Folcwita Lapo arrived, breathless, for once not perfectly assembled and groomed. Pausing in the doorway, he surveyed the small gathering, then scrutinized Oria. They’d interacted very little. Mostly she’d seen him at court functions, but as someone unmagical and not at all trained in hwil, he’d kept his distance from the sensitive Oria. Even though it felt as if she could absorb no more, his prickly energy hit her from across the room, forcing her to breathe through it. Ambitious, ruthless, and determined, the folcwita had served her father well in managing all nonmagical aspects of running Bára, and by all accounts did it well. Oria should be grateful to have his assistance at this time.
If she could stand to be in the same room with him.
“Folcwita,” she greeted him. “What news do you bring—are we invaded?”
“Obviously,” he bit out.
“Not quite, Princess,” Ercole, captain of the city guard, answered, pushing through the doorway. “The main gates remain closed, but only because a few of the faithful city guard hold them. There’s intense fighting there, both inside and out. I have to say, without the battle mages, we’re bound to lose. Our numbers are not great and their warriors exceed our skill.”
“Then why are you here instead of there?” the folcwita demanded.
Ercole shook his head, his lined face gray with exhaustion and despair, his once splendid uniform soiled with blood and other matter Oria couldn’t identify and didn’t care to examine too closely. “One man will make little difference at this point, though I will go back as soon as I’m released. I’m here at your summons, Princess. To give you the information you requested. What do you need to know?”
Oria fought back a headache, an aura forming at the edges of her vision such as she hadn’t experienced since early adolescence, when her hormones and burgeoning magic collided and conspired to send her to bed for days on end in a darkened, soundproofed chamber, with only Chuffta’s quiet thoughts for company.
“I’m still here.”
“What of—” not just her brothers “—the sorcerers and our forces still outside the walls?”
“We don’t know for sure what their status is.” Captain Ercole looked at his hands, scrubbing absently at the bloodstains. “It’s certain that they cannot return with the gate closed, so they’re likely in dire straits, pinned between the wall and the Destrye forces. With the priestesses dead, they’re down to their own reserves of magic, if they have any left at all. The golems have all fallen, which surely means Priest Sisto is dead. They have no help there.”
Priestess Febe, Priest Vico, and Folcwita Lapo all startled at that—not at the news of his death, but something else. Through the roar in her head, Oria tried to parse what upset them. Something they didn’t want her to know.
“Priest Sisto’s golems were outside the wall?” But Ben had said something, hadn’t he? “Harrying them with golems all the way.” She’d only partly listened at the time, concentrating on keeping her brothers’ bristling grien out of her head.
Captain Ercole rubbed a hand over his face, chagrin oozing off of him. “They’d become the mainstay of our defense.”
Oria hadn’t known that, but why would she? Aside from the occasional family meal, she had rarely participated in discussions of the particulars of Bára’s defenses. She’d only encountered Priest Sisto’s golems a few times, the most salient during a demonstration at the temple, as part of her lessons, probably a good ten years before. With an otherwise minor magical ability to manipulate silicates, the priest had refined his art to ambulate creatures made of the stuff. Nasty things with no intelligence, the golems did not move quickly or with any agility. The lesson primarily demonstrated how even minor magics manipulated with inventiveness and ingenuity could produce large-scale results.
They’d become useful for menial work around Bára, she’d understood, particularly for unpleasant tasks that humans preferred to avoid, such as clearing sewage pipes of blockages. Her father and Nat had discussed it once.
“I know of the golems, but how are they useful for defense?” she asked.
The folcwita stepped in, preempting Captain Ercole. “Why use human men when the golems served the same purpose with no loss of life? The golems made far superior soldiers.”
The captain glared at the floor, obviously disagreeing but not arguing.
“Priest Sisto gave them fangs, Princess,” Priestess Febe explained into the gap. “And long, very sharp claws. They served as a solution to several problems.”
“Most of which are not relevant at the moment,” Folcwita Lapo inserted with a quelling glance at the priestess.
“I imagine I have no time to learn about them with the enemy literally at our gates.” Oria’s eyes throbbed, focus blurring in and out, and she pressed her fingertips to them. “But I will want to hear about them in detail later. Your advice, Captain?” she managed to say.
“Open the gates, Princess.”
“What? Are you mad?” Folcwita Lapo roared, slamming his hand on the table.
The literal and emotional impact drove through Oria’s temples with knifelike intensity. Green fire rolled across the table, sending the folcwita reeling backwards, frantically batting at the silk sash of office that had caught flame. Everyone stared in astonishment at Oria. No—at Chuffta on her shoulder.
“I will protect you.” His mind-voice came through with grim certainty.
“Watch your volume, Folcwita. The princess is fragile.” Priestess Febe said, with sgath that nevertheless reverberated. It spread through the room like a cooling balm, easing Oria’s pain considerably.
“That…that creature,” the folcwita sputtered, his fear palpable.
Oria understood his reaction, though she judiciously hid that thought from Chuffta. The derkesthai Familiar had never shown aggression like that, typically saving his fire for roasting bits of meat and vegetables. But then, they’d both been pressed far that day.
