by Gary Meehan
Megan turned away from the ship. “I don’t think it would have made any difference if I had killed her. The witches would fight no matter what, Saviors or no. There’s too much anger, too much bitterness, too many souls crying out for vengeance. On both sides. We either wipe each other out or learn to live with each other.”
Willas’s needle slipped, prompting a howl from his patient. Willas snapped something, the Hilite equivalent of “don’t be such a baby,” Megan assumed.
“You want to make peace?”
“It might be the only way. If we have to lay siege to New Statham, Saviors know how many will die.”
“After everything they’ve done?”
“What about the Snow Cities?” said Megan. “Our fight with you lasted a couple of centuries longer than our war with the witches. And here we are, allies.”
“The witches would never agree.”
“Some might.”
“And the rest?” asked Willas.
Before Megan could answer that, there was a call down from the waterline. One of the barges they’d commandeered to ferry the company across the Rustway had returned and was waiting for them. Time to resume their journey. And hope it wasn’t in vain.
twenty-nine
Trymian was on his fifth—or was it his sixth?—lash when Tobrytan hurried on to the balcony and whispered something in Gwyneth’s ear. Her pose snapped from languid to upright. There was a touch of alarm in her eyes.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Gwyneth signaled to Trymian and shook her head. He froze. Blood oozed down the tails of his whip and collected at the tips. Afreyda slumped against the cross, her back lacerated, only her bindings keeping her upright.
“Bring the guns round,” said Gwyneth.
“They’re on the other side of the city dealing with the Sandstriders,” said Tobrytan. “It’ll take time.”
“Better start immediately then.”
Gwyneth rose and headed inside. She stopped at the threshold and turned to Damon. “See to her,” she said to Damon, pointing down at the square below. “Don’t let her die.”
“Me?”
“Didn’t you once claim to have medical training?”
It took a moment for Damon to get his calcified legs moving. He dashed through the palace, almost tripping over his own feet, and out into Saviors’ Square. The crowd, sensing the entertainment was over, was beginning to disperse. He reached Afreyda and called out her name. She lifted a weary head. Tears soaked her face. Her eyes were empty, as if Trymian had driven out her soul.
“Are you all right?”
It was the stupidest question in the history of stupid questions. Still, it prompted Afreyda’s lips to twitch. “Itchy back.”
“Hang in there.”
“That is not funny.”
Damon pointed to a couple of witches. “You two, cut her down.” They hesitated. “The Mother commanded it.”
The witches produced serrated daggers and sawed away at the ropes holding Afreyda up. She fell into Damon’s arms, shrieking as he inadvertently touched her back. He whispered a volley of apologies and shrugged off his cloak, which he carefully draped over her shoulders. Even that soft touch was enough to make Afreyda grimace and bring a fresh round of tears to her eyes.
“We need to get you inside,” said Damon. “Can you walk?”
Afreyda nodded. She placed a hand on Damon’s shoulder—he was too scared of hurting her to reciprocate the touch—and hoisted herself up. The two of them stumbled into the palace: Afreyda’s steps slow and shaky; Damon’s not much better.
Trymian was hulking in the atrium. He smiled. Or at least half his mouth moved in an approximately upward direction.
“Nine hundred and ninety-five to go.”
“Are you sure?” said Afreyda. “I do not think the third one counted.”
“Bravado, eh? Never lasts.”
Damon helped Afreyda into an antechamber and laid her face down on a couch. He lit all the candles he could find, then knelt down in front of her.
“I’m going to see what the damage is, all right?”
“Yes.”
He placed a tentative hand on the cloak covering Afreyda. “This might hurt a bit,” he said.
“Just do it.”
Clenching his teeth as if he was the one with his skin ripped off, Damon peeled the cloak off Afreyda, hating the excess force he had to use, the tearing sounds that scraped his nerves, the fresh streams of blood that welled up. Afreyda screamed and gripped the side of the couch.
