Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  It was the should that worried her, but that didn’t stop her from taking a deep breath—as deep as she could manage under the constricting bandages—and setting out into the night.

  She passed through the sleepy village, out the gateway arch, and skirted the edge of Sanna Farm in the dark. She knew which way the crusaders had run after their confrontation, and she hoped it would point the way to their camp. Leaving the safety of the open fields, she ducked into the woods.

  Leaves crunched underfoot and twigs snapped in her wake, muffled by the endless trill of crickets. She felt loud, obvious, like there was no chance they wouldn’t glean her real identity from a mile away. Still, when she caught the glint of torchlight in a clearing up ahead, no sentry strode forth to challenge her. She tugged the hood of her cloak farther down over her shadowed face, steeled herself, and approached the campsite.

  Rough hide tents stood among the trees, the camp unplanned and haphazard, while a few haggard-looking crusaders had just dropped where they stood and slept on beds of dead leaves. More than a dozen now. Stragglers must have caught up with the advance scouts, and not all of them were unarmed. She counted a couple of crude swords and more than a handful of skinning knives, while others had armed themselves with serviceable clubs made from chunks of fallen branches. She caught a foul scent on the wind, a stream of smoke from a cook fire, and she followed her nose to the sound of tired conversation.

  “I’m telling you,” said a man with a tangled beard, crouching at the fire’s edge and cradling a crusty bottle of wine, “don’t eat that rot. The duck’s gone off. You can tell by the color and the smell. One bite of that and you’ll be shitting yourself for a week.”

  Another crusader wrinkled his nose as he stirred a small pot over the fire. “It’s this or my boot leather. Not going to sleep with a pinched stomach again tonight. Damn those Carcannan peasants. Why couldn’t they just give us what we wanted?”

  “Just wait. Latest runner said the main column is about three days behind us.”

  “And?” the other asked. “Did they meet up with the supply lines? Are they bringing food?”

  “Nope. But they’re bringing Duke Segreti’s cousin. Poor bastard doesn’t even know his kin’s dead yet. Now me, I’d be fine with riding in there, taking what we need and moving on, but you know how these nobles get. Won’t surprise me if he makes us burn the place to the ground and salt the earth on our way out.”

  “So there’s going to be food either way is what you’re saying.”

  Renata moved on, keeping her face turned away from the fire’s glow.

  Soft voices caught her ear. By the edge of the camp, two young men sat at the foot of a dead and crooked tree. Twins, muss-haired and barely old enough to sprout bristle on their cheeks. One had his knees propped up, leaning his head against his arms.

  “Everything they told us, that we’d have shiny armor and swords and horses, and women would be throwing themselves at us…it was all a lie.”

  “It was not a lie,” his brother said. “We’re just off course. Once we reach the border and regroup with the others, everything will be fine.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “We can’t go home. Even if we could find our way back, what are we going to tell Mother and Father? That we just quit? Gave up? That’ll fill the larder, won’t it? No. We’re staying the course and seeing this through. We’ll come home with bags and bags of Caliphate gold, and we’ll fix the roof and buy a new cow. No, two cows.”

  The twin with the bowed head slumped a little more.

  “Achille…I don’t want to hurt these people. Fighting the heathens is one thing. I mean, they’re barely human, but…this is Carcanna. These are faithful people, just like us.”

  His brother leaned over and gave his shoulder a vigorous rub. “Aw, we’re not gonna have to hurt anybody. We’ll put a good scare into ’em and they’ll all run away. Just wait, you’ll see.”

  “But what if they don’t?”

  His brother didn’t have an answer for that. At least not one that he wanted to give voice to. Renata’s cloak swirled as she turned away.

  “You, there!” called a man by another cook fire, silhouetted in the shifting light. He wobbled on his feet, slurring his words. “Boy! I’m talking to you.”

  She shot a fast glance to her left. He was looking her way. Moving now, following her on unsteady legs. She walked faster, pretending she hadn’t heard him, fighting the urge to break into a run.