“So far as we know, Princess Oria is the only functioning member of the royal family we have left,” Priestess Febe continued. “Let’s do our best not to sacrifice her this bloody day also. If her Familiar even allows it.”
“Apologies, Princess,” the folcwita gritted.
Oria nodded at him, saving her energy. “Explain your reasoning, Captain Ercole.”
He spread his hands, palm up. “We’ve lost. The gate will be opened. If we fight, every man who does will die and the gate will still be opened. As long as the gate is closed, our people outside are trapped away from shelter and succor. They will be killed and the gate will still open. We might as well offer our surrender.”
Folcwita Lapo choked out a sound, but subsided with a wary glance at Chuffta. “I disagree,” he said softly enough, though his emotions raged. “King Tavlor would never surrender, Princess. Think of your father, out there battling for us. Bára cannot simply throw open her gates to the Destrye and offer her tender belly to the enemy for them to rend and tear. We must fight with all we have. What would he say upon entering Bára only to hear you already gave it away?”
“My father is dead.” Oria hadn’t meant to state it so baldly, but she lacked resources to cushion the words. As it was, they echoed with hollow finality in the salon, the morning sunlight pouring in with ironic cheer, a playful breeze fluttering the sheer curtains framing the windows, hung there to be drawn on hot afternoons.
“You can’t mean it, Princess,” whispered Priest Vico. “Queen Rhianna yet lives, I’m told, and she wouldn’t if…”
“My mother felt him die and, yes, it nearly killed her, too. I don’t know about my brothers and the other priests, but we must prepare for the worst news there also. Captain Ercole is correct. We’ve already lost. Now we must decide what to do about it. I say we offer surrender.”
“There is another alternative,” the folcwita said. “We can invite the Trom.”
“That’s hardly a viable option,” Priest Vico retorted. “We might as well throw ourselves in the chasms.”
“The
Trom?” Oria groped for the information, her mind stupid with overload. Captain Ercole looked similarly baffled. She recalled the word vaguely from some long-ago tale. Some sort of mythical elder race?
“These teachings are sacred to the temple and those who’ve taken the mask,” High Priestess Febe said, her featureless mask making the order resonate with hollow echoes. “I discussed this eventuality in a general sense with the folcwita of the council once news came of the devastating losses of our priestesses. The Trom are ancient guardians who can be summoned in times of extreme need. Many are the cautions against calling on them lightly, as the price they demand is high. That’s all any of you need to know.”
“What is the price?” If Oria hadn’t squandered so much time not learning hwil, she wouldn’t be scrambling to assimilate all of this new information. She’d be privy to the temple’s sacred knowledge.
“I know some and will share that with you.”
“The specifics may be shared only with those who have achieved hwil. The inherent power is far too dangerous otherwise.” High Priestess Febe nodded, several of the priests and priestesses echoing the gesture knowingly. “Suffice to say that the price is different every time, chosen to suit the time and place. I urge we look at every option before we choose this, only at the hour of extreme need.”
“Aren’t we there already?” Folcwita Lapo demanded. “Look around you!”
“No,” Captain Ercole said quietly. “Not if we surrender.”
They all looked expectantly at Oria.
“Don’t give them more opportunity to argue. You are queen for the moment.”
“Princess Oria, you are inexperienced, fragile by your own admission, have no mask, and can’t know what a grave step—”
Oria cut the folcwita off, happy to also shut down the frustrated rage he sent her way. “I am also the royal princess and, in the absence of anyone who outranks me, my word is law. Captain Ercole—how do we go about offering surrender?”
Folcwita threw up his hands. “Without my help, I can tell you that. I’m not eager to die.”
“We need an emissary,” Priestess Febe said. “Someone brave enough to approach the enemy within the walls, to make the offer to discuss terms. The folcwita is correct—the risk of death is high. They may not wish to listen. The Destrye are a bloodthirsty and barbaric people, who live to destroy. It’s entirely possible they won’t withdraw until they’ve slaughtered every one of us.”
Captain Ercole nodded. “I will do it.”
“No.” Oria smiled at him. If they survived, she’d remember his stalwart loyalty and courage. “We need you to continue to lead the guard. I will do it. They won’t kill a woman under flag of surrender.”
The group exchanged uncomfortable glances. Finally, Captain Ercole said, “Princess—we believe they won’t hesitate. They murdered the priestesses on the walls in cold blood.”
But not her. She wears no mask. She isn’t one of them. “They will recognize me as no priestess. I have the the best chance of speaking to them of any of us.”
“It’s too great a risk, Oria,” Priestess Febe said in a gentle, insistent tone. “You may be no sorceress and perhaps can never take the throne, but we cannot afford to squander your potential, just in case.”
Oria shook her head, pressing her lips against the regret. “Such is the fate of a figurehead.” One about to collapse at that. “You have Queen Rhianna. She is strong and will recover. Perhaps my brothers yet live. It’s worth the risk to my small life to perhaps get them back and save what we can of Bára and her people. To protect the magic well beneath the city, as is our sacred legacy.”
A short silence settled over the room, no one mustering an argument against her logic.
“Prepare a horse for me, dress it in white tack. White is for surrender, yes, Captain?”
