Liberating Fight

by Melissa McShane

  Amaya slid around the door and shut it behind her, locking it with the key she found waiting in the lock. She had never seen a more comfortable room. Furnishings in English houses always seemed designed to remind one of one’s status as guest rather than to invite one to stay and visit. The bed and chairs in this room were made of honey-colored wood that smelled of distant forests rather than lacquer; they were low and spreading and altogether inviting. The carpet, too, asked a visitor to settle in for any amount of time he chose, its reds and browns reminding Amaya of the weaving of her lost home.

  The man who sat in the chair nearest the window was enormous, easily the fattest man Amaya had ever seen. His weight suited him; his features were large and well-formed rather than coarse, and when he rose from his chair he seemed almost to float, as if his weight did not bear down on him.

  He stood beside the chair and said, “You won’t sit, I know. But since you intend to kill me, I ask the courtesy of you telling me which of my many enemies sent you.”

  Amaya hesitated. She well knew a villain did not have to appear villainous, no matter what Bess’s novels said, but this man’s demeanor did not strike her as that of someone who could order a village razed. He seemed, rather, like someone who would insist on doing the razing himself.

  Don Balthasar smiled. “So, I am not what you believed,” he said. “Will it help to tell you I likely am guilty of whatever you were told? Or—no, that seems to have confused you further.” He gestured. “Sit, or not, but I truly do wish to know who sent you.”

  Amaya swallowed. Her throat was inexplicably dry. “It was Alejandro Valencia, and you deserve death for what you have done.”

  Don Balthasar’s smile fell away. “Valencia,” he said. “I might have guessed. Only he has the power to inspire such loyalty.” He shook his head. “Even if it is Coerced.”

  Chapter 17

  In which Amaya learns a terrible truth

  “Coerced?” Amaya’s mouth fell open. It was not at all what she had expected. “What lie is this?”

  Don Balthasar’s hand closed over the chair back. She would have suspected him afraid if his demeanor were not so confident, as if he were not facing death. “Do not feel ashamed,” he said. “Coercion is impossible to fight.”

  “I have not been Coerced.” Amaya took two steps toward Don Balthasar. “You intend to make me doubt—that is impossible. I know what you have done to the innocents of Spain.”

  “This is a hard time, and we must do hard things. As I am certain you know.” Don Balthasar shrugged. “Believe me, or not. But I am a Discerner, and we are immune to Coercion. I know when a Coercer uses his talent. And I know Valencia uses his pet Extraordinary Coercer, whoever that is, to reinforce his charismatic speeches. You are not the first to fall under his sway.”

  “You cannot prove that,” Amaya said in a low voice. Her instincts were screaming at her to kill this man, to end his lies. And yet, was it not peculiar that she and Edmund had changed their minds so thoroughly about helping Valencia? Had she not felt a powerful desire to fight for him, like no emotion she had felt before? She wet her lips, which were dry, and said, “No one has Coerced me to kill you. That is all my own choice.”

  “I realize I cannot dissuade you,” Don Balthasar said. Now he sounded weary, as if he had ridden all day without rest, and he gestured with his free hand in a dismissive fashion. “But you are remarkable. No assassin has got this far before. I should not admire you, since you intend my death, but I find it sickeningly wrong that one such as you should be so foully influenced. Better you kill me cleanly than because you have been manipulated to it.”

  Amaya’s breathing came too rapidly, and her heart pounded as if her body was preparing to flee. “Impossible,” she said. “I am not—I would have known—”

  “No, you would not.” Don Balthasar sounded pitying. “No one ever does. It is why Coercers are evil, taking one’s will and one’s very heart.”

  His pity enraged Amaya. Anger surged within her, and she leaped at him, claws and teeth bared. Don Balthasar made no move to step away. She shoved him against the wall, pressing her claws against his throat and punching him hard in the chest to knock the wind out of him. While he gasped, she said, “I am no man’s tool.”

  “Prove it,” Don Balthasar wheezed. “Kill me in fury. It will break the Coercion.”

  Amaya released him and stepped back a pace. “What?”

