The Strength to Serve (Echoes of Imara Book 3)

by Claire Frank

  The half-eaten piece of bread fell from Daro’s hand and Pathius stared at Callum, unblinking.

  “Did you just say the king is dead?” Daro asked in a whisper.

  Callum nodded, his eyes darting back to Cecily.

  “How?” Cecily forced herself to ask.

  “Assassin,” Callum said and Cecily’s stomach lurched again. “Attalon has been hitting us hard for months. By the time I figured out who they were using, it was too late. He’d already gotten to Rogan.”

  “This isn’t possible,” Cecily said. “Do you know who it was?”

  “Afraid so,” Callum said. He paused and chewed on his lip. “It was Wraith.”

  “What? No,” Pathius said. “Wraith is no assassin. Callum, if this is a joke, it isn’t amusing.”

  Callum shook his head. “I wish it was a joke. I don’t know how they did it, but the Attalonians got to him. He said they did something to him that suppressed his Wielding ability, and he suddenly remembered who he was before … you know, before Nihil. He had this band on his arm and he said it made everything clear. I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t understand everything he said.”

  “You confronted him?” Pathius asked.

  “I did,” Callum said, “but I think it was only because he let me. You know how he is, hard to see and so forth. There were more assassins working in Halthas, and I caught one of them. That one led me to a house the Attalonians are using to relay the instructions and money to the assassins. Wraith had a hideout there, up in the attic. He must have followed me, because he came in when I was there. He said the Attalonians caught him, something about darts and nets and ropes, I don’t know. Then he showed me the band on his arm, and he said they made him do things, even when he didn’t want to. He even explained the poison, something called ‘frail heart’. I’ve never heard of it, but apparently it works slowly, killing the victim in their sleep. He told me his last job had already been done, and that it was too late to stop it. The next day, Rogan was found.”

  Cecily felt numb as she stared at the table. Rogan couldn’t be dead. “What happened to Wraith?”

  “Disappeared, unfortunately,” Callum said. “Now he’s loose in the city. He said I set him free. But I don’t know where he is, or what he’ll do next.”

  Swallowing hard, Cecily pressed her fingertips to her forehead to stave off the sudden stabbing pain behind her eyes. Everything they had fought for, gone in a moment.

  “What about his army?” Pathius asked.

  “I’m half a day ahead of it,” Callum said. “Alastair is bringing it south now, and believe me, it was not easy to make sure that happened. The nobles are already squabbling over the succession, even though Rogan has a son. Strictly speaking, Queen Miranda has the right to act as regent until her son comes of age, but she’s so stricken with grief, no one has seen her since she found the body. Her father stepped in and tried to declare himself temporary regent, but the other houses are in an uproar. Alastair essentially had to gather the force and leave before the nobles could enact some idiot ruling ordering the army to stay put until the succession is settled.”

  “Would they do that?” Daro asked.

  “They were already trying when the army left,” Callum said.

  Pathius shook his head. “This is a disaster.”

  Cecily glanced at him, wondering what he was thinking as he stared down at the table, rubbing his chin. Her stomach churned and her chest constricted, making it hard to breathe. How could Rogan be dead? She’d fought so hard to ensure he would take the throne, and now he was gone. It felt as if the ground beneath her feet had been ripped away, plunging her into frigid water. The shock of it numbed her, leaving her feeling dead and hollow inside.

  This changed everything.

  64. WE MUST GO SOUTH

  The scent of wood smoke drifted through the common room as Pathius sat alone in a corner, tracing his fingers along the pattern of the wood grain. The reinforcements had indeed arrived, led by the man he’d met on his visit to the palace, Alastair. He had greeted Daro and Cecily with a somber face as the old friends shared their grief, leaving Pathius feeling as if he were intruding. News of Rogan’s death had spread through the camp like fire through dry grass, darkening the already sagging morale of the men.