He nodded unhappily, but with respect in his eyes. “I’ll prepare a banner for you also. Would you like some help with the words to speak, Princess?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll don white also and be down as soon as I am able.” She hesitated. “I hate to ask, but with Alva gone, I’ll need someone to help me dress.”
“It would be my privilege to assist, Princess,” Priestess Febe said with a grave nod.
It seemed they all would be taking on new roles that day.
“I’m going with you when you ride out, Princess,” her guard Renzo said from behind her. “I won’t let you be completely undefended.”
“Thank you.” She stroked Chuffta’s long tail. “But I have my own defenses, too.”
“Yes. We will do this together.”
She smiled at the lizard’s fierce thought. And maybe felt a little fierce, too.
~ 8 ~
In a way, fighting human men came as a relief. Though the guard inside the walls put up a fierce fight, fueled by the desperation of men defending their homes and families, Lonen understood it better. And though exhaustion dragged at him, that bleak despair no longer clouded his mind. This kind of battle at least made sense.
These men would not give up easily, either. Though the sun had risen to midmorning, making him entirely too hot in his furs, with no opportunity to doff them beyond shoving his cloak behind his shoulders, the Báran guard showed no sign of flagging. Lonen and his men had formed a defensive wedge inside the gates, holding it in the narrow passage against the city guards who came at them, but they hadn’t yet found a way to open the massive doors. Could be magic, knowing these sorcerers.
Destrye from outside arrived to supplement their forces, finding the ropes and scaling the wall, then dropping over. But more Bárans joined the guard attacking them—common folk by their dress, mingling with the brightly uniformed guard. The Destrye who added themselves to Lonen’s defense were men separated from their units, still doggedly following the primary mission of getting up and over the wall, then throwing into Lonen’s fight for lack of any other objective. None had news of the rest of the army, at least not that could be transmitted between pitched skirmishes.
Much depended on the Destrye forces outside the walls, because they had arrived at a stalemate within it. It sounded like utter chaos on the other side of the doors and, if Lonen’s people weren’t going to make it through soon, it could turn his occupation of the gate into a long-term proposition. Something they had meager supplies to outlast. At least the narrow alcove just inside the gates made it relatively simple for a small group to defend.
They might as well implement rotations and settle in.
Sending several of the recently arrived men to push the line of defense forward, to gain them a bit of breathing room, Lonen stepped back behind them. Then he shucked the damn cloak, grateful for the immediate cooling. Too bad he couldn’t discard it altogether, but he’d need it if they found themselves still outside when the cold night settled in on them again.
“Alby!” he called, waiting for his man to disengage and similarly take refuge behind the wall of fighters. Alby also immediately doffed his furs.
“What kind of monstrous land has burning days and freezing nights?” Alby panted, leaning hands on knees to take full advantage of the breather.
“I begin to understand why they came to Dru for water, brutal as this place is,” Lonen agreed. “We need to set up shifts. Only enough men to hold the gate, rotate out the ones who’ve been fighting longest, fresher ones to the fore.”
Alby eyed him wearily. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t been fighting all night.”
“Best judgement then. And find me whoever’s come over the wall most recently. I need to know what’s going on out there.”
“Yes, my prince, but—” Alby’s eyes widened just as a trumpet pealed. “Holy Arill incarnate!”
Lonen spun to follow the direction of Alby’s gaze, tired muscles singing into life as he lifted his axe to meet the challenge, then lowered it again in slow bemusement. A white banner rippled over a blaze of copper hair. The woman from the window. Another dream made flesh in this nightmarish and
impossible place.
The clank of weapons fell from cacophonic levels to bearable. Enough for the men to hear Lonen as he called the command to desist but remain alert. He pushed to the fore, ready for a trick. If she did wield magic she might be able to obliterate them all, and he’d be responsible because he could have killed her at her window.
All for youthful idealism and a soft heart he’d long since thought shredded by the golems’ claws.
Quiet spread outward, reverse ripples that stilled the fighting, bringing a welcome respite as she approached. Men continued to face off, holding their poses, ready to reengage at the slightest hint of betrayal.
She rode a pale horse, decked out in exotically smooth fabrics that caught the sun and shone with reflected light like Grienon, all in shades of cream and crystal white. The gown she wore distorted the slight frame he recalled from her silhouette, an impressive display of wide shoulders and voluminous skirts. It put him in mind of a small cat arching its spine, every hair on end to appear bigger and more ferocious. She dripped with laces and shimmering pearls, jewels from the sea he’d only read about or seen in illustrations.
That bright rain of copper hair was the only color about her, a stubborn note of resistance against her vigorous demonstration of surrender. That and the armed guard who walked at her stirrup with a determined mien, and desperate emotion in his eyes. He loved his mistress, whoever she might be.
The white dragonlet on her forearm moved, spreading its wings and blinking at him with those green eyes so brilliant they vibrated against her vivid copper hair.
Lonen tore his gaze away from the mythical creature and forced himself to focus on the woman’s face, to read her intent. Though if she opened the earth beneath them, there was precious little he’d be able to do. Rationally, he should not let her approach.
Lonen's War Page 6
