True Power

by Gary Meehan

  She scooped the lantern off its hook and went inside. The smell of sulfur and other chemicals made her gag and her eyes water. Papers and parchments marked with indecipherable scribbling were strewn all over the benches lining the walls.

  “Get searching,” she said to Damon as he crossed the threshold. “No, leave the door open.”

  “How do you know it’s here?”

  Megan didn’t. “Of course it’s here.”

  Damon started to root through the papers. Megan held up a parchment. “What’s this?”

  Damon leaned in and squinted. “Meatball recipe.”

  “And this?” said Megan, grabbing another.

  “Something about using an infinitely long strip of paper to do sums,” said Damon. “Look, can you just let me get on with it?”

  Megan bounced on her heels. “I need to do something.”

  “I don’t know.” Damon frowned at a sheet of paper, nodded appreciatively and tucked it in his pocket. “Go keep watch. You might get lucky. There might be someone to stab.”

  “I’m not all about the stabbing, you know.”

  “Sometimes you slash instead.” He motioned to the exit. “Go. Guard.”

  Megan propped herself against the door frame. The forest was silent bar the occasional rustle in the undergrowth as some animal braved the cold in search for food. The events of the past day—was it only a single day?—began to catch up with her. She dozed off, leaving the icy city for places that now existed only in her memories. She found herself back in the temple library in Eastport. She was searching for Eleanor, but every time she caught a glimpse of copper hair and chased after it, the countess flitted behind a bookcase and was gone.

  A tap on her shoulder juddered her awake. “This it?” asked Damon, holding a sheaf of scribbling in front of her face.

  Megan rubbed her eyes. The writing didn’t resolve itself into anything legible. “You tell me.”

  “Fifteen parts saltpeter, three parts charcoal, two parts sulfur.”

  Gunpowder—this was it. The Diannon’s secret, shared with the witches, discovered by the Hilites, and now stolen by her. Megan swallowed, chewed frozen lips. The parchment was as explosive as the mixture it described. If Fordel discovered she had it, she was done for. But it was the Realm’s only defense against his ambition.

  “There’s a method for mixing it as well,” said Damon. “More complicated than I would have thought. Apparently, you have to—”

  “Can you copy it?”

  “Sure.”

  Nervous energy coursing through her, Megan paced outside while Damon set about his task. Round the back of the hut, she happened upon a freshly covered mound to which the snow refused to stick. She hoped it was some waste and not one of Ími’s poor assistants. The mound looked a little small to hold a man, but gunpowder experiments did tend to compact a person somewhat.

  She made it around to the front again. Scratching came from within the hut. She poked her head inside. “Have you not finished yet?”

  “Give me a little time,” said Damon. “I’ve only just finished sketching out the drop cap.”

  “You’re doing calligraphy? This isn’t the Book of Faith you’re copying.”

  “You’ve got to do it properly.” Damon looked around. “Do you think there’s any gold leaf in this place?”

  “Damon . . .”

  “Kidding, kidding. You’re so easy to wind up. I’ve almost finished.”

  A light caught the corner of Megan’s eye, making her heart skip a few beats then thud frantically to make up. “Someone’s coming!”

  “I thought you said . . . ?”

  “One tiny thing didn’t work out.”

  Damon swore and blew frantically at the parchment in front of him to dry the ink. Megan urged him on. “I don’t think we care about smudges.”

  “You say that,” said Damon, rolling up the parchment and tucking it inside his cloak, “but fifteen becomes fifty and where will we be?”

  Megan blew out the lantern and ushered Damon outside. The light was brighter now, an approaching lantern, she assumed. It was coming from the direction they had to go. She looked around. She could see no escape route, nor anything else for that matter. Only one thing for it. She jerked Damon off his feet and dragged him round to the back of the hut.

  “Last time a girl did this to me, she—”

  Megan shut him up with an elbow to the ribs. She could make out voices slurring in Hilite: Ími and Fordel’s. “What are they saying?” she whispered.

