by Jon Sprunk
Keegan’s shoulders were hunched as he came up beside Caim. From what he’d heard, the boy had accounted himself well, even leading the outlaws in a counterattack that drove off the duke’s soldiers. Caim hadn’t known much comfort in his life; fool that he was, he’d left the only woman who had ever tried to offer it. He didn’t know what to say. That it got easier? The sentiment sounded hollow even to him, but what else was there to say? The truth? No, better that the boy believed this hurt would pass. She died a warrior, but that doesn’t take away the sting, does it?
“What’s the next step?” Keegan asked.
“Next step in what?”
Keegan jerked his chin back over his shoulder at the men marching behind them. “The plan. Where are we going next?”
Caim gazed ahead through the tree tops. “Back to the castle.”
“And then?”
“And then I go on alone. You’ve done your part.”
Keegan dragged Caim to a halt by his arm. “Hold on. Caedman chose you—”
“I never agreed to anything.”
“No, but you didn’t turn it down either. You owe us.”
Against his better judgment, Caim glanced behind them. The company had slowed to a standstill, the rear elements coming up behind them. His eyes couldn’t help finding the four men who dragged Liana’s travois.
“I don’t owe you,” he told them. “I don’t owe any of you. This isn’t my—”
“My sister believed in you.” Keegan’s voice was no louder than a whisper, but it hit Caim like a club between the eyes, doing more damage than he wanted to admit. “So did Oak, and all the rest who died. You owe it to them to see this through. To the end.”
Caim turned away. He wanted to be alone, responsible for no one.
My sister believed in you.
The words dared him to refute them. He couldn’t. He was prepared to leave them all, except her. He wanted to growl, to lash out, but a shout cut through the chill air.
“Scouts returning!”
Two figures in brown cloaks approached through the maze of evergreens with long, loping strides. The elder of the two, Taun, was a man on the downward slope of his middle years but looking quite hale nonetheless. He leaned on the staff of his unstrung longbow as he caught his breath.
“No sign of our sentries up ahead, sir,” the younger said.
“Maybe they were hiding,” Keegan said.
Taun gave a wolfish grin. “Doubt it. Me and my boy know all the best spots.”
Caim started walking past the men. There were some movements behind him, and then the scouts caught up with him. Taun strode beside him, his son a step behind.
“I can show you where they usually hole up when standing their duty,” the old scout offered.
Caim drew his knife. The sword whispered at his shoulder, but he ignored it. A faint smell lingered in the air. A smell he knew well.
Kit materialized above him. “Caim.”
“I see it,” he whispered.
The mouth of the defile leading to the hidden valley appeared at the apex of the rise before them. Above it, a column of black smoke twisted in the wind.
Caim ran, through the trees, over the wet snow that slid under his feet and kicked up behind him. Heedless of the danger, he charged into the defile and up its stony path. The smell of burning grew and acquired a gut-churning tinge that quickened his pulse. Hard footfalls echoed at his back as he emerged at the summit of the pass. He stopped and gazed down into a scene of desolation. Gasps rose behind him as the others caught up. A choked sob floated out into the smoke-filled air, growing as it echoed down the valley. Knife in hand, Caim plunged down the trail.
Caim kicked over a charred plank of timber. The features of the body underneath were burnt beyond recognition. It had probably been a woman, but even that wasn’t for certain. A tiny mitten lay in the muddy snow beside an overturned pot.
They were too late by more than a day. The settlement had been attacked by men on foot. There had been no defense. No warning. Caim frowned as he strode down the bailey yard. The outlaws kept a continuous watch over this valley, doubly so when he and his company left to raid. How had they been taken unaware?
He found his answer stuck in the matted roof of a longhouse. He pulled it out. A spear, not as long as an infantry lance. Dark whorls marked the steel head, which was affixed to the shaft with tarred gut string. Crude materials, but expertly made. The weapon of a Northman.
“You all right?” Kit asked.
He dropped the spear and looked around. The air was thick with smoke and cinders. “These were the people who couldn’t fight. The old and the young. The injured. They didn’t have a chance.”
