by Gary Meehan
“Wait until spring, then march on New Statham with her guns,” said Sener.
“It’s not the most strategically complex of ideas, I guess. But there’ll be other things to question her about.”
Sener’s gaze flicked from Damon up to Afreyda. “Aren’t you neglecting something?”
“I’m sure Afreyda’ll agree to a reversal of the captor–prisoner dynamic once she figures out the situation.”
Sener looked to Afreyda. “Well?”
Her knife rocked across Damon’s throat, making him shudder when part of the edge his body hadn’t warmed caught his skin. He wondered how much it’d hurt if she pushed it in further, how aware he’d be of the life draining from his body.
The knife dropped to the ground. Afreyda released Damon and backed away. He struggled to his feet and massaged his aching muscles. A witch wrenched Afreyda’s arms behind her back and bound her wrists.
“Thanks for this,” Damon said to Sener. “I’ll buy you a drink sometime.”
“I’m sure we’ll come across an inn on the way to New Statham.”
“What?”
“We’re coming with you.”
A witch stirred from his sleep. Damon froze mid-step, held his breath, willed his heart to stop beating so hard. There was a moment of wordless muttering, then the witch settled back down. Damon eased his foot down and made another scan of the camp. Sener, eager to be as far from any Hilite patrols as possible, had pushed them hard all day, and what soldiers weren’t patrolling the perimeter of the camp had dropped on the ground dead tired. Safe for the moment.
He crept over to Afreyda, who was trussed up and gagged like a rebellious roast, and eased the handkerchief out of her mouth.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” she spat at him.
He eased the handkerchief back in. “Ask yourself how we’re best going to get out of this,” he whispered. “With us both captured or dead, or with one of us free to help the other?” The fury in Afreyda’s eyes suggested her choice didn’t necessarily correspond with Damon’s. “Look, if I hadn’t disarmed you, they would have killed you.”
Afreyda squealed. Damon put a finger to his lips. Afreyda glared then gave him a reluctant nod. He loosened the gag again.
“I would rather be dead than . . . this,” she hissed, struggling against her bonds. “And I definitely would rather you be dead.”
“No, you wouldn’t, or you would have killed me and let them cut you down.”
“And what is your great plan?”
“I notice you don’t deny it.”
“And I notice you have not come up with anything.”
“Be a good little captive,” said Damon. “Don’t annoy them.”
“That is you. Pander to everyone.”
It’s kept me alive. “They’ll gradually drop their guard. Our chance will come. It’s a long way from here to New Statham.”
twenty-five
The coronation procession wound its way from the Lord Defender’s mansion. Synne carried Cate, who was wrapped in so much fur she looked like a bear cub. Megan buried her face in there and was rewarded with a delighted giggle from her daughter. She wished she could stay in there. The crowds lining the route were polite but standoffish, like someone invited to their sister’s husband’s cousin’s best friend’s wedding, maintaining a dignified air until the beer barrels were opened. Megan couldn’t blame them. It was their lives she and Fordel and Gwyneth were squabbling over, with little regard to what they thought, what they wanted.
A flicker of motion in the sky caught Megan’s eye. Birds wheeling out of the pigeon tower, carrying the highlights of her coronation address to all the major cities of the Realm. No sign of one coming in the opposite direction. Afreyda should have been back from Janik by now. Megan hoped it was nothing more than Fordel having her held up on the Kartiks in an act of petty spite.
Father Galan watched with her as the birds disappeared against the gray of the mountains. “Are you sure about this, Your Majesty?”
“It’s the only way we’re ever going to get out of this mess,” said Megan. “Did you dispatch the riders?”
“They should be entering the Realm as we speak.”
“And they understand what to do with my address?” The full text, in this case.
“Hammer it to the doors of the temples where everyone can see it,” said Father Galan. “A touch sacrilegious, don’t you think?”
“Are temples actually mentioned in the Book of Faith, father?”