  “Hard to make out,” Damon whispered back. “They’re very drunk.”

  “Are they suspicious?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you go ask them?”

  Megan held back. She contemplated the distance to the forest. If Fordel and Ími had heard them, they could be around here before she and Damon reached the tree line. Best to wait, let the two Hilites disappear inside and get distracted by each other, then slip away.

  There was a brief conversation, then the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps, snow compacting in ever-increasing intensity. “Hide!” hissed Megan. Damon moved. “Not behind me.”

  “There’s nowhere else!”

  “Round the other side.”

  “This isn’t turning into a farce,” muttered Damon.

  They stumbled down the back of the hut. Megan looked back. They’d left footprints glittering in the moonlight. She made to go to kick snow over them. A figure loomed around the far corner. She threw herself around the wall. Her foot slipped in the ice. The ground smacked into her before she could do anything about it.

  Megan lay in the snow, her panting forming ephemeral clouds in front of her face. Distant words. She looked to Damon. He gave her a sarcastic thumbs-up. She jabbed a finger back in the direction they had come, flapped her hand like a mouth and shrugged. He screwed up his face, confused.

  “What’re they saying?” she whispered.

  Damon made a show of listening. “Something like, what the hell are those footpri— Oh . . .”

  Instinct had Megan groping for a knife. She checked herself. Could she really attack Fordel? But if he discovered what she intended to do, she wouldn’t be safe. He’d have her killed and Cate elevated in her place. She drew her weapon.

  Snow scrunched underfoot, louder and louder. The blade peeked out from her glove like a predator’s claw. Nothing she hadn’t done before, more times than she cared to contemplate. Was this a step too far though, a shift from provoked defense to unprovoked attack?

  There was a thud, a laugh, a second thud then silence. No, not quite silence. Was that . . . ? Megan exchanged quizzical looks with Damon. Yes, it was. Snoring.

  She crawled through the snow and peered around the corner. Fordel and Ími were sprawled out on the ground, arms around each other, dead to the world. Megan got to her feet, brushed herself down, and inched closer to the two Hilites. The alcohol had caught up with them. They looked peaceful enough now, but come the morning . . .

  “We should get them inside,” she whispered to Damon, who had snuck around and joined her.

  “Why?”

  “They’ll freeze to death out here.”

  “And?” said Damon. “You were ready to stab them a minute ago.”

  “I was not.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, you were offering a little light beard trimming, were you?”

  Megan sheathed the evidence of her intent and grabbed Ími’s arms. “Yes, well . . .” The moment had passed and all she was left with was two drunk men exposed to the elements. “Come on, give me a hand.”

  Afreyda was waiting for them at the entrance to the Kartik tunnels, bouncing on her heels and slapping her arms to keep warm. Around her, soldiers of the Faith dozed, heads lolling or propped against the rocks. They snapped to attention at the sound of Megan and Damon’s approach.

  Afreyda held up a hand to put them at ease. “What took you so long?” she asked Megan.

  “Slight diversion.”

  A
freyda glared at Damon, who spread his palms in innocence. “Why do you automatically blame me?”

  “It saves time.”

  Megan nodded at Afreyda’s men. “Who did you pick to lead the mission?”

  “Me,” said Afreyda.

  “What? No!”

  “I am the best person for the job.”

  Megan pulled Afreyda aside. Damon made to follow. Megan shooed him away and dragged her further into the shadows cast by the rocks.

  “You don’t trust them?” she asked Afreyda in a low voice.

  “I trust them if I am there,” said Afreyda. “The men may not react well if they find out Damon was working for the witches. Or if he talks to them.”

  “I can’t lose you.”

  “You will not lose me,” said Afreyda. “The witches have retreated to New Statham. It will be a simple journey.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “It is not just what?”

  Megan swallowed and looked away. She should tell Afreyda about her plan regarding the gunpowder, but she feared recrimination for the risks she’d taken and she didn’t want to part on an argument.

