Winter of the Wolf (The Desolate Empire Book 4)

by Christina Ochs

  It was still light outside, though the sun now hung far to the south, when Elektra reached a window on the side of the palace. It was outside the garden wall and she saw no one below it. The snow hadn’t been cleared, and had to be at least three feet deep. She’d survive the fall, and with luck not hurt herself too badly. She still wore her cloak and hat, though she’d lost her muffler and gloves somewhere in the scuffle.

  Carefully, she slid the latch of the window and pushed it open. It shrieked and Elektra held her breath, but no one came so she breathed out and climbed onto the little ledge. She offered a prayer to Ercos for strength, and to the Mother for protection, and launched herself out the window.

  Gwynneth

  Gwynneth felt things were going well. Braeden hadn’t yet tried to kill Florian and might even have been warming up to him. And he wasn’t so stubborn he couldn’t be convinced in time. She turned to Braeden with a smile. “You must see the merit in this plan?” Gwynneth realized he needed just a bit more prodding.

  “I do. But I have more questions, mostly for this fellow.” Braeden inclined his head in Florian’s direction.

  “I’ll be happy to answer them.” Florian’s tone was cool, but friendly enough. Gwynneth was grateful he knew to take exactly the right tone with Braeden; strong, without being overbearing.

  “What do I get for helping the lot of you pull this off?” Braeden asked.

  “A dead Princess Viviane?” Florian smiled slightly.

  “Very funny. No, I’ll want more than that. First off, I want an end to this rebellion.”

  “That’s not so simple.” Even so, Florian leaned forward, clearly interested.

  “Maybe not, but now we’re here, we need to talk about it.” Braeden cleared his throat, then fixed a stern gaze on Florian.

  Gwynneth had seen much larger men quake at the sight, but Florian seemed unbothered.

  “The thing is,” Braeden went on, “I might sympathize with your cause—not that any of you ever bothered to tell me exactly what you want—but my job is to keep order in Isenwald. If you murder people and destroy estates, it doesn’t matter how much you or the Maxima might think it’s justice. You’re still bound by the laws of the land and I’m bound to enforce them.”

  “I understand,” Florian said. “And when all of this is over, I give you my word I’ll turn the leaders of this uprising—including myself—over to you. I’m willing to stand a fair trial, even if it doesn’t go my way.”

  Until now, Gwynneth had tried not to think about it, but she realized there was almost no way Florian could survive this, whatever the outcome. She could trust Braeden to be fair, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a sympathetic Maxima, but there was no mercy for those convicted of murder and treason.

  That made her angry and sad, but most of all for Florian’s mother, who clearly loved and supported her son. Thinking of something similar happening to Devyn made her stifle a sob that came from nowhere.

  Both Braeden and Florian turned to her at the sound.

  “Are you all right, Your Grace?” Braeden looked concerned. He was coming to know her far too well.

  Gwynneth swallowed and banished the idea of a rebellious Devyn. He’d likely cause her enough trouble without starting a revolution. “I’m fine.” She offered a tremulous smile, and turned to Florian. “If you offer yourself and others up for justice you aren’t doing it for no reason. What else do you want?”

  “We want our grievances addressed.” Florian’s face darkened. “And that includes justice against those who’ve broken the laws of gods and men in the treatment of their people. That means my father, and others like him.”

  “I can deal with the grievances easily enough,” Braeden said, looking thoughtful. “I can’t promise they’ll all be resolved to your satisfaction, but I’ll be happy to change anything that seems reasonable. I’m sure the archduchess will back me on that.”

  “That’s a start,” Florian said.

  Braeden sighed. “Bringing badly-behaved nobles to justice is another matter. It won’t be easy to prove crimes they’ve committed against folk on their own lands.”

  “I can find witness,” Florian said. “Hundreds of them.”

  “How many of those witnesses won’t be implicated in the revolt?”

  Florian’s face fell. “Some. It’s hard for me to know right now how far rebel sympathies have spread.”