They proceeded to the main square, which was festooned with flags and banners and strings threaded with colored glass that glittered in the wintry sun. The crowd—refugees from the Realm for the most part, but there were plenty of Hilite citizens—flowed into every available gap, hung out of windows, braved steep, icy roofs. A few even cheered her. Megan offered them bashful smiles.
Through the flung-open doors of the great hall, she could see the dignitaries awaiting her: Fordel and the other leaders of the Snow Cities; the senior soldiers of her own army plus the more self-important of the refugees; even the Sandstriders, who were both Fordel’s guests and his hostages. Megan knew how the last felt.
Father Galan placed a hand on her shoulder. “They’re waiting for you, Your Majesty.”
They were, weren’t they? Waiting for their puppet, the doll they’d dressed up and decorated and proclaimed majestic. But there wasn’t anything special about Megan. She hadn’t been appointed by God. Any one of the crowd could substitute for her—as long as you could find enough people with swords and guns to agree.
“We’ll do it out here,” she said to Father Galan.
“But—”
“It’s bigger, more people can see.”
“But not the people who . . .”
“Count?” Megan swept her hand. “I think these people count.” I’m their queen, not Fordel’s. “You did bring the crown, didn’t you?”
Father Galan nodded and beckoned. A soldier hurried forward, bringing the box Skúla had presented Megan with. Father Galan opened it. The Unifier’s crown sat inside, its gold gleaming. What were you, Edwyn: believer, madman or cynic? What were you thinking when they first placed this on your head? Did you believe it was God’s will or did you know damned well it wasn’t?
“Go on then,” Megan urged Father Galan.
“You mean right here, right now?”
“If we leave it any longer there’s a danger someone’s going to start up a folk song.”
Father Galan straightened his robes. “Very well.” He leaned in. “Do you think we should do The Unification?”
“Best not,” she said. “We don’t want a riot. Skip straight to the vows.”
Father Galan held up a hand, calling for quiet from the crowd. In the corner of her eye, Megan could see movement from the great hall. Fordel and the other luminaries were starting to realize what was going on.
“Pranadi—” started Father Galan.
Megan cut him off. “In Stathian,” she hissed. “They should know what I’m pledging.” So should I.
“Do you pledge to uphold the laws of the Realm?”
“I pledge.”
“Do you pledge to follow the teachings of the Saviors?”
Fordel tried to push his way through the crowd. The Faithful, for whom the unofficial seventh Pledge of Faith was “I pledge to uphold the sanctity of the Queue,” were having none of it.
“I pledge.”
“Do you pledge to give all that you are in service of the Faithful?”
“I pledge.”
Father Galan lifted the crown from its box and held it up in display. A gasp rippled through the crowd as they realized what it was, to whom it had belonged. They seem much more excited about that than they do me, thought Megan. Maybe they were right to be.
Rekka barged her way to the front, displacing a little girl who staggered into the circle around Megan, limbs flailing as she tried to prevent herself slipping on the icy flagstones. Megan darted
forward and caught her before she hit the ground.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, y’reyeness,” said the girl as Megan set her on her feet.
“That’s all right,” said Megan, flashing a dirty look at Rekka, who affected disinterest. “What’s your name?”
“Jetta, y’reyeness.”
“Can you do me a favor, Jetta?”
The girl looked back to the crowd, no doubt searching for her parents. “S’pose . . .”
“See that crown Father Galan is holding? Can you put it on my head?”
Jetta nodded solemnly. Rekka rolled her eyes. Megan jerked her head, indicating to Father Galan he should hand the crown over. He sighed and did so. Jetta almost dropped it, the heaviness of the gold surprising her.
Megan knelt in front of her and bowed her head. Jetta held off, shivering from cold or nerves or both. Megan gave her a quick nod. Jetta plunked the crown on Megan’s head and fled back to the safety of her family.
