by Susan Forest
When the knock came, Meg’s hands stilled on her sewing, a thrill of anticipation awakening in her skin as Janat opened the door, her arm extended across the frame, forbidding entrance. “Hello, Colm.”
He had changed. One arm hung from his shoulder, limp. His clothes and beard were ragged, and shadows circled his eyes. He was thinner. But his expression was bright, taut.
“Sulwyn’s not here.” Janat’s voice was as cold as the snow falling in the hills.
“I saw him at the tannery. He’ll be along soon.” Colm’s gaze took in the room, flitting over the accoutrements of well-being, and landed on Meg. Did she see a hint of satisfaction in his eyes at finding her? He unslung a sack from his shoulder. “He said I should stay the night.”
There was only the slightest hesitation, then Janat took a step back, the posture of impeccable servitude infusing her whole body. It made Meg angry, but the promise of news, of movement, kept her still.
Colm shuffled in and, making himself scarce behind the curtain, fell asleep on Janat’s pallet.
When Sulwyn breezed through the door, flushed with beer and filling the room with the familiar stink of the tannery, Colm’s snores were deep and musical. Janat stood at the sideboard chopping potatoes. He faltered for a moment, watching her back, letting his sack slide to the floor. She said nothing but stiffened when Sulwyn placed a hand on her waist. Meg let her embroidery slide to her lap, waiting without speaking, ready to spring up at the hint of bidding.
Sulwyn saw this, and letting his hand drop, filled a mug with ale from the pitcher and strode over to sit on the floor by Meg. He leaned in to her. “Have you prayed today?”
His animation filled her with excitement. “Of course.”
The sound of chopping clacked from across the room.
“To which Goddess?”
“Kyaju.” There was news. Colm had brought it. Why would Sulwyn say nothing?
“Ah.” He nodded. “For shelter in a storm?”
Appropriate shelter, she wanted to correct him, but a feeling warned her that now was not the time. “Yes.”
He nudged her shoulder with his. “Good. Kyaju keeps you safe here, in Wildbrook, far from the storms of war.” He curled his feet under him, cross-legged. “Would you pray for me?”
“What for?”
“I may need shelter from a storm.” He smiled wistfully up at Janat.
Janat swept the potatoes into a pot.
Janat sat up. Something was different.
She gathered her blankets to her chin and in the dim light, frowned at the place where Sulwyn’s pallet should’ve been. She jerked awake, staring stupidly at the empty spot on the floor. He was gone. Of course, he was gone. He’d left with Colm.
“Meg!”
Her voice fell dead. She climbed to her feet, wrapping her blanket about her shoulders and stumbling to the window. It was late, past dawn, but the street was still empty. Cheery sunshine burst over the hills and stabbed her eyes.
She checked the sideboard. The new loaf was gone, and the round of cheese. Meg’s cloak was missing from its peg.
Meg’s pallet, too, was missing.
Janat tried to generate explanations. An early walk. A trip to the bakery or chandlery before their masters were awake. An illness.
No.
She pulled herself a mug of beer from the keg, a sudden need to fog the swirling thoughts in her head.
Moisture dampened Janat’s cheeks, filled her nose.
Meg and Sulwyn. Sulwyn and Meg.
CHAPTER 23
The party of uprisers reached the top of the ridge where the trees opened out to a rocky promontory. Below, the Orumon River meandered out of the mountains across a broad valley over wide gravel flats. Beneath a dark overcast, a wind blustered down from the distant peaks burdened with stinging ice crystals. At Sulwyn’s signal the column disbanded and he divested himself of his pack, unhooking his wine skin. Finn, Orville, and their crew began unpacking the machine. So far, there was no sign of Dwyn and his escort, or Fearghus and the promised rebel delegates from Storm River, Zellora, and Ubica, but all should be here within the day.
Colm lowered his sack, one-armed, to the ground. His injured arm had recuperated somewhat, but Sulwyn worried that some muscle or fiber had been severed that would never fully recover.
Sulwyn drank deeply and surveyed the stony expanse stretching on either side of the river. He noted the treed hillsides above the open space. Archers—from both sides—could provide protection should the need arise, equalizing the power differential between the self-proclaimed high king of seven countries and Gramarye’s king-in-exile.
