by Ruby Dixon
Solat.
I close my eyes and return to my seat, hands shaking. I can’t even process this right now. I’m so sorry, I silently tell him. I pray this wasn’t in vain. I pray all of this wasn’t in vain. He deserved better than a brutal, lonely death. I’m not going to remember him like this, I decide. I’m going to remember him as the laughing, flirty man who loved to tell stories in Novoro. I’ll remember you, Solat. You and Vitar both, I promise. “Please bury him,” I say.
The guard hesitates. “The dead—we should burn him, my lady—”
“Then fucking burn him,” I snap. “Just do it respectfully.” I get up from my chair and start pacing, my entire body feeling like a live wire about to spark. This is all going horribly wrong. All of it.
Solat’s dead. Captured by the enemy and they knew he was with me. I want to cry but I’m not sure I have the tears left inside me. I feel hollow.
The newcomer leaves with the trunk, his armor jingling. Kerren moves to my side when I stop in front of the window, and puts a kind hand on my shoulder. “Faith,” he murmurs. “You cannot blame yourself. He knew the risks. He did it because he wanted to help.”
None of us are getting out of this alive. And Solat grinned at me like it was no big deal.
But it is a big deal. I look at Kerren, his kind face, and I wish I could save him. I wish I could save all of them, the men throwing themselves into battle at the gates, determined to push the Adassian army back by meters, as if that will make a difference somehow. As if that’s worth dying for.
I swallow hard and nod, forcing a smile to my face. “Thanks, Kerren.”
“Come,” the queen says, getting to her feet. She puts a hand to her rounded belly. “My son is staying with his nurse this morning. Let us go and see my court wizards and take a look at this spyglass they have made. If nothing else, it will be a distraction.”
We leave the room and our contingent of guards flank us from all sides. I half expect the queen to head to the dungeons or some deep bowels in the castle inhabited by monsters, but instead, we cross over to the far side of the keep, down a well-lit hall lined with chairs. I can see maps on the walls of a room that we pass—a war room, no doubt—and then we enter another chamber that opens up into a large, book-lined study with a kitchen-like alcove. There are bottles and books on every surface, and two men in tiny, wire-rimmed glasses look up as we enter. Immediately, I’m reminded of Omos’s monastery and a surge of homesickness wells up inside me. Strange how I’m homesick for that and not Earth.
“We are here to see the spyglass,” the queen says politely, folding her hands in front of her belly.
One of the wizards bows. He doesn’t look to be older than me, and the beard on his jaw is scruff more than anything else. “Of course, your majesty. We found the details of it in an old book. A curious invention, long forgotten.” With a swish of long, lavender robes, he moves to a table across the room and starts to pick through a clutter of objects. The other wizard continues to work at a table full of bottles, pouring one murky-looking liquid into a flask and frowning at it.
“Here we are,” the wizard announces, and holds out two leathery-seeming telescopes. “We took the liberty of making two based off of the plans, so both the queen and her guest might amuse themselves without having to share.”
Amuse ourselves? He thinks this is a fucking game? “This isn’t for a party game, Harry Potter,” I retort. “People are dying.” I take one of the spyglasses and examine it. There’s a thick, warped piece of glass at each end but it looks about right. “Cool the misogyny for a hot minute, please.”
“I did not wish to offend,” he stammers, handing the queen the other. “Shall I show you how it works?”
Oh dear lord. I bite back a sharp retort. “We’re good, thanks.”
“I…realize there is a war going on, my lady,” he says, inclining his head. “I did not mean to insult. If you both like, I can show you what else we are working on? The ancient tomes have provided fascinating information, and we are working on something I am confident the enemy does not have.”
“What is it?” Queen Halla asks, curious.
I toy with the telescope in my hands, impatient. I want to find a window and start looking for the spider symbol Solat promised he’d use as a signal. Maybe he was able to do it in time.