Megan adjusted the crown the best she could—the promised padding hadn’t materialized—and rose. A cheer of acclamation went up. It was prompted by Father Galan, but Megan could live with that.
She took the now-empty box her crown had been in and stood on it, giving herself a few extra inches of height. The crowd hushed and looked at her, expectant. Megan remembered the first time she’d had to speak in public, when she’d been a scared girl desperate to find her sister. How things had changed since then, and how they hadn’t. This was still a battle between her and witches, which everyone was looking to exploit or escape. Time to start repairing the damage.
Megan cleared her throat and addressed the crowd. “This shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t be queen, we shouldn’t be refugees in a foreign land, we shouldn’t have lost the people we love. We were let down by our leaders, who put more worth in power itself than what to do with it, who thought others’ obedience to God more important than their own. We were driven here by monsters we created ourselves, but we were helped by friends we long ago rejected. I’m not sure we deserved either, but what’s done is done, and I can do nothing more than offer my heartfelt thanks to the people of the Snow Cities for all you have done for us.”
A murmur of assent went through the assembled masses, embarrassed nods of appreciation offered to the Hilites. “The Snow Cities have taught us much,” Megan continued, noticing Fordel squeezing his way through the crowd. “I want the Realm to be a land not just for the Faithful but welcoming to all no matter what their beliefs. And it is you”—she pointed to random members of the crowd—“who should make the decisions that affect your lives.”
Fordel had reached Rekka’s side. There was a suspicious look on his face. Megan caught his gaze. “When we have defeated the witches—and we will, though I can’t promise it’ll be easy—I’m going to abdicate. No successor will follow me. I will be the last queen. The priests will return to teaching us the mysteries of the Faith. Let the counties and cities of the Realm elect their own leaders and keep them accountable. And by God, keep them accountable.”
Megan tried to avoid Rekka and Fordel during the celebrations that followed the coronation, but from the way they kept glaring at her she knew a confrontation was coming. Might as well get it over with. She took Cate from Synne, giving the latter instructions to enjoy herself, and left for the mansion. Sure enough, her antagonists followed.
“You really think you can walk away?” said Fordel.
“I can and I will,” said Megan, putting Cate down and offering her daughter her fingers to play with. “All I ever wanted was to make the world safe for this one. And all you ever wanted was to be left alone.” She looked Fordel directly in the eye, daring him to contradict her. “Or have I misunderstood three hundred years of history?”
He glanced to Cate. “If you abdicate . . .”
“She can’t be queen. She’s illegitimate.”
“There are ways around that.”
Megan leaned into the cot and kissed her daughter’s cheek. Keeping her voice soft, almost baby-talk-ish, she said, “If you’re thinking of taking Cate away from me, I’ll stick every knife I have in you. And believe me, I have a lot.”
She stole a glance over to Fordel and was pleased to see him blanch at the threat. “You weren’t the only one with a claim, you know,” he said.
“Her?” said Megan, pointing at Rekka, who affected affront at the insult implied in the pronoun. “You can try. But everyone’ll know what you’re doing. The priests and the Faithful won’t support you.”
“We don’t need their support,” said Fordel. “We have the guns. You need them to defeat the witches, and once we enter the Realm we might just stay there. Or we can stay behind the Kartiks and let you take on the witches yourself. Remind me how that was going for you.”
Megan allowed Fordel a few moments of triumph, before saying quietly, “The Faith has guns too.”
Fordel lost his composure. He exchanged wild, confused looks with Rekka. “What the . . . ?”
“How did you . . . ?” said Rekka.
“You think Ími is the only scientist in Werlavia?” said Megan. “The Faithfu—”
“No, no.” Fordel advanced on Megan, jabbing his finger. “You, you stole the knowledge.”
Megan held her ground. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack her, would he? She could drop him without even thinking about it. The knowledge gave her no comfort, reminded her why she had to leave all this behind.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There was a polite cough at the door: Willas. He held out a scrap of parchment to them and made to say something. Fordel waved him quiet.
