no one fully understands. How long can those trees last, Captain? Do you know? I most certainly do not. More to the point, neither does Garen. Our entire defense thus rests upon the strength and, dare I say, the ‘good will’ of ancient entities with whom we can barely communicate. So, what else can we do? Fight ‘til there’s nothing left? The Tarn protects far more than men and guns and swords. It is more than a ‘fortress,’ as the High Queen says. And she’s entirely correct. There are the collections to consider, the artifacts, the other treasures of the Tarn’s repositories. To say nothing of the lives of the unarmed highborn nobility and the thousands of loyal men, women, children, and orphans we received when Tarntown fell during Vymon Ruge’s initial offensive. If we can’t win—and by both our reckonings, we are very hard-pressed—are we to die here? To take all the Tarn’s treasures, innocents, all of it with us into the void? Fight until there is nothing left?”
And then Kyla saw Anna’s face clear, the dragon rider nodding, as if with sudden understanding. And at that same moment, Kyla realized that she herself had said too much and worse—that she’d revealed what she truly felt.
And now Anna thought her afraid.
Or weak.
Or worthless.
Or perhaps all the above.
But that wasn’t true. Kyla wasn’t afraid of fighting. Nor was she opposed to war on moral grounds—that would be absurd. Rather, she truly felt that there had to be another way. A way besides these two great armies’ constant, bloody flailing across the whole of the Kingdom, a way besides her family gnawing off its own limbs.
Yes, parley was a risk.
Obviously.
But a risk greater than this perpetual war?
Of course, Kyla hated Dorómy. More precisely, she hated what her great uncle had done to them, to her, to the Realm, to her family. But her hate was born of what had once been love. Far more importantly, her hate was a luxury that she could not afford, an emotional indulgence best left to amateurs and children. “The closer a person’s mind is to calm, the closer she is to strength,” Nana always said.
Kyla lifted her chin.
She didn’t want peace because she was weak.
She wanted peace because she was smart.
“Very good, my Lady,” Anna said formally. “I thank you for this discussion. Lord Michael and Lord Doldon will be down in moments. Shall we join them?”
“Anna—,” Kyla started.
Anna said nothing, she just stared at Kyla unflinchingly, her posture almost at attention, almost as if she needed her military discipline to contain herself. Kyla felt her face warm even as her hands once again threatened to tremble.
“What would be your plan, Anna?” Kyla asked simply. “If we could do anything, if you could do anything, what would it be?”
The dragon rider’s cold decorum was palpable. She said nothing.
Kyla looked Anna in the eye. “If Michael had his way, what would we do?”
Anna looked at her for a moment. Then she nodded. “Very simple: We would attack. And then we would attack again. Without mercy. Without end. This madman in the hinterlands, this ‘Mountain King,’ and his traitor guerrillas who’ve isolated us these last months, cut the Tarn off from support here on Kon? We send assassins. We execute him. This traitor, Vymon Ruge? We take my dragon squads, we drop under cover of darkness behind the siege lines, we burn the enemy’s command tent to ash. We follow Lord Jor’s superb plan, we re-open the Trange, the Great Road between Tarntown and mighty Konordun, to the other side of Aaryn’s Cry and the loyal cities of the south. We discover the Pretender’s Gate, discover how the traitor brings his forces to bear—.”
“Surely you can’t—.”
“Even Lord Garen agrees,” Anna continued. “If we control Kon’s only gate, from whence do the Pretender’s armies come? What other answer can there be? The sailors of Póntokos have remained entirely neutral throughout all this—and even if Dorómy has won them over, there’d be no way for him to pay or support the kind of deployments we’ve seen. That’s the key, my Lady—the key to it all. We find the Pretender’s Gate, we attack, we destroy it, and then we kill every traitor on Konish soil. Then we kill every traitor in the Realm. Proper intelligence, lightning strikes, followed by further strikes. Advance and attack. Advance and attack. Lord Michael is right—he has been right for years: We can’t do anything just sitting here. We must attack. We must attack without end, without mercy.”
“Why don’t we act as you suggest?” Kyla asked carefully, already knowing the answer.
“The High King and—.” Anna shook her head, dark eyes flickering. “He restrains us.” Anna said the word as if it caused her pain. “He will not let us fight—not as we must.”
Kyla continued. “Why do you think my grandparents hold our forces in check?”
Anna shook her head, as if she couldn’t even consider the
question, as if the question somehow cut to the heart of her being. But there was something more, Kyla’s training told her. Something inside the question, beneath the surface, that strange flicker crossing Anna’s face, like a dark beacon in a darker night. In the dragon rider’s eyes, Kyla saw frustration, confusion, and boundless rage—all merged. But there was something else, too.