  Rogan was dead. Not so long ago, Pathius would have looked at such news as an omen, a sign he was meant to rise up and take back his father’s throne. His only disappointment would have been not being the one to do the deed, never having the chance to face Hadran’s usurper. That was the man people had expected him to be, the man Isley had expected him to be. The displaced prince, ready to ride into Halthas in glory and reclaim his rightful place.

  Pathius didn’t know if he’d ever been that man. He’d lived his life under the thumb of others, with his choices limited by his birth, his captors, or his circumstances. Standing before the Raeswa in Imara, when they’d told him of the impending war in Halthas, was the first time he had ever felt truly free—free to make his own choice. So he had, following the path he’d believed to be right, even though it pained him to leave. He had chosen Rogan for his king, accepting his rule in the most public way possible. The decision had brought him a sense of peace, knowing he was making the choice for himself, and for the kingdom he loved.

  A serving girl brought him a fresh mug and he gave her a shallow nod but left it sitting, untouched. He wasn’t in the mood. His chest felt hollow and his stomach was tied in a knot. He’d seen men die, and taken more lives than he wished to recall, yet somehow Rogan’s death left him feeling bereft. Even hearing of his father’s demise had not affected him so deeply, although, to be fair, it had been Nihil delivering the news, and his aim more to break Pathius than to inform him.

  The memory of Rogan’s face as he greeted Pathius in the throne room flitted across his memory. Halthas needed a good king, a man who could lead, who could inspire others to fight for their homeland—and now it was left with a hoard of squabbling nobles, vying for the shredded threads of power.

  The door opened, and Daro poked his head through and looked around. His eyes landed on Pathius and he stepped in, then walked back to Pathius’s table.

  “We’re meeting with Torbin,” Daro said. “I think we could use you.”

  Pathius nodded as he stood, pushing the chair back from the table. He followed Daro silently out of the inn and through the busy streets of the small town, now bursting with people as the larger army camped nearby.

  They came to the command tent on the far side of town and stepped through the opening. Interim General Torbin stood behind his desk, speaking with Alastair, while Cecily and Callum spoke quietly together on the far side. They all looked up as Daro and Pathius entered.

  “Good,” Torbin said, tapping the desk twice with his fingers. His uniform was freshly cleaned, but he reminded Pathius of a young man dressed in his father’s clothing. “Obviously there are some uncertainties in the chain of command. With His Majesty’s untimely death, it isn’t entirely clear what we are to do from here.”

  “It took a great deal of convincing to get the council to agree to let me take the army south,” Alastair said. “But we anticipated we would be joining a much larger force here. There’s hardly anyone left. I’m not certain we have the strength to take back the stronghold.”

  “So what happens?” Cecily asked. She stood near Callum with her arms crossed. “We let them keep the stronghold?”

  Alastair sighed. “It’s an unfortunate reality.”

  “I don’t mean to lay the blame at your feet, Alastair,” Daro said, “but we needed more men at the stronghold weeks ago.”

  “The rest of Halthas has been in turmoil,” Alastair said. “Those Attalonians you encountered months ago were wreaking havoc in the duchies. The dukes wouldn’t commit their men until those threats were subdued. As it is, I’m not convinced there aren’t more of them out there, or even hiding out in the city itself.”

  “Not to mention we have assassins still on
the loose,” Callum said as he flipped a gold coin across his knuckles.

  “Attalon has been laying the groundwork for this invasion for years,” Alastair said, “creeping in right under our noses. We’ve already ceded the stronghold. I hate to leave it in their hands but, as you’ve said, the bridge is destroyed, so they’re cut off from the south. We need to pull back to the city where we can mount a solid defense.”

  Pathius clenched his fists and pressed his lips together. Fall back to the city. Cede the stronghold. “No.” All eyes swung to him as he shook his head. “No, we can’t retreat to the city. Not now.”

  Torbin cleared his throat and darted a glance at Alastair.

  “Do you have another suggestion?” Alastair said.

  “We march south and attack,” Pathius said.

  “It was a good plan, Pathius,” Daro said, “but we’ve lost most of our numbers. Even with the reinforcements, we don’t have enough men or equipment to launch an assault on a fortified stronghold. And we’d still be outnumbered two to one.”

