by Sharon Shinn
Even though her fires would not take hold in the places they would do the most damage, she could still use flame to cause some disruption in the enemy camp. So she continued wreaking havoc where she could, for three days, for five, for six. And she succeeded well enough to scorch her skin and please her brother and earn the praise of the regent—and feel grave despair about the uses to which she was putting her formidable talent. And she failed miserably enough to feel rage and disappointment and profound exhaustion. And fear. We could so easily lose this war, and I am not able to help as I should.
So, it was particularly disheartening, a week into the war, to have Donnal return one night from an aerial scouting mission to report that more troops were marching in from the south.
“Looked like a couple thousand men,” he told Romar and Kiernan as they all gathered in Amalie’s tent. Kirra, who usually tried to skip any conference that included the regent, had joined them this night to hear Donnal’s news. “Some cavalry, most infantry. The lead men were carrying flags with what looked like a spray of grass on a brownish background.”
Senneth looked straight at Kirra, whose blue eyes were wide with dismay. “Nocklyn!” Kirra exclaimed. “Oh, I knew it! Mayva’s horrible husband is bringing his soldiers to war against us.”
Kiernan shrugged. “It is hardly a surprise. We always counted Nocklyn among our probable enemies. The only surprise is that they waited a week to join the rebels.”
“Wanted to wear us out first,” Romar said briefly. “We’ve suffered heavy losses, but we’ve held our ground. They wanted us complacent or hopeful before bringing in reinforcements.”
“There appeared to be a second army traveling with the first,” Donnal said.
Kirra slumped on her stool. “Not what we wanted to hear.”
“What was the heraldry?” Romar asked.
“I didn’t see a flag, but the soldiers were wearing maroon sashes.”
Kirra sat up and Senneth felt the first wash of hope she’d felt in days. “Maroon?” Senneth repeated. “Rappengrass?”
Kiernan shook his head. “Ariane Rappengrass would hardly be riding against us in company with Nocklyn troops.”
“Maybe Nocklyn’s not against us after all,” Senneth said.
“That’s almost too much to hope for,” Kiernan said.
“I have to agree,” Kirra said. “When we talked to Mayva last year, don’t you remember? Everything was ‘Lowell says this’ and ‘Lowell thinks that.’ And Lowell is Halchon Gisseltess’s cousin. Our best hope was that Nocklyn would stay neutral. We can’t expect it to ride for the crown.”
“But Ariane,” Senneth said. “She wouldn’t betray us. Rappengrass is as loyal as Brassenthwaite.”
Even Kiernan was nodding. “I agree.”
“Well, I’ll leave the wounded to Ellynor tomorrow and fly down there to meet with Ariane,” Kirra offered.
Senneth took a deep breath. It meant submitting to Kirra’s drastic magic again—but it meant a day’s reprieve from internal and external infernos. “Change me,” she said, “and bring me along.”
ARIANE was standing with three of her captains, eating cold rations and clearly discussing a point of strategy, when Kirra swooped in for a landing. Senneth spared a moment to hope none of the Rappengrass soldiers thought that a hawk and a mouse looked like good bets for dinner before Kirra had a chance to restore them to their proper shapes. The transformation left her feeling dizzy and unsteady, but the Rappengrass folk staring at her looked even more off balance at her sudden appearance. She could not help but smile at their stunned faces.
“Ariane,” she said as coolly as possible. “How good to see you on the road to Ghosenhall. Coming to Amalie’s aid, I hope.”
Ariane gave a sharp bark of laughter and strode closer to give Senneth a hard embrace. Ariane was big-boned and gray-haired, a plain-faced, strong-willed, utterly indomitable force. “Senneth,” she said in her low voice. “I didn’t know you’d added shape-shifting to your long list of tricks.”
“I haven’t. Kirra brought me.”
The explanation was unnecessary as, on the words, Kirra stood before them, making a pretty curtsey. Senneth was slightly aggrieved to see that Kirra appeared neither disoriented nor disheveled as a consequence of transmogrification. “Ariane,” Kirra said, giving the marlady a kiss on the cheek. “We are so pleased to see you.”
