Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  “It’s not even the first time,” one of the laborers said, grunting as he hauled back on a rooted tent peg. “I heard one of those—I don’t know what they are, the people in the brown cloaks that follow her around. He said assassins jumped ’em in the queen’s gardens, and the Gardener’s hand came down and swept them all away.”

  “Aw, they’re making that up,” said the worker at his side. “I bet nothing even happened at the parade today, neither. Just people getting all worked up and seeing things.”

  “What, you don’t believe in miracles?”

  The man shrugged, rocking a stubborn tent peg back and forth in the dirt with both hands. “Sure. But centuries ago, like in the scriptures. Not today, here in Lychwold of all places. And if the Gardener’s so hot to show us Livia’s the real thing, why doesn’t he just…I don’t know, hit Carlo with a bolt of lightning?”

  “You,” said his partner, “need to go to church.”

  Amadeo left them to their argument, strolling past as he looked for anyone needing a helping hand. What he found, instead, was Sister Columba. The elderly woman—once Pope Benignus’s personal aide, and one of the key conspirators in the early fight against Carlo—gave a hesitant tug at Amadeo’s cassock sleeve.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “Of course, Sister. What’s on your mind?”

  “Not here. Alone.”

  They walked away from the bustle of the workers, the tent city in slow-motion collapse at their backs. They found a shady spot by a full wagon waiting to be hitched up and hauled away. Columba looked Amadeo in the eye. Then her gaze dropped.

  “I have committed,” she told him, “an unforgivable sin.”

  He blinked and reached out to touch her shoulder. She flinched, jerking away.

  “I’m not convinced that such a sin exists,” Amadeo said, “much less that you’ve committed it. Talk to me, Columba. Share your burden.”

  “You’ve heard this talk about Livia. And her miracle.”

  He couldn’t miss how her wrinkled eyes tightened when she spoke Livia’s name, or the way she practically spat the last word.

  “I have. I wasn’t there, myself, but many bore witness. They’re taking it as a sign, the Gardener himself proving Livia’s right to rule.”

  She put her withered hands to her eyes. They came away wet.

  “Father,” she said, her voice breaking, “I tried so hard to stay silent. I hoped…perhaps she’d see the light and confess on her own. Or…I don’t know what I hoped. I helped raise that girl. I loved her too much to turn her in. But that doesn’t make what I did any less wrong.”

  Amadeo glanced around, making sure they were still out of earshot.

  “Sister, what are you saying?”

  “It wasn’t a miracle,” Columba told him. “Livia is a witch.”

  She described the night of their escape from Carlo’s palace, the night of the Alms District massacre. She’d walked into Livia’s chambers and discovered a scene of horror. Blood on the floor, scrawled in unholy shapes. Blood on the dead, mutilated parakeet. Blood on the knitting needle in Livia’s hands.

  “And beside her on the floor,” Columba said, “a book with that same pattern inked on its pages. A book of spells.”

  Amadeo’s face had gone ashen.

  “I passed two of Carlo’s men on my way to her rooms,” she told him. “Do you remember the barracks fire?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Some of Gallo’s troops set it as a distraction.”

  “There were soldiers sleeping in that barracks. Carlo’s men were in a panic because they weren’t waking up. Lying in the middle of a fire, and they weren’t waking up. I think Livia did it. I think she was trying to escape on her own. With witchcraft.”

  Amadeo thought back to the exodus, standing at the prow of an overloaded fishing boat as they sailed from the burning waterfront.

  “Two hours,” Livia had murmured in her grief. And then: “It’s my fault they died.”

  If she had escaped on her own, Amadeo thought, if we hadn’t led Carlo’s mercenaries to the Alms District…the massacre wouldn’t have happened.

  “I should have told you,” Columba said, on the verge of sobbing. “I should have told someone, anyone. Father…we helped to put a witch on the papal throne. Those aren’t miracles she’s working. It’s pure damnation from the Barren Fields. She’s not here to save our Mother Church; she’s here to destroy it. And it’s my fault.”

  Amadeo gritted his teeth, shooting another furtive glance toward the refugee camp. “Columba, these are…very serious accusations.”

