by Gary Meehan
“We’re lucky she brought a ready-made replacement with her, aren’t we?”
Megan’s throat tightened. They were talking about her—her and Cate. Eleanor’s titles weren’t the only thing she had inherited from the countess: she had also received Eleanor’s claim to the throne of the Realm. It was a tenuous claim, but the priests had dealt with anyone with a stronger one. And what was Megan’s would become Cate’s on her death.
Too late Megan recognized the sound of footsteps approaching from inside the study. She froze as the door was flung open. Fordel stood there, his face hardening. He was the city’s chief bureaucrat and its effective ruler, though if you asked him he’d insist all he did was keep an eye on the kitchen staff and write the occasional letter. Despite the lateness of the hour, he seemed as fresh as ever, gray hair and beard neatly trimmed. Did he need sleep or did he just subsist entirely on paperwork?
“Yes?” he said.
Megan’s brain failed her. “I was . . . er . . . um . . .”
“Indeed.” He looked back into the room. “You have a visitor.”
Fordel glided past. Megan tried to force her legs into a retreat but they wouldn’t move.
“Hurry up,” said Rekka. “There’s a draft. We have enough of that in the great hall. I don’t know what the roofers are doing. Growing new thatch from seed, I suspect.”
Obedience kicked in. Megan entered the study to find Rekka sat at the desk, copper hair spilling out on to the fur wrapped around her shoulders, skin almost as pale as the pelts. Her mother, Eleanor’s aunt, had been married off to a previous Lord Defender of Hil—an act of diplomacy negated by the first war against the witches—while Rekka had wed one of his successors; Lord Defender might be an elected position, but the candidate pool was a little limited. Megan’s adoption meant Rekka was now her cousin. As family members went, she was preferable to her sister, Gwyneth. Just.
“I’m sorry,” said Megan. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t,” said Rekka, her gaze directed at Cate.
“She’s a bit . . . you know what it’s like.”
“Not really. That’s what servants are for.” Rekka shivered and drew her fur tighter. “Give the fire a poke, would you? It’s getting cold.”
Megan was halfway across the study before she realized the implication of Rekka’s words. She sighed. The Countess of Ainsworth relegated to a minion’s role. In a way it felt more natural, something she knew how to cope with.
To free a hand so she could grab the poker, Megan had to swivel so she could support Cate on her hip. It seemed so easy when Synne did it, but Megan felt she was going to drop her daughter any second now. She gave the embers a quick prod, then dropped on to one of the couches that ran at right angles to the fireplace.
Rekka seemed in no rush to indulge in conversation, or share the wine she was sipping, so Megan rocked Cate and stared into the flames; when she shut her eyes and tried to block out everything but the heat, she saw their after-image on her eyelids. Fordel and Rekka’s conversation replayed in her mind. Their plan to put her on the throne was crazy, and liable to get Megan laughed at or killed; only the fact the idea was so ludicrous it could never happen gave her comfort. But what would happen once Rekka and Fordel realized that? Would Megan be turfed out, forced to raise her child alone in the frozen north? She held Cate a little closer.
There was something else about the conversation: she’d been able to understand it. “How come you and Fordel were speaking in Stathian?”
Rekka shrugged. “We’ve been doing that since we were children. Keeps things private.”
“And what would you need to keep private?”
“Oh, you know, affairs of state.”
“Of state, huh?”
“What are you implying?” said Rekka, her eyes narrowing. “That Fordel and I . . . ? I’m not exactly his type.”
“No, no,” said Megan, glad the glow of the fire hid the glow of her cheeks. “I just meant . . .” What exactly? That they’d been plotting against her? Best not go there. “I thought the Kalvert women were everybody’s type.”
“Only if you like women.”
“Ah . . . and that’s . . . and you . . . ?”
Rekka shrugged. “There’s no law against it. Well, not since we rid ourselves of the Faith all those centuries ago.”
