by Rebecca Ross
Evadne was silent. But Halcyon felt her shift, Evadne’s hand moving to find hers in the dark.
“You know I hate goodbyes, Hal.”
Halcyon snorted. “Yes, I know. But promise me you will not do it again.”
Evadne threaded their fingers together. It was the hand Halcyon had killed with, the hand Evadne had written spells with. Two very different hands and two very different women, and yet they had sharpened the other, upheld the other. Defended and protected and healed one another.
Evadne tightened her hold on Halcyon.
“I promise.”
It was strange to put armor on again.
Halcyon admired the pieces Narcissa had given her. A red tunic trimmed in white squares, a cuirass of bronze scales and linen pleats, leather sandals to crosshatch their way up to her knees. A sword, a spear, and a round shield painted with the scorpion. She kept her gloves on to hide the relic on her finger, and she strapped her kopis and belted her sword to her side. Last, she slid the helm upon her head, the bronze cold against her scalp.
She stood as the camp stirred to life, breathing in the morning light.
Evadne began to bundle their bedrolls, and Halcyon found food in their packs. They broke their fast with a quick meal. And then it was time to march.
Evadne mounted a horse, to ride at Damon’s side while Halcyon walked through the throng of warriors, finding her squad assembled at the forefront.
The legion marched to the north. Halcyon kept stride and soaked in as much sun as she could, battling the nagging desire to sleep. She felt her health like it was the edge of a blade; it was sharp, but not perfect yet. And then the clouds merged and swallowed the sunlight, spitting thunder and rain, but she continued to march until evening arrived and the commander came to a stop in a field, to make camp.
She kindled a fire and watched as Evadne entered Damon’s tent. Halcyon knew her sister would be with him most of the night, working on some enchantment. She did not want to sleep yet—she wanted to break bread with her squad—but the moment she lay down on her bedroll, Halcyon lost her battle with slumber.
She woke in the middle of the night to the sound of shouts in the camp.
Halcyon lurched to her feet, dizzy as she followed the clamor. She passed a few hoplites, stopped long enough to ask them what had happened.
“An outsider tried to sneak into the camp,” a warrior replied. “He is with the commander now.”
Halcyon strode to Straton’s tent. Narcissa and the commander stood side by side, gilded in lamplight, staring down at a ragged man. The stranger was on his knees, his hands bound behind his back. He was barefoot, dressed in a tattered, bloodstained tunic.
“Thales?” Halcyon cried.
The stranger stiffened at the sound of her voice, turning toward her. His disbelief and joy were tangible as he gaped at her. “Halcyon?”
She stepped closer, astounded, when Straton came between them.
“Do you know who this man is?” he asked in a cold tone.
Halcyon paused, glancing from Straton to Thales. “He was my only friend in the quarry. I would be dead without him.”
“Did he tell you why he was in the quarry, Halcyon?”
“He told me he was framed for murder,” she said, but when she looked at Thales, her own doubts began to surface. There was guilt in his eyes. Shame.
“You should tell her the truth,” the commander said to Thales. “Before I behead you.”
Halcyon stared at her friend, waiting. Her stomach knotted when he was unable to meet her gaze.
“You are one of Selene’s followers,” she said, hollow.
“I was,” Thales corrected, at last lifting his eyes to her. “Years ago, before I realized what she was planning. We were good friends at the Destry. But things began to shift. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by a group of mages with ideas I did not want to be a part of.”
There was more, Halcyon knew. She waited, feeling as if she had been struck.
“Selene sensed my reluctance,” Thales continued. “She decided to test my loyalty by asking me to kill someone she believed was a threat.”
“She wanted you to kill one of us in the queen’s alliance,” Halcyon surmised, remembering all those nights the commander thought his wine had been poisoned by Hemlock. How cautious she and Xander had to be when they were training for the mountain, so no one would know they were involved in the alliance’s plans to thwart Selene.