  “It’s the only plan,” Pathius said. “If we retreat into the city, we won’t stand a chance.”

  “The city defenses—” Alastair said, but Pathius cut him off.

  “The city defenses won’t matter if the nobles are squabbling for power and control over the kingdom. You may as well admit it: no one is in charge. The council will hold endless meetings, debating over the veracity of every minute detail. The noble houses will demand hearings and audiences, all while they curry favor with their neighbors and strike backroom deals designed only to further their own family’s station. Without a king, without someone to rise above and be the voice for the kingdom as a whole, we’ll disintegrate into squabbling factions, the dukes will demand their forces return to defend the countryside, and when Attalon comes, even the walls of Halthas won’t be enough to hold them back.”

  “He’s right,” Cecily said, and Pathius turned to look at her in surprise. “That’s precisely what will happen. The noble houses will see Rogan’s death as an opportunity. They haven’t seen the Attalonian army, they’ll assume it isn’t the threat Rogan assured them it was. They lived through years of Hadran telling them an invasion was coming, and it never materialized. Rogan may have sent a force south, but none of them have seen the fighting. They’ll be too wrapped up in jostling for power to come together to fight Attalon, not until the army is tearing down the walls and swarming through their city. By then, it will be too late.”

  Pathius met her eyes for a brief moment and she gave him a subtle nod. “Exactly,” he said. “And if we turn away now, everything we fought for at the stronghold will have been for nothing. We nearly killed ourselves to destroy the bridge. Stoker died for this. Right now, their army is split. They have a large force of infantry at the stronghold, but most of their archers and ranged weapons are stuck on the south side. We can rain death on them from the sky before they can get near us.”

  “If we engage now, and we lose, Halthas will be cut off,” Alastair said. “We left enough men behind to protect the city, but they would be isolated from the rest of the kingdom, without enough men to defend the countryside.”

  “Then we’re doomed either way,” Pathius said. “But this is what I came back to do. Everything I have sacrificed, everything we have all sacrificed, is for this. Right now, Attalon is vulnerable. They’re an invasion machine, they’ll reconnect their supply lines and regroup, and if they march on the city, they’ll be at full strength. If we attack now, we can hit them when they’re weak.” He glanced at Daro and Cecily. “We can lead from the front, and we’ll cut through them like a hot knife through butter. We’ll break them, and send them back to where they came from before they ever reach the city. We have to do this now.”

  “I’m in,” Daro said.

  “I don’t particularly care to ever see that fortress again, but I agree with Pathius,” Cecily said.

  Alastair glanced at Torbin, but Torbin’s eyes darted around as he tapped his fingers against the desktop. Callum remained quiet, standing off to the side, fiddling with his coin.

  “Very well,” Alastair said. “We march south and attack the Attalonian force.” His eyes moved to meet Pathius’s gaze. “I hope you’re right about this.”

  As Pathius left the tent to pack his belongings, a prickle crept up his back. Not for the first time, he felt a sense of weakness, as if he suddenly needed to sit down. He continued walking, trying to brush off the odd sensation, and a flood of heat burst through him. Ice raced from his feet and the air shone with bits of frost. He stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. The surge of power left him feeling invincible, the heady rush clouding his mind. Shaking his head, he blinked hard, trying to regain focus. Why did this keep happening?

  With a deep breath, he continued on. He knew exactly what it was, and where to find it. The question was whether he should.

  65. GWINELE

  Isley’s eyes fluttered open and she looked around in confusion. She was lying in her own bed, still fully clothed, her son cradled in the crook of her arm. As she moved, a sudden pain in her neck made her wince. She must have fallen asleep with her head wedged in an odd position, and scarcely moved while she slept, holding her son.

  Brynn pulled Caen from her arms, tucking his blanket around his small body. “You sleep with him in your bed now.”

