by Matthew Ward
“I hear I’ve a granddaughter.” Madelyn chuckled. “That word really doesn’t go with this face, does it? Does she know about me? Not the scriptures, but the truth?”
“She will, when she’s old enough to understand.”
Wry expression turned serious. “Tell her now, Melanna. Not just about me, but about you. About your father. Everything you’d want her to know that no one else can teach. Because your time together’s never as long as you think.” She squeezed Melanna’s fingers, tapped her hand thrice against her knee, and stood. “Call to me again, and Jack will hear. He’s too sly to be fooled twice.”
“But if I do call, will you come?”
“Goodbye, Melanna. Kiss Kaila for me.”
Melanna lingered after the footsteps had faded, drinking in the sanctum’s soft fragrance. A moment of peace, to be banished for ever once she stepped outside.
When she departed, she did so without backward glance, retracing her steps through the murky tunnels and into daylight. Apara and Kaila waited on the balcony where she’d left them. Stooping, Melanna kissed her daughter’s brow, and ignored the suspicious glance offered in exchange.
“Did you find what you needed?” asked Apara.
“I think so.” Melanna took a deep breath. “There’s something I need you to do.”
Cardivan arrived in the palace at sundown, dusk’s purpled skies not yet faded to night. He came alone, his errant son having ridden home to Redsigor a day before. Ushered into the throne room by Tavar Rasha, he approached the dais with the stiff-necked composure of a man suffering indignity. That alone almost made it all worthwhile.
“My Empress.” Cardivan’s eyes darted left and right from Melanna, wary to see Haldrane present alongside Aeldran. Those who glimpsed the spymaster seldom kept their sight long enough to profit by the knowledge. Not once did he think to look up. Had he done so, he might have glimpsed Apara Rann, once again in thief’s garb, crouched in the rafters midway between the godly statues of Ashana and the Raven, but higher than even their stern gazes. “You wished to speak with me?”
Melanna held her tongue, drawing out the moment as long as she dared. Was Cardivan wondering at the wisdom of leaving his substantial bodyguard at the villa? Not that Rasha would have allowed them into the throne room.
“I know what you intend, Cardivan,” she said at last. “I will not permit it.”
His surprised expression was masterful. “You have advantage over me, Empress. Perhaps—”
“The army gathering at Mergadir will not cross the border. Should it attempt to do so, I will meet it with spears. There will be war between the Kingdoms of Rhaled and Silsaria.”
Cardivan snarled. “Your father led Rhaled to slaughter. Are the boys and old men left at your command worth three prime warriors apiece?”
Rasha started forward. Melanna checked him with a wave. “Perhaps not, but by midnight six thousand Icansae will stand with them.”
Aeldran stepped closer. “Dotha Icansae recalls unkind words uttered at her coronation. My sister has never been one to repay insult in kind when steel might serve.”
Blood drained from Cardivan’s cheeks. He’d likely guessed that Aelia Andwaral would stand alongside Rhaled, but he could never have anticipated the speed of mobilisation. That had been possible only because Apara had carried the request through Otherworld’s mists, reducing a journey of days to mere hours. She’d asked to be present in the throne room to see the fruits of her labours. Melanna hoped she had a good view.
“You’ve lost your senses,” Cardivan bit out.
Melanna rose. “One of us has, certainly. So I am minded to present another option.” She drew the Goddess’ sword from its scabbard. Before Ashana had withdrawn from the world, its steel had burned with white flame. No longer. “Challenge my right to rule, here and now, and a sword will be found. No one will stand in your way.”
Or perhaps not. Aeldran had agreed in words, but not expression. More fool him for his advice at Midwintertide. Show them your fire. Cardivan saw it plainly now.
Melanna descended the dais, blade pointed at the floor. “The throne is a sword’s length away, my king. It’ll never be closer. You need only fight for it… and, of course, I am only a woman.”
With obvious effort, Cardivan gathered himself to dignity. “This is not the end of the matter!”
Cloaked in brittle pride, he swept from the throne room, chased along by Haldrane’s mocking laughter.
Melanna sheathed the sword and breathed deep until her toes tingled.
A victory well earned. Others would be needed.