Damon folded the cloak over her legs. Her back was lacerated, bloody muscle exposed, skin hanging off in tattered strips.
“What is the damage?” asked Afreyda, her voice quivering.
“I need to get you cleaned up.”
“That bad?”
Damon called for servants. One he dispatched for soap and hot water, one for bandages, another for pen and ink. They obeyed without question, whether out of sympathy for Afreyda or because Gwyneth’s order had percolated down, he didn’t know.
The pen and ink arrived first. Damon scribbled a list on a scrap of parchment and handed it to the servant who had brought the pen. “You know the apothecary by the statue of Aldwyn the Unfortunate?” he said. The servant nodded. “Tell him I want everything on here. As much as you can carry.”
The servant’s eyes widened as he read. “Some of these are . . .”
“. . . a tiny bit forbidden, yes.”
“How do you know he’ll have them?”
“Trust me, the bastard’ll have them. Take a couple of soldiers with you, under the Mother’s orders. They should make sure he gives you the real stuff.”
Damon turned back to Afreyda. It was impossible to apply any kind of pressure to her back, so he had to settle for dribbling water on to her wounds. Even that was enough to make her gasp.
“Talk to me,” she said.
“You normally tell me to do the opposite.”
“I need a distraction,” said Afreyda. “Why did they stop?”
Damon trickled some more water on her. It left the sponge clear, ran off her pink. “I don’t know,” he said. “Tobrytan brought a message for Gwyneth. They looked worried.”
“Megan is here.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can,” said Afreyda, “because she loves me like I love her and it is what I would do.” She wriggled on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. From the pained look in her eyes, she didn’t succeed. “They will want to use me as a hostage. Maybe even you.”
“Me?”
“No, you are right, that is a stupid idea.”
By the time Damon had finished cleaning Afreyda’s wounds, the servant had returned from the apothecary. Damon rummaged about in the sack he dumped on the floor. “I’m going to have to put some ointments on your cuts.”
Afreyda looked wary. “You are going to touch me?”
“Afraid so,” said Damon. “That’s why I got you this.”
He offered Afreyda a vial. Her eyes narrowed as she read the label. “If this is what I think it is,” she said, “it is banned in the empire.”
“Banned pretty much everywhere. Drink up.”
Afreyda tilted her head back and poured the contents of the vial down her throat. She shuddered. An icy energy filled her eyes.
“Why is this stuff banned?” she gasped.
“Ask me again in a few hours.”
Damon treated and bandaged an increasingly excited Afreyda and got her into the only clothes he could find: a servant girl’s gown. “It’s weird seeing you in a dress,” he said.
“I know,” said Afreyda. “Do you want me to give you a twirl?”
She leaped to her feet and spun, the fabric of her gown circling around her. “It is so light!” She accelerated, lost control of her feet, tumbled to the floor with an anguished yelp.
Damon picked her to her feet. “Deep breaths. The rush’ll wear off soon. Here.�
� He poured some water and made her drink. “We need to get out of here before Gwyneth decides what to do with us.”
“How?” Afreyda beamed. “Do you want me to kill everybody?”
“I was thinking of something a little less doomed to failure within the first minute. Edwyn the Third built an escape tunnel out of here.”
“From his own city?”
“He foresaw an occasion when that ownership might be contested,” said Damon.
“You talk funny.”
“The entrance is in the east wing of the palace.”
“Where is that?”
“East.”
Afreyda bounced on her feet. “Do you want to race?”
“Probably best to act inconspicuous,” said Damon. “Act like we’re going exactly where we should be going. Do you think you can manage that?”
“If anyone asks, I will tell them we are not escaping.”
The main doors of the palace had been sealed. Witches were everywhere, weapons drawn, an eagerness to use them etched on their faces. Were they really this scared of Megan? Had they worked themselves up over a self-created adversary, like a child imagining monsters under the bed, or was there something outside the city he wasn’t going to like?
