Never mind. It didn’t concern him. “Take her, then. Er, lead her where you will. I have a million and one things I need to attend to, if tomorrow’s the day we face the enemy.”
I
n her bed, Coruth struggled for every breath. Her hair was full of yellow-edged leaves and one of her arms was made of wrinkled wood. She lived. Cythera was relatively certain that she would survive. Yet she had so overextended herself, pushed herself so far past her limits, that she could not have defended herself against a pesky fly, much less a horde of barbarians.
Probably for the best, Cythera thought. When she told her mother what she’d done, Coruth would want to kill her.
Cythera licked her lips and forced herself to keep her hands at her sides. It still had to be done. She owed her mother that much. “I’ve done . . .” she said, and found she couldn’t go on. It was past human endurance to have to make this confession.
Then again, she was a witch now. A witch and something more. “I’ve done something you’ll find unforgivable,” she said. She forced herself not to lower her eyes.
In the bed, Coruth’s mouth opened a little wider, and Cythera expected her to start cursing, to castigate her daughter most severely. She deserved it, after all. Yet no sound came from those dry lips.
“I used sorcery,” Cythera said, forcing herself not to falter over the words. To speak them clearly, out loud. A witch accepted her responsibilities. She acknowledged when she’d made a mistake, and she took what was coming to her. “I know better than to make excuses to you. But it was for the right reason, I am sure of it. It was to save a friend.”
Coruth’s eyes couldn’t quite focus, but they moved in their sockets.
Cythera nodded as if her mother had spoken, because she knew exactly what she would have said. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I am still clutching to my attachments. I should renounce the bonds of my prior life. That was part of my initiation—to force me to let go of old desires and old bonds. Slag was going to die, and I couldn’t just watch it happen. But I know I should have. If it was his time, then it wasn’t my right to stop what was meant to happen. There may be some reason why he was supposed to die. This project he’s working on, the thing that nearly killed him, by all accounts it’s some miraculous weapon. By saving him maybe I’m introducing something terrible to the world, something that will cause untold suffering. And I let that happen because I cared for him. Perhaps I cared too much.”
Coruth closed her mouth. Her body shifted in the bed as if she were struggling to sit up, or perhaps to speak. She lacked the strength to do either.
“A witch can’t afford to favor one life over hundreds, maybe thousands of others. That’s why I can’t be Malden’s lover anymore. I know this—you taught me well. I can only say I’ve learned from my mistake. I paid for what I did.” She reached up and touched her hair. The white streaks would always be there. They would be a permanent reminder of what power cost. “You said that when . . . when I did it, Malden would never look me in the eye again. But you were wrong, Mother! He looked right into me, right down to my soul, and he saw no corruption there. I made a bad mistake. But not as bad as the one you saw in my future. Your training was enough—it gave me the discipline to use only a little sorcery, just enough to do a good thing.”
She closed her eyes.
“Mother, I promise now, on my life, on my vows as a witch. I promise I will never make this mistake again. I’ve learned my lesson and I assure you I know just how badly I’ve transgressed. Witchcraft may not be as powerful as sorcery, but it’s clean. It is the only right way to use magic. I know this in my bones. I will die before I make contact with the pit again.”
She opened her eyes again and found Coruth staring right at her. She couldn’t help herself—she flinched back, away from that gaze.
“Some,” Coruth said, and then swallowed and squinted as if just saying the word had caused her unbearable pain. “Some demons,” she went on, forcing the words out, “are smaller than others.”
Cythera reeled backward as surely as if she’d been slapped. “No,” she said, “no. I opened a way between the worlds, yes. But only a tiny crack—not enough to let anything come through. I watched like a hawk for it. I bound the demons I drew power from. There is no way anything could have come through—Mother, I would never allow a demon to come into this world! Even in my moment of weakness, even when I was stupid enough to do this thing, I was strong enough to make sure that didn’t happen!”
Coruth’s chin bobbed up and down. She was nodding.
“That’s true,” she wheezed. “It . . . didn’t. Nothing came through.”
Relief flooded through Cythera’s veins. If she’d failed, if something had come into the world, she would never have been able to forgive herself. She turned to leave the room, to let Coruth rest peacefully. If she stayed, she knew, her mother would feel forced to admonish her further.