“I was ordered to identify and kill the spymaster who was giving Selene the most trouble,” Thales said. “A spy who had vast knowledge of missing relics. The Basilisk.”
The Basilisk, an enigma Halcyon had briefly met seasons ago. She had only just realized it was Ozias when her uncle had knelt at her side in Isaura to slip the Sunstone Ring of Healing onto her hand. When he had called her by her code name. All this time, he had withheld his identity from her, even as they both sought to bring justice for Nerine.
Halcyon never had a chance to speak of it with him; Ozias had vanished from the grove like a shadow. But the scar on her uncle’s face? She now knew whose hand had inspired it. And Thales’s debt to keep her hale and alive in the quarry? A small atonement for the crime he had inflicted on Ozias.
She stared down at Thales, overcome with emotion.
“But you know as well as I do, Halcyon,” Thales continued, ragged, “I could not go through with the killing. And so Selene framed me, punished me for it. She broke ties with me, sentenced me to the quarry. If you doubt me . . . I can prove it all. I have detailed written accounts that span the years of my reluctant involvement and my falling-out with her.”
“Selene would allow you to record such dealings?” Straton asked, suspicious.
“Of course not,” Thales said, his patience waning. “But I kept an account regardless. Mages must be very careful, meticulous with . . . certain things.”
Halcyon frowned. “And where are these recordings of yours?”
“In Mithra. Hidden in a place Selene does not know.”
“Well, that is not helping us now, is it?” the commander said through his teeth.
“Why have you come to us, Thales?” Halcyon asked.
“Because I bring news of Selene’s plans.”
Halcyon looked at Straton. It was evident he wanted to kill Thales, not listen to him.
“A moment, Lord Commander?” Halcyon tilted her head, inviting Straton to step outside the tent with her.
Straton nodded to Narcissa, who remained behind as a guard. He followed Halcyon into the night, and they stood beside a torch, both lost in thought.
“You want to grant him mercy,” Straton eventually stated in a low tone. “You think we should heed his message.”
Halcyon drew in a deep breath. “Yes, Lord.”
“Why should we trust a man who was an enemy?”
“I met Thales the first day at the quarry,” Halcyon whispered. “When I introduced myself to him . . . he startled, as if he knew who I was. Now I realize he knew who I was related to, and Thales did everything in his power to aid me, protect me. Because he owed a debt to a man he once tried to murder.”
“What are you saying to me, Halcyon?”
“I am saying my uncle gave mercy to the man in question. And if he can forgive the hand that once attempted to steal his life, then we should as well.”
The commander’s eyes flashed like cold silver. He was shocked by Halcyon’s admission—the Basilisk was her uncle, and Straton had been given no knowledge of their connection. She could see his indignation rising.
“You have questions, Commander,” she said, “and I will answer them soon. But our time is short, and we have been given an unexpected asset.”
“I am not certain about this, Halcyon. What if—”
“He misleads us?” she finished, reading his thoughts. “But what if he joins us, gives us the advantage we need to win this battle?”
“I do not trust him.”
“Then trust me, Commander.”
S
traton met her gaze, shadows playing over his face. Could he trust her? The girl who had killed his son and run as a coward?
He motioned for Halcyon to lead the way back into the tent. “Very well, Kingfisher. Let us hear what news he brings us.”
Evadne was scribing for Damon when the commander interrupted them. It was past midnight, and she and Damon were finally making good progress. Stanza after stanza they had brought together. Words that made Evadne ache when she dwelled on them, when she imagined singing them, tasting them.
Damon was moving faster in his creation. He was keeping more words than he revoked, and Evadne knew he had found the magical vein he had been seeking.
It would not be long, she thought. The spell would be finished soon, and she would finally understand what this enchantment meant.
That was when the commander arrived.
“Damon, Evadne. I need you both in my tent, now,” he said tersely, ducking back out into the night.
Evadne looked at Damon. He appeared just as surprised but he nodded to her, and she rolled up the charena scroll and carried it with them into Straton’s tent.
