by Gary Meehan
“Megan the Abdicating-As-Soon-As-All-This-Is-Bloody-Over.”
“You’re handing power back to the priests?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Thought I’d let the people rule themselves,” said Megan.
“You were among the barbarians in the Snow Cities too long,” said Sener.
Willas reached for his sword. “Watch what you’re saying.”
“You taught it to speak?”
Steel rasped on leather. “All right, all right,” said Megan, stepping between them. “Can we leave the laceration to a more appropriate time?”
“You mean when there isn’t a war on?” said Damon.
Megan silenced him with a filthy look and turned back to Sener. “You’ll be the people too.”
“A very distinct minority of the people.”
“Not my fault you haven’t made many friends,” said Megan. “Are you with us or not?”
“We won’t surrender our weapons,” said Sener.
The demand rankled with Megan. Her plan relied on every side being too well armed to risk fighting any of the others, but to leave the witches in a position where they could do this all again? “You can keep your blades,” she said. “The guns you leave.”
“And where do we go?”
“Wherever you want. The Realm’s a big place. You might find somewhere the people don’t want to take revenge. But keep out of Ainsworth.”
Sener gave her a curt nod. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d had you instead of Gwyneth. Maybe I could have believed you were the Mother of the Saviors.”
“I would have fought you whatever my circumstances,” said Megan. “I pledge every day of my life to defend God’s people, not rule them. Perhaps it’s time you start considering what the Pledges really mean, not how you can twist them.”
Sener made to leave. Megan called out to him. “One more thing.”
“What?” said Sener, unimpressed.
“Gwyneth’s daughter. What’s going to happen to her?”
“Nothing good, I should imagine.”
Megan’s skin crawled at the implication of Sener’s words, imagining Cate in her cousin’s place, every horrible thing that could befall her. “I can’t . . .”
“You can’t what?” said Sener. “This is what we agreed.”
“She’s a baby.”
“No chance of her putting up a fight then.”
Rage surged within Megan. For one murderous moment she thought of killing Sener where he stood; leaving all the witches to the mercy of Fordel’s guns. Sener caught the look in her eye and backed off, raising his palms.
“I’ll give orders she’s not to be harmed,” he said, “but I can’t promise anything.”
No, he couldn’t. In a battle, anything could happen. Too much scope for accidents, especially intentional ones.
Megan watched Sener leave, his torch flitting between the columns like a will-o’-the-wisp until there was nothing left of him bar a thin halo edging the pillars, then turned to Damon. “Where will they be keeping Gwyneth’s daughter?”
“Jolecia?” said Damon. Megan flinched at the name. One of the founders of the True. “Royal apartments, I guess. Gwyneth has a crib in her room.”
“You know the way?”
“You’re not thinking . . .”
“You don’t have to come,” said Megan. “You can give me instructions, draw me a map.”
“You’ll get lost,” said Damon. “You’ll need a guide, someone to give you a potted history of the palace, point out interesting architectural details, show you the spot where Aldwyn the Third voided his bowels, that kind of thing.”
“You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you,” said Megan. “You don’t have to do this.”
“It’s what Eleanor would have wanted.”
Was it? It was all too easy to ascribe her own desires to the absent, the dead, the supernatural. But doing this with someone was better than doing it on her own, even if Damon’s presence emphasized the countess’s absence.
Afreyda looked to Willas. “Do you have a spare sword?”
“You’re not coming with me,” said Megan. “Not in your condition.”
“I cannot let you do this alone.”
“I have Damon.”
“As I said, I cannot let you do this alone.”
Damon spread his palms, his outrage only half feigned. “What does a guy have to do to get any appreciation round here?”
“I’ll go with them,” Willas said to Afreyda.
He motioned to two of the soldiers and barked an order. They shuffled on the spot and exchanged the sideways glances of the reluctantly volunteered.
“No,” said Megan. “Just me and Damon. We’ll be fast, stealthy, slip in among the chaos.”