Damon led Afreyda out of the antechamber and across the vast atrium, painfully aware of how much noise their footsteps were making. Dozens of gazes followed them. Powerful hands twisted ax shafts as if they were strangling chickens.
Afreyda leaned in to Damon. “Are you sure you don’t want me to kill them all?” she asked, her whisper a tad too loud for his liking.
“Yes,” he hissed back.
An officer stepped forward. “Where’re you going?”
“We are not escaping,” said Afreyda, beaming.
“The Mother wants to see her,” said Damon.
“What’s with the bag?” asked the officer.
“That’s no way to talk about . . . oh . . .” Damon lifted the sack from the apothecary. “Medical supplies. The Mother wants her alive.” Afreyda patted her chest proudly. “But she said nothing about sane . . .”
“I’ll have to confirm it with—”
Without warning, the doors of the palace crashed open and a squad of heavily armed witches marched in. Huddled in their midst Damon could make out a woman in a white gown, her arms clasping a bundle to her chest. There was a wail. Not a bundle. A baby.
He looked to the officer. “Is that . . . ?”
The rapt expression on the officer’s face confirmed Damon’s unfinished question. The baby was Jolecia, Gwyneth’s daughter, Megan’s niece, would-be princess of the Realm and Savior of the True.
The squad swept past, heading for the interior of the palace. Damon pointed at their receding numbers. “We’ll just be . . .”
The officer nodded, distracted. Damon nudged Afreyda forward.
“Hey!”
Damon froze. The officer beckoned to two soldiers. “Escort these two to the Mother.”
“She told us to meet her in the east wing,” said Damon.
The officer’s brow furrowed. “She’s in the royal apartments with the general.”
“I’m just going where she told me to. If you want me to take a detour, I’ll let her know it was your suggestion, Lieutenant . . . ?”
The officer was in no rush to supply Damon with his name. “Escort them to the east wing. If they try anything funny”—he gave Damon a knowing look—“keep them alive.”
They wound their way through the twisting corridors of the palace, which could have been a physical manifestation of Edwyn the Third’s state of mind or an attempt to confuse the hell out of invaders. The passing traffic faded out until it was just Damon and Afreyda and the two witches, the stomp of their boots remorseless. Damon’s heart was beating fast enough to smash its way through his ribs. He had to think of some way to get rid of their escorts, and soon. Escape attempts went so much smoother when you didn’t bring your jailers for the ride.
“What is it with you and Gwyneth?” asked Afreyda.
“She likes me.”
“Really?”
“In the way you like Megan.”
Afreyda slammed to a halt. Their escorts almost collided with them. “You and she . . . ?”
“It’s not like I had a choice in the matter.”
She turned on Damon, anger so intense her eyes flicked in every direction. “How could you betray Megan like this? I should kill you for this!”
“Did you not hear—?”
Afreyda shoved Damon, hard. He went flying into one of the witches. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Afreyda spin fast, her leg snap out, catch the other witch full in the face. Damon realized what she was doing. He grabbed the witch he’d slammed into, as if trying to steady himself, and let his weight drop. It was enough to drag the witch to the ground.
He heard the crack of further blows, the ugly snap of bones breaking, the thud of a deadweight hitting hard tiles. A grunt and the jabbing of elbows into his flesh brought Damon’s attention to his own immediate situation, the witch on top of him struggling to get up. A fist rushed toward him. Damon jerked his head aside. Not enough. The punch caught him on the ear, making him howl and the world break into a myriad of colors.
Metal scraped against stone: the witch reaching for his dropped ax. Damon screamed, tried to wriggle free. There was a whoosh as the ax split the air. Blood gushed over him. The witch toppled over, his head only half attached to his shoulders.
Dripping ax in one hand, Afreyda helped Damon out from under the corpse. “You could’ve warned me,” he said, trying to wipe the worst of the gore away.
“There was no time.”