What was it?
Kyla wanted to go to Anna then, to hold her hands, to tell her that she was not alone in that spinning darkness, that she understood too well the kaleidoscope of frustration that engulfed her thoughts. But she couldn’t. The gesture would never be seen for what it was. It would be seen as weakness.
So instead, Kyla said gently, “I asked you a question, Captain.” She did not relish her own insistence, but she would have an answer. “Why does the High King not give Lord Michael the freedom he seeks to conduct the war as he wishes?”
“Peace.” Anna looked up at her, a strange kind of anguish in her eyes, as if the word was torn from her lips. “The High King—Great Sisters honor him—he believes it is possible. He insists, he believes, there’s something out there more than war.” She lifted her chin at the wall, shook her head, dark hair glossy in the lamp light. “Even now, even after . . . .” She looked away from Kyla and took a breath. “He doesn’t understand that those men out there—those soldiers and generals who once served him: Ruge, Serán, Carole, Shu, Taverly, all the others—those men who once swore oaths to uphold his word and lawful authority . . . he doesn’t understand that they are his enemies. It doesn’t matter what they were before. They’re his enemies now. And they’ve proved it.” Anna glanced up at Kyla, that strange look in her eye again. “They’ve proved it beyond all doubt. And every day they kill us. They kill our men, they kill our people in the name of a murderous traitor, in the name of a traitor usurper.” She cleared her throat and looked at Kyla. “We cannot fight as we must because the King hopes for peace. And he will hope forever. And while he dreams of peace, his armies will wither and die—and then a different kind of peace will come.”
Kyla stepped to her, put a hand on Anna’s armored forearm. “Would any peace not be better than this forever war, Anna?”
Anna stiffened. “I don’t know. But I do know what your father, Lord Tomas, would’ve said, Great Sisters sing his praise—before Dorómy’s assassins cut his throat.”
Kyla blinked, head spinning, suddenly dizzy.
She stepped back.
At her side, Bruno growled softly. In spite of herself, Kyla looked down at her hands. They were icy and clenched, so cold they almost hurt.
She took a deep breath, focused, and looked Anna in the eye.
Kyla had opened this door; it would be difficult to close.
“What,” she asked, “would my father say, Anna?”
The dragon rider’s eyes were shards of night. “Lord Tomas would say that any soldier who yearns for peace makes a perfect solider—for the enemy.”
“Indeed?” Kyla’s eyebrow went up.
Anna said nothing, then looked away. And Kyla could tell that the dragon rider regretted her words. But it didn’t matter. As much as Kyla cared for Anna, she could not let such a remark go unchallenged, not from a subordinate. She lifted her chin and allowed the barest touch of her power into her voice. “I invited you to speak freely—and you’ve done so. But I won’t hear anyone question my loyalty, even obliquely. Do I make myself clear, Captain?”
“Forgive me, my Lady.” Anna bowed. “I spoke out of turn.”
“You did not. As always, I am grateful for your honesty. That said, there are many roads to victory and many ways to peace. I prefer that which is shortest, but also that which is littered with the fewest of my family’s dead. Now, shall we go? Lord Doldon and Lord Michael await.”
5
DEEP IN THE Tarn’s Lower Armory, shadowed in the doorway of the Fourth Gallery of Cannon, Captain Fellen Colj, the greatest ogre of Jallow, watched the little boy work.
The boy was shouting as he cleaned, yelling at the great cannon; polishing like a demon, hollering like a madman.
Colj inclined his huge head. He could not understand the boy. But he could understand the boy’s feelings, he could understand the boy’s energy. This energy was what the ogres of Jallow called a warrior’s ja—a soldier’s fighting heart. The boy’s ja was strong. The boy’s ja was the reason that Colj had left the High Lords, that he had returned to the gallery. Colj had felt something in the boy. He had sensed something in his ja. And he wanted to be sure.
Colj was certain that he had seen the little boy before. But this was the first time that he had clearly felt the boy’s ja. He could not see it, of course. The ja was sensed, not seen, like a silent vibration. Colj nodded. Yes. The boy’s ja was clean and true. Like a high, jeweled note. And it was strong. So very strong. This strength was not unique; the Tarn was home to many powerful mages, scholars, and adepts. But the Pretender King’s siege had drained them, leaving them feeble and spent. This boy, however, had something more than power. He had endurance. Colj could feel it. A special kind of stamina. Very rare. The most determined of hearts. Very rare, indeed. But before Colj mentioned it to Lord Garen, Colj needed to be sure. Lord Garen was wise. Lord Garen would understand what to do. And their need was dire.