“Do not take any unnecessary risks,” said Afreyda. “If there is too much danger, get out of there. I need you to come back.”
“Don’t worry.”
Megan pulled Afreyda close, pressed their cheeks together, felt the heat of her body, the vitality flowing beneath the smooth skin. Their lips found each other. Passion and fear and love and longing poured into one last kiss Megan wished would never end.
“I will be back,” said Megan, “because I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I want it to be a long life and I want us to be old and wrinkly and lying in the warm sun while grandchildren and great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren skip around us, and I want to say, ‘Whatever happened to Damon?’ and for both of us to have absolutely no idea.”
“Hey!”
“I love you,” said Afreyda.
“I love you too,” said Megan. “But I have to do this.”
thirty-three
Megan didn’t as much hear the explosion as feel it in the pit of her stomach. Dust trickled from the ceiling. Ripples disturbed the surface of the underground lake, dispersing the reflections of their candles. She hoped civilians hadn’t been caught up in the blast. Megan snorted to herself. This was the witches they were talking about. The best she could hope for was that not too many civilians had been caught up in the blast.
She nudged the dozing Damon. “Time to go.” He looked back with sleepy eyes. “You need a few minutes to wake up?”
“I think it’s best if I’m not conscious enough to think properly about what I’m doing.”
They trudged in silence through the tunnel that led back to the palace. You can turn round, a voice whispered inside Megan’s head. Why risk yourself again? Go catch up with Afreyda and get the hell out of here. Why put yourself through any more? But she had to at least try.
Her blood was pumping by the time she passed through a fireplace into a dingy chamber. Confused footsteps and blood spatters marred a dusty floor. Despite her experiences below stairs in the High Priest’s palace at Eastport, Megan had been expecting the royal palace to be more impressive. The bigger the house, the more rooms to neglect.
Damon corked his flask, killing its glow. They crept out into the corridor. The first hint of dawn broke through grimy windows. Megan strained her ears. She thought she heard the distant sounds of fighting, the clang of blade hitting armor. At least the witches would be distracted. She looked back, at the escape route dug for a monarch. One last chance to use it for its intended purpose.
“What do you want to do?” asked Damon. “Sneak about or pretend we own the place?”
Megan was jolted from her thoughts. “I think I do own the place.”
“Bring the title deeds?”
“Not exactly.”
“Sneaking it is then.”
Damon’s idea of sneaking proved to be nothing more than sticking close to the wall and hoping no one came past. There was a cracking sound, not as distant as she would have liked. Gunfire this time rather than gunpowder exploding. Who was firing on whom? Did she care? If Sener didn’t make it back, she wouldn’t have to face the possibility of breaking her promise: who knew if the Faithful would agree to the deal
she’d brokered? Of course, if she didn’t make it back, Sener was on his own. She looked over her shoulder the way they had come. Maybe turning back was the responsible thing.
Damon stuck a hand out and waved her into a crouch. A squad of witches stampeded across the corridor fifty yards ahead of them. Megan could do nothing about the fear she tasted, the accelerated rhythms that racked her heart. The witches had been doing this to her since she had first seen them. They had invaded her home and her nightmares, dominated her life before she even knew they existed. And she wanted to make peace with them? She gritted her teeth. Yes, she told herself. The priests had tried to destroy them and failed; the deal would neutralize them, remove their threat.
The last of the witches disappeared from view. None had been interested in an abandoned wing of the palace. Megan and Damon tiptoed up to the junction they had crossed. There were no more of them, which was just as well as they couldn’t have failed to notice the two heads peering around the corner.
“Where now?” whispered Megan.
“Up here,” Damon whispered back. “There’s a servants’ staircase.”
“Gwyneth had you using the back way?”
“I wish.”
They started up the corridor. Shadows spread fast on the far wall. More witches approaching. They dived for the staircase, pushed themselves hard against the wall as a trio of men marched past.
