Her voice rang out with clarity. “Robert Vantauge.”
His blue eyes lifted, startled. And now the line watched her as she stepped from the trees.
She crossed the final space to stand before him, then held out her hand and spoke softly. “Give me your sword, Robert.” She knew his reluctance to draw the weapon. Knew if she asked his permission for the act she was about to commit, he would refuse. And she knew, in truth, that she could make no other choice.
His eyes measured hers, but he unsheathed the steel.
She took the hilt, her voice rising to fill the road. “Kneel.”
His left knee dropped to the stained earth.
And she lowered the tip of the blade to each of his shoulders. “Robert Vantauge, I hereby name you Supreme General of the Revolutionary Forces of Tyralt.”
She lifted the sword.
And as he stood, the men along the road dropped, in waves, as far as she could see. Faces upraised, hands crossing hearts; the entire army kneeled. Toward him.
Chapter Sixteen
COST
Robert could not forgive her. Adoration, screams, death: she had bequeathed him this. His heart had betrayed him. He had told her he was afraid to lead. And she had placed him in a role for which he was not prepared. For which others could not help but find him lacking. And which he had no chance to refuse. Men on their knees, faces lifted as though he could command them. He could not argue with her in front of all those men.
Instead he restrained his gaze, declined her touch, and let her drift off into the crowd.
Then he hid within the massive role she had assigned him. He named his own couriers and delegated the search for survivors to the Oracle, the inventory of the seized wagons to the Captain of the Darzai Guard, and the reorganization of her forces—complete with an armed perimeter—to her stepfather. No one argued. No doubt the other generals were as consumed as Robert by the horror around them.
Which left the task of assigning the soul-sucking job of clearing the road of the dead. He could not order the bodies burned. Could not bear the thought. But as darkness fell—and with it rose the bay of wolves—he knew he could not leave the human bodies for scavengers. Those men had died for Tyralt. The least he could offer was burial.
If he had been free of command, he would have assumed the grim job for himself, discussed it with Aurelia, and slept—secure in the knowledge that the next morning he would be useful. That he would help load wagons, cart the bodies to Transcontina, and see them shoveled into the earth.
But he could not leave the surviving army, because she had placed him in charge of it.
And despite his best attempts, he could not find Thomas.
So Robert sought out Valerian. An undertaking that required a trek through the ranks at the rear of the camp, targeted questions, patience. And instinct. Finally in the silence just before dawn, Robert found the Valshone general amid the trees. The Heir sat alone, crouched at the foot of a massive spruce. His spine bowed against the tree trunk. His black coat lay wrinkled beneath him, the only sign of a weapon an unbuckled scabbard halfway beneath brush. His gaze did not lift at Robert’s approach.
“I failed her,” said Valerian.
“Welcome to the inevitable.”
The Heir’s arms pulled his dark head down to his chest. “What would you know about failure?”
Oh, Robert did not want to plunge into that answer. If he allowed his mind to sink within the pit of his own failures, he would become immobile. Like the young man in front of him. And if I do not, I will never reach him. “I told her the royal army would need a full month to prepare,” Robert said. “I never fathomed her sister would send an advance force without cannon.”
“Of course you did. It’s why you rode ahead each morning while we crossed the Gate.”
That had been instinct, not insight. Robert realized now that his calculations had been more than faulty. He had assumed word of her return had not headed south until Aurelia had reached the frontier, but the news must have traveled faster—by ship. He could hate himself for that oversight, but it would save no one. “Our swallowing the blame will mean nothing to the dead.”
“You never knew my father.”
What? Valerian’s father had still been alive two years ago. And Robert had heard no mention of a newly chosen Lord of Valshone.
“He was brilliant,” the Heir continued. “And selfless. He spent his life in service to the people of the mountains.” Valerian dropped his arms; his head remained bowed. “He was always telling me that I was too privileged. That I should open my eyes, look past myself, accept the blame. That a leader must always embrace … humility.”
“When did he die?” Robert whispered. He knew all about the impossibility of living up to a father.
“The land.” The response was muffled. “It was sacred.”
“Your father was one of the eight men who were hung.” How had Robert missed that? He had known Valerian was driven. How did I fail to guess that the reason was personal? Especially after our conflict on the Gate?
But Robert had been sightless within his own grief.
Valerian’s hands dug into the wrinkled coat on the ground. “After he died, the elders tried to give me his title. I couldn’t accept it. I hadn’t earned his place of honor. I thought instead I would try to earn my own as Heir. That if Aurelia would not return, I would defend Tyralt. Then when she did return, I thought … I know it sounds foolish when I couldn’t live up to my father’s demands, but I thought …”
“You thought maybe it would be easier to live up to hers.”
“Yes.” Valerian’s head fell back against the tree trunk. “I never believed she could demand as much as my father. But she—”
“She demands more.” How many men, Robert wondered, had learned the same lesson during the day’s battle? How many had joined this revolution with the belief he had held two years ago? The naïve conviction that they could save her. And how many of them had realized, today, that the goal was impossible? That she would die. For Tyralt. And none of them could keep her from making that sacrifice.