Halcyon was there, sitting beside a strange man. He was finishing a bowl of stew, his skin streaked with dried mud, his matted hair bound at the nape of his neck. He looked up at her and Damon when they entered the tent. A strange moment passed among the three of them, as if this stranger could see through her, see through Damon. He noticed the scroll she carried, and Evadne felt Damon stiffen at her side.
“Eva, this is Thales,” Halcyon said, breaking the moment. “He was at the quarry with me. He is a friend of mine, and he has brought us news of Mithra.”
Damon and Evadne drew closer to the table, where a map was spread out. Narcissa and the legion’s five other captains were also present, and they listened as Thales began to speak.
“Macarius returned to the quarry a week ago,” he said. “But while he was gone, I began to notice more and more convicts arriving to the quarry. It did not take me long to realize they were not true convicts but recruits who had gathered under the guise of being imprisoned, waiting for Macarius to return. I stayed out of their way, but word soon began to spread. The leader of the new group is named Laneus, from the mountain village of Dree. He killed Bacchus under Macarius’s orders, and Macarius promised Laneus the Golden Belt as a reward for the evil deed.
“Four nights ago,” Thales continued, his voice hoarse, “Selene visited the quarry. And she brought Macarius the Devouring Sword of Nikomides and a seemingly endless group of convict mages, who she has liberated from the prison to the east. Mages and common convicts now wait in the quarry, preparing for war, to defend the city. They will meet you in the field just before the gates, to fight for Macarius and the queen’s promise of freedom, should they successfully hold the city against you, Lord Straton.”
Straton was motionless, his face like carven stone. But Evadne could see a gleam of surprise in his eyes. He had not been expecting a battle with convicts.
“Is Selene still in the quarry?” he asked.
“No, Lord,” Thales replied. “She holds Mithra while Macarius holds the quarry. I escaped the night after the mages arrived; it was chaos, a few of the common convicts getting into fights with the mages. But then Macarius belted the Devouring Sword to his back, and the mages ceased their threats of enchantments, and the convicts calmed with their weapons. Just the mere threat of the sword seems to instill obedience in them.”
“Macarius with the Devouring Sword is almost unfathomable,” Evadne said. “The power he now wields . . .”
Unsheathed, the sword could cut down enchantments, but it also turned enemy weapons into dust. If Macarius drew that sword in opposition to them . . . how could Straton’s legion triumph?
“They have the Golden Belt,” Damon said, his gaze on the map. “They have the All-Seeing Crown. And they have the Devouring Sword.”
Three powerful relics.
It seemed hopeless. Evadne knew Halcyon carried the Sunstone Ring of Healing and Ozias—wherever he was—had the Winged Necklace, but that was all they had.
But then Halcyon said, “They have three relics, but they do not have honor. They do not have training and experience on their side. Only greed and lust. And their unity is shallow; it will not hold. Because convict mages and the common men of the quarry are going to want different things. The mages may want their sentences lifted, but the common men want relics.” She paused and then rose to her feet, eager. “We can defeat them, Commander. Even if Macarius vanishes our weapons . . . we can defeat them.”
Straton was silent for a moment. “So Macarius bears the sword. Laneus bears the belt. And Selene bears the crown.”
“The sword and the belt are at the quarry,” Halcyon added, studying the map. “Macarius and Laneus will be eager to meet us in the field with such power. But what of the crown?”
“Selene will have it in Mithra,” the commander surmised. “She will watch the battle from the safety of the city, near the queen. But we must come up with a way to distract her from it, a way to keep her preoccupied, to ascertain that she will not join the battle should we begin to overtake Macarius.”
Straton set his eyes on Damon, on Evadne.
And suddenly Evadne knew what Damon had been preparing for. Because Damon had already sensed it, long before his father had asked. She understood now what he had spoken of in the grove: the challenge that awaited them was to take back the crown that had been stolen. To confront Selene by magic.
