by Jo Spurrier
Isidro was his best gauge of what a man of Ricalan should be. Sierra loved him, and more than anything Rasten wanted to become the sort of man Sierra could love. Part of him wanted to beg for forgiveness … but what good would it do? What difference could it make to those who’d suffered? Would it make any difference to him if Kell had bowed his head and admitted his crimes? The damage was done, and a few empty words couldn’t erase those years of torment. It would be an insult.
Rasten wrenched himself away and stalked out of the camp, unable to bear the sight of Isidro any longer. He paced the edge of the water-hole, and finally came to a halt on the bank.
I thought I’d feel different when Kell was dead. For years he’d been fixed on this one goal, and now that they’d achieved it he felt lost … utterly, overwhelmingly lost. What now? He wanted to wrap himself up like a bear wintering in a cave, to sleep until the uncertainty passed and emerge a new man. He wanted Sierra, he wanted to press her body against his and lose himself in her warmth. He felt a desperate urge to cling to her, to control and possess her as the only familiar thing in this new and uncertain world. But that was the old way, the yearning of a broken mind. However much he wanted it, he had to resist the call of the twisted paths he had learnt at his master’s hand.
The water was as clear as glass, sweet and pure. Gazing down at the rippling green weed in the depths, Rasten stripped off his clothes, and even untied the bandages. When he was naked, he plunged in, gasping and shivering. The cold bit deep into his aching muscles, searing the raw wounds, but Rasten closed his eyes and gave in to the chill, letting it chase the thoughts from his head until his roiling mind was quiet at last.
‘Any sign of life out there?’ Isidro balanced his bowl on his knee. He’d found he could stay upright as long as he kept still, but he had to force himself to eat. The meal was nothing more than gruel with shreds of dried meat, though Sierra promised she had also salvaged better supplies. Rasten had prepared the food while Sierra soaked her battered hands.
‘No people or horses,’ Sierra said, ‘but that’s west, and if the Akharians are trailing us they’ll come from the east.’
‘They’re coming, I promise you that,’ Rasten said, scowling into his bowl. ‘They’ll hang back until they’re certain the battle’s over, but then they’ll try to strike before we’re recovered. We should move on as soon as we can.’
‘It’d help if we knew the lay of the land,’ Isidro said. ‘I don’t suppose you have any maps?’
‘Kell did,’ Sierra said. She produced a battered map case and shook a furled parchment from the tarnished tube. At Isidro’s side she spread the map out on the sandy ground, and then created a glowing globe to augment the fading daylight. On the far side of the fire Rasten rose and Isidro went still, watching from the corner of his eye, but Rasten kept Sierra between them as he knelt to examine the parchment.
The ruins were clearly marked, and there was only one water-hole nearby. Of course, that meant anyone trailing them would head here too.
‘Alright,’ Isidro said, feeling a touch of dismay at the emptiness of this arid inland plain. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘I want to go home,’ Sierra said. Her hair was harsh and dull, a far cry from the sleek, shining blackness he’d once run his fingers through. She wore the same shirt she’d pressed to his wounds the day before, and his blood had left brown stains on the cloth.
‘Agreed,’ Rasten said.
‘Well, we’ll have to skirt around the Akharians, either north or south.’
‘What lies to the north?’ Rasten asked. ‘We could see some mountains on the horizon …’
‘Those are the trailing edge of our northern mountains,’ Isidro said. ‘As they flatten out, there’s desert and tundra up to the Northern Sea. There’s a bit of forest, but not like home. The Reindeer People will be grazing on the north shore, but soon they’ll bring their herds south.’ He knew of the Reindeer People as distant kin to the folk of Ricalan, with the kind of strained relationship that only distant kin could have.
‘We’d never make it across a desert,’ Sierra said. ‘And if the Slavers caught us there alone, without power … in the south at least, food and water will be nearer to hand.’
‘They’ll find us either way,’ Rasten said. ‘Three Blood-Mages who are enemies of the empire … they have to deal with us quickly. Our best bet is to find people, and hope the Akharians would rather spare their own than see us dead.’
