We stayed on the road, taking a trader’s path that led up over a low point in Mount Whitecrown’s long shoulder toward the closest mountain village across the border in Callamorne. Ruven must have been busy, because the trees seemed content to behave like a normal forest; they hadn’t been grown and nursed on hatred of us, like those in Sevaeth. We occasionally heard large things moving in the woods, or an ominous howl or growl in the distance, and we passed close enough to an army encampment to smell the smoke from it; I released Zaira’s power at the first sign of danger, but the road remained safe. For a while, it looked as if we might make it to the border unmolested.
But as the road began to climb the base of the mountain, we found our path blocked by a line of some dozen soldiers. The graying light was bright enough to pick out gleams from the row of muskets pointed at us.
“If I burn them all, you’re going to have to carry me,” Zaira muttered.
“Maybe we can bluff our way through,” I replied, without much hope. The pain from my rib and general exhaustion dulled my wits; I wasn’t sure I could have bluffed my way out of a boring meeting, let alone mortal danger. But I had extreme doubts that I could drag an unconscious Zaira up a mountain with a broken rib, either.
“If I see one spark of balefire, I’ll shoot,” the man in the center of the line called, sighting grimly along his musket. “Come with us back to Lord Ruven’s castle, and no one will be hurt.”
Hells. They knew who we were. This was no random mountain patrol; Ruven had sent some scouting party in the area to stop us.
“You’re making a mistake,” I warned, trying to sound sure and dangerous. “Get out of our way, while you still can.”
“I can’t do that, my lady,” the officer said, and by the tension in his voice, I knew he meant it. “Now, if you won’t come with us quietly, I have orders to—”
I never found out what his orders were. A light flashed on the dark road behind him, and a loud crack split the air. It sounded like a flintlock pistol, but even as the soldiers whirled to face their attacker, it was followed by a deep chime, as if someone had rung a massive bell. The air rippled with a wave of magic.
As the wave hit them, the soldiers went suddenly limp. Their muskets clattered to the ground. Their bodies followed, boneless and oddly graceful.
I slapped my hands over my ears and scrambled backward. The wave had nearly petered out by the time it reached us, but still it shuddered through me with numbing force, and my legs buckled under me. I fell to my knees but was able to rise again at once, the tone still echoing in my head. Zaira clutched my arm for balance, her free hand pressed to her temple.
“What in the Nine Hells was that?” she growled.
The scent of gunsmoke teased its way along the path. Marcello stepped from the shadows ahead, pistol in hand. Brass bands marked with glowing runes spun lazily around the barrel, which was encased with crystals and wire. Sweet relief swept through me at the sight of him.
“I left my pistol where Istrella could get it,” he said. “Now I have no idea what it’ll do each time I fire it.”
“Where’s Terika?” Zaira demanded.
“Safe on our side of the border.” Marcello glanced at the stunned soldiers, who were already stirring weakly. “Come on. I’ve got more people up the road, but we’d better run.”
We’d made it past the Kazerath boundary stones and a set of imperial guard towers and could see the walls of a border fort well enough to pick out the cannons on the battlements in the rosy light of dawn, when the mountain shook hard enough to throw us off our feet at last. I caught myself on my hands and knees in the dusty road, beside the stream course the trader’s path followed; the great trembling in the earth traveled up my arms and rattled my bones. Marcello let out a startled cry, and fearful oaths rose from the imperial soldiers who’d joined our escort on the way.
In the bones of the mountain, something broke.
Hell of Disaster. Here it comes.
There came a deep and terrible rumbling, greater than a thousand thunders. I grabbed onto Marcello, who sprawled in the road beside me, and lifted my eyes to the sublime glacier-mantled peak of Mount Whitecrown. Immense and remote as the sky itself, it reared above us, past the green-swathed ridge that rose immediately overhead.
Gray ash unfurled skyward from the far side of it, blossoming greater and greater, reaching and spreading in awful immensity. The colossal dark cloud reared up like a living thing, some demon more terrible than all the Hells rolled together, here to bring the Dark Days upon us once more. The noise was terrible, as if the sky itself might crack open and crumble down on us. And still the mountain shuddered.