  “I know what I saw. I know what she did.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

  She met his gaze, looking forlorn. Adrift.

  “Who could I tell? If I held my tongue any longer, I’d watch this Church—everything I’ve ever loved, everything I’ve ever cared for—burn. If I spoke up, I might be fanning the flames even faster. There’s no victory here, Father. There’s no right answer, just…different degrees of wrong.”

  He held up a hand, trying to calm her.

  “Do this for me: hold your silence a bit longer. Let me look into it. I’m still close to Livia, or at least I think I am. I’ll investigate and find out if your fears are true.”

  She rubbed her eyes, composing herself, and took a deep breath.

  “And then?”

  “And then,” Amadeo said, “we take appropriate action.”

  He left her there, walking back to the refugee camp and lending his sore hands to help tear down a tent. He needed physical labor just then. Something to distract him from the whirlwind in his mind.

  He wanted to think Columba was mistaken. The night of the escape had been scarring for everyone. In all the fear, all the chaos, it would have been easy for her to misunderstand what she was seeing. As he hauled on the tent ropes, he imagined all the coincidences she might have confused, the details she could have misinterpreted. As much as he tried, though, he kept coming back around to the same two questions.

  What if Columba is right?

  And if she is, what am I going to do about it?

  CHAPTER TEN

  In the torchlit clearing, standing before the black basalt altar, Mari felt the weight of the sacrificial dagger in her hand.

  She felt the weight of the coven’s eyes, too, every bone mask and bared face turned to face her.

  “I can’t do this,” she said softly. “Nessa, he’s…he’s tied up. He’s defenseless.”

  “So?” Nessa replied, arching a sharp eyebrow.

  “So a—a knight doesn’t do that. A knight only fights in honorable combat.”

  “Mari. Look inside yourself and answer me truly: does this man deserve to die for what he’s done?”

  She thought back to the flames. The smell that hung in the air that day, charred flesh and charred wood. The shrieks of the girl on the pyre, shrill and inhuman as terror turned into raw agony.

  Mari locked eyes with the mayor of Kettle Sands, bound to the altar stone. “He does.”

  “So if I were to cut him loose and put a weapon in his hand, would it be all right for you to kill him then?”

  She blinked. “I…suppose? I think so.”

  “But it wouldn’t really,” Nessa said. “Because you’ve had years of battle under your belt, and he’s had none. Give him a sword? Might as well be a toothpick. He’d have no chance against you, just as if he were bound. So, is it therefore impossible for you to render justice in this case?”

  That didn’t sound right. Mari frowned, working her way through it.

  “It shouldn’t be, but…Nessa, knights have rules. They’re not supposed to murder helpless prisoners. It’s dishonorable.”

  “This isn’t a murder, Mari. It’s a purification.”

  She turned Mari to face her, fixing her with her gaze.

  “Just like the brigands you killed in Lunegloire to avenge Werner’s death. Just like the
soldier you killed to defend me. This is no different. To fight for your liege and her family, to avenge the evils done to them—this is the essence of knightly honor.”

  She took Mari’s hand, raising the dagger between them. The steel caught the torchlight and glowed fire-orange.

  “Do it for your new family,” Nessa said. “Do it for me.”

  Mari looked to the man on the altar. Maybe he caught something in her expression—a hint of mercy, of compassion—and it made him stop struggling. She could see the hope in his eyes, daring to dream she might cut his bonds and set him free.

  She brought the dagger down with both hands and impaled his heart. He howled behind his gag, eyes rolled so far back she could only see the whites, his body bucking under the blade.

  “Good,” Nessa purred. “Now open him. We can divine with the entrails.”

  Mari didn’t hesitate. She dragged the blade downward toward his navel, carving the shrieking man open like a stuffed turkey. Eventually, mercifully, the screaming stopped. Nessa took Mari’s left hand by the wrist and pressed it into the gaping wound, covering her fingers and palm in the hot wash of fresh blood.

  She held Mari’s hand high, showing it to the gathering as scarlet trails dripped down their outstretched arms.

  “Blood for blood,” Nessa cried. “Mark this day, and mark this hand. She has killed for our coven. She has killed for you.”