  Don Balthasar bent double, gasping for breath. “Coercion cannot stand in the face of some other strong emotion. A different Coercion, perhaps, but also real hatred or fear or even love. The body cannot sustain both at once.”

  He looked up at Amaya, and smiled, a bitter expression. “You are angry with me for challenging you, angry at what I have done. Let me tell you more. I have presided over the slaughter of a village whose elders would not give up a revolutionary hiding among them. I have watched my soldiers rape women and cut their bodies open while their husbands watched helplessly. I have ordered the death of someone who did nothing but deny me my rights as his lord. I—”

  With a scream, Amaya launched herself at Don Balthasar, claws raised. She raked him across the face, stopping his words and making him cry out in pain. Rage filled her, a good clean rage that made her veins pulse and her body tremble with fury. With another swipe of her claws, she tore through his jugular vein and rejoiced in the blood that spurted from it.

  She released her victim, who sagged to his knees, clutching vainly at his throat. Blood welled from between his fingers. He closed his eyes—and smiled. “Be free,” he whispered, and fell face first on the beautiful red and brown carpet.

  Amaya stood over him, breathing heavily. Her whole body still trembled with anger. How dare he? She stepped over the body and looked out the window. Soldiers raced here and there like frightened ants, drunk on sap and utterly leaderless. She felt as clear-headed as she always did in a fight, where everything around her seemed to slow and she moved through the world like water running downhill.

  Behind her, she heard more booted feet coming up the stairs and down the hall. She glanced out the window again. Only a few soldiers remained outside. It would be her best exit.

  She unlatched the window and climbed out, clung to the sill for a few heartbeats, then jumped. It was not a far distance, and she had jumped from much farther without injury, her leg bones dense and strong. A soldier came to a halt only a few arm spans away and raised his musket in shaking hands. Quicker than thought, she wrenched it away from him and swung it at his head. He collapsed from the impact, and Amaya threw the gun atop his recumbent body and ran.

  Shots rang out, but only one struck her, low in the back near her kidney. She Shaped herself whole, barely noticing the pain. In a dozen heartbeats she reached the trees’ shelter, and the shooting stopped.

  She had come out some distance from the road, but rather than waste time following the trees to where the road entered them, she struck out across country, running as easily and as fleetly as the jaguar. Dry, dead grass tickled the sides of her feet, though her soles were too thick and roughened to feel more than the sharpest of stones. She ran until she judged she was halfway back to Aranjuez, and well out of range of any pursuit. Then she stopped and permitted her body to return to its resting state, Need and Heart subsiding so she no longer heard them pulsing in her ears.

  Now that her rage had subsided, she could ponder Don Balthasar’s words. He had been lying, certainly, but to what end? Not to save his life; he had seemed determined to force her to kill him, which made no sense. And she had succeeded at Valencia’s task. She had rid Spain of a villain—

  Amaya’s breath caught. She had killed a man on Valencia’s word. Had killed many men that night for the sake of Valencia’s cause. Which was not her cause.

  She clutched her head in bloody hands and keened as memory struck. That speech in Fernándo’s stable yard. Her sudden change of heart. How true and passionate she had felt about Valencia’s words. Nothing about that had been r
ight. And yet it had all seemed so reasonable. Don Balthasar was right; she had been Coerced. And now that she knew the truth, she could not believe how easily she had fallen under the Coercer’s sway.

  She fell to her knees and vomited what little was in her, for the first time since manifesting her Shaper talent not in control of her body. What a violation, not of her body, but of her mind and heart. She vomited until she was wrung out and gasping for air. Then she knelt a while longer, staring blindly at the puddle of bile soaking into the bare earth of the road.

  Don Balthasar had not known the identity of Valencia’s Extraordinary Coercer. Amaya had a bitter suspicion that she did. Someone Valencia kept close to him, someone no one would suspect of being capable of such horror, someone so innocuous no one ever noticed her. Amaya could not believe she had ever felt sorry for Jennet. She would kill the young woman and take pleasure in her death.