The ground should not buck like a tipping boat. The sky should not hold so much billowing darkness. My senses tried to reject it all in horror, but it was real.
My heart seized with guilt and terror. Roland. Graces protect him.
Marcello’s arms went tight around me, sending a stab of unheeded pain through my cracked rib as we clung to each other. Zaira let out a steady stream of profanity, her usual creativity lost to emphatic repetition. Still the ash cloud loomed larger above us, opaque and unreachable as death, spreading faster than spilled blood as it unfolded across the blue sky. But it bent and leaned, pushed by the wind that tugged our hair and clothing, and the top of the terrible plume began reaching toward Vaskandar.
We were alive. And the Empire was safe. Our efforts had worked; no deadly flows of ash, rock, or lava had poured down the south side of the mountain onto the fortresses, villages, and encamped armies there.
But I had just killed my cousin.
I could feel it, deep in my blood—the same way the jess gave me a vague sense of where Zaira was, and the same way I recognized the blooding stones in Atruin. I was dimly aware of the bloody rune I’d painted on the control circle, of the mountain’s fiery heart to which it connected me, and of the gaping hole in Mount Whitecrown’s side from which the towering ash cloud continued to rise. I knew of the path of devastation down the side of the mountain—the hot flow of gas and ash and pulverized rock that had blasted down ancient pines and wiped a clean swath down Mount Whitecrown’s forested flank to the river below.
And I knew the lives that had winked out there, like snuffed candles, one-two-three.
Roland.
A sob tore out of me, no more possible to repress than the eruption itself. Marcello and Zaira stared at me like I was mad—they didn’t know. But I couldn’t explain, not now. I was crying so hard I could barely gasp in enough breath.
Treat strong emotions like cards: keep them close in hand and show them to no one, my mother’s voice admonished me in my memory, but it was too late. Grief shook me harder than the earthquake, and a bewildered Marcello folded his arms around me and stroked my hair while the tears ran down to my chin.
Chapter Forty-Four
The great column of gray ash loomed behind us like the accusing finger of some massive demon as we made our way down out of the mountains and back toward Durantain. Poor Jerith might have to keep his wind going for days; I was glad Balos was there to take care of him.
Imperial scouts had confirmed what I already knew. The eruption had been a small one, compared to others in the violent history of the volcanoes of the Witchwall Mountains; the effects of the blast had been limited to the eastern flank of Mount Whitecrown itself. But a deadly flow of hot ash and lava chunks had swept a gray streak down the mountainside, exactly where I’d aimed it.
Prince Roland and his handful of soldiers had not survived.
I tried to tell myself it was a victory. We’d stopped Ruven from taking out our border defenses and claiming vast swaths of territory with his falling ash. The Lady of Eagles seizing the entire mountain for Atruin would ensure that he couldn’t try again. We’d saved thousands of lives, and lost no known civilians to the eruption.
But all I could think of, during the journey to Durantain, was what I would say to my grandmother and Bree. I was so nauseous with dread I
could barely eat.
We arrived to find the city already in mourning. Black bunting draped shops, homes, and statues; nearly everyone I saw in the street wore black mourning ribbons at the very least, and every corner shrine had at least a dozen candles lit. The knots in my stomach twisted tighter. You see? They did love you, Roland. And they still do.
People had laid countless flowers at the foot of the statue of Queen Galanthe making her stand on the Ironblood Bridge; they rose up the base and to the statue’s knees, so my grandmother’s bronze image waded through a sea of lilies and roses. My eyes stung as we passed it. Marcello reached out and squeezed my hand.
My grandmother and Bree met us at the castle gates. The utter misery of loss in Bree’s eyes hit me like a blow to the face. She threw her arms around me, and all the words of the apology I’d practiced froze in my throat.
“I’m so glad you’re all right.” Bree’s voice sounded strained and raw in my ear.
I hugged her back, tentatively. “Bree, I …” I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. But I couldn’t say it.