Colm rested his foot on a stump. “When I was a boy, my tutor showed me maps of the seven kingdoms. Where the best ceramics came from, the softest woolens, the sweetest fruit.”
Sulwyn’s father had done the same.
“A guildsman could own his own shop,” Colm said. “Afford baubles for his wife.” He shook his head. “How can one man rob so many of their future in a stroke?”
Sulwyn understood. “Tomorrow.” He smiled. “It all changes tomorrow.”
Colm looked over his shoulder to where groups of uprisers talked quietly among themselves. “Gods willing.”
Sulwyn followed his gaze. Finn was there, and his odd friend from Aadi, with their crates of machine parts. “We can only pray the work of our delegations won’t be for naught. Artem will be reasonable. We won’t need to test that...engine.”
Meg emerged from behind a group of pack horses and sat on a log near where Orville and Finn shared a morsel of hard biscuit. She often listened to—and intruded on—men’s conversations.
“You wish we didn’t have her along,” Colm observed.
Sulwyn sat on a rock and corked his wine skin. He’d promised Finn he would ask Janat and Meg if they would help the uprisers, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Janat was too precious. But Meg had taken matters into her own hands. “You know my opinion. She shouldn’t be here.”
“This is exactly where a magiel should be.”
There was no point in arguing.
“She’s safe enough.” Colm ate a handful of nuts. “You watch her as if an orum’s going to swoop down and carry her off any minute.”
A Falkyn. One of three magiels of the House of the Amber. It was madness having her anywhere but hidden as far from the king and his emissaries as possible.
“You know we need a magiel,” Colm persisted.
Not her.
Colm offered him some nuts. “And, she doesn’t have a bad head for tactics, actually.”
“We have no shortage of would-be tacticians.” Sulwyn took the bag.
Colm drank from his water skin. “Meg’s committed, Sulwyn. To our cause.”
Sulwyn shrugged and ate, looking out over the valley.
“I don’t think you see it,” Colm persisted. “Who, more than Meg and her sisters, has a greater reason to see Artem brought to heel? She wouldn’t object to seeing his head on a spike.”
“None of us would.” Sulwyn rose and tied his wine skin to his sack.
“She wants to see Shangril regain the kind of shared power the people had when there were seven connections to the Heavens.” Colm argued as if he had put up an objection. “And you know Dwyn will need a royal magiel.”
The thought of Meg becoming Dwyn’s magiel rankled. She was too young. Too...unschooled in the realities of politics, for all her romantic philosophies.
“Stop worrying.”
Sulwyn loosened his mare’s cinch and untied his pallet.
“She’s strong, Sulwyn. Stronger than you think.” Colm nodded toward the valley. “I don’t think you—or she—have any idea of what she’s capable.”
“The strength of her magic, you mean?”
“No.” Colm stood and swung his sack over his shoulder. “The strength of her will.”
The promised snow had not fallen, and sun flirted with cloud the next morning as Sulwyn and Colm sat astride good h
orses a few paces behind King Gramaret’s swift gelding, awaiting the arrival of King Artem. Beorn and Fearghus were positioned ahead of the exiled king, and an array of guildsmen and commoners, all mounted, spread out in a semicircle behind. All were dressed in clean plain clothes, and the Gramarye standard snapped from a half dozen staves.
Invisible in the woods on the hillsides, their archers—and Sulwyn had no doubt in his mind that Artem’s archers as well—ensured compliance with the truce, for what that was worth. On the ridge, Orville’s mysterious weapon had been uncrated and assembled. Sulwyn had no idea whether Orville’s extravagant promises could be kept. Meg had armed Dwyn with a spell of personal protection, which gave Sulwyn more confidence, and given four vials containing curses to their forward foot soldiers.
As the sun approached the zenith, a bit of color appeared far up the valley where the road to Orumon emerged from the forest.
Banners.
This was it. This was what they had worked for, sacrificed for, for over a year.
