by Gary Meehan
Megan whirled round. Synne was behind her, hair in disarray. Megan rushed to her, throwing off the arm of the soldier who tried to restrain her.
“Where’s Cate? Afreyda?”
Synne stared back, dazed. “She’s—”
Megan spotted her daughter cradled in the arms of one of the soldiers. She flew over.
“Give her to me!” she demanded, her voice cracking. The soldier twisted, putting Cate out of reach of Megan’s outstretched hands. She battered his padded arm. “Please!”
An order cracked down the corridor. Willas, with another contingent of soldiers, all with weapons drawn. The soldier put Cate into Megan’s eager arms. Her daughter immediately started crying. Megan rocked and shushed her. For once, Cate was content with the comfort.
“What’s going on, captain?”
“Some of the witches have escaped,” said Willas. “They’ll be coming for you”—his gaze flicked to Cate—“for her. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
“Where’s Afreyda?”
“Organizing the search. This way.”
Willas led them down into the cellars. Rekka was already there, huddled in furs among the crates and the barrels, her children gathered around her. She called Willas over and squeezed his arm.
“You will stay with us, won’t you?”
“Those were the Lord Defender’s orders, my lady.”
“Wouldn’t want to disobey orders,” said Rekka, her mouth wrinkling.
Willas dropped his voice. “You know I’d be here whatever.”
Candles puttered and flickered in the drafts. The chill of the underground chamber made Megan shiver and goose pimples prickle her skin. She was wearing nothing more than a loose shift and she was completely unarmed. Megan didn’t know which one made her feel more vulnerable.
Willas saw her discomfort and came over with a blanket, which he draped over her shoulders. “We’ll have them rounded up before you know it.”
“I should be out there.”
“Best you stay here with this little one.”
He ran the finger of a gloved hand across Cate’s cheek. She gurgled. There was something about the expression that reminded Megan so much of Gwyneth. If she thought about it rationally, it was just herself she was seeing, but she couldn’t and it filled her with melancholy, a sadness for times long gone and never to be repeated.
Floorboards rattled above their heads. Cate started to grumble. Megan pulled her closer. Instinct caused her to sing, an old melody her grandfather had used to help her sleep. Cate stared up at her, fascinated.
A little girl was off to the fair
With rings on her fingers and golden hair
She met a boy upon the way
Hanging around, nothing to say
A man crept out from beyond the trees
Crooked his finger, said, “Come with me, please” . . .
“You’re really singing that to her?” said Rekka. “A lullaby about execution and child abduction?”
“It’s not about—” Megan thought about what she’d been singing. “It’s not the words that matter, it’s hearing her mother’s voice. It’s bonding.”
“‘Bonding.’ Of course.” Rekka screeched something at Tóki, who had been getting a little too interested in one of the tapped beer barrels. “And a subconscious dread of nooses and forests.”
There was more scuffling above their heads. Everyone turned their faces up, trying to see through solid oak, then jumped as a loud thud echoed around the cellar.
“That was a body hitting the floor,” said Megan, wishing life hadn’t taught her to make such an identification.
“You should make up a song about it,” said Rekka.
Slow, deliberate footsteps now. Megan tracked their route. Heading for the door. “How many witches escaped?” she whispered to Willas.
“Not sure,” said Willas.
“Rough figure.”
“A few.”
“You didn’t have to take rough so literally.”
Rekka summoned her children to her, then de-summoned Tóki after he wiped his snotty nose on her gown. Megan did a head count: six soldiers plus Willas and her unarmed self. The cramped close quarters would negate any numerical advantage. She had no idea what the witches were armed with but, if they’d got this far, it’d be enough.
A distant slam made them all start. It had come from the opposite direction to where they had been looking. Megan remembered the night of Brother Broose’s coup attempt, when she had broken into the mansion.
“Did anyone remember to lock that hidden trapdoor?” she asked.
“Forgot it was there,” said Willas. Megan flashed him a look. “What? It is hidden.”