Aeldran’s hands found her shoulders. “You’ll see he leaves Tregard tonight, jasaldar?”
Rasha bowed. “Gladly, my prince.”
“What now, essavim?” Aeldran asked, once Rasha had gone.
“Now, I’ll tell Kaila something of her grandfather,” Melanna replied. “Beyond that? We shall see what the morning brings.”
Twenty
The sentry’s struggles eased as the dagger took his throat. Dying breath rushed warm against Rosa’s palm. Hand clamped over his mouth, she dragged the twitching body into the headstocks’ cabin. Drenn set the door to, and Rosa eased the body down beside the miner’s winding cage. Kalar let his own burden drop with rather less care.
“See?” Drenn’s smile was barely visible in the hooded lantern’s backwash. “Nothing easier.”
A dozen bedraggled men and women grinned agreement, but little could have been further from the truth. Reaching the air intake tunnel had required a tortuous moonlit climb, then a sweaty hour clearing a partial collapse. Then a stooped, shuffling procession through darkness – as often waist-deep in cold, stagnant water as not, and sometimes swimming beneath the surface – rock scraping shoulders and blackstone-damp’s acrid taste thick on the tongue.
Rosa had taken every step short of breath and with pounding heart. Down in the depths of Terevosk’s abandoned blackstone mine, soldiers’ courage was nothing. All the worse that Fenner, a wiry fellow who’d escaped Terevosk’s razing years before, moved through flooded tunnel and across stone spoil with blithe unconcern.
It had taken every inch of Rosa’s self-control not to cry out in relief on reaching the lift shaft. Even the long climb up creaking ladders – the miner’s cage had rusted long ago – had been welcome respite. And the heather-scented air at the top? Like rising from the depths of the Dark into the Light of Third Dawn.
As the tallest of their number, Edran had suffered the greatest number of scrapes. The deserters Talar and Marad. Jonas, his youthful face pinched in a combination of worry and excitement. Castir, torn between heartache and rage had muttered darkly about ensuring his sons’ sacrifice not be in vain. Athaga Varalon, her serene’s garb caked in sodden grime.
The rest were southwealders who’d survived the purges after the Battle of Davenwood. Solemn, quiet folk, exuding grim professionalism. Like Drenn, they busied themselves unwinding oilcloth from quiver and bowstring. Unlike her, they eschewed ash longbows for shorter weapons. A little less than three feet long, they lacked the longbow’s range and sheer killing power, but in the confines of the mining camp, such was unlikely to matter.
“Glad to be out of there,” Edran murmured. “Priests are right, blackstone’s evil.”
Kalar snorted softly. “Superstition.”
“Maybe.” Drenn shrugged. “But it ain’t just our priests, is it? Surprised the Hadari didn’t drown this place.”
“Who says they didn’t?” Edran rejoined. “More of it was underwater than not.”
Rosa prodded a corpse with her foot. Not even an Immortal. Just a clansman mustered from some far-off valley. That the guards had been posted outside the cabin spoke to a fear of escaping prisoners more than incursion. She forgave the Hadari for not recognising the possibilities. Without Fenner’s memory and gloom-tempered eyes, she’d never have found her way to Terevosk.
Beckoning for Castir to douse the lantern, she eased open the door. Even beneath moonlight and c
risp snow, the mining camp was less than beautiful: a handful of squat, tightly packed brick buildings clustered within a stone and timber stockade. Storehouses and workers’ lodgings, lacking all artistry. Terevosk itself – a mile downhill along the cobbled roadway – had once been picturesque, but Terevosk had burned during the Avitra Briganda. The mine survived purely as a makeshift fortress – walls intended to keep wolf’s-heads from plunder now served an invader’s purpose.
To the north, directly before the pithead door, ghostfire torches crackled blue-white atop the gate, granting shape to a half-dozen sentries. Others patrolled the wall-way. Yet more stood sentinel. All eyes were outward. Beside the gate, at ground level, a pair of blanket-draped horses stood tethered beneath a lean-to. The stall could have held at least two-score. A good sign.