  Braeden nodded. “You see the problem, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Florian sighed, then turned to Gwynneth. “You were right. This isn’t so simple.”

  “I know.” All of the peace she’d felt these past weeks had fled when she saw the difficulties ahead of them. But this was the sort of thing she was good at, and she wouldn’t rest until she’d worked out a way to make it happen. Baking bread in farmhouses just didn’t offer the same kind of thrill. “All of us will have to compromise.”

  “I’m giving my life,” Florian said, sounding snippy. “I’m not willing to accept half-measures for that.”

  “You’re likely to die either way.” Braeden’s words were blunt, but his tone was sympathetic. “Might as well make the best deal you can, while you can. Because once you’re gone, there’s no telling what’ll happen. I’ll keep my word for anything I agree to, but I won’t be in charge here forever.”

  Florian turned to Gwynneth. “Surely you won’t let someone awful take over?”

  “I’ll try not to.” She smiled, realizing she’d forgotten that she still needed to find an heir of Princes Viviane’s. “At this rate, it’ll be some time before I can take care of it, but Count Terris is right; he won’t be in charge here forever.”

  “I’ll trust you to do the right thing.” Florian’s face grew very serious, and all hints of mockery had fled from his eyes. “But we need to work out a way to bring justice not only for us, but for the people of this kingdom.”

  “I think we can,” Gwynneth said. “Can you get me paper, ink and quill? I’ll write down everything, and once we’ve worked it out we’ll sign our names to it. I find it’s easier to make plans in writing.”

  “So did Princess Viviane, and look how that turned out for her.” Braeden didn’t look eager to go along.

  “This will be just for us,” Gwynneth said, as Florian rummaged in a nearby bureau, presumably for writing tools. “If it makes you too uneasy, we’ll burn it after we’ve committed it to memory.”

  Anton

  Upon leaving the village, Trystan sent scouts farther ahead than usual so the Maladenes couldn’t take them by surprise. “I doubt they know we’re here, but if they give us a chance, I’m open to ambushing them.”

  “I’m always open to that,” Karil said.

  “Me too.” Anton was ready for a fight, but he reminded himself it was more important to find Maryna.They kept working their way toward Tirovor and crossed the border a day sooner than planned. The clouds hung low and the wind blew cold, but it hadn’t snowed in over a week.

  The roads were barely passable, but a large company had gone ahead, leaving tracks for the sure-footed mules to walk in. In the last pass before leaving Galladium, they nearly caught up to the Maladene troops.

  “They’re staying on the Galladian side,” Trystan said as they watched the soldiers far below, snaking down the trail like ants on the march. “I wonder what they’re up to.”

  “It would be so easy to take them out,” Anton said. “They’ll never know what hit ‘em.”

  “Tempting, but no,” Trystan said. “We’ll lose at least a day, and I want to get south as quickly as possible. The more passes we can put behind us before it snows again, the better.”

  Anton agreed. He was getting discouraged. Everyone they talked to had heard nothing of any prisoners, even though Trystan remind him they were still far from any likely route the Maladenes might take.

  Once over the border, the mountains grew taller and the snow deeper. Several local guides forged ahead, creating a trail just wide enough for the rest of them to pass. At first
, they made good time, the road hugging a ridge-line cutting through a tall range. Anton reckoned they saved days by not having to go up and down mountains.

  At last, they descended into a deep valley. It was small, with room only for one tiny village.

  “What do people do here?” Anton asked the serving boy at the inn they’d taken for the night.

  “They farm and make cheese,” the boy said, looking at Anton as though he was stupid. “They grow hay to feed their cows and goats that go up to the high meadows in the summer.”

  Right now there was nothing but snow all around, so it was hard to imagine. Anton wished it were summer. All of this would be so much easier. He dug into his food, looking forward to the warm feather bed that awaited him. He’d grown used to camping in the snow, but it wasn’t much fun.

  Trystan slid onto the bench beside him, a smile on his face. “They’ve heard something here.”