“Not . . . this time,” Coruth said, and Cythera’s shoulders slumped as she stepped out of the room.
O
n the march, it is far too easy to slip into a kind of trance. At first every mile is marked. But there are so many, and each when conquered seems so little, so in time there is only the automatic motion, the necessary action bred into the bone. Croy kept his horse on the road, and kept his pace, and saw little while his mind roamed freely. In his inner vision he saw Cythera, and what might become of her. What might already have happened, and that was all.
Yet it is the nature of a warrior to be silent much of the time but always ready. When something happens to break the routine, response is instant.
Ahead on the road a horse reared, and another screamed in panic. Croy fought to keep his own seat. He shot looks around in every direction, trying to see what had happened to break the road’s spell. At first he saw only his own retinue. The Skilfinger knights around him broke ranks to spread out, not waiting for the order to protect the flanks. Drums beat to arms, and Sir Hew galloped forward to stand his horse next to Croy, waving behind him for his standard-bearer to bring up the colors of Skrae.
Then Croy saw the threat, and he drew Ghostcutter from its sheath in a practiced, effortless motion.
On every side of them, massed in neat ranks and pike squares, an army of men on foot came across the fields. There were thousands of them. Moving as one they encircled the Skilfinger column and dropped to one knee, setting their polearms as if to receive a cavalry charge. Croy very nearly ordered such a charge, thinking he’d been caught by an ambush of barbarians.
These soldiers wore no furs, however, instead wrapping themselves in blankets and mantles of cheap homespun. They didn’t carry axes or swords, but instead armed themselves with bill hooks and glaives. Their serjeants held mismatched halberds, while in the midst of the pike squares men with longbows drew and held.
They carried no flags, nor wore any kind of badges or insignia. And Croy could not see a single knight or captain among their ranks. Who in the Lady’s name were they?
In the distance someone shouted. Croy peered over the iron blades of the hooks and polearms facing him and saw one mounted man moving through the ambuscade, one man alone on a horse. The homespun soldiers parted to make room for him like waves parting before the prow of a ship.
When the mounted man drew closer, Croy saw he was dressed in a full coat of plate that gleamed brighter than the snow. The visor of his helmet was down, but atop the helm he wore a simple golden coronet. Croy knew that crown well enough.
“Tarness,” he shouted, “what is this? Stand aside and let us pass.”
“Sir Croy,” the Burgrave of the Free City of Ness called back, “I had heard your body was not found at Easthull. I am glad to see you live.”
Croy had no time for pleasantries. “Move your men aside,” he repeated. He glanced warily at the pike square nearest the road on his left side. If they pressed an attack now he would have a hard time fending them off. His left arm was still too weak to hold a shield. “I have important business to attend to.”
Tarness walked his horse a bit closer. Behind him, sticking up from his saddle, a lance bobbed in the cold air. It bore no pennon, though it was painted in Tarness’s colors. “There was a time, Croy, when you swore an oath of fealty to me,” the Burgrave said. “Now you give
me
a command. Is it possible you’ve forgotten who I am?”
Sir Hew pushed his horse forward, Chillbrand lifted to point at the Burgrave. “Your lord gave you an order, man. He is Sir Croy no longer. He is Croy, regent of Skrae, and your master.”
“Perhaps,” Tarness answered. “If this land we stand on can still be called Skrae. There are those who would say it is not.”
Croy’s eyes narrowed. He had heard from his scouts of the Burgrave’s Army of Free Men. He had assumed that like himself they fought for the preservation of Skrae’s monarchy.
“According to the charter of Ness, this land is mine, to work and profit from as I see fit,” Tarness went on. “It is under my protection. None may pass over these roads unless I permit it.”
“A charter,” Sir Hew insisted, “signed by a king of Skrae at Helstrow. With the express understanding that royal authority could not be arrogated by any subject.”
“Yes, a king—at Helstrow. There is no longer a king, at Helstrow or anywhere else. I assume Bethane is queen now, and she named you regent, but I also assume she was never properly crowned by a priest of the Lady. I also assume, since Helstrow is in the hands of the barbarians, that she is not sitting on a proper throne right now.”
“Both those things are true,” Croy admitted.
“You see how these things so quickly grow complicated.”
Sir Hew lifted Chillbrand as if to signal an attack, but Croy stopped him with one weary gesture.