“Why are you so down on it?” asked Megan. “The Faith. Your own mother followed it. She even brought her own priest.” Not that he’d survived for long.
Rekka selected a book from the shelves and came over to the fire, furs swishing in her wake. “All those rules and laws and strictures?” She tossed the book on to the couch beside Megan. “Does anybody obey every word written in there? Do you?”
The evidence Megan didn’t had finally fallen asleep in her arms. “We try.”
“You try?” said Rekka. “If you really believed, you’d do because you’d be too terrified of the consequences otherwise.”
“And I suppose your devotion to your god is absolutely pure?”
“Oh, Megan, the gods care no more for our devotion than we care for that of ants.”
“Gods? Plural?”
Rekka settled opposite Megan and snuggled into her furs. The way the flames picked out her features and made her hair shimmer reminded Megan of nights huddled around a campfire with Eleanor. Her heart broke a little more.
“You think there’s only one god, that he created everything by himself?” said Rekka. “To get a world this screwed up, you need a committee. Anyone who’s cast themselves on to the open seas, thrown themselves into battle, felt a baby quicken in her womb, knows how little regard the gods have for them. All they have is their will and their wits.”
“Why did the gods create us only to ignore us?”
“Why did you create Cate?”
“It was . . .”
“. . . an accident?”
“But I care for her more than anything in the world.”
“Would you still feel the same about her if you had a million children?”
Megan reached for the Book of Faith Rekka had thrown beside her. She flipped it over, hoping to find some counter-argument, only to drop it like a kettle heated too long when she saw the star-broken circle—the symbol of the witches—etched on to its cover.
“Sorry,” said Rekka, with all the sincerity of a rattlesnake. “It’s so easy to get the Book of the True mixed up with the Book of Faith. I mean, they’re almost identical.”
“It’s the ‘almost’ that’s important,” muttered Megan. She poked at the book. It slid across the couch and dropped to the floor. She felt a little better now she couldn’t see it.
“I understand,” said Rekka. “You have to maintain the pretense of belief if you’re going to be queen. The people like piety in their leaders even if they have none themselves.”
Megan slipped her arm back around Cate. “I do believe,” she said. “And I’m not going to be queen. No one is.”
“It is best to refuse crowns, initially,” said Rekka. “Makes you seem less power-mad.”
“If the people wanted a monarch, they had forty years to approach Eleanor or her father.”
“They didn’t need one then. Now, with all the priests dead or skulking in Janik and the witches about to take New Statham and no one having a clue how to win this war, someone needs to step up.”
“But why me?” demanded Megan, her voice rising high enough to disturb the sleeping Cate. She rocked her back to quiescence. If only her own worries could be soothed so easily.
“Because you survived everything the witches threw against you,” said Rekka. “Because you’re the one they fear. Because it’s your sister we’re fighting.”
Gwyneth. Just like with Eleanor, it hurt when Megan thought about her sister, but for entirely different reasons. She wondered what would have happened if the witches had found some other twins to foist the prophecy upon, whether she and Gwyneth would still be home in Thicketford, comforting each
other as tales of the faraway war made it down to their village.
“The witches don’t fear me,” she mumbled.
“Oh, they do,” said Rekka. “They’re calling you ‘The Apostate’—do you know that? They’re scared they’ve got it wrong, that you’re the one God favors, that they’re following the wrong sister.”
“You want me to be Queen of the True as well? Saviors, why don’t you go the whole hog and proclaim me Diannon Empress?”
There was silence for a minute, broken only by the cracks and pops of burning logs, before Rekka spoke up. “Talking of the Diannons, I was at the docks this afternoon. I saw your friend. She was speaking to Konáll.”
“Who? Why?”
“I was looking for Tóki. He’d gone missing again. Last time he ended up on a fishing boat and we didn’t see him for two weeks.” Rekka considered. “It was a very peaceful two weeks.”
“No, why was Afreyda speaking to this Konáll?” said Megan.