She squeezed me until the breath huffed out of my lungs and my rib stabbed pain through my side. “Don’t say anything. I can’t bear to talk about him yet. I’m still angry at him for being at the border when I was stuck back here. It should have been me.” My hair grew damp where her cheek pressed against it. “He should have stayed home. He didn’t have to die.”
“No,” I whispered. “He didn’t.”
I met my grandmother’s eyes over Bree’s shoulder. The deep, wrenching sorrow in them was matched only by the weariness that dragged at her features. She knew this pain. She had lost a husband and a son already. This new wound I’d inflicted on her was a terrible one, but she had survived its like before, and she would again.
Those wise, grieving eyes read the anguish in my face. Her lips pressed together, and she gave me a slow nod.
“Come inside the castle,” she said. “You must be tired.”
Graces, yes. I was as tired as I’d ever been.
During the process of welcoming us into the castle, as servants in the courtyard took our horses and unloaded our baggage, my grandmother drew me aside. Her grip on my arm was gentle, but her fingers were hard as iron, and the lines of her face had gone grim as she studied me.
“What is it?” she asked. “What don’t you want to tell Bree?”
For an instant, I almost fell apart again, like I had with Marcello when the volcano erupted. But I stuffed the unsteady surge of emotion back down where it belonged, mostly, and kept my eyes dry, at least.
“I had to choose where to channel the eruption.” I forced the words out, soft and low, and made myself meet my grandmother’s intense, grieving gaze. “There were no good options. I thought … I thought Roland would want me to pick the way the fewest people had to die.”
The queen closed her eyes. Her hand tightened on my arm. But then she released a long breath.
“That he would,” she agreed quietly. “He would never have forgiven you if you had chosen otherwise.”
“I killed him, Grandmother.” My voice trembled.
“No.” Her eyes snapped open. “That vile murderer Ruven killed him. You did what a ruler has to do.” Her gaze pierced me like a well-honed rapier. “You did what I do, every time I send soldiers into battle. The Graces called for a sacrifice, and you made it.”
“I chose who would make it, you mean.”
“That is your sacrifice.” She dropped my arm, and gave me a grim nod. “And now you’ve accepted it. You are truly prepared to rule.”
“Sometimes,” I said bitterly, “I’m not certain that’s a good thing.”
We headed to our rooms early that evening, after a somber dinner. The absence of the usual lively bickering between Roland and Bree cut fresh wounds into my heart; to see the wrong cousin talking seriously with my grandmother about how to reassign troops to account for the changing situation in Vaskandar rubbed salt in them. Bree knew it, too, and kept drinking more and more despite the queen’s disapproving gaze, until finally my grandmother suggested pointedly that we’d all had a long day and perhaps we should go to bed.
Zaira’s rooms adjoined mine, and I stopped at her door to say good night. Zaira stood with the door in hand, paused in the act of closing it between us, and frowned.
“We’re back in the Serene Empire,” she said.
“So we are,” I agreed.
“You never sealed my power.”
I shrugged. “Do you want me to?”
Zaira fell silent, her dark eyes thoughtful. She ran her hand up and down the edge of the door, the jess shining on her wrist.
“Keep my power sealed by default when we’re around people,” she said at last. “I don’t want some brat to bump into me from behind in a crowded street and startle me into murdering half a dozen passersby. I’ll let you know when I want you to release me.”
I nodded. “All right. Now, then?”
“Why not,” she sighed. “Now.”
“Revincio.”
She shook herself, like a wet dog, and grimaced.
“Like putting a corset back on?” I hazarded.
“A bit.” She sighed. “But then, corsets have their uses.” She grinned and put her hands on her hips, pushing out her chest.
I cleared my throat. “I suppose they do. Well, good night, Zaira.”
“Good night, Amalia.”
I froze in the act of turning away. I swiveled to stare at her. “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my given name.”
Zaira frowned. “No, it isn’t.”
“I …” I swallowed. There was no point arguing with her.
