by Katie Cross
“She wins everything,” Stella murmured. Marten nodded.
“We want to preserve as many lives as we can while still winning.” Marten moved the Central Network flag a step back toward Chatham Castle. “So we’re going to continue putting up a convincing fight at the Borderlands for a few more hours, then retreat.”
Tiberius scowled.
“Your men will set up fire traps, dig giant holes, and wait in ambush for our Western Network visitors as you go,” Papa said, nudging Tiberius with an elbow. “When they follow our Guardians, they will fall.”
A grim smile stretched across Tiberius’s face, widening his scraggly red beard. “I like it,” he said, sobering. “But that won’t be enough. She has at least fourteen thousand South and West Guards fighting for her, not including Clavas. We only have nine thousand with the Eastern and Northern Network helping. Mabel hasn’t had half our casualties.”
“It’s not meant to be enough. It just needs to buy us time,” Marten said. He moved the Central Network flag all the way to the ink drawing of Chatham Castle on the map. “Or, more correctly, it will buy Derek time. He’ll familiarize himself with the counter magic while we draw Mabel into Chatham City.”
“Chatham City? But she’ll destroy it,” I said. “If we let her come all the way to the castle, we won’t stand a chance.”
Papa shook his head. “No, B,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s our only chance. We have to accept some loss in war. Bringing Mabel to us will minimize the deaths of our witches. If we continue to fight her at the Borderlands, we’re sacrificing Guardians, which weakens us for the final push. The city? We can rebuild.”
The Eastern Network flag and a royal purple flag—the color of the Northern Network—appeared next to the castle.
“We’ll concentrate our forces,” Marten said, leaning back. “The Eastern Network is giving us a thousand Guardians. The North will supply at least two thousand, along with their Masters. Because we possess the counter magic, we have a chance. A small one, of course.”
Tiberius studied the map with one narrowed eye, a fist pressed to his mouth. “This is all dependent on the counter magic working, Derek Black,” he said, staring at Papa. “Can you do it?”
“Yes,” Papa said without hesitation.
“But the counter magic will only work against pure, active Almorran magic cast by a witch. That doesn’t cover the lesser magical properties of the flesh-eating potions or choking smoke,” Stella said. “And we’ll still face hand-to-hand combat. Not to mention that allowing them so close to Chatham City means we risk Mabel overpowering us and taking the castle.”
Papa put his hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward. Firelight from the candles cast dark shadows on his face. “It’s not foolproof,” he said. “We’re tossing the dice. But I feel it’s the best plan. What do you think, B?”
“What?” I asked, jerking out of my thoughts.
“What do you think of the plan?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Yes.”
Tiberius and I exchanged equally befuddled expressions. “Why are you asking me? I don’t know anything about planning a war.”
“You know Mabel better than anyone,” Papa said. “And it’s Mabel we’re fighting. How do you think she’ll respond?”
“Oh,” I said, dropping my arm to my side.
“What do you think?”
I searched my mind, wondering if my journey into her subconscious had given me any clues to her war plans, but I found nothing. I thought of my conversation with Farah on the balcony.
I believe war is more of a mental game than a physical sport, although it’s arguably both. By understanding her better, I’d like to think I could anticipate what she’ll do.
Instead of sorting through the bog of memories I’d stuffed away, I relied on my instincts. “I think Mabel’s going to be focused solely on defeating the Central Network. In doing that, she’ll make mistakes.”
Papa leaned his hips against the table and folded his arms across his chest. “Why?”
I paused, feeling my initial reaction out. “Because she wants the Central Network. She’s obsessed over it, almost irrationally.”
“Not all of Antebellum?”
“Well, maybe. But she wants the Central Network the most. It’s all she really spoke of. She isn’t as interested in ruling the world, I think, as proving that she can. Not to mention she’s probably livid. Unhinged with rage. She walked a fine line after Angelina died, but I’m sure she’ll be out of control after I … after what I saw. What I did is likely to make her snap.”
