by Gary Meehan
Books by Gary Meehan
True Fire
True Dark
True Power
New York • London
© 2016 by Gary Meehan
Cover artwork (c) Sean Freeman
Cover design by Nicola Theobald
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.
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e-ISBN 978-1-68144-395-9
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercus.com
For Lyndsay and Peter
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Guide
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
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one
Cate wouldn’t sleep after her nighttime feed and was determined no one else in the Lord Defender’s mansion would either. Megan perched on the edge of the bed, watching helplessly as Synne paced with her daughter, rocking and shushing Cate in an effort to calm her. This had been going on for days. Megan had feared something was wrong, but Rekka’s doctor had examined Cate and proclaimed her fit and well. Just noisy.
There was a muffled harrumph beside her. Afreyda emerged from under the covers and began to pull on a jerkin.
“Where’re you going?” asked Megan.
“To the barracks,” said Afreyda. “Willas has a bunk for me there. I need some sleep if I am to train tomorrow.”
“She’ll drop off soon.”
“Maybe.”
Afreyda continued dressing, covering her dark, toned body with leather and furs. Megan found herself watching, but hurriedly turned away when Afreyda caught her. She concentrated instead on Cate and the increasingly exasperated Synne, but she feared her gaze was no more welcome there.
Afreyda grabbed a bag. “Are you using this?”
The grubby sack Aldred had given them for safe keeping in Staziker. Megan shook her head. Afreyda tipped the sack up; a motley collection of shapeless shirts fell out. Afreyda kicked them under the bed and shoved a few of her own things in it.
“When will you be back?” asked Megan.
“I do not know,” said Afreyda. “It might be best if I stay at the barracks for a while. Give you some room.”
“You don’t have to.”
Afreyda nodded, gave Cate a quick peck on the forehead, then left. Megan watched the impression she’d left in the mattress slowly disappear, then turned to Synne.
“Let me take her,” she said, holding her arms out.
Synne shrank back and tightened her grip on Cate a notch. “It’s my job.”
“I know, but . . .” Megan had asked—begged—Synne, Cate’s foster mother, to come with them to the Snow Cities, to nurse the baby Megan couldn’t. “It’s my job too.” To comfort her child, to keep her warm and fed, to protect her from the fanatics who would set her up as a Savior and a war lord.
“You need some rest,” continued Megan. Even in the moonlight, she could see the bags under Synne’s eyes, the disarray her heavy blonde locks were in. “I’ll walk with her a while, take her somewhere quiet.”
The appeal of sleep overruled Synne’s skepticism. She slipped Cate into her mother’s arms. “She likes it when you talk to her,” she said. “Softly. Don’t hector.”
“I don’t—” started Megan. Cate screwed up her face; Megan dropped her voice. “All right, softly does it.”
Megan bid goodnight to Synne, who was already collapsing on to the bed, and padded barefoot out into the darkened corridors of the mansion, her route marked by the occasional puddle of lamplight. They had it luckier than most of the refugees they’d brought over the Kartik Mountains into Hil, who spent their nights shivering on floors begrudgingly offered, or in tents whose canvas walls blocked out only a small fraction of the howling winds. Winter was coming to the Snow Cities; each night was colder than the last. Megan feared that, despite the efforts of the refugees and the Hilites, the shelters they were constructing wouldn’t be finished in time or, even if they were, the makeshift cabins wouldn’t offer enough protection. And then there was the food situation to worry about.
Cate’s cries brought her m
ind to more immediate matters. “You want me to talk to you?” Megan said to the baby in her arms. “What about? A story? Would you like that?” Cate fell silent for a moment and regarded her mother with wide eyes, as if unsure what this strange lady was offering. “How about the first story we all hear? About a man called Edwyn, who lived in a place called Statham, a long, long way away, a long, long time ago?”
Cate raised no objections, so Megan continued, adjusting her hold slightly to relieve the pressure on her arm. “He was a humble man was Edwyn, or so he would have it”—Cate giggled; Megan wondered if this was a theological comment or wind—“who lived the best life he could, always helping others, thinking not of himself, even though the rest of Werlavia thought of nothing more than fighting and greed and cruelty. One day two visitors appeared to him. They said they were messengers of God, come to save the people of Werlavia. These messengers—these Saviors—instructed Edwyn in the laws of God and told him to go forth to every corner of Werlavia and teach His people. And he did, uniting the lands of the warring counts into the Realm, with him as its king and priests to teach the Faith.
“Werlavia knew three hundred years of peace, apart from in Andaluvia, where the Sandstriders live, and the Snow Cities, but it’s best not to go into that considering who’s putting us up at the moment. But then some people came along who said, ‘We don’t need the priests to understand the Faith. We can communicate with God directly.’ The king and the priests denounced them as witches and there was a big war. The witches were defeated but the king was killed—in circumstances we’ve all agreed not to look at too closely—and so the priests took over the Realm.
“However forty years later the witches came back and they said they had a prophecy the Saviors would return. The priests were too cowardly to fight them and so it was left to one woman to lead us and she loved us so much she made me her daughter and you her granddaughter and . . . and . . .” Tears pricked Megan’s eyes as memories flooded her mind, of that terrible day Eleanor had sacrificed herself to allow the rest of them to escape the witches. The loss had left an aching void she’d never be able to fill.
Lantern light spilled around the corner. A Hilite guard started when he saw them and reached for his weapon, but he relaxed when he recognized Megan.
“Ti máda,” he said, bowing his head slightly. It was one of the few phrases of Hilite Megan had picked up. Ti máda—my lady. Shame prickled Megan. The title was Eleanor’s not hers. What had she done to deserve it, other than survive?
The guard leaned in to examine Cate. Before Megan could stop him he played a rough finger across her daughter’s soft cheek. Every muscle tensed. Thoughts of flight were interrupted only by calculations whether to kick out first. Then Cate’s giggles told her this was nothing more than someone delighted to see a baby.
“Sorry,” she said. The guard regarded her blankly. Only a few Hilites could speak Stathian, which was still more than the number of the Faithful who could speak Hilite. The only one Megan knew of was Damon, and he was far away, dead or imprisoned or Saviors knew what. More shame there. Whatever had happened to him, she’d let happen.
Taking her leave, Megan continued to wander the mansion. She found herself outside the Lord Defender’s study—it was somewhere to sit—but stopped as she heard voices coming from the other side of the door. A man and a woman. Fordel’s considered tones and Rekka’s haughty ones.
“. . . waiting’s helping?” Rekka was saying.
“There’s no point in moving too early,” said Fordel. “Let their desperation ferment awhile.”
“And what if she proves uncooperative? She doesn’t seem particularly enamored with the idea.”