  “What?” Anton and Karil chorused.

  “Word came over the mountains not two days ago. Two important captives—a Maxima and a duchess—were seen in a Cesiane village about two weeks ago now, on the Feast of Ercos. They talked to some boys there and asked them to spread the word, hoping someone was looking for them.”

  Anton put his spoon down and whooped. Maryna and Natalya were alive. “Finally. So where are they?”

  Trystan frowned. “Not in that village anymore. After talking to the boys, they left the next day with a large escort of presumably fearsome guards.”

  “How many?” Karil asked.

  “Thirty or so, but they have a reputation in Cesiano. We’ll want to be careful. They left the village by mule train taking the easternmost pass. By the time we get there, they will have gone far.”

  Anton frowned. “What’ll we do?”

  “Keep going.” Trystan shrugged. “We must move faster than they do, which won’t be easy in these conditions. But we’ll catch them, even if it’s spring before we do it.”

  “By spring they’ll be in Atlona,” Anton groused.

  “Maybe. But what else can we do? At least we know they’re alive, and roughly where they are. Now we just have to get there.”

  They spent only one night in the village, and Trystan left his quartermaster behind to buy hay for the mules and any other supplies they needed. “They can catch up to us,” he said, as he picked a group of seventy of the best fighters to go ahead. They also picked up a few more guides who claimed to know the fastest way through the mountains.

  “We’ll take a lower road,” Trystan said. “It’s longer, but we can make fifteen, twenty leagues a day.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Anton patted Hansi’s neck. He’d enjoy a faster pace too.

  The guide was right. They crossed another high pass as painstakingly as before, but then the road snaked through a series of valleys along a river. At times it became breathtakingly narrow, hugging stone walls through great chasms, but they did a lot less climbing. Since they passed more villages, there was ample fodder for the mules, and even better, more information.

  “Their convoy turned north,” Trystan said. “The fastest route into Olvisya is blocked by a landslide, so they’ll cross into Tirovor. I’ve asked everyone to spread the word, asking any village elders in the places they might go to delay them. I’ve let it be known everywhere that these are Teodora’s captives. The mountain folk hate her, so they’ll be happy to help us. I’m also happy to spread King Gauvain’s money around.”

  Anton had been feeling cold and tired, but hearing they had a chance of catching up soon gave him fresh energy. If all went as planned, he’d see Maryna again within the next few weeks.

  Elektra

  Elektra’s breath left her chest with a whoosh, and she had none left to scream. Someone had snatched her out of the air from behind, and dragged her back over the windowsill. She wanted to struggle, but could only gasp for breath.

  A meaty arm held her firmly around the middle, but dumped her onto the floor once inside. The window shut with a bang as she stared at the patterned parquet, finally struggling to her hands and knees.

  A big, booted foot prodded her in the side. “You’re not getting away, Your Grace, and I’m still happy to shoot you in the knee if you insist on trying.”

  Elektra shook her head and got back to her feet, finally able to suck air into her lungs.

  Rykter grabbed her by the elbow. “I’ll help you back to your room, where you’ll stay until your mother decides what to do with you.”

  “Just kill me now.” She gasped, forcing herself to look him in the eye. “I won’t cooperate, so there’s no point in dragging it out.”

  “I agree,” he said in a conversational tone, as he half-dragged her along the corridor, “but unlike you, I see the sense in following your mother’s orders, and won’t do the deed until she tells me to.”

  “You’re awfully big for a lap-dog,” Elektra spat.

  Rykter just chuckled and said, “Ah, here we are.” They arrived at the door of Elektra’s room, two guards already posted outside.

  Elektra yanked her arm out of Rykter’s grasp and went through the door herself, then straight to the window. She didn’t know how she’d escape the walled garden, but it didn’t much matter; two guards stood below the window.