  Despina stepped forward from the pack and pointed at Mari.

  “I am Shrike, and I declare this woman my sister by blood. Anyone who denies this truth will earn my wrath.”

  “I am Worm,” her brother said, swirled bone mask fixed upon his face, “and I declare the same.”

  Bear glared daggers at them, but he didn’t say a word. Not when others were stepping forward around him, adding their declarations, calling Mari sister, and cousin, and niece.

  A single tear rolled down Mari’s cheek. Her lips curled in a trembling smile.

  “Welcome,” Nessa whispered. “Welcome to my family. And to my service, Lady Knight.”

  * * *

  The assembly dispersed across the glade, the witches gathered in small knots of hushed conversation. Mari followed close at Nessa’s shoulder.

  “The real sabbat hasn’t started yet,” Nessa explained. “We wait for high midnight, for that. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Don’t worry if you don’t know how to dance,” said a towering man in a bull mask, walking up to greet them. He took off his mask and gave Mari a big smile. “I don’t either, nobody cares. I’m Giorgio, by the way.”

  “Mari,” she said with a slight bow.

  Nessa tapped her finger against his chest. “And have you taken time to reconsider my offer?”

  He gave her a pained look, then shot a furtive glance toward the stony tomb at the far edge of the glade.

  “Nessa, c’mon, I can’t.”

  “Fortune favors the brave.”

  “We shouldn’t even—” He looked to the tomb once more and pitched his voice low. “We shouldn’t even be talking about this here.”

  “As you wish,” Nessa said. Her gaze drifted across the clearing. Then her eyes narrowed to slits.

  The party had a late arrival. A lean, silver-haired man in formal dress strode across the grass with purpose, headed straight for the open mouth of the tomb. He carried a book tucked under one stiff arm.

  “Mari, listen carefully.” Nessa shot glances in all directions. “I need to go talk to Moth. Walk over there, discreetly, and get Worm and Shrike. Say the word floodland and return to me at once. They’ll understand.”

  “But what’s—”

  “No questions. Go.” She looked to Giorgio. “I was going to give you more time to choose your side, Bull. All I can offer you is two minutes. Use it wisely.”

  Mari scurried across the clearing as stealthily as she could manage, nervous energy pushing her like a strong wind. All the joy she felt turned into cold iron in her veins when she approached Despina and Vassili.

  “Sister,” Despina purred, reaching for her arm. “We were just—”

  “Floodland,” she whispered.

  Despina put on her mask.

  She and her brother shared a hard-eyed nod. No words, just understanding. Mari turned and rejoined Nessa, who was deep in furtive conversation at the back of the clearing with an elderly moth-masked woman and a stout man wearing an ant’s guise. Nessa cradled her own mask in one hand, like a weapon ready to be drawn. Mari hovered silently, ears and eyes perked, heart beating faster as she recognized the familiar sensation that had taken over her body.

  On instinct, she was preparing for battle.

  “Attention,” cried the voice of a born showman. “May I have your kind attention, please?”

  The man with the silver hair had a mask now, too. A fox. As the coven gathered, all eyes on him, he held the book high in the air.

  “Does this look familiar to anyone?” Fox asked. “A rhetorical question, of course. Only one woman here should know it on sight. It was the journal of our dear, fallen daughter, Squirrel. The apprentice of—and responsibility of—our beloved Owl.”

  Nessa pursed her lips, squaring her footing. Mari moved to stand at her right shoulder and rested her hands on the grips of her fighting batons.

  “And yet,” Fox said, “I found this book in the most interesting place. Can any of you guess? No? Well, I’ll tell you: in the private chambers of Pope Livia Serafini. The sacred writings of this coven—our mysteries, our secrets—have been in the hands of the Church for months.”

  Angry mutters and whispers of disbelief spread across the clearing like a slowly building tide. Condemning eyes fell upon Nessa, who merely raised her chin in defiance.

  Mari realized now, with Vassili and Despina on one side and Moth and Ant on the other, that Nessa had deliberately quarantined her supporters. Gathering them all, in a ragged line, at the clearing’s edge.