  “Boy,” he shouted again. “Don’t you ignore me!”

  Lips pursed, her heart pounding against the taut bandages, Renata wound her way around silent tents and sleeping men while her pursuer staggered closer. The thick of the forest wasn’t far away. A quick dash through the woods and she’d be within sight of home. She just had to make it that far.

  At the edge of the woods, as she picked her way over a tangle of briars, he caught up with her. He grabbed her arm in a vise grip and yanked hard, spinning her around.

  “When your elders are talking, you’d best learn to—” He froze, squinting, eyes bleary but growing sharper by the second. She recognized him: one of the crusaders who had come to Sanna Farm. The one who said she’d hang for what she’d done.

  And he recognized her, too.

  “You,” he said, then turned to shout to the others. As he drew a deep breath, a stout length of hickory whistled through the air. The knobby walking stick cracked across the back of his head and dropped him to the brambles, out cold and bleeding.

  Gallo Parri eyed the stick in his hands, running a thumb over a freshly minted crack in the wood. “Damn shame, breaking a perfectly good hiking staff on an idiot’s skull,” he muttered. “Still, when he wakes up, he’ll be glad I didn’t use my blade instead.”

  Renata stared at him, catching her breath. “You…you saved me. Thank you.”

  “Thank the Gardener for that one. I only came around to scout their numbers and get a feel for their intentions. Which…something tells me you’ve already done. Industrious lass, aren’t you?”

  “They have good numbers and bad intentions,” she told him.

  “As I feared. We should get away from here. Quickly.”

  They made their way through the wood together, heading back to Kettle Sands.

  “But why are you here?” she asked him. “What about everything you said today about running before it was too late?”

  “Did a lot of thinking on the road away from here. Then I did a lot of thinking on my way back. Decided you were right.”

  “No,” Renata said, “you were right.”

  Gallo shrugged. “We can both be right, then. Point is, it didn’t sit well with me, turning my back on trouble. You a woman of faith?”

  “I am.”

  “My friend Amadeo, he’s big on the Parable of the Lazy Apprentice. Always liked that one. It’s simple enough for a man like me to wrap his head around: if you can help, you should help. And I think your village is going to be needing a lot of help. Name’s Gallo Parri, by the way, formerly of the papal guard. A man in search of peaceful retirement, and evidently not fated to find one.”

  “Renata Nicchi. And yes, it’s going to need a lot of help. Neither side is going to back down. One way or another, there’s a fight brewing.”

  “Well met, Signorina Nicchi. So, that tavern in town, know if it’s still open?”

  She chuckled. “I work there. It’s open as long as you want it to be open. Clean beds, too.”

  “Good. How about you and I go sit down over two tall tankards of beer and figure out how we’re going to save your village?”

  “Let’s make it four,” she said. “We’ve got thirsty work ahead of us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sunlight pushed its fingers around the corners of heavy curtains. Livia lay flat on her bed, arms splayed at her sides, staring up at the ceiling. Every time she moved, her body punished her with a flood of fresh nausea. It was one of those mornings.

  Squirrel�
�s book was gone. Someone knew. Someone knew what she had and what she’d been dabbling in. Someone knew what she’d done. So where was the consequence? Where was the accusing finger, or the blackmail letter slipped under her door? The silence, the waiting, was worse than anything she could imagine. Every glance in her direction, every veiled whisper, felt like her doom about to descend. At this point she would have welcomed it, just to get relief from the endless tension.

  Yet it didn’t happen. The sword above her head dangled there, twisting on a frayed strand of string that refused to break.

  And something was wrong inside her body. The headaches and the nausea had only gotten worse after saving Kailani’s life. She fought through it and got her work done—she would always fight through it—but she knew it wasn’t a problem to be ignored. Someone, somewhere out there, had to know how to help her.