With a wave of her hand, Ariane dismissed her captains. “Tell me the news,” she said. “Baryn is truly dead? We heard the rumors, but any official couriers got turned back on the way.”
“Murdered by hired soldiers who infiltrated the palace,” Senneth confirmed. “Amalie currently keeps her title as princess. The regent stands beside her. Forces from Fortunalt, Gisseltess, and Storian have marched against the throne, augmented by hired blades from Arberharst—against whom magic has no effect, much to the chagrin of mystics like me. We have picked our battlefield and are currently contesting a plot of land somewhere between Brassenthwaite and Kianlever. But we are overmatched.”
“Yes—I knew it—but I had to put my own House in order before I could come,” Ariane said. Her full lips compressed in a frown; Senneth wondered what measures she had had to take to quell any Thirteenth House mutiny. “These are all the men I could spare.”
“And we are grateful for every one of them,” Kirra assured her. “But, Ariane! You march with Nocklyn? All this time we have been expecting Lowell to raise men for his cousin’s army.”
Ariane’s plain, broad face brightened to a smile. “As did I. And I was very worried about my position then, surrounded by enemies on all sides.” She shook her head. “Mayva has surprised us all.”
Kirra’s head whipped around so fast her hair went flying. “Mayva? Is here?”
Ariane pointed. “Leading her own troops, though I can’t imagine she’ll be any good on a battlefield.”
Kirra’s eyes grew huge. “What about Lowell? The flighty little serramarra I talked to last was no match for the cold Gisseltess man.”
“It’s an interesting tale—ask her yourself. But she’s no longer a serramarra, more’s the pity. Els died a week ago. She’s marlady now.”
“I must hear this story,” Kirra declared. “But first, tell me, how is Lyrie? Still well, I hope?”
Ariane’s smile came back. “Strong and lively and smart, smart, smart. My favorite of all my grandchildren, though I know I shouldn’t say it. She speaks of you often, and the time you turned her into a dog to save her life. If she could figure out a way to make herself magic, she would do it. I think her greatest disappointment is that she is so ordinary.”
Kirra laughed. “I didn’t think she was ordinary at all.”
“No,” said Ariane, “and I don’t, either.”
“Let’s go talk to Mayva,” Senneth said. “I want to hear her story.”
One of Ariane’s captains returned. “Marlady,” he said, casting a wide-eyed glance at her unconventional visitors. “We’d best be on the move again.”
Ariane nodded. “Find my friends a couple of horses and let them ride with us awhile.”
In a few moments, Senneth and Kirra were mounted, the whole army was on the march, and Ariane was leading them to the head of the column. Yes, there was the wheat-and-ochre flag that Donnal had described. Riding a few feet behind it was Mayva Nocklyn.
She looked very little like the shallow and impatient young woman Senneth had met several times before. Her face was still round and childlike, but the sulky expression was gone, replaced by a look of deep sadness. Instead of curling in ringlets around her face, her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a plain scarf. The full lips looked like they had not smiled in a very long time.
Kirra cantered up alongside her. “Mayva! What are you doing so far from home, riding in the company of soldiers?”
Mayva’s face showed first astonishment and then real pleasure. “Kirra? How did you get here? I did not see you arrive! Oh—I suppose you flew in, like a butterfly or a bird
or something like that.”
Kirra laughed. “Something like that,” she said. “Mayva, you remember Senneth Brassenthwaite, do you not? I brought her with me.”
“Oh—serra—of course,” Mayva said as Senneth rode up on the other side of Kirra. “Why have you come? Both of you?”
Senneth answered. “We heard rumors of a Nocklyn army on the move and we had to make sure it was coming to help us, not harm us.”
Mayva’s pretty face tightened. “If my husband were here, he would be leading Nocklyn troops to Ghosenhall to try to push the princess off the throne.”
Kirra looked around as if in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Where is Lowell?”
Mayva’s chin lifted. “In a common prison cell in Nocklyn Towers.”
Kirra practically choked. “Mayva, what happened? You always seemed so—well—I thought you allowed Lowell to make many of the decisions in your House.”
“He killed my father,” Mayva said.