“The ancients called it Godsfire,” the wizard says, his eyes alight with excitement. “It is a liquid that burns through everything it touches, destroying with a few drops. The ancients would carry it in globes and throw them at the enemy army, turning them to char in a matter of moments.”
Her eyes go wide. I stop examining my telescope and look over at him.
“You made this?” I ask. “This grenade?”
He nods, all pride. “We’ve tested it in small ways, but a vial of it can burn down an entire tent. A full batch could destroy all of the Adassian army.” The wizard holds one vial up, and I can see the dark red liquid churning inside.
“Then make us enough to destroy their army,” the queen says.
“It…is not that simple. We have worked for months just to produce this much.” And he shows us the vial. “It’s small enough to fit in a pocket, but quite destructive.”
A pocket.
Of course.
And suddenly, I know what I need to do.
79
“Keep looking,”
“I see nothing,” the queen says at my side. “I’ve scanned the entire camp twice, and still I see nothing.”
We stand atop the tallest parapet, spyglasses in hand as we watch the enemy camp. With the spyglass, we can see right into the depths of the distant enemy camp, and the symbols they have written all over their tents.
Nothing like a spider, though, and it’s frustrating.
I know you did it, Solat. I know he succeeded. Isn’t this what the Spidae have been hinting at all along? Everything is coming to this moment, and they’ve pushed and pulled and manipulated us along the way for this to happen.
They won’t check your pockets, you know.
At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. Now, it’s all too clear. I’m both excited and filled with terror.
“I see no spider marking,” Halla says, peering through her spyglass. “Are you certain?”
“It’ll be there,” I promise the queen. “We just have to keep looking.”
We’ve been staring through them for an hour, studying the tents from afar. It’s tempting to watch the battle instead, to watch Aron—either one—hack and slash his way through the men. But after seeing a few close-ups of heads being chopped and necks sliced open, I focused on the tents instead.
To a one, the tents are muddy and dirty, and the Adassians are fond of writing on them. Halla says they’re blessings or invocations, an old Adassian tradition to cover a dwelling with such to keep out bad spirits. That’s fine and all, but it makes it difficult to look for one symbol amongst all of it. It’s literally looking for a needle in a haystack.
But it has to be there. I don’t think the Spidae would have us come this far just for it all to collapse in the last minute. Then again, who knows what the Spidae are thinking? I stare through my spyglass, watching soldiers as they move between tents. There’s a huge, pitched battle at Castle Yshrem’s walls, but the Adassian camp is filled with people anyhow. There are soldiers guarding tents, wounded men, and women of all kinds. There’s also a fair amount of wine barrels, livestock, and the biggest, splashiest-looking tent in the center of all of it.
The Aspect is Hedonism, after all.
It would be obvious to have his anchor there, in the fanciest of tents, but there’s no marking on it at all. If his anchor’s in camp, he or she is likely being hidden away for such a reason.
The queen sucks in a breath.
“What?” I ask, immediately scanning the battle to find Aron. My heart pounds in terror, and I find him easily enough—the flash of the great battle-axe ever moving as he works his way through the tide of men. He’s c
overed in blood, his stark white tunic soaked, and he’s muddy up to his thighs, but he looks beautiful.
He smiles at his opponent, and I ache for him. Our time is almost up.
“I think I’ve found it,” the queen says, grabbing my arm. “Look. The tent with the fat man in front of it. Center of camp. It has two flags atop it—one for Aron and one for Anali.”
The goddess of healing. “So it’s a medical tent.”
“Or they want us to think that,” she agrees. “There is also a weapon rack out front.”
I raise my spyglass to my eye and scan the sea of tents, trying to find the exact one she’s speaking of. “You’re sure?”
“There are people going in and out, certainly, but none of them look wounded. I thought that very curious and started paying attention to the writing on the tent itself, and then I saw it.”