“Evadne and I will sneak into Mithra,” Damon said, and his voice was calm, deep. “We will preoccupy Selene long enough for you to defeat Macarius and his followers.”
“I do not want my sister involved in this,” said Halcyon.
“And I concur,” Thales added. “You speak of a magical duel, Damon. It is very dangerous, very risky. For both of you.”
Evadne was shocked. Her sister and this strange, bedraggled man were speaking for her. She felt her face warm, her anger stir as she stared at Halcyon.
“It will be dangerous and risky for all of us,” Damon said. “But you cannot make decisions for us. This is my choice, Evadne’s choice.”
A beat of awkward silence encompassed the tent.
Straton was the one to break it. “Do you have a plan, Damon?”
“I am currently working on it.”
“Will you be ready in two days?”
“Yes.” Damon sounded confident, but his eyes shifted to Evadne. “Although we should return to our work.”
Evadne followed Damon back to his tent, the rain softly falling again.
She placed the charena scroll on the table and looked at him.
“Damon, what is this plan? What is this enchantment supposed to do?”
He reached for the jug of wine on the table, poured a cup for him and Evadne. He held it out to her, and their fingers brushed as she accepted the cup.
“This enchantment is inspired by things that have sharpened me, strengthened me,” he said. “It is the deepest and most intricate spell I have ever drafted, and it will catch my aunt by surprise. She believes me average, middling toward the weaker end. Let her think such. Because I have grown stronger in the past moon.”
Evadne remembered how Damon and Macarius had dueled on the mountain threshold. Her dread quickened. “You will challenge her to a duel?”
“Yes. And more than anything . . . I do not want to involve you, Evadne. But I can only defeat her by a charena spell, by drawing from the deepest portion of my magic. By singing it.”
Evadne dwelled on that thought, on the spell Damon was currently constructing. An enchantment that made her think of beauty and harmony. Of all the good things in the world.
“My intention is not to kill my aunt,” Damon said, “but to distract her until my father’s legion triumphs.”
And Evadne wanted to believe Damon was strong enough, but Selene had an endless well of magic. Damon’s was not as deep. She vividly recalled how he had bled, how
exhausted he had been just trying to rouse a spell of stars.
How would he be able to last against Selene?
“Damon . . .”
He seemed to read her thoughts. He smiled at her, and there was no fear in him. It was as if he had known this moment would come.
“I know it sounds impossible. But so was Mount Euthymius, was it not? With its endless stairs and waterfalls and angry immortal mages. I will render us unseen, and we will sneak into Mithra,” he said. “I will send a missive to my aunt, to challenge her to meet us at the Destry. She will not refuse me. And that is where I will distract her. While she and I duel, my father and your sister will meet Macarius’s challenge beyond the gates. It will all be over before we know it.”
Evadne smiled and nodded, looking down into her wine. She could hear the rain tapping on the tent, and it seemed strange to imagine the violence that awaited them when the world felt so quiet and peaceful.
“Now,” he whispered. “There is only one thing left for me to ask you.”
She lifted her eyes to his.
He studied her for a moment. “Will you sing the enchantment at my side, Evadne?”
“Yes.” She raised her cup to his. They clinked together, the agreement like a musical note between them.
The rest of the enchantment came quickly after that, as if Damon had been holding back, waiting for Evadne’s reassurance. They worked all through the night, polishing a song made of eight stanzas, each one more beautiful than the one before it.
It was not until the sun rose and the camp began to disassemble that Evadne finally realized it—why he had been so attentive when he looked at her. Parts of Damon’s lyrics were mysteries, concealed within the image of nature. But then there were other parts, words that resonated within her when she read them, as if she were seeing a reflection of herself, a gleam of her soul. And she knew one of the things that had made him stronger, something that had inspired an entire stanza of magic . . .
It was inspired by her.
XXXII
Evadne
Evadne found Halcyon among her squad just after dawn in a sea of bronze and painted shields.