She examined the buildings again, this time noting where footprints broke the snow. Westward, Silsarian flags – white stags almost silver in the moonlight – hung from high windows. Slush about the walls and smoke coiling from chimney stacks spoke to fires raging inside. The barracks. To the east, footprints ringed a windowless, two-level storehouse beside the canal’s loading dock. The double doors, just visible through intervening buildings, had two guards. A third and fourth joined them briefly, exchanged a handful of words, and passed out of sight behind the storehouse.
Rosa ducked back. “Most of the horses are gone. Looks like Solveik drew them away.”
Drenn looked up from stringing her bow. “How many left?”
“Two dozen in the open. There are fires burning in the worker’s quarters off to the left. Could be another score. Could be a hundred. There’s no way to know.”
Edran scowled.
Drenn shrugged. “It’ll be the former. Solveik knows how to make twenty men sound like an army. We take the gate and we’ll have numbers on our side soon enough.”
That was the plan. Three groups. One to create a commotion on the road and draw off the garrison. Another to wait in concealment in Elmgran Woods. And a third – Rosa’s – to silence the sentries and open the gate for reinforcements to secure the camp and get the prisoners away. So many things could go wrong. But that was war. You did your best and sought success. The first stage was done. Now it was a race to complete the rest before the shadowthorns realised Solveik was leading them a merry dance across the moors.
“Let’s get to it,” rumbled Talar. “No sense pushing our luck.”
Rosa nodded. “Silda? Jonas? I think they’re holding the prisoners in the canal storehouse. Thick walls and sturdy doors that we won’t have time to break down. We’ll need a key.” Jonas nodded, his fingers fidgeting where they gripped his sword. Rosa pressed on. “Athaga—”
“The gatehouse, then the barracks. I know my business, northwealder.”
Rosa fought a flash of irritation. “Be about it quietly.”
Athaga scowled, but nodded. Clasping her fingers briefly in the sign of the sun, she drew her sword and slipped out into the night. Edran, Castir, Fenner and the rest of the southwealders went with her.
“And us?” Mirada shared a glance with Kalar. “Don’t trust us, your ladyship?”
“Go prowling for strays. One shout and this is all for nothing. But watch for the signal arrow.”
A flaming arrow from Elmgran Woods meant it had gone wrong in the worst possible way, and absent shadowthorns were returning to camp. It grew likelier with every passing moment.
Mirada and Kalar departed in whisper of movement.
Rosa glanced at Jonas. “Ready for this?”
He nodded a trifle unconvincingly. “Yes, lady.”
“Silda?”
Drenn set an arrow to her bowstring. “Until Death.”
Rosa suppressed a wince. Not at the sneer beneath mimicry of Essamere’s battle cry, but at the reminder it offered. A knight had no place playing at murderer in the darkness, and yet here she was, because no other means would serve.
“Stay low,” she told Jonas. “Keep your eyes open.”
The first shadowthorn died as Rosa loped for the shelter of a sagging shed. Arrow in his throat, he tipped from the western stockade without a sound. His companion-at-watch perished a heartbeat after, his fall deadened by gusting wind. Two of Athaga’s southwealders hugged the stockade wall and crept towards the gate. Others picked their way around a snow-draped spoil heap and bore down on the stables.
“They’re good,” whispered Jonas.
Rosa dragged him behind the shed, careful nothing showed above the windowsill. “Worry about yourself.”
He scowled, cheeks colouring.
Shoulders against timber, Drenn slunk towards the shed’s eastern corner and risked a glance towards the storehouse. “Patrol’s at the main door again. How do you want to do this?”
Rosa closed her eyes, picturing what she’d seen from the pithead. “Jonas and I’ll deal with the patrol. Can you drop the shadowthorn on the wall?”
Drenn patted her longbow. “Nothing easier.”
Rosa turned her attention to Jonas, wondering if she should have kept Kalar or Mirada close. The lad’s heart was in the right place, but cold-blooded killing – in silence, no less – was no work for amateurs. “You good for this?”
He nodded, eyes sharp with offence. “Yes, lady.”
She pointed to a stack of mouldering pit props and then at a barge’s cradle on the paved canal side. “Move when I move.”
Rosa broke cover, reaching the pit props in five loping strides. The wallward sentry was still where she remembered, attention – if he had any – fixed on the hillside. The patrol was still out of sight, somewhere between storehouse and canal bank.