  The door slammed behind her and she was alone. No more chance of escape. To keep the panic at bay, Elektra occupied herself by taking off her cloak and hat, throwing them over a chair as if her maid would soon come and put them away. She wondered how much time she had. Best to assume it wouldn’t be much, since her mother wasn’t a patient sort.

  But first Elektra needed to give in to despair, at least for a moment. “Oh gods,” she sobbed, dropping to her knees at the little altar beside her bed. She didn’t want to die. She was only eighteen and had never done anything noteworthy. She hadn’t even properly fallen in love, or kissed a boy. It was too unfair.

  She cried for a few minutes, even while conscious that this was an unworthy way to spend the last moments of her life. That forced her to stop and dry her tears. The room had turned dark, so she got up, lit a lamp at the bedside, then carried it to the altar. The light spread up the wall, bathing the four icons standing on the altar in a soft gold.

  Elektra looked first at Vica, as she always did, but then made herself regard the other three. So far, they hadn’t failed her and she’d survived many adventures with their help. She needed faith now that they would help her through this.

  She had the horrifying thought that maybe they meant for her to die here, as a martyr to the Quadrene faith. But she wasn’t brave enough to accept that. She told herself no one would know that was why she had died. Her mother would be sure to put another story about and no one would ever realize the sacrifice she had made. Her death wouldn’t do anyone any good. There must be another way.

  But that other way was nearly as bad. It meant renouncing the faith she knew was right, then aiding and abetting her mother in her crimes. Elektra knew very well Teodora was far from finished with Kronland and that there would be more atrocities to come. But perhaps, if she gained her mother’s trust, she could temper her worst impulses and make things easier for those who ran afoul of the empress’s will.

  And maybe, if she was docile enough and caused no more trouble, she could be left unsupervised long enough to undercut her mother somehow. Dying right now couldn’t possibly be the answer, because if she did, she’d never again be able to do anyone any good.

  “Gods help me; I’m such a coward,” Elektra whispered. The icons stared back at her, unblinking, unhelpful. “Please tell me what I should do.” Her mother would be here any moment and she’d want an answer.

  Still, the gods said nothing, and there was no hint of that feeling she’d had in the past when she was certain they were with her. So she stayed on her knees until the door opened and Teodora came in.

  Lennart

  Clearing the countryside wasn’t so easy. With further news of a large army to the north, Lennart struck
out that way, instructing Leyf Lofbrok to work his way east. Lofbrok had little trouble convincing folk to leave their homes behind since they were in the path of the refugees streaming toward Richenbruck.

  But those to the north had heard only rumors, and were instinctively hostile toward Estenor. Here, the Quadrene creed had not taken hold, and most people considered Lennart a heretic foreigner bent on destroying the empire and the true faith. They weren’t wrong about his plans, but the fact they didn’t approve made his job harder.

  “If you go now,” Lennart told the burgomaster of a small, unfortified town, “you and your people will still find room in Richenbruck. It’ll be crowded, but you’ll have a roof over your head and plenty of food.”

  “We have that now.” The man folded his hands over an ample belly, regarding Lennart with a mixture of hostility and boredom. “Why should we abandon everything midwinter on the chance that an army might come this way? The only army bothering us right now is yours.”

  “Sorry about the bother.” Lennart pushed down his impatience. “But you might notice my soldiers pay for everything here. I can assure you Brynhild Mattila’s army will do no such thing.”

  “How do you know she’ll come here? I was told Mattila is in Arcius and will stay there through the winter.”

  “Your source is wrong. She’s already in Tirilis, devastating the countryside. You might well be next.” Lennart sighed. “I’ll make it worth your while.” When all else failed, bribery often succeeded.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Will you?”

  Lennart pulled out a small purse and laid it on the table, not bothering to conceal his contempt. The man wouldn’t budge to spare his people, but he was motivated by coin, judging by the greedy look in his eyes. “There’ll be more once you get your folk safely to the city.”

  The man snatched the bag and weighed it in his hand, a smile spreading over his face. “I do believe you’re right, Your Highness. I’ll give the order to pack up and move out.”