  Fox beamed triumphant as he lectured the coven. “There is only one penalty for betraying our trust. Only one punishment worthy of such gross incompetence. Dire Mother, will you speak the price?”

  The graveyard whisper from the tomb door drifted over the gathering, a wisp of cremation smoke in every ear.

  “Death.”

  The rest of the coven clustered at Fox’s back, turning to face Nessa. Two armies, squaring off across the dark, wet grass. Mari counted bodies. They were outnumbered, six against at least thirty. Mari saw Hedy and Giorgio on the other side, both of them looking pained but neither one daring to cross over.

  “Before we carry out our Dire Mother’s sentence,” Fox said, “would the condemned like to speak her final words?”

  Nessa took a step forward and fixed her owl mask over her face.

  “I have but one word. One word for the ‘Dire Mother.’ One word for you, Fox. One word for you all.” She flung out her hand, pointing an accusing finger at the tomb. “Fraud.”

  A rumbling echoed from the tomb like falling rocks, sounding over the shocked murmurs from the crowd.

  “Let’s start with you, then,” Nessa said, her piercing gaze fixed on the tomb door. “Dire Mother? A mother nurtures. A mother teaches and disciplines. A mother leads. You? You’re just a rotten parasite who takes our tributes and gives nothing in return. Lead us to Wisdom’s Grave? Ha! You don’t even know where to start looking. The best thing you could ever do is die and pass your title to me.”

  The Dire’s reply came on a gust of foul-smelling wind. “Kill her.”

  Nobody on Fox’s side moved. Not yet. None of them wanted to be the first to try.

  “And as for the lot of you,” Nessa said, flaring out her feathered cloak and taking in the gathering with a sweep of her hand, “pathetic. I look upon you and I see cowards and fools, grasping at venal wealth and turning your backs on our legacy. Do you know that in Vel Hult parents teach their children to avoid the woods by night, warning that the Shrike will swoop down from the trees and gobble them up?”

  De
spina preened, eyes bright behind her mask.

  “Or,” Nessa went on, “that there are parts of Belle Terre where the sight of a horned owl is considered a portent of doom? We are witches. We are meant to be feared. To be the bearers of dark truths and lessons paid for in blood and tears. To be the nightmare at the heart of the fairy tale. But who fears the lot of you, hmm? Nobody. Nobody at all.”

  Fox balled his hands into frustrated fists. “You should fear us, Owl. You’re looking at your death.”

  Nessa threw back her head and let out a delighted cackle.

  “I’m looking at counterfeits! Pretenders and poseurs who don’t deserve to be called witches, and who I’ve tolerated for far too long. But I can be generous, and so I’ll grant you all a choice. All but you, Fox, because you’re beyond redemption.”

  She took in the crowd, her gaze falling upon every face and mask turned against her.

  “As of now,” Nessa said, “this coven is mine. Bend your knee to me, acknowledge me as the true Dire Mother, and I will forgive you your failures. I will teach you, and I will burn away your weakness and perfect your darkness. However, if anyone here refuses to submit? I will track you down, to the ends of the world if I must, and exterminate you like the embarrassing vermin you are.”

  Fox drew a dagger from his belt, shouting as he took a step forward, urging the others to follow.

  “What are you going to do, Owl? You’re outnumbered more than three to one. You can’t stand against us all at once.”

  Nessa’s lips curled in an amused, lopsided smile.

  “I don’t plan to,” she said. “I’d prefer to hunt you one by one at my leisure. And hunt I will.”

  She snapped her fingers. A tiny spark, like the tail of a lightning bug, drifted from her fingertips. And as it simmered to the grass, Mari understood why Nessa had led her loyalists to stand at the far edge of the clearing.

  The ground erupted. Flames roared up, a burning wall five feet high slicing the glade in half. Through the fire Mari saw Fox jump away in sudden panic, his followers stumbling back.

  “I’ve been treating that strip of grass for two months, waiting for something like this, and she never even poked her head out of that tomb to see what I was doing.” Nessa’s nose wrinkled. She brandished her Cutting Knife. “Inadequate leadership. Watch my back while I carve us a door, Mari. We are leaving.”