King Artem’s guard approached at a steady walk, giving plenty of time to intimidate them with the size of his party, their fine garments and bright swords. At length, the delegation came to a halt a half-dozen yards away. Artem sat tall and assured on a long-legged black, his heir behind, and a score of courtiers in fine accoutrements. His magiel and second son were absent; no doubt ensuring the siege at Archwood remained intact.
Artem would undoubtedly have magical protection, though, and likely, magical weapons at his command.
A dozen Arcan banners flew in the stiff breeze, and beyond these, the standards of the other six nations of Shangril, including Gramarye—and Orumon. Sulwyn’s stomach turned to stone. Such insults were intended to enrage. This did not bode well.
A captain brought his mount forward. He raised his voice over the rush of wind and river. “My Lord Majesty, King Artem of Arcan and High King of all nations of Shangril, is benevolent to his subjects, and has come from his business in the south of his realm to hear your petition. I caution you to be brief and clear in your supplication.”
No. Artem had no intention of meeting the delegation, even part way.
Still, Beorn urged his mare ahead. “King Dwyn Gramaret, unjustly plundered of his rightful lands and subjects after five centuries of peace beneath the caring watch of the seven Gods, represents the voice of those whose homes and livelihoods have been destroyed by the unlawful and unprovoked attacks of Arcan’s monarch. King Gramaret, and those he represents, demands the return of all appropriated lands, reinstatement of the independence and governance of each kingdom to its rightful monarch, and further, that the King of Arcan sign the charter made jointly by all nations, to be ruled upon six conditions which bind him subject to law.”
“High King Artem,” the captain replied in a tone reserved for servants, “and his beloved kings in Midell, Pagoras, Teshe, Gramarye, and Elsen, agree that each kingdom be ruled by its own monarch subject to the guidance of its High King in Arcan. The former king of Gramarye needs only to swear devotion to the One true God, forsaking all others as demons, and peace shall return to Shangril.”
No mention of the restoration of lands. No agreement to be bound by law. No freedom of worship, of speech, of self-mastery. None of the tenets of the charter. Sulwyn flicked a glance at Dwyn. His countenance was grim, his eyes stony.
“The position outlined by King Artem’s servant,” Beorn announced, “meets none of the conditions necessary for a return to peace. Nor do these statements suggest hope for—”
Sulwyn saw no signal. Only shields raised in unison over Artem and his party, as a volley of shafts appeared, whistling through the air from all sides. The uprisers’ horses screamed and scattered, their riders flinching, some falling to feathered arrows. Colm took an arrow to his thigh, and Sulwyn wheeled his mount, spurring it after Dwyn’s fleeing gelding.
At the same instant, a dozen of Artem’s courtiers, cloaks flying to reveal armor beneath, spurred forward, sprinting to surround the party.
The rules of truce, betrayed.
Sulwyn urged his horse on, his lame thigh screaming. He raced Dwyn’s galloping roan, a half dozen of their own in pursuit.
A shriek whistled above.
Sulwyn urged his mount faster, gaining on Dwyn’s flank. Something—more massive than a mere arrow—arced overhead.
An explosion—the ball vanished in a spray of flying shards.
A cloud sprang up from the ground behind him and a handful of men and horses leapt incongruously into the air. A thump of heat knocked Sulwyn and thunder blasted his ears.
His horse screamed and went down, bashing Sulwyn to the stones.
A scalding rain and spears of iron showered down, piercing his armor.
And then—in barely a moment—the destruction was over.
A thousand superficial cuts pierced the side of Sulwyn’s face, his thigh and arm. The blast’s echo rang in his ears. Dust obscured the gravel flats. His horse scrambled to her feet and bolted.
Coughing, Sulwyn picked himself up and turned to see the chaos.
Dwyn, holding his horse’s halter, stumbled from the cloud of settling debris. He choked on dust but was remarkably untouched. In a moment, Colm followed, limping.
Men lay everywhere, some still, some moaning and stumbling to their feet. Splinters of iron were driven into the ground. A scatter of uprisers staggered in disarray. Across the gravel flats, what remained of Artem’s party, similarly, floundered to catch mad horses and flee.