The slap of descending footsteps echoed around the cellar. “They’re flanking us,” she said. Blocking off our escape route.
“It’s what I’d do,” said Willas, drawing his sword.
Tóki ran back to his mother. This time Rekka didn’t shoo him away. Cate gurgled merrily and played with Megan’s fingers. I appreciate your lack of fear, Megan thought. I’m just not entirely sure it’s appropriate.
“Give me a knife,” she whispered to Willas.
He looked to Rekka, who shook her head. “I don’t think that’s wise,” he whispered back. “We don’t need you getting into a fight.”
“I’m not looking to fight.”
Willas twisted round, glanced down at Cate. “You wouldn’t . . .”
Use her own child as a hostage? “It might be our only chance of getting out of here.”
“And if they call your bluff?”
And if they did? How far would Megan go to stop the witches getting hold of Cate? She had a brief, horrible vision of plunging a knife into her daughter and felt as if she had stuck the blade into her own heart. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered to Cate, holding her as close as possible.
Scuffling in the blackness: someone trying to soften their approach. The soldiers drew into a tight circle around mothers and children. Megan stroked Cate’s hair, more to calm herself than her daughter. The witches wouldn’t make it through the human shield. But if they did . . .
Candlelight flashed off something. A drawn blade. As one, the soldiers rushed forward. There was an indignant shriek. The soldiers froze, weapons in mid-air. They parted.
Afreyda stepped into the light, clutching her shin. “Who left that barrel there?”
The terror that had been gripping Megan burst into relief. Nervous energy propelled her through the crowd.
“Are you all right?” she said, throwing her free arm around Afreyda. “Why are you sneaking about?”
Afreyda returned the hug and kissed Cate. “Fordel was worried some witches might have found this way in.” She looked to Willas. “You should have bolted that trapdoor.”
“Don’t you start. What’s going on up there?”
“We have killed some of the witches, recaptured others. We are making sure there are no more hiding.”
“Is it safe?”
Afreyda shrugged. “As safe as any place gets.” She licked her lips. “Megan, Damon was one of those . . .”
“You killed?”
“Whom we captured. Fordel wants to execute him and the others right away.”
The prisoners had been assembled in the great hall. They were less men, more a collection of injuries. Damon stood at one end of the chained line, holding his side, following Megan’s progress with the eye that hadn’t swollen and colored an ugly shade of puce. Blood had trickled and dried down both sides of his mouth, making it look like a child’s attempt to draw a goatee.
Despite the lateness of the night or the earliness of the morning—Megan had lost track—the hall was packed with onlookers, both Hilites and Faithful. Many of them were drinking; none of them looked sympathetic. Father Galan was lurking in the shadows. Fordel was at the high table, engrossed in paperwork. Vegar was by his side, all beard and bad temper.
“I can explain,” said Damon as soon as
Megan made the mistake of catching his eye.
“Really?”
“Given enough time.”
“I’m not in the mood, Damon. Why did you come after us?”
“What? Why would I—?”
“How did you escape?” snapped Fordel.
“One of the guards dropped a fork, and you have really rubbish locks. I know a great locksmith in New Statham, if you’re interested.” He thought for a moment. “Probably a bit dead by now.”
“You let everybody else out?” said Megan.
“Didn’t really have a choice.”
“You were in a cell on your own.”
“We had to move him,” said Fordel. “Space issues.”
A tankard flew out of the crowd. Damon ducked under the vessel but its contents splashed all over his neck and shoulder. “Hey!” he called out in the direction of its source. “If you’re going to throw beer at me, at least aim for my mouth.”
There was a titter. Emboldened, Damon spread his hands as far as his manacles would let him and addressed the crowd. “We weren’t going to hurt anyone. We were just looking for warm clothes and supplies and a way out of here.”
“And then what?” said Megan. “Make your way back to her?”