“What’d you do now?” Tiberius growled.
“The same thing she did to me: I searched her memories. I think she’d locked all her most painful memories away, and I … well, I sort of resurrected some of them.”
“What did you see?”
“Things she didn’t want me to.”
Tiberius tapped his sausage-like finger on the map, drawing the conversation away before I was forced to explain further. Although Mabel’s memories were not my own, I couldn’t bring myself to share the details. They were too personal, too horrible.
“While I take my witches and fight on the front line, who will guard Chatham Castle?” he asked. “What if Mabel sends West Guards ahead?”
“Zane is sending reinforcements,” Papa said. “He said to expect them in the early morning hours.”
“Who?” Tiberius asked.
“They’re probably witches from the Southern and Western Networks,” I said, straightening.
Tiberius snorted after I explained what I’d told Zane in the Western Network. “You’re expecting untrained witches to keep you safe?”
“Not exactly,” Marten said. “The dragons will keep the castle safe. I’ve already spoken with Nicolas. At least ten dragons will patrol the air above the castle and Letum Wood.”
Tiberius opened his mouth to protest but stopped. “Fine,” he said, looking sheepish. “That’ll do.”
“Think this will work, Papa?” I asked, staring at the map until the lines between the Networks blurred together.
“It has to,” he said on a long breath. “It has to.”
The Antebellum Army
The drawn-out bugle of an unfamiliar horn broke through the morning mists, waking me from a restless slumber. I jumped off the divan, where I’d fallen asleep while Papa and Marten finished crafting their plans, and ran to the balcony doors. The sun broke on the horizon, rising in bursts of yellow, orange, and pink. Far below, a teeming crowd of witches filled Chatham Road, flowing into the lower and upper baileys. New witches appeared every moment, walking, running, or transporting. The numbers multiplied in the distance, filling every available space, even into Chatham City. My breath caught in my throat.
“Zane and Merrick,” I said. “The reinforcements. It has to be.”
After braiding my hair at lightning speed, I slipped into a fresh dress, strapped Viveet to my thigh, threw the Volare on my back, and transported to the Wall. My braid flopped between my shoulder blades when I landed near the Gatehouse, which housed Zane and Tiberius’s offices. Papa was already standing outside of it, deep in discussion with Zane, who boasted an ugly scar across his right cheek. A keepsake, I suspected, from an ornery kitty named Juba.
“Bianca!”
I whipped around to find Merrick striding down the Wall toward me, his sword swinging on his hip and his sandy hair loose on his shoulders. I collided with him, wrapping my arms around his solid chest in relief.
“You made it,” I said into his neck. “I’ve been so worried.”
He lifted me off the ground. Strands of white wove through the blonde hair I knew so well, souvenirs of the Western sun. He smelled like sweat and leather and fresh air. When he set me down, I spotted a crooked grin on his face.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said in his Northern accent. Now that I knew the truth, he didn’t force an accent, and I wouldn’t have had it any oth
er way.
“I—”
“Ahem.”
The sound of a witch clearing his throat interrupted my reply. My arms dropped to my sides, and I turned to find Papa glowering at both of us. I gave him a sheepish smile.
“Oh … uh … hi there, Papa.”
“Mind if I speak with my Protector?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in a can-you-do-this-somewhere-else expression. I stepped to the side.
“Nope.”
Papa shot me a look of fatherly long-suffering and proceeded to speak with Merrick while I tried to control the butterflies in my stomach. After a minute, Papa sent me one last exasperated glance before transporting away. Once he left, Merrick and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Come on, troublemaker,” Merrick said, hooking an arm around my neck. “Zane spoke with Ijet and Nan and convinced the gypsies to come back and fight. Your father wants me to take Ijet his orders.” He winked. “Then I can show you what Zane and I have been up to.”
Merrick led me straight into the heart of the chaos swarming Chatham Castle.