“That night at Ími’s hut . . .” Fordel rubbed his forehead, as if trying to tease the alcohol-drowned memories back to life. “I thought that was a dream, but it was you. And that boy—the one who broke out the witches—he was with you, wasn’t he? You needed him to break in. And . . . and . . .” He took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling. “The interrogation reports said he spoke Hilite. He’d be able to find the formula among Ími’s notes. Tell me, captain”—he twisted his head around to address Willas—“were all the prisoners executed?”
Willas didn’t take his gaze off Megan. He looked stern, angry even, like a father disappointed by a wayward child. Megan’s head drooped, guilt making her heart heavy. After everything he’d done for her, she’d gone behind his back, betrayed his trust.
“All the prisoners were taken to Kolida,” Willas said stiffly. This was technically true: Damon would have to pass by it on his journey to the Realm.
Rekka dropped on to the bed and massaged her leg. “It doesn’t matter how she did it,” she said. “All that matters is the priests have guns and it’s going to be the end of us.”
“It won’t,” said Megan. “It’s going to be diff—”
“You think everything’s going to be peace and love and happiness in the Realm because of one speech?” snapped Rekka. “Have you learned anything?”
“I couldn’t let you take over the Realm. And not just the Realm. The Snow Cities and Andaluvia too.” Megan looked to Willas. “Did you know that, captain? They want to reunify Werlavia, with Rekka’s descendants on the throne and Fordel controlling everything behind the scenes. You were worried about the priests stealing your independence? You might want to worry about your childhood friends first.”
Willas flushed. His jaw clenched. “Is this true?” he said, looking to Rekka and Fordel in turn. “It sounds awfully like treason.”
“I decide what’s treason,” said Fordel.
“No, you don’t,” said Willas. “The electors of Hil do.”
“And they would have been consulted. Now it looks as if reunification is going to happen without our consent.”
“Do you think the Realm wants another war?” said Megan. “We’ll draw up a treaty, confirming—”
“Ooh, a treaty,” said Rekka, her voice smothered in sarcasm.
“How long do you think you could�
��ve kept guns to yourself?” asked Megan “How long did the witches? The Faithful would’ve got them sooner or later, and better we do while we’re friends rather than enemies.”
She gave the Hilite trio imploring looks. They had to accept this otherwise there’d be another war and it would start here, on this day. Hil would be a battleground. The idea of cutting her way through friends and allies to protect herself and Cate made her sick, but she knew she’d be able to do it.
Fordel held a hand out for Rekka and helped her off the bed. “I’ll meet with Father Galan,” he said coldly. “Draw up terms of this treaty.”
Megan swallowed, relief flooding through her. “I’m sure we can reach an agreement.”
Fordel gave a non-committal grunt and led Rekka out of the room.
Now it was Megan’s turn to collapse on to the bed. “Thank the Saviors,” she sighed. “I thought I was—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded Willas.
“I’m sorry,” said Megan. “I—”
“You didn’t trust me? Or you thought I’d stop you?”
Megan prickled at the admonishment. “It all worked out, didn’t it? We’ve kept the peace between us, our independence.”
“Have we?” said Willas. He held out the parchment. “This came for you.”
“From Afreyda?” said Megan, a thrill going through her as she anticipated reading her girlfriend’s words, her imminent return. “Is she on her way back from Janik?”
Willas shook his head. “It is about Afreyda,” he said, “but this didn’t come from Janik. It came from New Statham . . .”
Terror gripped Megan, blocking Willas’s subsequent words. She didn’t need to hear them. Gwyneth had Afreyda and Damon. And Megan’s plan to neutralize Fordel was a giant bluff.
twenty-six
Megan flew around the room throwing stuff together, giving little thought to what she was grabbing, whether it would be of use or actively hinder her. All she knew was she had to be out of here, Afreyda needed her.
“You’re not . . .” said Willas.