  She already knew who to call upon, she realized. And though Squirrel’s book was gone, the memory of a spell she’d cast in her father’s mansion stayed with her, indelibly inked upon the skin of her mind. Livia pushed herself up, sucking breath between clenched teeth, and stumbled to her washroom and locked the door behind her.

  The ingredients were simple. A porcelain basin, filled halfway with standing water. A razor blade. A string of words, felt more in her heart than on her lips. And a swift, decisive cut.

  She knew the chant. Or the chant knew her. The words tumbled from her lips as the tension grew inside her body, muscles going taut, her stomach clenched with a sudden hunger. The pressure built like a storm cloud inside her skull until she spat the last syllable of the last word and drew the blade across her forearm.

  The power gusted out of her and the pressure erupted as the blood flowed, torn flesh welling up then leaking crimson into the basin. Blood splashed and spread in the water, turning it into a ruby mirror.

  Livia caught her breath, suddenly weak as a kitten, and prayed for an answer. Then she realized the absurdity of prayer at a time like this and fell into a contemplative silence.

  * * *

  Nessa and Mari strolled along a breezy merchant road, taking in the sun. Sometimes they spoke, sharing stories of their past, tiny memories, and sometimes they fell into a companionable silence. A wagon with a two-horse team rattled by, kicking up dust, and they moved farther to the roadside to keep clear. Their forearms brushed. Nessa wore a small, private smile.

  Then something squeezed tight in the back of her mind, like a finger plucking a taut harp string. Playing a familiar one-note tune.

  “I’m being called,” she said and snapped her fingers at Mari. “Come, we need to find a puddle, something with stagnant water. Dig my mask out of the pack.”

  “Called?” Mari asked, following on Nessa’s heels.

  “It’s an amusing trick, and useful. Might be Despina, letting us know where she and her brother have gotten themselves off to.”

  * * *

  Livia waited two minutes, then five, then ten, pressing a towel to her cut as she stared into the ruby mirror. The bloody water sat still and silent.

  I did it wrong, she thought, or she just won’t—

  The water rippled, and the mask of a horned owl peered out, curious. Another woman, one she didn’t recognize, stood silent at the far edge of the reflection.

  “Well, well, well,” said the Owl. “Livia Serafini. Oops. Pope Livia Serafini. You’ll understand if I don’t kiss your ring.”

  “I need your help,” Livia told the image.

  “After as much trouble as you’ve caused? Hmph. Some nerve. What, you want Squirrel’s spellbook back?”

  Livia’s eyes widened. “You know where it is?”

  “Liberated by one of my coven brothers. Oh, don’t worry, he won’t tell anyone. I’m on my way to kill him right now.”

  Livia leaned her head back and sighed with relief, the tension draining from her body as if she’d pulled a plug in her foot to let it all out. No fingers were pointing her way. The sword above her head wasn’t going to drop.

  “I think,” she said, “I made a mistake.”

  “Your mistake was not inviting me into your home for tea, even after I asked you so politely. I know what you did, Livia. I felt it. Every competent witch within a thousand leagues felt it. You cast a spell of your very own, didn’t you? No training, no ritual, just instinct. Like the magic wanted to burst right out of you.”

  She nodded slowly. “We were under attack. There were assassins everywhere, and one had her fingers around my throat. I was going to die. I let the power out and they just…vanished.”

  “Well, good news and bad news. The good news is that you’re a phenomenal natural talent. With training and discipline, you could have become one of the greatest witches to ever live.”

  “Could have?”

  “Right,” the Owl said, “well, that’s the bad news. Half of the craft—the half you never even began to learn—is protecting ourselves from the powers we call upon. You opened your mind to the Shadow In-Between without a shield or a care, and it buried its seeds deep inside you. Like a thorn, snapping off and leaving a sharp splinter behind. You’re feeling sick, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Livia said, “I am. Headaches, and my stomach. Is there a cure?”

  “Oh, sure,” the Owl said, waving an idle hand. “There’s an easy home remedy. You’ll be up and on your feet in no time.”