‘Indeed,’ Isidro said, but he was thinking of what Delphine had told him about the Akharians and how they dealt with Blood-Mages. The Slavers might consider the loss of a few villages a fair price to pay. He turned to Sierra. ‘Delphi didn’t reach you again?’
She shook her head, and Isidro frowned. Something must have gone wrong — perhaps she and Cam had been captured. Perhaps they had never made it out of Ricalan.
‘Perhaps she couldn’t,’ Rasten said. ‘She mentioned a stone … you remember, Sirri? She said the stone was melting. It must have overloaded.’
Isidro gave him a sharp look. It grated on his nerves every time he heard Rasten use the intimate form of her name, but Sierra was no longer his in any way, shape or form. If she had a problem with how Rasten spoke to her she would deal with it herself.
Delphine had many stones when he left, but only one of the rarest, the warm milk-white kind shaped like two swollen pyramids joined at the base. The same ones Kell had used in his traps and snares. ‘I collected some stones from the ruins,’ Isidro said. ‘We could leave some for them when we ride out. If Delphi gets in touch, we can meet up. If not, we’ll know the Akharians have them.’
‘I can rig something so that only a mage can take the stones,’ Rasten said. ‘That should keep any wandering herdsmen from interfering.’
For the first time since the battle, Isidro let himself meet Rasten’s eyes, though he had to steel himself to hold his gaze. ‘Good,’ Isidro said, before permitting himself to turn back to the map. ‘This looks like a dried riverbed,’ he said, tracing a line on the parchment. ‘That’s our best chance of finding water.’
‘So, that’s our plan?’ Sierra asked. ‘We head south, riding at night, and if Cam and Delphine make contact, we’ll bed down and wait for them.’ She glanced from Isidro to Rasten and back.
Rasten shrugged and nodded.
‘Agreed, then,’ Isidro said. Just having a plan made him feel better than he had in months.
After they had eaten, Sierra untied Isidro’s bandages to check the gashes across his chest. It was only when Rasten took the bloody rags away that Isidro was able to relax and submit to her ministrations.
‘They look well, I think,’ Sierra said, laying a hand on his shoulder as she leant close with her mage-light. While she was still peering at the wounds, Isidro hesitantly laid his hand over hers. At his touch, she went perfectly still, and her eyes flickered to his face.
‘Issey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, but I couldn’t find any other way.’ As tears welled, she covered her eyes with her hand.
‘Sirri …’ He trailed his hand down her arm, but she was tense, trembling under his touch. Part of him wanted to pull her down and hold her close, but her tension made him hesitate. How long had it been since she had welcomed such a touch? When she gave herself to Rasten amid the chill spring rains, it had been a desperate act of sacrifice, of guilt and fear. He could only imagine what it had cost her. ‘Sirri, it’s alright. You did what you had to do.’
‘Can … can you ever forgive me?’
He tried to speak, but the words refused to come, and after a moment Sierra turned away with a sob.
‘Oh, Sirri, hush.’ He fought his way upright, and would have wrapped an arm around her, but all he could do was take her hand again. ‘I won’t lie. It was a wretched, awful time, with you gone and Cam captured. If it weren’t for Delphine … But you got Cam out unharmed, and don’t think I don’t know the price you paid. Sirri, I don’t blame you. But if I could
forget those weeks, I’d do it in a heartbeat. The wound’s still raw, and after these last few months … we both have healing to do.’
Still weeping quietly, with her face hidden behind her hand, Sierra nodded. ‘I … I understand. I deserve that much, at least. I’m just glad you don’t despise me.’
‘It’s not a matter of deserving a punishment, Sirri. I think you’ve had quite enough of that.’
She drew a deep, hitching breath, and nodded. ‘Let me get some bandages, we shouldn’t leave those wounds open for too long.’