I find Anali’s flag, and then a weapon rack. Sure enough, there’s a guard out front of the innocuous-seeming tent with a fat belly and a scruffy chin. He scratches at his stomach absently and looks around, holding a spear. As I stare, the tent flap opens and a very healthy-looking man leaves, a new equally healthy one walking in. Curious. I scan the writing on the tent, though it’s all squiggly jibberish to me…and my entire body tenses when I see a spider casually drawn between two triangular symbols near the bottom of the tent.
“That’s it,” I murmur. I make note of the tent, memorizing where it’s at in the busy camp. Like Halla said, it’s near the center, but a good distance away from the obvious tent of Lord Aron.
Getting there? It’s doable.
I lower the spyglass and turn to the queen and Kerren. “That’s got to be it.” Markos enters the room with a tray of food just as I speak, and I wave him over. “We need to act.”
“Shall we share the news with Lord Aron, my lady Faith?” Kerren asks, a hint of a frown on his face.
“Or send an assassin?” Markos adds, coming to my side.
I shake my head, because I know what has to happen.
They won’t check your pockets, you know.
“It’s the encampment for Aron of the Cleaver,” I say to them, “But it’s also the encampment for Hedonism Aron. There’s a lot of women there. Whores. I can go. I’ll wear something slutty and I don’t know, flash my tits if anyone asks questions.”
Immediately, Markos and Kerren protest. “You cannot risk yourself,” Kerren says.
“Everyone’s risking themselves,” I say, gesturing at the battle. “Except I can stop all of this. If we can get to that tent, get to his anchor before he gets to me, we can win. No more pointless killing. No more scratching and scraping to gain a foot on the battlefield at the cost of a hundred lives a day. The right Aron will win and this will all be over.” The more I talk, the more right this feels. “The wizards have Godsfire, right? I can take a vial with me, hide it in a pocket, and pretend I’m there for some booty action. I get in, I use the Godsfire, boom. Problem solved.”
“How will you get there?” the queen asks.
“They haven’t finished bricking the wall over the secret passage that leads to the crypts,” I point out. “I can go that way and then enter their camp after it’s dark.”
Halla arches a brow. “And how do you plan on leaving the camp once you have done this?”
“Does it matter at that point?” I ask. “I’ll figure something out. If we cut off the head of the snake, the rest will follow.”
“Aron won’t allow this,” Markos says with a shake of his head. “He’s far too protective of you.”
“Which is why we have to do this now,” I say. “Before he returns tonight and finds out that Solat’s dead.” My voice wobbles a little, but I put my spyglass away and head for the door. I’ll be sad about Solat later, when all this is over. “We have to do this now because if the other Aron finds out that we know where his anchor is, he’ll move him. Her. Whoever. And we can’t keep hiding everything from Aron. He’s going to find out about the assassin they sent, and Solat’s death, and then all hell will break loose.”
“But to go in alone?” Halla frets.
“Not alone,” Markos says, and Kerren nods.
“No, guys,” I begin. I don’t want anyone else dying because of me.
Markos shakes his head. “You go with us or not at all.”
I look at their determined faces. “If we’re doing this…then let’s do it before I think about it too hard and freak out.” I nod at them. “I’ll get changed.”
“I’ll meet you in my study with the wizards,” Halla says. “And with the Godsfire.”
A short time later, Markos, Kerren and I emerge from the far side of the crypt and into the graveyard. Markos and Kerren both wear Adassian cloaks over their armor and I’m dressed like a camp ho. We took one of my low-cut, Novoran gowns and threw a corset over it, which practically shoves my tits in the world’s face. The skirt is cut all the way up to my thighs, and the queen assures me that I look sufficiently tartish.
I guess I’m going out of this world like I came into it—called a tart. Heh.
I know I’m not making it back out alive. I know I’m not returning to this castle. I know I’m never going to see my handsome, arrogant, wonderful Aron ever again. I want to grieve for it, but there’s no time. I’ve known this all along somewhere deep inside, and I think the Spidae were trying to prepare me for this.
I’m here to meet my destiny.
“Be safe,” Halla told me as she gave me the vial of Godsfire. I tucked it into a pocket in my cloak and pulled the fabric tight around me.