“You didn’t start this war, Caim.”
“No. But they were counting on me to end it.”
Caim started walking across the bailey. Kit was only trying to help, but he didn’t want to be soothed. He wanted to be angry. He would feed off of his rage, forge it into a weapon to use against this enemy. Part of him whispered that was the sword talking, but he was past caring.
He found Keegan kneeling outside the ashes of his hut. Two bodies were laid out on the ground; one was Liana’s body, wrapped in linen. Caim sighed as he guessed the identity of the other corpse, covered by the youth’s cloak. He started to reach out to Keegan’s shoulder, but drew back his hand. He knew how the boy felt, to have no one left, but there were no words.
Keegan coughed and rubbed his eyes. “You’re going after them. To Liovard.”
It wasn’t a question, and Caim didn’t have the strength to lie. Blood to answer for blood. What else did he know?
Keegan climbed to his feet. “I’m going with you.”
Kit appeared over their heads. Caim didn’t look at her. Instead, he forced himself to look at the bodies. They made their choices. And now I make mine.
“This has gone far enough,” he said. “I’ll finish the rest alone.”
Keegan turned around. His eyes were red, but no tears marred his face. “You’ll have to kill me to keep me from going, Caim. Otherwise, I’ll be in your shadow the whole way, because I have more issue with Eviskine and his witch than you’ll ever have. This isn’t your land. These aren’t your family. You don’t have any idea—”
The cry of a nightfisher echoed through the keep. Caim held onto the boy’s gaze, not sure what to do.
Kit descended to hover by his side. “They’ve found Caedman.”
Hearing her so subdued, he knew it wasn’t good news.
They had to push through a small crowd of onlookers to reach the tower. They found Caedman inside, tied to his bed frame. His killers had taken their time. His eyes had been gouged out, his tongue sliced off and pinned to his bare chest with a bone-handled dirk in a sign as old as warfare. The mark of a traitor. Killian was laid out at the foot of the bed, his severed head resting upon his chest, eyes staring at the doorway.
The outlaws muttered among themselves. To Caim it made too much sense. Caedman had been a different man after his imprisonment. Everyone said so, but the strangeness they’d all attributed to torture had been, in fact, something more devious. The witch had used him to find them.
Keegan pointed to the man who had started this uprising. “Now what say you? This needs to be answered.”
Caim gritted his teeth until his jaws ached. “I know.”
“Then take me with you. We’ll kill the duke together. We’ll kill every last Eviskine!”
“Aye!” another called out. “I’ll go!”
Caim lowered his head as the voices grew into a chorus. Kit watched him from a corner of the room, not saying anything. She didn’t have to.
“All right.”
The crowd grew quiet.
“Come with me if you want.” Caim looked to Keegan. “But no more playing soldier.”
Keegan made a small, mean smile. “Aye. Just as you say.”
The others echoed him until Caim lifted up a hand.
“Listen to me. This will be no battle of honor.
There aren’t enough of us for that. No one will sing songs of valor about us, and the blood you spill will follow you all the days of your lives. You understand?”
They didn’t need to say it; he saw it in their eyes. The eyes of men eager to lay down their lives. It was like looking into a mirror.
“Bury your dead. We leave at dawn.”
After a last look at the ruin they’d made of the outlaw leader, Caim left with Keegan, back to help the boy with his family. Then he would try to get some rest, knowing sleep wouldn’t find him for a long time to come.
He had murder on his mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The house was an empty shell. From where she stood on the dried-up yard, Josey could see into the interior, gutted and charred. Half the roof had collapsed. A shambles that had once been her home.
The parlor where her foster father had taught her to play the harpsichord was charred and ruined, all the furnishings gone. I wish he was here now. I could use his advice.
Josey touched her stomach through the heavy coat. A life was growing inside her. Soon it would be plain for all to see, and that would bring questions, for which she had no answers. She’d only ever been with two men, but either could have planted this seed within her. No! It is Caim’s child. Please, lords in heaven, let it be so.