Glancing behind to confirm Jonas was still there, Rosa ran for the barge.
Four steps – halfway there – the wallward sentry turned. Bad luck, nothing more. With the wind in the east, he couldn’t have heard her footfalls. He stepped back, hand cupped to his mouth, and crumpled as Drenn’s arrow took him in the eye.
For a heartbeat, Rosa feared he’d pitch forward and plunge into the canal – alerting the others as surely as any warning cry. But Drenn had timed her shot to perfection. Dying momentum brought the sentry’s knees against the stockade parapet. He vanished into the night.
Rosa reached the barge cradle a heartbeat later, nerves buzzing with near-discovery. As Jonas stumbled to stillness beside her, the patrol rounded the storehouse corner: two shadowthorns, muffled and cloaked against the cold, weapons scabbarded.
Rosa held up five fingers, tucking them down one by one as the patrol approached. When she reached one, she closed on the farthest shadowthorn.
He died with Rosa’s hand across his mouth and her dagger slicing a ripper’s grin. The second perished a heartbeat later, Jonas’ takedown smoother than Rosa’s own. Then again, he’d two working arms, where her shoulder was already throbbing protest against exertion and cold.
She eased the body to the ground. “Well done, farm boy.”
Jonas scowled. “Even farm boys fight when brigands creep out of the dark. The army ain’t—”
He broke off, eyes staring wide past Rosa’s shoulder.
She spun about, face to face with a Hadari.
The shadowthorn’s mistake was going for a weapon instead of raising the alarm. The sword was only halfway drawn when Rosa’s lowered shoulder struck leather breastplate. The shadowthorn slammed into the storehouse wall. Rosa’s punch scattered wits far afield, the guard’s hood falling back as she fell.
“Well, well, well,” said Drenn, arriving like a ghost at Rosa’s side. “Must be bleeding the shadowthorns out if they’re sending their daughters.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Rosa growled, thoughts thick with memories of the treacherous Melanna Saranal. “Things are changing across the border.”
Drenn drew her dagger. “No matter to me.”
Rosa grabbed her wrist. “She’s no danger now.”
“She’s a shadowthorn.” Anger crackled beneath the hiss.
“And she�
��s out of this fight.”
“What about the next fight? Or the one after that?”
Rosa met Drenn’s gaze dead on. Five years before – Raven’s Eyes, even one year before – it wouldn’t have mattered. She’d have slit the shadowthorn’s throat herself. “We came here with a clear purpose. Don’t lose sight of that.”
Drenn narrowed her eyes. “Hands off.”
Rosa left it a moment longer, then let her go.
Drenn stalked wordlessly around the storehouse corner.
“She’s right,” murmured Jonas.
Rosa shook her head angrily. “Chasing death only makes you a killer. A soldier has to be something more. The Republic needs soldiers, not killers.”
He nodded. “Yes, lady.”
The last of the sentries was dead by the time Rosa reached the storehouse door, a pattern repeated across the mining camp. Athaga’s southwealders had made short work of the gate guard and the stockade rampart was clear. The gate itself hung wide open, Edran and Castir beckoning the first wave of wolf’s-heads into the compound.
A dozen wolf’s-heads became two dozen, became two score.
“I killed this one.” Drenn kicked the corpse at her feet. “Hope that’s all right?”
Rosa passed up the bait and stared at the door. A padlocked chain held a heavy wooden bar in place. No hope of the prisoners getting out under their own means, but with the camp filling with wolf’s-heads, that wouldn’t be an issue for long.
But for all that, something didn’t sit right, though it took a moment to isolate the prickle of suspicion. Try as she might, Rosa heard no sounds from within.
Corpses didn’t have the warmth to melt snow. The cold would hold off the smell.
“Silda, search the body. We need the key.” Rosa jerked her head towards the storehouse’s far end. “Jonas, check the others.”
He set off. Drenn, longbow discarded and already squatting beside the dead guard, glanced up. “What’s eating you, Orova?”
“There’s no sound.”
“Might be drugged. Your lot did that all the time in the south. Keeps ’em quiet. Biddable.”