We make it out of the crypt without seeing another soul, replace the doors, and creep out of the graveyard. The moment we get to the entrance of the graveyard, though, we run into two other Adassian soldiers. We’ve been rushing so quickly I didn’t even think about this being guarded.
Then, Markos grabs my ass.
I squeak in surprise, jumping. My boobs nearly fall out of my corset.
“Next time, let’s just do it in a tent, eh?” Markos says, manhandling me in front of the guards. “You’re a hot piece but it’s a long fuckin’ walk.”
I feel totally obvious as Kerren grabs my waist and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek, getting into the groove of our playacting. “I’ll do it in the graveyard if she likes,” he says. “Wherever she wants, as long as she does that thing with her tongue.”
The guards just roll their eyes. “Stay out of this area,” one tells us, pointing. “Back across the river to your commander.”
“Fuckin’ Hedonism,” the other mutters as we walk past. “Can’t nobody keep it in their damned pants.”
And just like that, we walk past them and toward the distant river. I let out a breath slowly, and eventually Markos takes his hand off my ass.
“Sorry, Faith,” he murmurs.
“No, it’s cool. Good thinking.” Heck, he was quicker on his feet than I was. Of course Hedonism is affecting all of the camp. I remember how Tadekha’s citadel affected me, how I practically humped Aron every chance I got.
Man, good times.
Even so, we can use this. Maybe it won’t be as hard to get into the Adassian camp as I thought.
We wade across and skirt wide around the battlefield. Even now, I can hear the distant clash of weapons, of men screaming, of people dying. As it fades away, we approach the camp itself, the cluster of hundreds of tents, and it’s like walking into another world.
From afar, I didn’t notice the empty wine casks everywhere. Or that men are sleeping wherever they fell, nursing hangovers in the middle of the day even as others die out on the battlefield. As we approach, I can hear a woman crying out in what is clearly sex, and there’s a tent with tits drawn on it which must be a brothel of some kind. Even though there’s a battle going on, there’s still tons of soldiers, and as we move between the cluster of tents, people start to watch us. My skin prickles uncomfortably.
“Do you know where you’re going, Faith?” Kerren asks, voice low. His expression is calm b
ut his gaze is darting everywhere.
“I do.” I’m nervous as shit, but I remember the tent. Two flags. Weapon rack.
“Be ready to run there if we get caught,” he says. “Don’t stop for anything. Just run.”
I nod.
“You should—”
“What’s this?” a man says as he approaches us. He scowls in our direction. “What regiment are you in?”
Markos gestures at me. “Brought a tart for Lord Aron to enjoy.”
The man’s eyes narrow as he looks at me, and I stick my boobs out and do my best to look enticing. He studies Markos and Kerren, and then frowns. “Who’s your commander?”
Kerren and Markos immediately close ranks, standing so close that the man can’t see me. “It’s Lord Aron, of course. Who else would we be commanded by?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Have you partaken of nose spices?” When the men pause, he continues. “Are you drunk? Wounded? Because you do not look like any of the above to me, and while Lord Aron expects his soldiers to enjoy serving him, he also expects healthy men to be on the field at dawn. The whores are for nighttime.”
“Apologies, sir.” Kerren shifts his weight and gives me a shove.
Fuck. Now?
I glance around and duck my head, scooting away even as I hear the man continue to upbraid Kerren and Markos.
“For the last time, who is your commander?”
I wince, hating that I’m running away when they’re getting in trouble. I feel like I’m abandoning them, but I have to do this. I have to. I move quickly between tents, keeping my head down. I’m fifty feet away—maybe more—when I hear a man shout and a scuffle breaks out.
Please don’t die, Markos. Please don’t die, Kerren, I silently chant. I won’t be able to stand it if everyone dies because of me. I’m so close. I’m approaching the center of the camp, and as men rouse themselves to move toward the fight, I discreetly head in the opposite direction.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice calls. “Hey, you. Tart. Stop.”