  “Damon’ll explain on the way, once you’re in the Realm.”

  “What have you—?”

  “Watch out for Hilites as well as witches,” said Megan. If Fordel found out Damon had escaped, he might be prepared to ignore it to save the alliance, but if he found out they had stolen the gunpowder formula Megan didn’t know how he’d react, how far he’d go to preserve his advantage. “Get Damon to Janik, then come straight back.”

  She drew Afreyda close, as much a parasitic need for warmth as a display of affection. They kissed, a little self-conscious at first, then forgetting the onlookers and acknowledging only each other and their mutual passion, their mutual need.

  twenty-four

  They were in the Realm, the free Realm, devoid of witches and Sandstriders and Hilites and anyone else who wanted to kill him. He was home. Damon would have got on the ground and kissed it had he not feared his lips would adhere to the icy rocks—the Snow Cities didn’t have a monopoly on winter. Still, the cold was more welcoming here. It was his cold.

  Afreyda sent their escorts on to scout the skeletal forest through which the road ahead passed, then brought her horse close to Damon’s. “What have you and Megan got planned?”

  “We—”

  “You stole the formula for gunpowder.”

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “It is the only thing that makes sense,” said Afreyda. “Why did she not tell me?”

  “No need to be jealous,” said Damon. “Megan and I have been breaking into dangerous places since before you were . . . well, not born obviously. Not sure where I was going with that.”

  “I am not jealous. I could have helped.”

  “I’m sure Megan wanted to give you plausible deniability,” said Damon. “In case things went the shape of the pear.”

  “If Fordel finds out . . .”

  “She wants him to find out. After we get to Janik, of course.” Instinct made Damon glance back, but the mountains were free of pursuing hordes. “Once the Hilites find out the Realm has guns, they’ll have to back down. There’s no way even the priests could lose that war. The numerical advantage would be too great.”

  “If the priests have guns, they will not allow Megan to stay on the throne.”

  “I don’t think that’s her intention.”

  “Then what is?”

  “I don’t know,” said Damon. “You’re her girlfriend and the captain of her guard.”

  “But I am not Eleanor.”

  That’s where your jealousy lies, is it? “Don’t worry. There’s a lot we didn’t tell her either.”

  They rode in silence until they crossed the tree line and entered what was less a forest and more an arboreal graveyard. Fossilized leaves crumbled under the hoofs of their mounts. A chill wind carrying the whispers of the dead made branches tremble. Hard to believe it would burst back into life here in a few short months.

  Afreyda looked around, frowning. “Something is not right.”

  “Left?”

  She put her fingers to her lips and whistled. The shrill note echoed around the trees and faded away unanswered.

  “Your men aren’t dogs,” said Damon. “They don’t come when you”—a trampling alerted them to an approaching horse—“tell a lie.”

  There was something about the rider, the way he sat slack in the saddle, the way the horse’s canter buffeted his body with no attempt to counter it. He started to slip, tilting forward and then left, before tumbling to the ground. His foot stuck in the stirrup and the horse dragged him along for a few yards before dislodging him. The soldier made no protest. He was too busy being dead.

  Horses burst through the forest, heading straight for them, their riders very much in control. “Witches!” cried Afreyda. She wheeled her horse around. More witches came up from the rear, crashed through the undergrowth. “We’re trapped!”

  “For Saviors’ sake,” said Damon, tugging his horse to the left. “And they made you a captain.”

  He shot off, spurring his horse on as fast as he dared. Crossbow bolts flew at him. The forest whizzed past in a dangerous blur. Just in time he saw a branch speeding toward him and ducked.

  The drumbeat of hoofs behind him let him know Afreyda had finally realized there was more than one dimension in the world. She quickly drew level.

  “We need to get back to the mountains!” she shouted across to him.

  “Too far!”

  “Where then?”

  “I don’t know! Just keep riding!”