“She doesn’t expect us to save her,” Robert whispered. “She expects us to free Tyralt.”
Valerian winced. “And what do you expect?”
I expect to die first. But that was between Robert and his country. “I would like your help burying the dead.”
He anticipated a rebuttal. Had prepared answers to any challenge of practicality: the means of transport, the number of diggers, the demand for shovels. The fort at Transcontina was overstocked with tools. Every wagon in this entire force could be emptied if needed. And Valerian could select his own labor.
But the Heir’s question did not sound like a challenge. “How many dead?” Leaves rustled as he tugged his scabbard out of the brush.
“I believe at least four thousand.”
The scabbard slipped back to the ground.
“A quarter of those are from our army,” Robert explained. “But all of them are of Tyralt. There will be more in the morning.”
“How many of the deceased … are Valshone?”
It would take days to comb the forest. “I only know the percentage is less than of those who died on the road.”
Dark eyes drilled into him. “Because of you.”
The credit belonged to the men of the mountains. “Because of them.”
Valerian flattened a hand against the spruce’s trunk. Then he rose, strapping the scabbard around his waist. “I’ll see the dead are buried,” he said.
• • •
Aurelia lived among the wounded. Her days and nights blurred together and ran like blood. Pus. Vomit. Men developed fevers. Voices called for mothers. Streaks of infection overtook flesh. Limbs turned black, putrid, rotten.
She had begun to see death as a kindness.
There were no saws for the dead. Or screams of agony. Or silent tears.
The silent men were the worst.
And the men who begged her�
��softly—to kill them.
Instead she held their hands and refilled canteens and found blankets for those who shuddered from cold. She wrote messages and made promises and became every woman: mothers, wives, sweethearts, daughters. She laughed at jokes that were not funny. Sang songs though she could barely sing. Told stories: about the Outer Realms and the Geordian Desert and growing up in Tyralt City. She listened to bawdy tales and childhood recollections and fervid descriptions of lovers who sounded far too perfect to really exist.
Men touched her hair and begged—without success—for a kiss and taunted each other with warnings that they’d better look out for Robert.
Who never came.
She knew his absence and rejection were the cost of naming him Supreme General.
But she could not regret that decision. Not if a single life might be saved by his leadership.
Not once, in those days after the battle, was she met by the petty complaints and squabbles that had plagued her forces. Instead the healthy men who traversed her path—men assigned to help serve the wounded—were active, ordered, and respectful.
As were her regional generals.
Valerian, she learned, had gone to Transcontina to bury the dead. His messages were brief: scrawled totals and assurances that he had sent the same numbers to General Vantauge.
Most of the Oracle’s notes were similar, relaying the number of dead, lost, and wounded who had been found in the forest. At one point, he sent a longer missive, along with an apology for not seeking her out in person due to the demands of his task. The letter credited not only his own men for their ability to adjust during the battle, but also the frontiersmen for their “vital role in holding the line” and the forest ranks for their “transformation of the fight.” He concluded, to her shock, with his gratitude for her leadership both during and after the conflict.
His Lordship was less charitable.
Lord Lester sought her out in person among the wounded. Often. On his first visit, he informed her that Robert was too young to be in charge of her entire army. That he had no military experience. That bravery was one thing, but she could not expect him to take on the impossible with regard to battle strategy. Then, grudgingly, her stepfather admitted that those facts seemed to have no bearing on their current status and that young Vantauge appeared to be “doing an admirable job.”
The following visits kept her informed. Lord Lester assured her the scouts and perimeter guard remained vigilant and that there was no sign of a follow-up attack. Otherwise, neither he nor she discussed strategy. She could not think about the future now; and while she valued the information he brought, the details of his reports paled in the face of the suffering in front of her.
He advised her she should sleep.
She nodded, without commitment. And stayed with the wounded. If her presence could ease one man’s pain, then this was where she belonged. If she was needed elsewhere, someone would tell her. In the meantime, she would stay with these men.
And hold their hands.
While they died.
• • •
A week after the battle, in the harsh light of midday, Daria arrived. Robert looked up from a trio of reporting officers to see her trekking along the road, her boots picking their way around bloodstains he had ceased to notice. Her hair was restrained within a net. One of her hands held her skirts, the other rested on her pregnant stomach. Her eyes targeted him.
His abdomen clenched.
He had not found Thomas. In truth, he had ceased to look. On that first night, he had told himself that her husband would appear. That he might well be lost among the trees or the wrong unit or even have fled.
But days had passed. The troops had become organized; the wounded were all identified. And Daria was here.
She stopped in front of Robert, her face unreadable. “Where is she?”
Aurelia. The reference shook him. Like Lord Lester’s rebuke earlier that morning. Or had it been the morning before? You need to forgive her, His Lordship had said. Robert had told himself he was too tired to try. That it would be best if he waited to confront her until a time when he could remember how many days had passed since he had last slept.
“General,” offered a Valshone lieutenant at his side, “Aurelia is with the wounded.”
