“Thank you, High Priestess.” Oria hadn’t
thought of that. So much she didn’t know, such as why or what they
owed Bára. Except she did know that Bára was the capital of them
all for a reason. None of the others sat atop such a potent and
constant source of magic.
A few other priests and priestesses arrived,
a dozen or so, all similar in magical power and physical
strength—which was why they had survived the night. All were too
elderly or not useful enough to have been called to battle the
Destrye. The only others would be those too new to their masks to
have ascended the walls or taken to the field, or those of the
noble families who’d not yet qualified to take their masks at all.
Who knew how many among them would find
hwil
and become
useful?
Folcwita Lapo arrived, breathless, for once
not perfectly assembled and groomed. Pausing in the doorway, he
surveyed the small gathering, then scrutinized Oria. They’d
interacted very little. Mostly she’d seen him at court functions,
but as someone unmagical and not at all trained in
hwil
,
he’d kept his distance from the sensitive Oria. Even though it felt
as if she could absorb no more, his prickly energy hit her from
across the room, forcing her to breathe through it. Ambitious,
ruthless, and determined, the folcwita had served her father well
in managing all nonmagical aspects of running Bára, and by all
accounts did it well. Oria should be grateful to have his
assistance at this time.
If she could stand to be in the same room
with him.
“Folcwita,” she greeted him. “What news do
you bring—are we invaded?”
“Obviously,” he bit out.
“Not quite, Princess,” Ercole, captain of
the city guard, answered, pushing through the doorway. “The main
gates remain closed, but only because a few of the faithful city
guard hold them. There’s intense fighting there, both inside and
out. I have to say, without the battle mages, we’re bound to lose.
Our numbers are not great and their warriors exceed our skill.”
“Then why are you here instead of there?”
the folcwita demanded.
Ercole shook his head, his lined face gray
with exhaustion and despair, his once splendid uniform soiled with
blood and other matter Oria couldn’t identify and didn’t care to
examine too closely. “One man will make little difference at this
point, though I will go back as soon as I’m released. I’m here at
your summons, Princess. To give you the information you requested.
What do you need to know?”
Oria fought back a headache, an aura forming
at the edges of her vision such as she hadn’t experienced since
early adolescence, when her hormones and burgeoning magic collided
and conspired to send her to bed for days on end in a darkened,
soundproofed chamber, with only Chuffta’s quiet thoughts for
company.
“
I’m still here.”
“What of—” not just her brothers “—the
sorcerers and our forces still outside the walls?”
“We don’t know for sure what their status
is.” Captain Ercole looked at his hands, scrubbing absently at the
bloodstains. “It’s certain that they cannot return with the gate
closed, so they’re likely in dire straits, pinned between the wall
and the Destrye forces. With the priestesses dead, they’re down to
their own reserves of magic, if they have any left at all. The
golems have all fallen, which surely means Priest Sisto is dead.
They have no help there.”
Priestess Febe, Priest Vico, and Folcwita
Lapo all startled at that—not at the news of his death, but
something else. Through the roar in her head, Oria tried to parse
what upset them. Something they didn’t want her to know.
“Priest Sisto’s golems were outside the
wall?” But Ben had said something, hadn’t he?
“Harrying them
with golems all the way.”
She’d only partly listened at the
time, concentrating on keeping her brothers’ bristling grien out of
her head.
Captain Ercole rubbed a hand over his face,
chagrin oozing off of him. “They’d become the mainstay of our
defense.”
Oria hadn’t known that, but why would she?
Aside from the occasional family meal, she had rarely participated
in discussions of the particulars of Bára’s defenses. She’d only
encountered Priest Sisto’s golems a few times, the most salient
during a demonstration at the temple, as part of her lessons,
probably a good ten years before. With an otherwise minor magical
ability to manipulate silicates, the priest had refined his art to
ambulate creatures made of the stuff. Nasty things with no
intelligence, the golems did not move quickly or with any agility.
The lesson primarily demonstrated how even minor magics manipulated
with inventiveness and ingenuity could produce large-scale
results.
They’d become useful for menial work around
Bára, she’d understood, particularly for unpleasant tasks that
humans preferred to avoid, such as clearing sewage pipes of
blockages. Her father and Nat had discussed it once.
“I know of the golems, but how are they
useful for defense?” she asked.
The folcwita stepped in, preempting Captain
Ercole. “Why use human men when the golems served the same purpose
with no loss of life? The golems made far superior soldiers.”