Kirra was horrified. “No! I thought—Els has been sick for a long time—”
“Poisoned,” Mayva said in the bleakest voice imaginable. “I discovered it quite by accident. My father had gotten much worse, and I had brought a woman in to watch him during the nights. One evening I spent a few hours at his bedside, but he never woke up. The nurse said I looked sickly, too, and I said my head was aching. I said I would return to my room and take some powdered silwort. And she said, ‘Oh, serra, that’s no good for pain. That’s only something you spread on a wound to fight infection.’”
“It is,” Kirra said. “It works marvelously well, but if you swallow it—” She shuddered. “You’d need to take a lot to die from it, though.”
Mayva nodded. “Indeed you would. A lot over a long period of time. Lowell had been feeding it to my father for months.”
“But—surely—I mean, didn’t you hire doctors?” Senneth asked. She was trying to keep an accusatory tone from her voice, but no one could have been that stupid. “I know Lowell would not have allowed a mystic healer in the House, but there are trained physicians—”
“There most certainly are,” Mayva said in a flat voice. “We brought in the best. All the way from Gissel Plain. Nocklyn doctors weren’t good enough for my father, Lowell said.”
“Wild Mother watch me,” Kirra murmured. “There’s a cruel and cold-blooded man.”
“So cruel,” Mayva said. “So cold.”
“What did you do?” Senneth asked.
“I did not want to let Lowell know that I suspected something was wrong. A troop of Gisseltess guards had been brought in recently, ostensibly to help keep order if there was any unrest among the vassals—as there has been so much unrest at other Houses. I did not want to accuse Lowell and have him call his soldiers against me. But I knew my father had always completely trusted the captain of his guards. I had never dealt with Worton much—I had never thought about swords and soldiers! Why should I? I left such things to my husband—but I sought him out that night once Lowell had gone to sleep.” She laughed mirthlessly. “You will not be surprised to learn that he despised Lowell. He was happy to see me there, eager to swear fealty. He picked five of his best men and followed me back to the rooms I shared with my husband. They kept Lowell under guard for the next few days while I rode to the homes of my father’s favorite vassals. None of them, as it turned out, cared much for my husband. All of them were willing to organize their own house guards and send a small army back with me to overcome the Gisseltess men camped in my courtyard.”
“Mayva—I’m astonished and humbled and proud,” Kirra said, leaning over to squeeze the marlady’s hand. “I don’t know that I could have been so clever or so fearless! How brave you were!”
“I didn’t feel brave,” Mayva said. “I felt afraid. I was sick to my stomach the whole time I was riding for help.”
“I know that feeling well,” Senneth said quietly. “But tell us the rest of the story. Your father could not recover from the effects of the poisoning?”
Mayva shook her head. She was trying very hard not to cry. “Of course he received no more silwort! But his body was too weak. I thought—if there had been a mystic nearby—perhaps magic would have saved him. But all the mystics have been chased out of Nocklyn by Coralinda Gisseltess—and my own husband. There was no one left to save my father. And he died.”
“Oh, Mayva, I am so sorry,” Kirra murmured.
Mayva’s chin came up. “So I am marlady now. And I must decide so many things. It is very hard, and I honestly don’t know that I can manage. But I knew I must support the princess in this war. If my husband was in favor of it, it must be wrong.” She shivered. “Besides, Coralinda Gisseltess tried to murder my cousin’s son.”
“No!” Kirra exclaimed. “Tell me what happened!”
“He’s just a little boy—but he’s a mystic, you know. He was staying with my aunt and uncle, and Coralinda sent her soldiers out to burn down the house. It was a miracle that he escaped—a miracle that some kind man found him on the road and took him to safety. My aunt and uncle are dead, of course.” She paused a moment to get her voice back under control. “Lowell told me the story wasn’t true—that my cousin had made it up to try to discredit the Lestra. Houses burn down all the time, he said, and it’s nobody’s fault. But I believe she did it. And if my husband defends Coralinda Gisseltess—well, then, I want to destroy her.” Impatiently she brushed at her cheeks. “So I have come to fight for Amalie.”
Kirra squeezed her hand again. “Mayva, we are so glad to have you.”