“Are you kidding?” Damon caught the glares the rest of the witches were giving him. “Not that she’s not . . . you know . . . In her own way.”
Fordel cleared his throat. “Can we get this over with, please? It’s been a long night.” He beckoned to Megan. “If you could come and sign this, Your Majesty?”
“What is it?”
“A death warrant.”
Megan felt nauseous. “I thought you didn’t execute people.”
“These are difficult times. The Lord Defender isn’t prepared to put his people at risk,” said Fordel. “It might not be your child they come for next time.”
“You know that’s—”
The crowd cut Megan short. There were cries of “Kill the bastards!” and shouts in Hilite that probably amounted to the same thing. More missiles flew toward the prisoners.
An egg whizzing inches from her face forced Megan to back away. She could understand the fear, the fury. Given the number of witches they’d recaptured, it was likely one of them was directly responsible for the death of the loved ones of some of the people here, hell, even Megan’s own loved ones—and she wasn’t just thinking of whatever happened between Damon and Eleanor. But she couldn’t condemn someone on the basis of probabilities, not like this, even after everything that had happened.
Fordel called for calm a little later than he could have. Megan rested her hands on the table opposite him.
“We should at least sleep on this,” she said. “Consider it when everyone’s nerves aren’t so frazzled, when we’re thinking straight.”
“We’d sleep better if we knew we weren’t going to be murdered in our beds,” said Fordel.
Another round of protest from the crowd. Megan waited until the noise had died down to a murmur. “They’re chained and under heavy guard. What threat could they be, unless you get careless with the cutlery again?”
But accidentally careless or deliberately so? Had Fordel had a man who could pick a lock placed with the other witches and planted the instrument of his escape? Was he trying to scare her, panic her into compromising herself? But why? Fordel was more than capable of finding a route around any legal niceties. He wanted to prove his hold over her—and, by extension, the Realm—to have something to fling back in her face when the time came for him to do something unsavory.
“We have to end this now,” said Fordel.
“No, we don’t. I’ll have Afreyda guard them if your own men are too scared.”
“It’s not a question of being scared . . .”
“I thought that’s why you wanted them executed?”
Fordel smiled sourly. Damon shuffled forward. “May I suggest a compromise?”
“I don’t think—”
“You don’t kill us, we won’t kill you,” said Damon. “Not that we were going to,” he hurriedly added for Megan’s benefit.
Megan shook her head. The harmless idiot act’s not going to work here, she thought. It’s not about you, it’s about me.
“We’ll give you our word,” continued Damon. “One thing about the True: they always keep a vow.” He looked down the line of his fellow prisoners. “What d’you say, boys?”
Damon’s neighbor, a greying veteran who was cradling a broken arm, raised his head. “We vowed to protect the Saviors and return Werlavia to their teachings. Those who are not True will face damnation in this world and the next.” He spat, then fixed his gaze on Megan. “And you will suffer most for your crimes against us, Apostate. The Saviors will be anointed with the blood from your still-beating heart.”
Agitation exploded in the crowd. A man burst forward, his face contorted with rage. He smashed a mace into the back of the veteran’s head. The witch toppled over, blood and brains oozing from the cracks in his skull. Fordel frowned, then scratched a name from his death warrant.
Megan looked over to Father Galan. The extent of his counsel was a shrug. She turned to face Fordel. He’d pushed the warrant toward her while she wasn’t looking. An ink-stained quill rested above a blank line.
“At least have a proper trial, determine what they’ve actually done.”
Fordel regarded her, his face neutral. Come on, thought Megan, you’ve had your little power play. Let’s forget this and concentrate on the witches who are still a threat.
Fordel slid the death warrant back toward himself. He gave Megan just enough time to offer up a prayer of thanks to God and the Saviors, before pushing it over to Vegar. The Lord Defender signed it without hesitation.
twenty-two
Megan got a few hours of fitful sleep before Rekka’s braying dragged her somewhere toward the vicinity of consciousness. Her head felt muggy, her limbs as if lead weights had been sewn into them. She remembered the events of the night before, Damon’s impending execution. She slumped back on to the bed.