“That was close,” whispered Damon. Not quite whispered enough. The receding footsteps stopped. A single pair started back, leather slapping against stone like whip cracks. Megan silently admonished Damon, who silently protested his innocence, and readied a knife.
A soldier rounded the corner. Megan slashed out. Blood sprayed the walls. “Go!” she shouted to Damon. She struck again. This time her blade raked across the leather gauntlets the soldier held up in front of his bleeding face. Megan didn’t wait to find another angle of attack. She hurtled up the stairs after the rapidly disappearing Damon.
They reached the top. Shouts and stomping came from below. A bench was shoved up against the wall. Megan made for it.
“You can’t stop for a sit-down while running away,” gasped Damon.
“Help me,” said Megan, dragging it to the top of the stairs.
Damon got what she intended. He grabbed the other end. Together they heaved it down the steps. There were alarmed yells, a metallic clatter, an ugly snapping. Megan spun and bolted down the corridor. Damon yelled after her. She skidded to a halt.
“What?”
“This way.” He pointed in the opposite direction.
Megan dashed after him. He pulled her up a second staircase just as a witch staggered up from the first. His face glistened scarlet. Had he seen them? Curses, charging. That was a yes. Megan scrambled up the steep steps almost on all fours.
A grunt of exertion from behind told her what was coming. She cleared the stairs and rolled away as the witch brought his ax down. Splinters flew as it bit deep into the floorboards. The witch tried to pull the ax out. Megan kicked out, connecting with his wrist. A snort of pain, then he grabbed her ankle. Megan tried to drag herself away. The witch was too strong. He started to pull her toward him. She looked for a handhold, something to anchor herself. Nothing but bare boards. She called out to Damon, who pivoted and started to run back. The witch leered, reached for the knife stuck in his belt. Megan stopped resisting, threw herself in the witch’s direction. She whipped a knife out of her sleeve as she arced around and buried it in the man’s neck.
They left the witch flapping on the top of the stairs like a stranded fish and covered the rest of the way in silence, padding down the corridor and up a staircase that coiled around the tower, at the peak of which lay the royal apartments. There was a single guard on duty, his body trembling with nervous energy. He frowned when he saw Megan.
“Your Maj—?”
The momentary confusion was all Megan needed. Without breaking stride, she punched him in the face with the underside of her fist. The knife she had concealed there went straight through the man’s eyeball. She pulled it out and looked away as the witch slithered to the floor.
Damon grabbed the door to Gwyneth’s chamber, looked expectantly at Megan. Megan gripped her knife so hard her hand went numb. She took a couple of deep breaths and offered a prayer up to God and the Saviors. What was she asking for? Courage? Luck? Forgiveness?
She nodded at Damon. He eased the door open. Megan inched forward. Shafts of pale dawn light streamed into the room through the gaps between billowing curtains. The bed was unoccupied, the sheets a crumpled heap at its foot. Next to it was the crib Damon had mentioned. Plain wood, its varnish scratched and flaking, a cot in which had slept more than a few generations. A curiously humble choice for Gwyneth.
Megan sheathed her knife and edged across the room. Flapping and chirruping caused her to tense. Just birds on the balcony outside, fighting over early-morning spoils. The sounds of a bigger fight drifted in: men shouting, blades striking, guns rumbling. It all seemed so far away, so irrelevant, so inconsequential.
She reached the cot. There was a lump there, wrapped in blankets. Megan touched it. There was a chink. She froze, hand still outstretched, not quite accepting the implications of the sound, then a compulsion seized her. She ripped the blankets apart. They had covered nothing more than bottles and goblets.
A decoy for a baby. The memories, the implications, punched Megan in the heart. “Is this some . . . ? Is this some sick joke?” she stammered, continuing to stare at the remnants of Gwyneth’s last drinking session.
“What are you talking about?” said Damon. He sounded bewildered. Or like someone feigning bewilderment.
“Did you lure me here? Because of what I let Eleanor do?”
“No, Apostate,” said a new voice. A man’s. “I did.”