“Why should I know?” said Rekka, with the smirk of one who knew exactly why. “Where did you find her anyway?”
Megan’s hand drifted to the ragged tip of her ear; her thoughts to a fight long ago in Eastport. “I stole her from my sister,” she said.
“Any idea why she’s trying to get to Kil M’sta?” asked Rekka.
Kil M’sta: the Sandstrider capital, at the other end of the continent on Werlavia’s southern coast. “What? No. Why?”
“Konáll’s the skipper of a ship sailing for there in a couple of days’ time”—the firelight caught Rekka’s eyes as she tilted her head slightly, making them gleam—“and given the Sandstriders are allied with the witches . . .”
“You think she’s trying to get back to Gwyneth?”
“And taking a prize with her,” said Rekka. “The Savior the witches have been searching for this past year.”
Cate.
two
Anxiety stole any chance Megan had of sleeping that night. She couldn’t believe Afreyda would take Cate, but she had learned from bitter experience that people were capable of anything, that closeness was never a guarantee against betrayal. Damon had given them up to the witches; Gwyneth had given herself to them. Even Eleanor had been planning to kill Megan at one point. You could never know what someone was thinking, what desperation could drive them to.
As soon as it was light, Megan hurried to the barracks in search of Afreyda. She was already gone, up to the Kartiks for training in mountain warfare with Willas. Megan opted for the next best thing and went in search of Konáll, to see if he could confirm or add to Rekka’s story. While she didn’t think her adopted cousin would lie to her outright, Megan wouldn’t put it past her to edit events for her own amusement.
The fishing fleet had returned overnight, bringing with it much-needed stocks of seafood and the less-needed stench of such seafood. Megan wove around the waterfront, struggling to keep her feet on decks made slick with fish guts. She should have thought to ask Rekka what ship this Konáll captained and where it had docked. Her first few inquiries brought blank looks and she feared Konáll had already sailed for Andaluvia, that the claims of mountain training were a ruse to buy Afreyda time, until she realized none of the Hilite sailors could understand her Stathian. She resorted to over-enunciating Konáll’s name in a loud voice and exaggerating a shrug. Someone took pity on her and pointed her to a sturdy merchantman moored near the Lord Defender’s mansion. Megan grunted. Back where she had started.
She made her way to the ship, stepping over a phalanx of crabs that had escaped from their pot and were making a spirited, if protracted, bid for freedom. As she attempted to board, a hairy sailor popped up over the bulwark. Megan jumped back. The gangplank bounced beneath her, as if preparing to throw her off.
She stuck her arms out to regain her balance. “I’m looking for Konáll,” she said. The sailor jabbered back in Hilite. “I was told he’s the captain of this ship. Captain? Ko . . . náll.”
“You no Konáll,” said the sailor.
“No, I’m loo—”
“Konáll man.”
“Yes.”
“You woman.”
“Can’t deny it.”
“You have no . . .” The sailor mimed the missing appendage.
“For which I’m eternally grateful,” said Megan. “Do you know where Konáll is? He was talking to my friend, Afreyda. Woman with dark skin?”
“Two beers.”
“What?”
“Please?”
“This conversation’s reached its limit, hasn’t it?” Megan held up a palm and gave the sailor a rueful smile. “Thanks, anyway.”
“No beer?”
“Afraid not.”
None the wiser, Megan made her way back to the mansion, taking the long way round so she could brood. Had she said something to Afreyda, something to drive her away? Megan’s emotions had been raw after Eleanor’s death. Subconscious feelings might have made themselves known without her knowing. They might have scared Afreyda, encouraged her to keep her distance to avoid an awkward conversation.
“Mother, have you reconsidered?”
Megan started, shook her head to bring her back to reality. Clover was sat cross-legged in her usual spot: fifty paces from the Lord Defender’s mansion, as close as the order Fordel had issued would allow her.
“Reconsidered what?”
Clover scrambled to her feet. “To allow me to serve the Savior.”