They marched all night. They were not followed. Two of the wounded died before Dwyn called a halt, just before dawn.
Meg allowed herself two candlemarks’ sleep in the shelter of a spruce tree until the tents were pitched, then, with the help of three of the less injured, went to work attending to the wounded. Of the thirty men who’d ridden to the parley, only half returned, and all—but Dwyn, whom she’d been able to protect with a spell—had suffered a range of burns or been pierced by at least a dozen shards from the bomb lofted by Orville’s machine. Beorn was not among the men who had returned.
Late in the afternoon, Fearghus came to the healing tent to summon Meg to report to Dwyn. Tired beyond sleep, she gave instructions to her assistant and then went to the king’s tent.
Sulwyn and Colm sat alone with the king at a camp table littered with tankards and maps. Other than Fearghus, no guards or servants remained within. Dwyn gestured for her to draw up a chair. “Rest, Meg, and eat,” he said gently as servants brought bowls of vegetables and skewers of freshly hunted venison. “You have proven your worth on this day.”
She sank into the rough folding chair, its canvas a greater luxury than she could imagine. She’d used magic in today’s healing and she knew her next candlemarks would not be restful. But the warmth of the king’s words suffused her with a mixture of happiness and pride, assuaging for a moment the deep melancholy welling up in her, now that the distraction of work was gone.
Sulwyn’s gaze fixed on the king, objection unspoken, as Fearghus let the tent flap fall closed behind him and returned to his place at the table.
The king leaned forward and spoke in a voice that would carry no further than their immediate circle. “Meghra Falkyn of the House of the Amber,” he said to Sulwyn. “One of the few magiels of any of the Great Houses still alive. You’ve certainly dragged your feet about bringing her to me.”
Meg hated being talked about as if she were not there. But it was not her place to interrupt a king.
“She is eighteen and untried,” Sulwyn said in an equally low voice. He addressed the king as an equal, as if the beer, or perhaps whiskey, had erased any sense he might have had of his station.
“And we are now at war,” Dwyn responded. “Should we obtain the Amber—or the Ruby—she will become my magiel of the prayer stone.” The king pinned her with his eyes, confirming the appointment.
Magiel of the Amber? With Dwyn. A peer to the king. An unbidden thrill flashed through her, followed by a fli
ck of guilt and fear.
If Mama died.
“Do you accept?” Dwyn asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. “I will, My Lord.”
“It is done.” Dwyn lifted his fork, ending the debate. “You will attend council at my will.” He eyed Sulwyn.
“Yes, Sire.” Gods. It was everything she’d wanted.
—not everything. Not the post of people’s magiel. But still.
Sulwyn sat back, his countenance haggard and unsatisfied.
“Now.” Dwyn turned to Fearghus. “Bring the foreigner.”
Bowing, Fearghus rose from his meal and left the tent.
“Your duties will continue as they have been for Sulwyn. Spells and potions when we require them. Healing. Once we have the prayer stone, then of course, you will be praying in Heaven for the needs of our people.”
Death tokens. More. The Gods’ favor in war. Protection against orums. Against the curse of disease. For prosperity. The list went on. Mama’s work.
Mama’s burden. The cost to her body. Her spirit.
But this was the life Meg had been born to. This had always been her future.
She would have been elated, had she had the energy.
The tent flap parted. “Sire.” It was Fearghus.
“Come.”
Fearghus stood aside and Orville stepped into the candlelight. He spotted the king and nodded in a perfunctory bow.
Dwyn swiped his plate with the last of his steamed bun and pushed the dish aside. “Finn Kichman told me you had a weapon never seen before in Shangril. One that could cut down a large swath of Arcan forces if Artem betrayed the rules of parley. He did not say that your weapon would cut down our own men as well.”
Meg filled her plate with steaming beets and a few chunks of venison, then found she was too tired—and too overwhelmed by her new appointment—to eat.
Again, the round man bowed briefly, as if the action were distasteful to him. “My Lord, I admit the machine fail.” Though his accent was heavy, Meg marveled at how well he’d learned Shangril’s common tongue. “The bomb should explode hitting the ground, not in the air.”