Despite every instinct telling her to run, Megan made herself turn round in a slow and controlled manner. Tobrytan was stood by the doorway. He drew his sword. It was sharp and heavy, the kind of weapon designed to take off limbs, wielded by the kind of person who liked to take off limbs. Megan slid out a knife. It seemed so small—she seemed so small—in comparison.
“I knew you’d come for the child,” said Tobrytan. His face hardened, if that was possible. “What happened to my daughter?”
“Your what?”
“My daughter,” said Tobrytan. “You took her prisoner. Her name’s Clover.”
Megan swallowed. He was Clover’s father? “She’s . . . She’s dead,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Tobrytan looked incredulous at the apology. “Was it you who killed her?”
“Me? No. She . . .” Megan tried to reconcile parent and child. They shared a tenacious loyalty, an arrogance born of absolute belief. “She died helping me save Cate.”
“My daughter died for yours?”
“It was her choice.”
Damon slunk back, putting the door between him and Tobrytan. The witch general didn’t spare him a second glance. Megan shifted into a fighting stance, more to give her legs something to do than any hope it’d be effective.
“You killed Eleanor, didn’t you?” she said.
“The countess? It was her choice.” Tobrytan leaned forward. “Or was it yours?”
Megan’s cheeks burned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
“You want to avenge your daughter, I want to avenge my mother.” Megan adjusted her stance. “Why don’t we do this?”
Tobrytan took a step forward. Megan nodded at Damon, who barged the door. It smacked hard into Tobrytan who, caught off guard, stumbled and dropped his sword. Megan dived for the exit. She got within a couple of strides of freedom. The world reeled as Tobrytan charged her. She fell sprawling on to a rug. Her momentum dragged it across the floor.
Tobrytan made for his sword. Damon made a grab for him. Tobrytan threw him into the wall. Dazed, Damon staggered forward and attempted a counter-blow. Tobrytan caught the weak punch,
forced Damon to his knees and slammed a knee into his chin. Damon’s eyes rolled upward. He tumbled over, hitting the floor with a sickening thud that made Tobrytan’s sword jump on the floorboards.
As he bent to retrieve it Megan rolled across and slashed at his hamstrings. Blood sprayed out in a fine mist. Tobrytan grunted, kicked out blind. Megan tried to sway out of the way, but his boot still caught the side of her face, scraping her cheek and making her head spin.
The blade rushing toward her gave Megan no time to indulge her wooziness. She threw herself out of the sword’s path, but she was throwing herself further into the room. Tobrytan thrust again. Megan instinctively batted the blade out of the way with her knife and scrambled backward. She hit the bed, flipped herself over it, put its bulk between her and the witch general.
Megan caught her breath and considered her options. She had to get close to Tobrytan to deliver a fatal blow, but he knew that and had shifted to a defensive stance. He could afford to wait for her attack. Megan feinted toward the door, testing him. He shifted to block her. Pain flashed across his face as he moved. She’d hurt him more than she’d thought.
Tobrytan lunged at her. Megan whipped off the bedclothes and threw them at him. He stumbled, blinded by the sheets in his face. She leaped across the bed, aiming her knife at his head. His fist wheeled around and caught her in the temple. She went flying, careering off the bed and smacking into the floor.
The impact jolted the knife from her hand, sending it skittering across the boards. Megan scrambled for it. Tobrytan stomped behind her. She changed tack and reached for the stiletto in her boot. Tobrytan stamped on her wrist. Blinding pain flashed up her arm.
Tobrytan kicked her on to her back. He loomed over her. Megan attempted to scrabble away. He pressed a boot in her stomach, pinioning her, squeezing the breath from her body. She tried to batter his leg off her, but it was solid as a tree trunk.
Tobrytan raised his sword and prepared to bring it down. Megan tried to shield her head with her arms. She whispered apologies to Afreyda and Cate, hoped it would be quick.
Blade sliced into flesh. Blood gushed. Searing pain given voice by ear-splitting screams.