“What do you want of us?” he asked of Tarness.
“To know your intention, first.”
Croy nodded. Very well. If the man was getting to play at insurrection, he would play along—to a point. “We come to liberate Ness from the barbarians. Will you stand against that goal?”
“Hardly, since it is my own. We march for the same purpose.”
Croy sighed. By law he could demand that Tarness fall in with his company and assist him. He was the ranking commander on the field. Yet he sensed that if he tried to enforce that demand he would be met with more obstruction. Tarness was playing a deep game here. Liberating Ness was only the first move. He was already thinking of the next, and the next. Which was only to be expected from the Burgrave. Croy was one of the few people in the world who knew the secret—that it was the soul of Juring Tarness, inside the crown, who spoke to him. Juring Tarness had been a master at games of strategy, both on and off the battlefield.
Croy realized he had to start thinking strategically himself. The knight he had been would have called an attack and bulled his way through these so-called Free Men. The regent he was must find another way.
“Let us be allies, then,” Croy said, “and like two oxen pulling a plow, double our strength. Yes?”
Tarness laughed. “Milord, you think as I do.”
Croy nodded. Whatever it took to get the road cleared, even if it would cause problems later on. There were plenty more miles to cover before they reached Ness. He fumed with impatience while the Burgrave moved his men away from the road, clearing a path for the Skilfinger mercenaries. It seemed to take all day.
While the Free Men moved out, the Burgrave brought his horse close enough to Croy’s that they could talk quietly, man-to-man. “I must admit,” he said, “I am glad to see you here. The battle ahead will go hard enough even for our combined strength.”
“The Lady will aid us, if this is Her wish,” Croy said, uninterested in the other man’s small talk.
“Of course. Already she has smiled on me. When I heard an army of Skilfingers marched on Skrae, I did not expect you to come this far west. I thought for sure you would go after Helstrow first.”
Croy glanced at Sir Hew. His fellow Ancient Blade refused to even turn his way, though he must have heard what the Burgrave said.
“I have my reasons to want Ness secured,” Croy said.
“Yes, I know,” Tarness agreed. “Reasons of the heart.”
Croy stiffened in his saddle. Was he really that transparent? Or that besotted? “You speak of—”
“Of Malden, your friend and bosom companion. I for one should remember the exploits of the knight and the thief. The adventures you two unlikely comrades have shared! You look to save your friend.”
“I . . . do,” Croy said. Better the Burgrave think he had come to rescue a friend than a betrothed, perhaps.
“I’ve just two days ago had a report from a source inside the city. You’ll be glad to hear that Malden lives,” Tarness told him. “More than that—he’s raised himself high in station. They call him Lord Mayor of Ness now, and he commands the city in my absence.”
Croy could scarcely credit it. His first thought, in fact, was not one of surprise.
In the Lady’s name, he’s always been a brazen burglar, but now he’s gone and stolen an entire city!
“I was as surprised to hear it as you look just now. Considering I had another man in charge of the place when I left. Still, better one of my citizens is running the place than the barbarian, eh?”
Tarness leaned in close, pleased to be able to share such juicy gossip. His tone was positively prurient as he went on. “I’m told Malden holds out against the foe with the aid of an army of thieves and whores. One can only imagine the debauchery that must rule inside those walls. They say he’s even made his headquarters in a bawdy house, where he lies abed of days with his witch consort, though they remain unmarried.”
“His witch consort?” Croy asked, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “My good lord Burgrave, I think these stories must have grown in the telling. She is a formidable woman, but Coruth is far too old to be taking up with the likes of Malden.” He couldn’t even picture it, the two of them rutting in bed. Why—
“I speak not of Coruth but of her daughter,” the Burgrave said, with a laugh of his own.
Something inside Croy’s head popped like a soap bubble. For a moment he could neither hear nor see nor think. Something impossible had happened, and he was unable just then to even understand the simple words.
When the moment passed and he could think again, he decided he must have misunderstood. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you say again that part about who his consort is? I do believe I misheard you.”
Tarness lifted the visor of his helm. His face was leering and spiteful—or perhaps that was just his imagination, too.
“He desports himself most shamelessly with the woman called Cythera,” the Burgrave clarified. “I believe you know her, do you not?”