At least among the wounded, she was safe from the horrors of the dead.
Robert offered Daria his arm and, leaving the officers in his wake, escorted her down the road, around a trail of gutted barrels and crates that had once held medical supplies. Silence stretched. Cowardice. He should tell her that he believed her husband was among the buried. But she had not asked about Thomas. She had asked for her best friend.
Robert dropped his gaze to the bloodstained earth. He had known the woman on his arm forever. As a laughing six-year-old girl with eyes that observed everything; later a thirteen-year-old romantic writing poetry; and then a new bride, the day after her marriage, daring him to ask her best friend to dance.
Daria’s hand clenched the muscle of his arm.
And he saw Aurelia, seated on the ground ahead of him, her torso bowed in sleep. Her chin on her chest, her eyes closed. Her hand clasped within that of a man who had clearly died.
Was this the safety Robert had imagined? Even his hardened stomach recoiled at the stench of urine, vomit, and rotting flesh. Injured men were now saluting him, some of them trying to rise. He waved away their attempts.
But the jostling must have woken her. She straightened, then slowly slipped her captured hand from the corpse. And looked up with shadowed eyes.
The two women stared at one another.
Daria was trembling. Afraid, he thought. Of what she might hear. This conversation should not take place in the open. He should guide her to a tent. He tried to step back.
But her grip stayed tight.
With her other hand, she reached into her bodice and slowly withdrew a letter-size piece of folded parchment, then crumpled it in her fist. Her dark eyes remained on Aurelia’s. “It’s your fault,” Daria said.
And he realized she already knew.
“His death.” She hurled the parchment at the woman on the ground. “All the deaths. They are yours. On your head.”
In Tyralt’s name! Robert pried his arm from the tight grasp.
Aurelia must have written, he realized. She must have found the strength to confirm what he had not. But she wasn’t defending herself. Why wasn’t she arguing? And why weren’t any of these men? Because Daria too was a woman? Because she was a grieving widow? Or because, like Robert, they expected Aurelia to defend herself?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as if accepting the blame.
Daria was still trembling. “This is your fight! Your vengeance. Thomas would never have enlisted if it wasn’t for you.”
She was wrong in so many ways that Robert struggled for the words to argue. This revolution was not about vengeance. The fight was not only Aurelia’s. And as for the enlistment, Thomas had been responsible for more than his own.
“My child would have had a father if you had only come just a few months later.” Daria’s voice dropped. She hugged her stomach. “Thomas would have realized, then, that there was something more important than politics. He would have stayed with his family.”
“No,” Robert corrected at last. “Thomas would still have fought. To defend his family.”
Daria’s eyes rose in challenge toward Aurelia. “Is that what he told you when he died? Did he say he had no regrets?”
Aurelia’s hands stretched out open toward her friend. “I’m sure your husband said his good-byes to you in person when he left.”
“What did he say to you?” Daria demanded.
Aurelia had seen Thomas? Had actually seen him die?
Her arms collapsed. “He asked me not to trade our liberty for peace.”
Yes. That sounded very much like him. How had Robert allowed an entire week to pass without realizing she had witnessed Thomas’s death? And how many
deaths had she seen in her week among the wounded? Did she feel as numb as Robert did?
He found himself crossing the space toward her.
Daria’s ferocity whirled on him. “How can you shield her?”
But he hadn’t. For days he had blamed Aurelia for confirming a choice he had already made. He had taken on the leadership of men during the battle. He could not relinquish that choice now. Had no more right than Daria to blame her.
He understood grief. Knew what it was like to turn and seek destruction. But there was more behind this argument than sheer bereavement. Thomas had not been a reluctant participant in this war. He had been an active force. And before the war, he had kept the secrets of the refuge in the forest, the existence of a private army, the whereabouts of the former queen. He had been immersed in politics long before he had met Daria. Robert had no doubt that her husband had loved her. But how many secrets had he kept from her? And how much of what he had said had she refused to hear?
“Thomas believed in this revolution,” Robert said. “He chose to fight.”
There was a clear murmur now among the wounded. Whispers of approval, agreement, confirmation.
“And my brother?” Daria asked. “Will you say the same when he is dead? But then again, he might be already, and you don’t know.” Her wrath refocused on Aurelia. “You can’t know the names of half the people who’ve died here for you! How many more, Your Majesty?” The title rang with sarcasm. “How many people will you make pay the price for your own selfish search for power? How many lives will you ruin, like you have this child’s? How many will you kill?”
“Enough.” Robert stepped to block the accusations from the woman he loved. Suddenly a line of wounded men stood at his side. “Go home, Daria.”
Chapter Seventeen
FLAMES
Why am I alive when so many are dead? Aurelia rolled over on her pallet, her gaze staring into the darkness filling the tent. She had lost her best friend today. Daria’s charges thrust again and again within the workings of her own brain. Along with the remnants of a fresh nightmare filled with the pleas of injured soldiers. And the knowledge that each wound, each death, had come from Aurelia’s choices. Her vision.
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