The little boy wore a torn shirt and ragged pants. Both these garments were too large for him. The boy had rolled the sleeves of the shirt up past his elbows, but the rolls were so big, he could not put his arms to his sides. The boy needed a haircut, too. He was missing one of his front teeth. His pants hung in tatters. His shoes were too big, the laces broken and retied so many times as to make lacing impossible. The boy’s elbow looked swollen. The range of motion was incorrect and he winced as he worked; the work hurt him. There was something wrong with the boy’s shoulder, too. Yet he continued his task, continued to honor his oath, continued to honor his duty. Great Sisters, his ja was so bright! He worked as hard as he was able. A little soldier in rags, working alone in the dark.
Colj stepped forward. The boy stopped. He had sensed Colj’s presence. The boy looked up at Colj. The skin beneath his eyes was bruised and tired, either from fatigue or fighting, or both. The boy shook his head, mumbled something, and turned away. His head wobbled with exhaustion. He went back to work. He winced with pain, but he worked nonetheless. The boy mumbled once more. Colj could not understand what he said, but his ja was brighter than ever, like a diamond star in the pale lavender of morning.
And then Colj understood what he had recognized.
The boy’s ja reminded Colj of his oldest son—Saj.
Great Fellen Saj. Dearest Fellen Saj. The oldest son of Colj. Now gone. Lost to the Great War, like three other sons before him. Only Colj’s youngest son, Ponj, remained. Before Saj had been found by death, his ja had shone like this boy’s. The same stamina, the same commitment, the same heart.
Since returning from Jallow two weeks prior, Colj and his warriors had not spent enough time with the Tarn’s great guns. Colj realized now that this had been a mistake. The songs of the ancient, living weapons were strong and true. Good for the ja. In the past, Colj had made allowance for new warriors to descend into the Tarn’s lower galleries to listen, to fill themselves with the great guns’ war songs, to fill themselves with the righteous fury of the guns’ life force. When dear Saj had arrived at the Tarn, he too had been drawn to the mighty cannon. He had listened to their songs with full commitment. But then he was gone. The siege of the Pretender King went hard. Every woman and man was required, every moment of every day. Their need was dire.
Colj frowned.
Every woman and every man.
Every child?
The thought gave him pause.
Then Colj spoke to the boy. “There is an ancient story that we tell on Jallow. It was the favorite of my son, Saj. Before death found him. It cannot be told in your tongue. But I will share it, all the same.”
The boy stared at him.
He did not
understand.
But his ja blazed like a white-hot sun.
“On my world,” Colj said, in the ancient tongue of Jallow, “we sing the song of a tree that took root near the wall of a garden. It was a lone tree, tall and slender. But it was not of that place. It did not flower. It did not bear fruit. And it never bent to the gardener. As the tree grew, a silver bird came to sing during sunset. On one branch, then another, the bird sang, always higher, as if persuading the tree to grow, sunset colors in its silver wings. For many years, this bird came to this tree, and for many years, the tree grew taller and taller still. A single bird and a single tree, each the only friend to the other. When the gardener cut the tree down, the bird flew around the places the tree’s branches had been, inscribing the spaces it had once sang, its flight carving lines in sunset for all to see, higher and higher, so high that the tree finally touched the stars.”
Colj took off his gauntlet. He placed his hand on the cannon’s side. He closed his eyes and let the cannon’s living hymn swell through his mind and heart, its ancient agreements filling his ja with its passion, its fire, and its truth.
He listened for a long while.
When Colj was done, he opened his eyes and saw that the little boy listened, too. The boy’s eyes were closed. His hand was on the cannon. He listened to the weapon’s ancient battle song.
Once more, the sight gave Colj pause.
The boy’s ja was strong, yes.
But it also seemed that the boy knew and understood the gun’s ancient harmonies.
But how could that be?
How had he learned?
How had a mere child coaxed the mighty gun to reveal its holy music? Potent as his ja might be, the boy was no war adept. He could have had no formal training, no proper instruction. Indeed, only the most skilled adepts were chosen by the Order of Alea to commune with the living weapons. And only the most skilled amongst those were picked to learn the ancient counterpoints that could unleash the great cannon’s holy fire. Yet here was this boy, a boy who had been accepted wholly by one of the oldest cannon in all the Remain.