  Livia’s squeezed the edges of the basin, leaning closer to the water. “Truly?”

  The Owl threw her head back, cackling with amusement.

  “No. You’re going to suffer a horrible and agonizing death. There’s no cure. And that’s what you get for not inviting me for tea.”

  Livia felt the world drop out from under her feet. She’d come so far, accomplished so much, but there was still so much to be done. Still a Church that needed to be saved and healed. No, she thought, it doesn’t end like this. It can’t.

  “How long?” she asked, dreading the answer. “How long do I have?”

  “Days? Weeks? A month at most. There…is a way of prolonging your life, though, possibly even for years. A simple potion, something to boost your body’s natural defenses. I could teach you how to make it.”

  “Please,” Livia said. “Tell me what to do. I’m not done. I…I need more time.”

  “Hmm. You know, I’m not convinced you want it badly enough.”

  A tear ran down Livia’s cheek as she clenched her hands at her sides, struggling to hold her quavering voice steady.

  “Please. I am begging you. I’ll do anything you want, anything, but I need more time!”

  The Owl chuckled.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, “I suppose I can grant you some small kindness. But be warned, Livia: this tonic—which you must take every day, without fail—will only preserve your life. It will not halt the spreading sickness inside your body.”

  “What…what do you mean?”

  “Meaning that the longer you cling to life, the more…side effects will manifest. Here, I’ll give you a peek into your future: go look up a man named Gregor Werre. He was a monk in a Murgardt chantry about a hundred years ago. You’ll find his story quite enlightening.”

  Livia shook her head. “I don’t care about side effects. All I care about is getting the time I need. I’ve come too far. This can’t be the end of me. It can’t.”

  “As you wish. Now listen carefully. You’ll need the following herbs, dried, chopped, in these exact proportions…”

  * * *

  It had been a minor mistake. A lapse of timing. The Browncloaks who guarded Livia’s chamber door had a shift change in the late morning, and the arriving pair thought—incorrectly—that Livia had already gone out for the day. So when Amadeo arrived with a bundle of parchment in his arms, a delivery for their mistress’s eyes only, they were happy to let him inside to leave it for her.

  The paperwork was an excuse. Amadeo thought she was out, too, making it a perfect time to keep his promise to Sister Columba. Just a quick search of
her things, he thought. Once I fail to find this “spellbook” Columba thinks she saw, or anything else of ill design, I can go back and lay her fears to rest.

  He still felt sick to his stomach. Livia was his friend. More than that, they’d passed through fire together, facing down her mad brother and his army of killers hand in hand. This was a betrayal, pure and simple.

  But it’s a betrayal for a good cause, strange as that sounds, he reasoned. The alternative is Sister Columba taking her story to anyone who will listen and tarnishing Livia’s name. Once I prove there’s nothing untoward going on, she’ll have to—

  He froze, hearing a voice behind the closed washroom door.

  A chant.

  He crept closer, his feet light on the cold stone floor, and listened as the chant became a conversation.

  Amadeo was pale when he emerged from Livia’s chamber, and the sheaf of papers trembled in his hand. “I made a mistake,” he said to the Browncloaks. “Brought her the wrong documents to sign. I’ll…I’ll come back later.”

  Let this be another nightmare, he silently prayed as he wandered through the halls of the keep, aimless. But he knew it wasn’t. Not the kind he could wake up from.

  And not one he could turn a blind eye to. As a man of the soil, his duty to the Church was clear.

  His duty to his friend, that was far less certain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The bombing of the Ducal Arch had wounded Mirenze but couldn’t cripple it. The City of Coins was still the jewel of Verinia, its salmon-roofed estates and stucco bell towers a monument to the engines of commerce. Nessa wrinkled her nose as she and Mari made their way across the bustling market square.

  “Look at them,” she said. “Squandering their precious, scant years grubbing for bits of shiny metal. No passion. No meaning. I see some of these people and think, you know what would change their lives for the better? One moment of genuine, stark, soul-deep terror.”