By the time she returned, she’d regained her composure, although her hands still shook. She worked in silence, but there was a question burning in Isidro’s mind. He hesitated to ask, but he had to know. ‘Sirri, is Rasten … is he hurting you? I know you’ve been raising power …’
She faltered then, dropping the roll of cloth, but she caught it with a net of light before it landed in the dirt. It only singed the fabric a little, and she smothered the sparks with the cuff of her woollen shirt. ‘Not since we left the King’s Fort,’ she said as a flush crept over her cheeks. ‘He hasn’t done anything that I didn’t permit. And now I’m taking so much power from you that we won’t need to do it again. Ever since the Greenstone he’s tried to turn away from those old ways, but it’s all he knows, and Kell wounded him far more deeply than either of us.’ She finished tying off the bandages, and turned to his splinted arm. ‘I’d best take a look. You should lie down.’ Anyone else tugging at the bandages would have been agony, but Sierra’s touch stole the pain away the moment it awoke. Isidro swiftly looked away when he saw the black bruises and turgid skin, and the swollen, livid gash that ran the length of his forearm.
‘Issey, I don’t like the look of this. I’m going to get Rasten.’ She closed her eyes, and he felt her begin to reach out with her mind, but before she could make contact, Isidro seized her wrist with his good hand. ‘Sirri, wait. Can he do it? Tell me honestly — can he really leave all that behind?’
She bit her lip, looking away into the still, calm night. ‘Only time will tell.’
Chapter 2
Rain pattered on the leather canopy, pooling around the tent. The morning’s scatter of snow lingered in clumps where there was shelter from the rain, but the brazier lit to burn the sacred incense was enough to keep the chill at bay.
Queen Valeria knelt between a pair of guards. Through the proceedings, she never lifted her eyes from Mira’s face. When brought out to face the priest who would hear the charges against her, and the man in the black leather mask who would carry out the sentence, she’d lunged at Mira with her bare hands and in the struggle her gleaming yellow hair had come loose from its coif. Her hands were now bound behind her back, as Valeria stared with undisguised disgust at Mira’s swollen belly.
‘Honoured priest,’ Mira said, bowing her head to the red-robed man beside the brazier. ‘You have heard the accusations. What is the will of the Gods?’
‘Oh, move it along, girl,’ Valeria hissed. ‘You’re wasting time. If you were in my place I’d have that mongrel whelp out of your belly and crushed under a boot by now.’
‘Be silent, Mistress Angessovar, or —’
‘Or what? You’ll have me gagged, and deny a dying woman her last words? You may think you’ve won, girl, but nothing good will come of a babe born of my son’s rotten seed —’
‘My lady,’ the priest said, ‘there is no need to drag this out. The woman has done all you say and more. She usurped the throne after Queen Leandra’s death, and committed treason against the rightful heir. She has harboured a sorcerer —’
‘Not a sorcerer,’ Mira said. ‘A Blood-Mage, who tortured and killed thousands to secure her stolen throne.’ She’d spent far too long explaining this point already. The priest saw no difference, but Mira insisted her accusations be recorded exactly as she stated.
The priest shrugged. ‘As you say, my lady. The Gods are satisfied — her guilt is clear, and the law of the land states that she must die.’ He turned to the bound woman. ‘Mistress Angessovar, you may have a few moments to make your peace with your gods —’
‘If you’re waiting for me to weep and plead, I’ll die of old age first,’ Valeria spat.
Mira caught the executioner’s eye and he drew his sword with a whisper from the wool-lined sheath.
It was over quickly, but Valeria held Mira’s gaze until the last. Then, as blood filled the air with the scent of butchery, Mira knelt before the altar with its sacred tiger skin while the priest called upon the gods to witness justice done.
While the guards cleared the body away, Mira returned to her tent with shaking hands. She settled into a fur-draped chair as Ardamon strode in, stripping off the leather hood to reveal hair streaked with sweat. Anoa fetched two bowls from the low table behind the stove, but the one she handed him was full of stronger stuff than the tea Mira sipped.
‘Thanks, my love,’ he said, and drained half of it in a gulp. ‘That cursed mask stinks of sweat. I felt like I was suffocating.’
‘Well,’ Mira said, passing a hand across her face, ‘it’s done, at last.’
‘Surely you’re not sad to see her end?’ Anoa said, hooking her thumbs into her belt, a gesture Mira had seen Cam make so often that she wanted to weep. ‘Not after everything the old bitch has done?’