“We’re callin’ it the Antebellum Army,” he said, keeping a heavy hand on the small of my back as we navigated the tight crowd. “They aren’t fightin’ for the Central Network or even for their homeland. They’re fightin’ for Antebellum.”
I sorted through the strange, unfamiliar faces as we moved closer to Chatham City. “There are so many,” I said, dodging a bull led by a rope tied to a ring in his nostril.
“We think there are about two thousand witches joinin’ the fight, most of them male, although the Western Network has a good number of women with some … interestin’ weapons instead of heavy swords and shields. They’ve come from all over the Western and Southern Networks,” he said, glancing behind him as two young boys ran past us.
“And they’re willing to fight with us?”
“They want freedom. This is what it will take to get it, so … yes.”
“What will you do with all of them?” I asked, studying an overweight witch from the Southern Network. He smiled, and his eyes disappeared in the rolls of his face.
“Right now we’re puttin’ them to work preparin’ Chatham City for the West Guards. Most of them aren’t skilled with swords, but they have their own weapons. Since a lot of them aren’t trained, they’re goin’ to occupy Chatham City and support the trained Guardians. A lot of the witches from the West are good archers. We’ll put them in the buildin’s. It’s a lot easier for an archer to kill a West Guard from a third-story window than from down on the ground.”
My eyes flickered up to the windows. The smell of campfire and smoke drifted down the road. A goat, escaped from a group of Western Network witches, ran by with a bell jingling on its neck. I watched it in amusement. At least three different languages chattered on in the background, the individual words indistinguishable in the great mass of noise. The Southern Network witches spoke so fast I could barely see their lips move, but the Western Network folk seemed more deliberate, quiet, even fixated.
“And the Southern Network witches?” I asked. “What will you do with them? They can’t do magic, which makes them more of a burden than an asset, doesn’t it?”
“They’ll do what they can,” he said. “Since they can’t do magic, we’re havin’ most of them get the ambush spots ready. We’ll reserve them until the end, or else it’ll just be one big slaughterhouse.”
“Not to mention they’ll be fighting their family members,” I said, remembering the ceremony I’d attended in the West. Merrick’s thin lips echoed my grim thoughts.
An extended family from the tribes of the Southern Network stood off to the side of Chatham Road, near the gate that led into the city, distinguishable by their thin eyes and clothes made from the finest silk in Antebellum. Although they were preparing for war, most of the male witches wore elegant white silk shirts—made with magic in their cold Network—which couldn’t have been comfortable in the heat. For these Southern Network witches, however, fine silk was a point of pride, even survival. After the wealthy class banished them to the far reaches of their Network, silk became their greatest trading tool. No doubt they wore it to the battle to represent their home.
“They want revenge against Mikhail for takin’ their magic,” Merrick said, following my gaze. “Part of our agreement with them is that the witches of the Southern Network get to decide Mikhail’s punishment if he survives the final battle.”
Several smoky candles dripped greasy wax around a makeshift table, and a lone lantern burned bright with whale oil, casting a yellow glow in the fading darkness and making their entire camp smell like fish.
My eyebrows rose in amusement at the thought of these witches enacting their revenge and regaining control of their Network. What a lovely turn of events for them. “Really?”
“I don’t blame them,” Merrick said, and the firmness of his rolling voice sent a cool chill down my spine. “They’ll never be able to do magic again because of his selfish actions, and no one knows yet if their children will be able to either.”
The power of the Mansfeld Pact had been underappreciated until it was broken and its penalties unleashed, leaving an entire Network crippled and without magic.
“Most of them seem to know the common language, which I believe they use when they trade with the other tribes, so talking with them hasn’t been too difficult. Some of the older witches only know their tribal language.”
One of the Southern Network witches grasped a double-sided ax. He spun it around, inspecting the blades, which flashed in the morning light. Another witch near him held a spiky wooden club in his hands. Old bloodstains darkened the wood, and metal prongs jutted in every direction.
“Jikes,” I said. “The gory business of war.”