She’d called me a hundred insulting nicknames, and even Cornaro once or twice; but there were precious few people I’d ever heard her call by their given name at all. As if somehow speaking a name might make the person real, a part of her life she couldn’t dismiss and forget in an instant.
My throat felt tight and hot. “Perhaps not,” I said. “But thank you, anyway. And good night.”
The warm feeling in my stomach barely lasted two minutes. I had my hand on my own door latch, eager to finally get some rest, when Lord Caulin rounded the corner.
“Lady Amalia,” he called down the hallway. “I’d hoped to catch you before you went to bed.”
Irritation replaced my goodwill. “You have only done so by the barest technicality.”
He offered me an apologetic bow and approached anyway. “The doge has asked me to congratulate and thank you for your exemplary service to the Serene Empire. Everyone is most impressed with the results you obtained at the Conclave.”
I waited, my hand still on the latch. I’d already spoken directly with the doge over the courier lamps from the border fortress, and he’d expressed his gratitude then. There was no way he would bother so senior an adviser as Lord Caulin to track me down to deliver such sentiments a second time in person.
Lord Caulin licked his lips. “So marvelous, that you managed to bring home the captured Falcons, as well. But we did notice in the reports we’ve received that one of the names on our list of missing Falcons is not among those who returned to us.”
“You mean Harrald,” I said shortly.
“Yes, I believe that was the name.” He smoothed imaginary dust from the front of his jacket. “I know we discussed this matter earlier, before the Conclave, and I was curious what had happened to him.”
I fixed Lord Caulin with my coldest stare. “And I am curious why we even had that discussion without the Council of Nine being consulted first.”
Lord Caulin’s smile faltered. “I imagine it was a matter of expediency, my lady.”
“Of course.” I held his gaze until he glanced away. “To answer your question, I don’t know precisely what happened to Harrald. He was with us when we sneaked the Falcons out of Lord Ruven’s castle. But it was dark and dangerous work getting them through the forests of Kazerath undetected, and he was no longer with the group by t
he time Captain Verdi took charge of them.” All true, as far as it went.
“I see.” Lord Caulin sighed. “A pity. I suppose there isn’t much chance he survived, alone in the forests of Vaskandar at night. You had no chance to make sure of him?”
“Lord Caulin. With all due respect, you do not command me.” I let my voice drop to the deep register my mother used for uttering her most serious warnings. “I answer to the doge and the Council of Nine alone. You gave me a verbal order without the approval of the Council. Do you have a writ to show me, with the imperial seal?”
Lord Caulin’s face went still. “No, my lady.”
“Because the doge didn’t want evidence that he went around the Council,” I said flatly.
Lord Caulin’s eyes narrowed. “I would not dare make guesses about such things, my lady.”
“Oh? I would. In fact, I would go so far as to guess that if I stood the doge and my mother in the same room and asked him to confirm the order you gave me, he would deny it ever existed. Even if it meant leaving you in a rather awkward position, Lord Caulin.”
He said not a word, mouth clamped shut. Thoughts moved in his dark eyes, but I couldn’t read them. Lord Caulin was no fool, to show me his hand now, when the wrong move could lose him the game.
“Despite this,” I said, softening my voice, “I did all I could to return every Falcon home. Because I am a loyal servant of the Serene Empire. And now, Lord Caulin, I must bid you good night.”
They held a memorial for Roland in the Temple of Mercy, since his body lay somewhere under ash and lava rubble on Mount Whitecrown. The crowd filled the temple and the square outside it, overflowing into the streets beyond. My mother had taken a fast coach up from Raverra to attend, changing horses at the imperial post stations, arriving just in time for the ceremony. She stood by my side, her face grim and pensive; I suspected she was remembering my father’s memorial in this same temple.
I stayed silent as one person after another spoke of what a good man he had been, and what a tragedy it was that his life had been cut so short. I tried to focus on Roland, on everything I loved about him, from the stern look he gave Bree and me when I followed her into trouble as children to how free he looked when you surprised him into a laugh.
The Defiant Heir Page 46