“Are you going to tell Megan about me and Gwyneth?”
Afreyda regarded him for a moment. “Not if you do not want me to.” She looked down at the witches. “We should hide the bodies.”
The witch Afreyda had tackled was stirring. “I’m not sure he’s technically a body,” said Damon. An ax swished. “My mistake.”
Afreyda tossed the ax aside. “Come on, help me.”
Damon’s attention had been distracted by movement at the end of the corridor. “We might want to leave the tidying up until later.”
A witch patrol was thundering toward them.
They raced through the palace, lungs burning, legs forever threatening to collapse from under them. Witches chased after them, hollering orders to surrender and loosing the occasional crossbow bolt to reinforce their point. Damon was lost, the sudden dives down side corridors and emergency dashes up winding staircases scrambling his sense of direction. They had to stop navigating by reaction, make at least a nominal attempt to reach the east wing.
The stairs terminated in an oak door. No other way apart from back. Damon opened it and they dived through into a bedchamber beyond and slammed the door shut. Damon rammed the bolt home. Wood shuddered beneath their hands as witches tried to charge their way in. The door was solid, but the bolt was more a polite hint than an absolute barrier. It wouldn’t hold for long.
“The bed!” yelled Afreyda.
“You’re eager.”
“A barricade!”
Damon dashed around to the bed and shoved it, inch by heavy inch, across the floor while Afreyda continued to hold the door against the pounding witches. She waited until the last second, then rolled across the bed and helped him shove it into place.
The door continued to shake. “How long do you think we have got?”
“Depends if they’ve got axes,” said Damon.
On cue, the head of an ax crashed through the door.
“They are witches,” snapped Afreyda. “Of course they have axes.”
Damon looked around. An archway led out to a balcony. He pulled Afreyda out on to it. The wind tugged at them, making Afreyda’s gown ripple like the sea before an oncoming storm. They were six stories up. Below them stretched the palace complex, larger than many a village. From this height you could see it wasn’t a single building but many,
jammed together to form a network of streets and courtyards.
“We need to get down,” said Afreyda.
Damon peered over the edge of the balcony. A witch peered up from the level below. Damon pulled his head back before a crossbow bolt skewered him.
“We will have to go up,” said Afreyda.
“Are you serious?” said Damon.
“It is only one story to the roof.”
“It’s the stories below us that worry me.”
Inside the bedchamber, splinters showered the air. “You can stay here and reassure the witches I am not escaping,” said Afreyda.
She hauled herself up. Damon tucked the sack into his belt and clambered up on to the railings, hoping the witch below hadn’t had time to reload. He examined the walls. Thick ridges between the stones; enough for a handhold. He stretched and wedged his boot into a gap. Don’t think about what you’re doing, he told himself. Just do it. He pushed up, leaving solidity behind. The strain on his fingers and toes was almost unbearable. The wind was sharp enough to make his eyes water. Not being able to see wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Damon groped for the next handhold, the next foothold, swallowed down the panic of lessening his already tenuous grip. He heaved himself up a couple of feet. How many more times would he have to do this? Ten, twenty, a hundred? A crash of wood, not as distant as he would have liked. Whatever the number was, he had to reduce it to zero.
Muscles screaming in agony, stone scraping the skin from his fingertips, Damon pulled himself up the wall. He reached for a handhold. Stone crumbled beneath his grip. His pulse raced. He scrabbled along for another hold, found it, hoisted himself up another step before he could realize how close he had come to falling.
His hand hit air. He’d reached the top. “Here!” Afreyda grabbed his arm. Damon scrambled over the low wall surrounding the roof and rolled on to his back, clinging on to blessed levelness.
“We need another way down,” said Afreyda.
“We only just got here!”
Damon pushed himself up and squeezed his stinging hands in his armpits. They were on the roof of a tower. It was barren apart from a flagpole from which ropes spun out, each one carrying flags bearing the star-broken circle down to the ground.