A shadow came from around the back of the manor and slowly resolved into Master Hirsch. The adept stopped a score of paces away and turned toward the sagging arbor so he could pretend he wasn’t watching her. Josey leaned against a decorative fountain and squeezed her eyes shut. What kind of world am I delivering a child into? Violence stalks the streets of my city. If the riots can’t be quelled, I may be forced to flee for my life, for the second time. Is this how my mother felt before the revolution?
A horseman rode down the street and stopped at the gate where Captain Drathan kept vigil. The captain had been against her coming out so late, but Josey had overruled him. She needed to get away from the palace, which had begun to feel like a prison. Voices murmured, and then someone entered the yard. She was surprised to see it was Hubert. She’d left him in his office to work out the details of their Akeshian problem.
“Majesty,” he said as he approached. “I’ve just received word from the north.”
Josey’s stomach fluttered. “Word from Caim?”
“No, from the unit that was sent to the border. Colonel Restian reports that his company was attacked near Durenstile by brigands, or men disguised as brigands. There seems to be some uncertainty on the matter. But the colonel has retreated to the town to await reinforcements.”
Another horseman cantered up to the gate. Reinforcements? She didn’t have enough soldiers to keep the peace here in Othir. What could she do for Colonel Restian?
“How long can they hold out?”
“The town is well fortified,” Hubert answered. “But provisions will become a problem unless we establish a supply line.”
“Send a message to Duke Mormaer. Ask what aid he can send.”
“Mormaer may be reluctant to volunteer additional resources, having just sent a levy of troops to quell the problems in the west. Perhaps Count Dervest of Valia could be persuaded to help. I believe his wife is from one of the border provinces.”
“Ask them both. And draw up a list of other lords who have ties to the north. Maybe we can string together a coalition …”
Josey let the words fade away as Captain Drathan rushed across the dead grass, a hand clamped on the pommel of his sword. She couldn’t bear any more bad news. Her insides felt as delicate as spun glass.
The captain made a quick salute. “There is trouble on the Opuline, Majesty. Lord Farthington’s estate is under siege by a mob of rioters.”
Anastasia!
Josey fought to keep her voice from trembling. “Is anyone hurt?”
“Not that we’ve heard, but the crowd is sizable and determined. The estate will fall if something is not done.”
Josey headed for the gate. “Captain, assemble the guardsmen to meet us on the way to Opuline Hill.”
“Majesty, I don’t advise—”
“Do as I ask, or turn in your commission.”
He saluted and sprinted ahead of her, calling his men to arms. Josey was glad she’d worn her riding leathers as she shrugged off her bulky jacket. She thrust it into Hubert’s arms as he jogged to keep up.
“Majesty, this is a matter for the watch.”
“Then why aren’t they handling it?”
He grimaced. “I admit that may be a problem, but your friendship with the Lady Farthington is well known. This attack may be a trap meant to—”
“I’m going, Hubert.”
Hirsch appeared as Josey exited the gate. Her bodyguards waited, their weapons bared. The adept cleared his throat.
“Let me go ahead and check it out, lass. Before you ride out all hot and bothered.”
Josey shot him a look that must have been fierce, because it shut him up without further comment. Hubert opened his mouth.
She held up a finger. “Don’t say it.”
“I’m going with you.”
Josey paused. She could see the vehemence in his gaze. “I—I’m flattered, Lord Chancellor, but perhaps you should return to the palace. I believe Captain Drathan can handle my protection.”
“Majesty, I insist.” He stammered when she arched an eyebrow. “I mean, please allow me to go.”
Josey turned toward the horses. “All right, Hubert. But we must leave at once.”
Captain Drathan waited with a pair of soldiers in battered scale armor.
“We’re ready, Majesty,” the captain said. “I sent word to strip every man-at-arms from their post. These are the men who brought the message. Major Volek and Sergeant Merts. They recently arrived from Mecantia.”
One of the soldiers was quite large, bigger even than Markus had been, while the other was only an inch or two taller than she was. Both had firm, deep-set eyes that reminded her of Caim. Hard men. Not the kind to disintegrate under pressure. Each had a sigil of a jungle cat in red enamel stamped over their hearts.