Rekka clapped. She looked cheerful, which was never a good sign. “What is it?” Megan said wearily.
“We need to discuss the details of your coronation.” Rekka bustled around the room—her leg seemed remarkably improved—and made a shooing motion at Afreyda, who was on the floor trying to interest Cate in some wooden blocks. “We need the room.”
“I stay.”
“Oh, very well. If you could push into the corner then.”
Afreyda pulled Cate back a whole six inches. “You could give us a bigger room.”
Rekka gave Afreyda the kind of smile that admitted the possibility but denied the likelihood. She called out. A woman entered, a tape measure twisted around her hands like a garrote.
“We’ve sent out invitations to all the important people. Your sister’s probably a no-show but I guess we couldn’t ignore her—family and all that. Fordel’s sorting out all the vows and treaties and all the boring stuff. Which means we get to select your gown.”
As Megan struggled into a sitting position and poured herself some water, Rekka cast a disparaging eye over her. “How do you feel about cutting back on the eating for the next couple of months?” Megan had spent too much time on the run and starving to treat that suggestion with anything other than the contempt it deserved. “No? Never mind, Gulla can work miracles with pleats.”
Megan stood there, arms outstretched while the seamstress—Gulla, she assumed—flitted around her. “Is this going to take long?”
“Prince Y’benne will no doubt propose to you—”
“Wait, what?”
“—but don’t worry, the Andaluvians are like that. I’ve lost track of how many times he asked me to marry him.” Rekka fluffed Megan’s hair. “No, I think we can make you a much better match.”
Megan glanced at Afreyda. “I’m kind of attached.”
“You can keep your concubine.”
“She is not my ‘concubine.’
”
“Actually,” said Afreyda, “I think I am.”
“I was thinking of Nidár,” said Rekka. “He’s Vegar’s younger brother. Smells of fish, but does spend most of his time out at sea.”
“I’m not interested in getting married. Afreyda is all I want. Besides, we wouldn’t want to screw with the succession, would we?”
“Oh, Fordel’s drafting a bill to smooth that out.”
“Fordel’s making laws for the Realm now?”
“You don’t have to pay him,” said Rekka with a dismissive wave. “It’s his hobby.”
Gulla moved to Megan’s legs, her tape measure stretching to parts Megan wished she’d keep away from. She checked the measurements and shook her head at Rekka.
“We’ll put her in heels,” Rekka said.
Megan swallowed a retort and changed the subject. “How’re the children?”
“The children?”
“After last night?”
“Oh, they’re fine.” Rekka drifted off for a moment. “You know what kids are like. Forgotten about it already. Apart from Tóki, but he’s always been a bit of a weird boy. Perhaps a sailing trip to Hálfor would take his mind off it.”
“Where was Fordel while everything was going on?” asked Megan. “I would have thought he’d be down the cellar with us. Never struck me as a combat type.”
“He was . . .” Rekka frowned. “He was at Ími’s.”
“Safe then? That’s good.” Megan lifted a leg to allow Gulla to measure her feet.
“What are you getting at?”
Megan realized she’d been enjoying Rekka’s discomfort a little too much. “Nothing,” she mumbled. “Nothing at all.”
Megan wished she could be like Fordel, wished she could solve her problems with a few words and someone else’s signature, but she couldn’t. She had to face up to what she’d done, what she’d allowed to happen. She had to see Damon again, look him in the eye. Maybe with the end so close, he would tell her the truth of what happened in Kewley and up in the Kartiks, if there was any more truth to tell.
The prison was crawling with soldiers, far more than were needed to guard a handful of battered witches; genuine paranoia, or an exaggeration of their threat to justify the death warrants? Willas was at a small desk, scratching away at a parchment, his penmanship labored like a schoolboy trying to keep to the lines.