  Except, if she threatened Jennet, the Extraordinary Coercer would simply turn her talent on Amaya again, this time making her even more willing a victim. Jennet would have to if she wished to save her own life. Amaya would have to find a way to eliminate Jennet without exposing herself to more Coercion.

  And Edmund. Edmund was still under Jennet’s thrall. Amaya wanted to weep, but she felt too weary for tears. She must free him from the Coercion before killing Jennet. Don Balthasar had shown her the way, if she could only enrage Edmund, or terrify him, or—she could not conceive of other emotions she might reasonably induce in her dear friend.

  She remembered Edmund’s excitement about fighting beside Valencia and her heart burned with anger. That Jennet had dared turn Edmund’s courage and strength to that foul cause! It was possible, whatever Don Balthasar had said, that Jennet was responsible for controlling Valencia too, that she had turned him to her own cause, but Amaya could not quite believe it. For one, Jennet was not Spanish, so why would she care about Spanish independence? No, Valencia had somehow convinced Jennet to act for him, to turn her talent to his cause.

  Amaya was certain, now, that Valencia was not the innocent crusader for justice he portrayed himself. Some of the guilt for Jennet’s Coercion lay at his door, because Jennet did whatever he told her to. A part of Amaya whispered, Suppose she is as much a victim as you were, and she ruthlessly quashed the idea. Jennet’s talent was evil, and she had chosen to use it at the behest of a villain. That made her complicit, and guilty.

  Amaya rose and continued toward Aranjuez, slowly now, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. She would have to pretend to still be an ardent supporter of Valencia’s cause. She was not certain, after what had happened that night, that she had the fortitude to do so. But it was either that or be returned to the condition of a mindless slave. So she had no choice.

  The city was dark when she returned, well after midnight. The inn at which Valencia’s men stayed looked ominous in the darkness, though a lantern burned beside the door and two more wanly lit the stable yard. Amaya paused at the well to draw a bucket of water to wash her hands. The blood staining them sickened her now. She reminded herself that, Valencia’s manipulation or no, those men had done terrible deeds and were deserving of death. The reminder felt empty.

  She could do nothing about the blood on her clothes. Perhaps someone at the inn knew where she might find others. She hated the idea of being dependent on any of Valencia’s people, now that she knew he had manipulated her and likely lied to her, but she could not go on wearing the reminder of the night’s bloody work.

  She donned the boots she had left beside the inn’s back door and entered. The door led to the kitchen, which was unlit. The scent of roasted chicken overlaid older smells, of bread and ham and sausage, none of which roused her appetite. She made her way through the darkened room and followed unlit halls until she came out in the small, high-ceilinged entry. A line of light shone beneath the door to the private dining room. Amaya took a deep breath, released it, and pushed the door open.

  A fire crackled in the fireplace, sending up the bitter smell of smoke and char. Valencia sat beside it, staring into its depths. Edmund, across the room, reclined in an armchair beneath one window with his legs outstretched. Both men sat up when she entered. Their identical looks of anticipation made Amaya wish she could vomit again. Her gaze lingered on Edmund, and anger supplanted the sick feeling. She would free him, or die trying.

  She almost did not see Jennet, who was curled up asleep in a chair as far from Edmund as possible, but then her shadowy figure moved and sat up, blinking. Amaya looked away, certain if she did not, she would launch herself at Jennet and be Coerced once more.

  Valencia rose. “Well?”

  Amaya nodded once. “It is done. Don Balthasar will trouble Spain no more.”

  A slow smile spread across Valencia’s face. Edmund let out a low cry of exultation that pierced Amaya’s heart to the center. “Well done, Amaya,” he said. “You should be proud of what you have accomplished this night.”

  “Indeed,” Valencia said. He walked toward Amaya and fingered her collar, whose tip was stiff with blood. “New clothing for you in the morning, I believe. We must make haste to turn Don Balthasar’s death to our advantage. I will speak to Rodrigo, and we will gather those capable of taking the city.”

  Uncertainty touched Amaya’s heart. “Taking the city?”