“I don’t recognize your insignia,” Josey said.
“We’re Crimson Tigers, ma’am,” the sergeant said. “Army special tactics and reconnaissance.”
“We would like to ride with you, Majesty,” the major said. “If you’ll have us.”
“Fine,” Josey said. “Now let’s go.”
A trooper stood ready with her steed. Just the sight of the magnificent gray stallion made her blood quicken. True to his name, Lightning had required every ounce of her skill to manage on their short rides around the palace grounds. Now she would see if she had truly mastered him. Stepping onto the box provided, she slid into the high-cantled saddle. As soon as her toes touched the stirrups, the stallion jerked sideways.
“Easy, big boy,” she whispered. “Don’t make me regret this.”
She settled into the seat as the soldier handed up the reins. The stallion’s ears twitched, but he stopped fidgeting. With the captain leading, they rode down the Esquiline’s broad avenues to the base of the hill, where they met the rest of her bodyguards. Josey looked over them. Three score men, but they looked pitifully few for the task. Major Volek and Sergeant Merts sat apart on tall, broad-chested warhorses.
Captain Drathan approached her. “At your order, Majesty.”
“Ride, Captain. And let nothing stop us.”
At his command, the soldiers filed past the rows of darkened homes. Josey was afforded a place in their center. Hirsch, his face hidden within the hood of his cloak, rode on one side of her, and Hubert on the other. The Crimson Tigers followed behind. When Josey glanced over her shoulder, Major Volek winked through the slit of his lowered visor.
The streets resounded with the noise of the company, the horses’ steel shoes ringing against the hard stones like a continuous peal of thunder. The forward riders galloped ahead to clear a path, even though the streets were empty. Here, where the feet of th
e five hills of Othir met, the palaces of venerable noble families lined wide boulevards. Beyond the walls surrounding the manors they passed, Josey caught glimpses of expansive gardens and parks. The city has two faces. This one is like a beautiful dream. And the other, torn by violence and pillage, is a nightmare. Can they ever be reconciled? She didn’t know, and that apprehension created a cold lump in her chest.
The company passed through a string of plazas. As they passed through the largest, the Pleazzo, with its quartet of famous Sighing Fountains splashing in the empty silence, Josey’s thoughts went to the emperors who had ruled this city before her. History spoke of the hardships they had faced. Would the line end with her? It was a daunting thought.
They rode out of the Pleazzo and up the Opuline Way. Refuse filled the street. Broken windows watched their passage with jagged stares. A boutique specializing in ladies’ hats had been gutted; wreaths of smoke rose from its blackened remains. With a start, Josey recognized the store. She had bought a hat here just months ago, but it seemed like an eternity. That was the day she had met Hubert for the first time, the day her life had changed forever. Josey looked up at the skyline. The hill rose steeply for several blocks before leveling off in a rounded plateau, its summit occupied by gate-lined avenues and haughty manors. When High Town was first built, the richest families had settled here on the Opuline, which offered the best views of the countryside beyond the city’s walls.
As Captain Drathan led the company up the boulevard, a wild susurrus filled the air. Josey stood up in her stirrups to see over the shoulders of her guards. Clouds of black smoke blanketed the hilltop. Hubert and then Hirsch urged their steeds ahead, and Major Volek and Sergeant Merts came up on either side of her. She tried to make eye contact with the soldiers, but both men’s gazes were focused on the streets, the rooftops, the alleyways. Just like Caim.
She remembered watching Caim sleep in their room at Madam Sanya’s brothel, how he had tossed and twitched like a man possessed by horrible nightmares. She longed to feel his strong arms around her.
A wail snapped Josey’s attention toward the front of the company. Grand mansions clad in marble and granite rose along the avenue. Household guards congregated behind their stout gates, but so far these manors looked to have escaped the wrath of the rioters. The smoke lay farther up. The pall lay thickest ahead, where a massive statue marked the center of Torvelli Square. Fear wrapped its iron fingers around Josey’s throat as the vanguard of her soldiers accelerated into a canter.