  It seemed to be a statement rather than a question, so Isley didn’t bother to answer. Brynn was right, she’d spent the last several nights holding the baby, watching his face late into the night. When she did finally fall asleep, she kept him clutched close to her.

  Since Horadrus had announced he would leave, she had kept to her rooms. Uncertainty plagued her, and she chided herself for not revealing Gwinele’s secret. He was leaving the general in command of his empire in his absence, and although he had clearly provided for Caen’s safety, Isley had no such assurances for herself.

  “Has His Eminence departed?” Isley asked.

  “He left the palace before dawn,” Brynn said.

  Isley took a deep breath. She was letting her fears get the better of her. It was likely little would change. Although she would have to wait for his return to coax him into submission, perhaps this would give her a greater chance of success. While he waged war on her homeland, he was restless and distracted. When he came home, triumphant, he would be in a better frame of mind, able to think on matters of building his household. Yes, he would be far more amenable to her suggestions once the problem of Halthas had been resolved. She would simply have to be patient.

  No. We are imprisoned.

  “Quiet,” she said.

  Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door and her chest clenched. Brynn looked up, still holding Caen, and glanced at Isley as the door opened.

  General Gwinele strode in, flanked by two armored guards. Placing her hands on her hips, she nodded toward Isley.

  “Take her.”

  The men descended on Isley, grasping her by the arms with grips like iron, and wrenched her to her feet.

  “What are you doing?” Isley said, trying to keep the fear from her voice. “You can’t do this.”

  “Of course I can,” Gwinele said. “Don’t be afraid. I cannot allow you to die. You are the mother of the heir, after all. But His Eminence did not say I had to continue to suffer your presence.”

  She approached Brynn, who clutched Caen, turning away as if to protect the baby. “You make a grave error, General,” Brynn said as Gwinele reached for the child. “She is not what you think.”

  “The Reinara?” Gwinele asked. “It is you who are sadly mistaken. This woman is nothing but a filthy Halthian Wielder. The rest of her people will soon be bound as she is. She is no goddess, and you are a fool for believing her lies.”

  Gwinele grabbed Brynn and ripped the baby from her arms. “Bring them both.”

  Rage exploded through Isley as Gwinele touched her son, and she grasped for her Wielding energy. Her body felt hollow, her power just out of r
each, and she gnashed her teeth, snarling at the general. “Don’t you touch him.”

  Ignoring her, Gwinele held Caen with one arm and turned for the door. Strong arms pulled Isley along, her toes scraping across the floor, as they followed the general out.

  “You can’t do this,” Isley said as the guards dragged her down the corridor and into a stairwell. “I am the mother of the Emperor’s heir. I am the Reinara, the incarnation of Aniya. You cannot do this.”

  Gwinele said nothing as she marched down the stairs. Brynn shouted behind her, her voice rising in an incoherent babble, but the guards pulled them relentlessly on.

  Stopping in front of a plain door, Gwinele opened it and stepped aside. As the guards yanked her over the threshold and shoved her in, Isley stumbled forward, catching herself on the far wall. The guards threw Brynn to the ground and she crumpled, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  Isley whirled around. “Give me my son, Gwinele. Do not take my son.”

  The general’s face was impassive as she reached out and slammed the door. It hit with a loud bang and the lock clicked into place. Isley launched herself at the door, screaming through the wood and pounding on it with her fists.

  “I will kill you! Do you hear me? You will die at my hands!”

  The corridor fell silent. Isley stepped away from the door, her hands scuffed and bloody and her throat hoarse from screaming. Her body shook as she looked around, wide-eyed. The scratches in the wall were her own, the marks she had made to track the passage of time when she had first arrived. Her cell. Her prison.

  Brynn cowered on the floor, still sobbing, as Isley laid her hands on the door. Bile rose in her throat and her stomach churned with rage and fear. Gwinele had her son. If Isley had to claw her way through the wall with nothing but her fingers, she would not let that woman have her child. The general was going to pay dearly for what she had done. Isley imagined what she would do to her, the horrors she would inflict on Gwinele once she got herself free.