Allow one of you near her? “Her name’s Cate.”
“I meant no disrespect,” said Clover, cringing.
And that was the problem; there wasn’t a scintilla of disrespect. Clover shared the rest of the True’s reverence for the child they thought was one of the Saviors. But, unlike the rest of the witches, who wanted Megan dead, her reverence extended to Megan herself. Megan had only herself to blame for the adoration. By sparing the former spy’s life, she had issued a debt she’d rather not collect.
“Look,” said Megan, “why don’t you go rejoin the wi—the True?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I can arrange safe passage. The True army’s outside New Statham. You can meet up with them there.”
Clover’s eyes widened as she realized what Megan was saying. “I cannot leave the Savior.”
“We’ll be fine.” Technically Clover was still Megan’s prisoner, but what harm could releasing her do? Anything she could tell the witches, Damon already had.
“I cannot leave you and the Savior among these . . . unbelievers. They will use you for their own ends.”
“And who started that?” snapped Megan. She made to barge past Clover, but Clover had already scurried out of the way. “Leave or stay, I don’t care. But stay away from me and my daughter.”
“I will be here when you need me.”
Megan snorted and marched into the mansion.
Afreyda didn’t return until the following morning. Megan caught up with her on the training ground, where Willas was drilling his men. Afreyda was in a light shift, the sweat gleaming on her bare arms despite the cold. She was twice as graceful as any of the lumbering soldiers, slashing and lunging and pirouetting like a dancer, her attention totally given to the sword in her hands.
Willas called the drill to an end. The men dispersed. Megan intercepted Afreyda as she headed for the barracks. “You looked good out there.”
“Thank you,” said Afreyda, panting from her exercise.
“You’d better be careful,” said Megan. “Willas’ll be wanting to conscript you. Unless . . . Unless you had other plans.”
“Other plans?”
“Like, if there’s somewhere you’d rather be.”
Afreyda looked apprehensive. She took Megan by the hand and marched her around the back of the barracks, where lines of frost still clung to the wall. The muffled sounds of soldiers, boisterous but unintelligible, leaked through gaps in the rough timbers. Someone was having a good time at least.
“I was going to talk to you.”
No denial then. Megan’s stomach knotted. “Before or after you left?” she said, her voice beginning to choke.
“I left?”
“You’re not trying to find a way out of here?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Back to her?”
Afreyda’s brow knotted. “Who is ‘her’?”
“Gwyneth.”
“What? No!” Afreyda reached out for Megan, who knocked away her arm and stepped back. “I am looking to get back home.”
Home. The Diannon Empire. A continent and an ocean away. Of course. Why wouldn’t Afreyda want to return there? Megan felt shame for having suspected treachery—and hated Rekka for planting the seeds of suspicion—but that was nothing to the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. She was losing her last friend, the person who’d kept her going after Eleanor’s death, who reminded her there was more to life than duty and survival. At least Afreyda would be safe from the war, but that almost didn’t matter to Megan if she would never be with her again.
Unable to contain herself, Megan spun on her heel. She stalked the length of the barracks, gravel crunching beneath her boots. She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself, ostensibly for warmth but in reality for the illusion someone was holding her. The silver waters of the inlet could be seen through the buildings scattered out in front of her, waters Afreyda would soon be sailing.
There were hesitant footsteps behind her. Afreyda’s hand brushed her shoulder. Megan jerked away for form’s sake.
“I do not want to go on my own,” said Afreyda. “I want us all to go. You, me, Cate, Synne. We could go to Timi Na. It is at the southern tip of the empire. I have a . . . friend there.”
“How do you expect us to get across the Savage Ocean?”
“There are ways, if you know the routes and the winds and don’t just blindly try the shortest route like merchants from the Realm.”
Megan turned to face Afreyda. “Won’t the Emperor arrest you if you break your exile?”
“We would be far away from the capital, safe from him and the witches and the priests . . . and the Hilites.”