KIRRA flew back to carry the news to Amalie and her assembled advisors, but Senneth said she couldn’t stomach another wild flight clutched in Kirra’s talons. In truth, she wanted a break from violence and fire. “I’ll ride with Ariane for the rest of day, then gallop on ahead of the army tomorrow morning,” she told Kirra. “Look for me then.”
She still traveled among soldiers and could not escape the constant clank and sparkle of weaponry, but, compared to being in the thick of the fighting, the journey was peaceful. When they camped that night, a few of Ariane’s captains joined them for dinner, but Ariane dismissed them as soon as the meal was over.
“So who have you left behind at Rappen Manor to watch the House while you go to war?” Senneth asked. “Kiernan is leading the Brassenthwaite forces, but Nate and Harris are protecting the bloodlines by taking cover at Brassen Court.”
Ariane smiled briefly. “I wanted all five of my children to stay behind, but Darryn insisted on coming. I should not be surprised, I suppose, since he has flouted me at every turn for the past six months.”
Senneth tried not to laugh. “Well, he must be close to thirty by now. Naturally he will find himself disagreeing with his mother from time to time,” she responded. “And yet he seems like such an easygoing young man. I can hardly imagine him flying into rages and stalking out of the manor.”
Ariane gave a little snort. “No, he simply gives me his most pleasant smile, thanks me for my opinion, and goes off to do whatever he wants.”
Senneth asked cautiously, “Does that include falling in love with Sosie?”
Ariane frowned. “You’ve met her?”
“I did. I liked her a great deal. But then, I have low taste in companions, as everyone knows. Have you met her?”
“I’ve refused that honor. Consequently, Darryn will not ride with me, or even speak to me, though he’s traveling with the army.”
“I can’t actually say I blame Darryn.”
“Senneth, you must think me an impossible snob, but he cannot marry her! Not now! I have four other children, and they have all married well, and so perhaps, at some other time I could say, ‘Well, let him wed for love. The bloodlines will be carried on by Bella and the others.’ But not now. He should have pressed his suit in Ghosenhall! He should have been betrothed to Amalie! There would be no better match for the princess than Rappengrass! But he wouldn’t even try. He says he confessed to Amalie that he loves someone else! What woman
of spirit would wed a man who told her such a thing? You know her. Would she be willing to overlook such a slight—if I could force him to abandon this unfortunate nameless girl?”
Senneth flung out a hand. “Ariane, Ariane! First, she’s not nameless, she’s Sosie. Second, I rather think you would like her. She’s resourceful and loyal and unpretentious, and she truly loves your son. Third—it doesn’t matter if you coerce Darryn into making an offer for Amalie. I’m not sure she’d have him now. I’m not sure she’d have anyone. For she, my dear marlady, has gone your son one better. She has fallen in love with a wretched boy who has no family connections, nothing whatsoever to recommend him, except his magic—which is considerable. If you think you are at a loss, imagine how I feel, trying to guide this rebellious girl away from a disastrous relationship! And I can’t even point to myself as a good example! I have given up for now. We must win this war, or it doesn’t matter who Amalie loves. Afterward—well, we shall see. But if I were you, I would forgive Darryn and welcome Sosie and abandon all hope of an alliance with the throne.”
“Bright Mother burn me,” Ariane swore, and then started laughing. “What are we coming to, this little kingdom of ours? The marlords engage in civil war—the Thirteenth House vassals mutiny against the marlords—and young nobles fling aside their heritage to marry serfs and soldiers and serving girls. Are we all to be brought down, leveled at once? I tell you now, Senneth, I will not give up Rappen Manor. Not for anyone. They will have to pull it down around me, stone by stone.”
Senneth smiled with a little constraint. “I do think the world is changing,” she said. “Baryn was reluctantly in favor of reducing the power and influence of the marlords—giving away lands to some of the lesser lords and hoping that would help keep the peace. I have a certain respect for Kiernan, and Malcolm, and Heffel, and you—strong individuals who run prosperous and well-regulated households. But you know I am no aristocrat. I am not entirely in favor of power being concentrated in a few hands. Maybe if there were several dozen Houses, there would be less unrest, there would be less ambition, and there would not be war. Maybe. I don’t know. I do know that Brassenthwaite will never fall into my keeping—and I think that’s good. I wouldn’t know what to do with it if it were mine.”