‘I’m not sad at all,’ Mira said, laying her palms on her swelling belly. ‘Valeria would have stopped at nothing to kill this babe, and I know Cam won’t mourn her. But with her gone, the Akharians can turn their attention to hunting us.’
This had been brewing since the spring, when the Wolf Clan made its truce with the Akharian invaders and promised Mira to a man of their choosing to secure the deal. Mira had been raised to do her duty and when Lady Tarya arranged her first betrothal, to the Angessovar heir, she’d swallowed her reservations and bowed to her mother’s will. The call of duty still nagged at her, as did the thought of one of her younger sisters being pushed forward to take her place, but after all that had happened since winter, Mira could no more accept the clan chief’s will than she could sprout wings and fly.
It was all because of Cam.
She’d abandoned him. At the time Mira had thought it was the right thing to do. She was surrounded by enemies disguised as kinsmen, and though there were plenty of folk who despised the alliance her clan had made, it would take time to shift their loyalty to her. Mira couldn’t protect them. Delphine might be an ingénue in the northern lands, but she had the wit and the skill with mage-craft to keep them hidden, while Cam could keep them alive. Even if it took Mira the whole of the summer to build up a core of loyal men, Cam and Delphine should have been safe hiding in these misty hills. But now the bulk of the summer had passed, her own clan hunted her like an outlaw and there was still no sign of her babe’s father.
Mira bit her lip as she ran her hands over her belly. The child changed everything. Her clan had no use for Cam, but a grandchild fathered by the Angessovar line was the culmination of the chieftain’s dream.
She’d have been wiser to keep them from finding out, but when she’d written that note to Cam at the end of spring, Mira was certain the babe was lost. It had taken her nearly another full month to realise she truly was pregnant after all.
If she’d been quicker on the uptake, she could have kept the knowledge from her mother, but Mira’s serving woman noticed the signs and passed word to the chieftain.
The foreign betrothal had been put on hold at once, and Tarya wrote to Mira promising that all rebellion would be forgiven if she came home.
Mira laughed when she read the request, knowing Tarya never imagined that she would obey. By that point she had dozens of contacts within the clan, both nobles and servants. No doubt some of them were double agents, but not all. Cam was well liked because of everything he’d done to free the slaves. The same messenger who brought Tarya’s letter delivered missives from Mira’s other contacts, warning her that the chieftain was taking steps to force Mira bac
k into her clan’s protection.
So Mira gathered her loyal followers and set out after the old queen, the only one of her enemies she had a hope of defeating.
In the beginning, the Mesentreians’ situation was so desperate that the Akharians could have wiped them out with ease. But the Wolf Clan fed them false information, allowing Valeria to slip away while her forces grew stronger. With each passing day those in the south flocked to her banners, desperate to defend their lands from the Slavers.
This misdirection had one aim — to let Valeria’s forces drive Mira back into the shelter of her clan. The Akharians were still a danger, despite the alliance. The Slavers knew possessing her meant possessing the heir to the Ricalani throne. But the Akharians would keep her alive, whereas Valeria would kill her and the child both. Valeria had had no hope of defeating the Akharian forces, but she had her own candidate for heir: Osebian’s mistress was said to be pregnant as well. It was only a rumour, but Valeria’s entire strategy seemed based around it. She avoided engaging the Akharians and set her men to searching for Mira. Once Valeria killed Mira, they said, she would retreat to Mesentreia and raise a new army to take back her kingdom, or else make a truce with the Akharians and set up herself and the new babe as puppet rulers.
Since a willing puppet was better than an unwilling one, and the Akharians were bound to realise the Wolf Clan was leading them astray, Mira took matters into her own hands. Now, after months of manoeuvring, Valeria was dead, and the remainder of her soldiers were pinned down by Akharian forces. The nearest threat to Mira and her baby was ended, but that only left room for another to step into the gap. Who would come next? The Akharians, seeking legitimacy for the ruler of their puppet province? Or her clan, who would remove the baby from her as soon as it was born?
‘Mira?’ Ardamon said. She vaguely recalled hearing him speak, the words barely registering through her reverie.