  Afreyda pulled ahead of him. From both sides, witches galloped to intercept her. They were approaching fast. No time to reload their crossbows. They reached for their axes. Afreyda grabbed an overhanging branch and hauled herself up. Her legs windmilled, kicking her nearest pursuer in the head twice in quick succession.

  Even as the witch was tumbling to the ground, Afreyda flipped herself over the branch. She dropped on to the horse of the second pursuer. Before he had time to register what was going on, she had a knife in his face and was throwing him to the forest floor. He hung on to her as he fell, dragging her with him.

  Damon was thundering directly toward the pair. Afreyda’s eyes widened. She cried out and threw herself to the side. The witch, blinded by blood, groped about, trying to feel where the danger was. Damon’s horse whinnied in alarm and reared. The world lurched. Damon lost his grip then his seating. He flew through the air.

  The blanket of dead leaves cushioned his fall, but the impact still felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to him. He lay there, groaning, body throbbing in time to his heartbeat. A sound penetrated the pain. Someone calling his name.

  He pushed himself up, opened his eyes. The other witches had reached them and dismounted. They approached from all sides, weapons drawn. Afreyda had her sword raised, but there was no way she could take on all of them.

  Only one thing to do. Damon scrabbled to the witch Afreyda had knifed and pulled the blade out of his face, wincing at the squelching and the blood that erupted from the de-impaled flesh. Afreyda sidestepped to his position, head jerking as she took in their advancing enemies.

  “You take those two, I will deal with the other four.”

  Damon admired her optimism, but it wouldn’t get them out of this. “Sorry, captain,” he said, pressing the knife to her back. “Drop the sword.”

  Afreyda let her weapon fall to the ground and raised her arms, all the while giving Damon a glare that promised dismemberment. “I have a prisoner,” Damon called out to the advancing witches. “Where’s your commander?”

  The witches halted, unsure what to make of the situation. Their heads snapped around in unison. Someone was approaching from behind. Damon’s skin tingled. He looked over his shoulder.

  “You!” said Sener.

  “You!” said Afreyda.

  “You!” said Damon, not wishing t
o be left out.

  Sener dismounted and drew his sword.

  “Glad we all know each other,” said Damon. “Introductions can be so awkward, can’t they?”

  Agony shot through his arm as Afreyda lunged round and twisted his wrist. He dropped the knife into her waiting hand. She spun, kicking his legs out from under him. Damon found himself on his knees, a bloody blade against his jugular.

  “Come any closer and I’ll cut his throat,” Afreyda warned Sener.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Hey!”

  Sener halted anyway. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was with the fleet,” said Damon. He swallowed. The blade was close enough to his neck the action shaved off a patch of stubble. “I was captured. They were taking me to Janik.”

  “Why?”

  “The Hilites don’t allow torture in their own territories.”

  Damon took in Sener’s appearance. He had grown a beard, his hair was unkempt and dried mud and blood encrusted his clothes and armor. “What are you still doing up here?” Damon asked him. “Hiding from Gwyneth?”

  Sener twitched. “I was waiting to see what crawled out of the Kartiks.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where are my men?” demanded Afreyda.

  “They are no longer men,” said Sener.

  He took a step toward them. Afreyda jerked Damon’s head backward, exposing his throat more. As if she needed it.

  “Is it true what they say about you and the Apostate?” asked Sener.

  “What of it?”

  “It’s a perversion forbidden by the Book of the True.”

  Damon raised a tentative hand. “Actually it isn’t, unless you interpret chapter six, paragraph nine with a very dirty mind. Fornication on the other hand . . . How is that girl of yours? What was her name . . . ? Taite?”

  “I choose whom I love and how I love them,” said Afreyda.

  “That makes it right, does it?”

  “That makes it I-do-not-give-a-damn-what-you-think.”

  “Listen,” Damon said to Sener, “I can see you’re busy. I don’t want to keep you. We’ll agree to disagree and be on our way.”

  “On your way?”

  “To Gwyneth. You don’t think she’ll want to question Afreyda about Megan’s plans?”