“Kill or be killed,” Merrick said. “It’s particularly desperate for them since they can’t use magic to protect themselves.”
I shivered. “It’s like fighting as a mortal. Can you imagine?”
Merrick pressed his lips in a grim line. “No,” he said. “It’s barbaric.”
The sound of a familiar voice piped up from behind me.
“You?”
I whirled around to see Zoe a few paces away, a goofy grin on her face. A middle-aged witch stood next to her with similar thin eyes, graying hair, and a simple blue silk dress. Zoe wore a silk dress just a shade lighter.
“Zoe!” I cried. “You’re safe!”
Her grin widened. “I have family,” she said in the common language, pointing to the witch. “My … uh … aunt? Vitch with no hair came.” She curled her hand into a claw and slashed it through the air.
“He fought Juba?”
Zoe nodded, her eyes animated, and she gestured to her manacle-free ankle.
“Freedom,” she said.
The gaps in the story weren’t hard to fill in. Zoe must have been present when Zane fought Juba, so once he won, he removed the manacle from her ankle and transported her back to the Southern Network, somehow either tracking down her family or finding someone who would.
“I’m so happy for you, Zoe,” I said, smiling at her aunt, who held tight to Zoe’s hand. “But you can’t stay for the … uh … the battle.”
Zoe turned around and pointed to Letum Wood. “Ve hide,” she said. “Deep in forest.”
While not the safest place to be, it wasn’t the worst either. Letum Wood itself wouldn’t harm the innocent witches, but it housed plenty of creatures that the forest didn’t control. The thought of offering her shelter in Chatham Castle crossed my mind, but it was already packed full—overfull, really—and was the biggest target in the Central Network. She wouldn’t be much safer there. Letum Wood would have to do.
“Be safe,” I said with a warm smile. “And thank you.”
Zoe nodded, smiling. With a tug on her aunt’s hand, she disappeared into the crowd. Merrick stared after them.
“Friend from the West?” he asked. I nodded.
“Yes,” I said, gra
teful to release one of the worries that nagged at me. “She worked at the Arck.”
“Come,” he said, his hand drifting to the small of my back again. “Let’s find Ijet.”
We passed a pile of old shields that maids and fireboys had carried or levitated out of the bowels of the castle. Witches surrounded the heap, testing the weight and height of the shields. I missed my old shield. It had irreparably cracked when I fought Mabel in the ballroom what seemed like ages ago.
A flash of bright color caught my gaze. We’d found the gypsies. “Here they are!” I cried under my breath, glancing beyond the Southern Network witches at a familiar sight—vivid fabrics, eccentric carvings, and beautiful caramel skin.
“I want to find Jackie,” I said, lengthening my stride. I rushed forward, raking my eyes through the crowd. After all I’d seen in the North, I had so much to tell my old friend from Miss Mabel’s School for Girls. Last I’d seen her, she’d been mourning the loss of her people and had left with her Nan to go to Gypsy Wood, a chunk of Letum Wood protected by magic and given to the gypsies by the Mansfeld Pact. A nearby gypsy with horizontal green lines painted across his thin chest caught my eye.
“Jackie?” I asked, grabbing his arm. “Is Jackie here?”
He recoiled, distrust in his eyes.
“Ijet?” I asked him. “I’m a friend of Jackie, Ijet, and Nan. Do you know where Ijet is?”
Another gypsy turned around, a male with black hair that sat like a pillow on top of his head. “You are Bianca,” he said, his face lighting up. “Da High Priest’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
His wide lips spread in a bright smile, the whiteness of his teeth highlighted by his dark skin. A colorful, painted dragon crossed his chest, roaring with smoke and flying with wings made of fire. “I know ya,” he said, his voice thick with the gypsy accent. “Ya helped with da fires.”
“Yes. Is Jackie here?”
He waved a hand, and several bracelets on his wrist clinked together. “Come,” he said. “I take ya ta her.”