  “The Count of Aranjuez is dead, and no one remains who can quickly take his place.” Valencia turned to Jennet, who was watching the conversation as curiously as if it were in a language she did not speak. “Summon Rodrigo, Ned, and ask him to join me at the stables. We will yet make of this city the center from which a new order will spread.”

  Amaya hoped she appeared as eager as Edmund did. She covertly watched Jennet. Don Balthasar had not said whether a Coercer, Extraordinary or not, could tell if her Coercion had failed. If so, Amaya was doomed no matter what she did. But Jennet only cast one quick glance her way before quietly leaving the room.

  “You have earned your rest,” Valencia was saying, and she turned her attention back to him. “Are you in need of anything else? Food? Not Healing, surely.” He laughed as if it were a great joke. Nothing about his words amused her. “Anything you require, we will provide. You have done Spain a great service tonight, Miss Salazar.”

  “I must sleep,” Amaya said. Now that she had completed her task, weariness would not be far behind, the result of repeatedly Shaping her body and making demands of her sunqu. She had only once pushed herself to the point of collapse, and that had incapacitated her for days. She would not make that mistake again.

  “Of course,” Valencia said. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “We will speak again in the morning. Rest well, Miss Salazar.”

  When the door swung shut before him, Edmund said, “I wish I could have joined you. I feel an overpowering desire to fight for this cause.”

  His words struck Amaya to the heart. “You would not have survived it,” she said, casting about for something else to say. “I was shot many times and had to jump from a second-story window to make my escape.”

  Edmund let out a low whistle. “I had not fully appreciated your talent until now. Shot? Amaya, suppose there had been enough men to overwhelm you?”

  “But there were not, and you should not be afraid for me.” Instantly she wondered if fear for her was enough to break Jennet’s Coercion. She surveyed his face, but found only concern there. Clearly, he was not afraid enough. She felt lost, desperate for a solution and ready to snatch at any straw of hope. The need to hurt or frighten or anger Edmund warred with her desire to protect him, because he was her dear friend—and yet because he was her dear friend, she could not permit him to go on a captive. She did not believe she could make him fear her. Anger, though…

  “Though I suppose I should not expect anything else from you,” she said, letting sarcasm and disdain sharpen her voice. “You who insist on accompanying me everywhere, as if I were a child.”

  Edmund blinked, his eyes going wide. “What
—Amaya, I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not,” Amaya said, more angrily. “You see only what it suits you to see. Did my awkwardness in society satisfy you? Permit you to feel strong and capable in shepherding me around? I suppose you sought ways to keep me tied to you, keep me docile like an English miss so you might puff up your consequence.”

  “Amaya, what are you talking of? This is nonsense!” Edmund raised his hand as if to grip her shoulder.

  Amaya took a step back before he could touch her. “Nonsense? I think not. You use me to make yourself more important, you follow me everywhere—even to my own family’s home—pretending it is to protect my reputation, when you know I am an Extraordinary and the keeper of my own honor. I cannot understand why I permitted it for so long, but it ends tonight!”

  Edmund lowered his hand. His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you feel?” he said in a low, angry voice. “That my friendship has been a sham? I wonder that you have endured my presence at all, if it is so objectionable to you.”

  He turned and made for the door. Desperation lent Amaya greater speed even than Shaping, and she beat him there. He was not angry enough. She could not permit him to leave. “Of course it is objectionable,” she said, ignoring the clamoring of her heart that said she was doing something he might never forgive her for. “You are a fool and a fop, capable of only the most superficial emotions. I cannot tell you how often I have laughed at you in private, you are so ridiculous. You are not even worthy of my hatred, only of my disdain.”

  Edmund’s lips curled in a snarl. “I might have expected as much from a savage who knows nothing of true feeling.”

  “Better a savage than a self-indulgent ninny. How much did it gripe you to have to trail after me to all those museums, pretending an interest you could not feel?” Despair threatened to overwhelm her. This ruse would not work, and Edmund would hate her as well as remaining in Jennet’s thrall. “You ridiculous, prating fool! I do not understand how Bess tolerates your company, you are such a burden on her.”