The captain glared at the floor, obviously
disagreeing but not arguing.
“Priest Sisto gave them fangs, Princess,”
Priestess Febe explained into the gap. “And long, very sharp claws.
They served as a solution to several problems.”
“Most of which are not relevant at the
moment,” Folcwita Lapo inserted with a quelling glance at the
priestess.
“I imagine I have no time to learn about
them with the enemy literally at our gates.” Oria’s eyes throbbed,
focus blurring in and out, and she pressed her fingertips to them.
“But I will want to hear about them in detail later. Your advice,
Captain?” she managed to say.
“Open the gates, Princess.”
“What? Are you mad?” Folcwita Lapo roared,
slamming his hand on the table.
The literal and emotional impact drove
through Oria’s temples with knifelike intensity. Green fire rolled
across the table, sending the folcwita reeling backwards,
frantically batting at the silk sash of office that had caught
flame. Everyone stared in astonishment at Oria. No—at Chuffta on
her shoulder.
“
I will protect you.”
His mind-voice
came through with grim certainty.
“Watch your volume, Folcwita. The princess
is fragile.” Priestess Febe said, with sgath that nevertheless
reverberated. It spread through the room like a cooling balm,
easing Oria’s pain considerably.
“That…that
creature
,” the folcwita
sputtered, his fear palpable.
Oria understood his reaction, though she
judiciously hid that thought from Chuffta. The derkesthai Familiar
had never shown aggression like that, typically saving his fire for
roasting bits of meat and vegetables. But then, they’d both been
pressed far that day.
“So far as we know, Princess Oria is the
only functioning member of the royal family we have left,”
Priestess Febe continued. “Let’s do our best not to sacrifice her
this bloody day also. If her Familiar even allows it.”
“Apologies, Princess,” the folcwita
gritted.
Oria nodded at him, saving her energy.
“Explain your reasoning, Captain Ercole.”
He spread his hands, palm up. “We’ve lost.
The gate will be opened. If we fight, every man who does will die
and the gate will still be opened. As long as the gate is closed,
our people outside are trapped away from shelter and succor. They
will be killed and the gate will still open. We might as well offer
our surrender.”
Folcwita Lapo choked out a sound, but
subsided with a wary glance at Chuffta. “I disagree,” he said
softly enough, though his emotions raged. “King Tavlor would never
surrender, Princess. Think of your father, out there battling for
us. Bára cannot simply throw open her gates to the Destrye and
offer her tender belly to the enemy for them to rend and tear. We
must fight with all we have. What would he say upon entering Bára
only to hear you already gave it away?”
“My father is dead.” Oria hadn’t meant to
state it so baldly, but she lacked resources to cushion the words.
As it was, they echoed with hollow finality in the salon, the
morning sunlight pouring in with ironic cheer, a playful breeze
fluttering the sheer curtains framing the windows, hung there to be
drawn on hot afternoons.
“You can’t mean it, Princess,” whispered
Priest Vico. “Queen Rhianna yet lives, I’m told, and she wouldn’t
if…”
“My mother felt him die and, yes, it nearly
killed her, too. I don’t know about my brothers and the other
priests, but we must prepare for the worst news there also. Captain
Ercole is correct. We’ve already lost. Now we must decide what to
do about it. I say we offer surrender.”
“There is another alternative,” the folcwita
said. “We can invite the Trom.”
“That’s hardly a viable option,” Priest Vico
retorted. “We might as well throw ourselves in the chasms.”
“The Trom?” Oria groped for the information,
her mind stupid with overload. Captain Ercole looked similarly
baffled. She recalled the word vaguely from some long-ago tale.
Some sort of mythical elder race?
“These teachings are sacred to the temple
and those who’ve taken the mask,” High Priestess Febe said, her
featureless mask making the order resonate with hollow echoes. “I
discussed this eventuality in a general sense with the folcwita of
the council once news came of the devastating losses of our
priestesses. The Trom are ancient guardians who can be summoned in
times of extreme need. Many are the cautions against calling on
them lightly, as the price they demand is high. That’s all any of
you need to know.”
“What is the price?” If Oria hadn’t
squandered so much time not learning
hwil
, she wouldn’t be
scrambling to assimilate all of this new information. She’d be
privy to the temple’s sacred knowledge.
“
I know some and will share that with
you.”
“The specifics may be shared only with those
who have achieved
hwil
. The inherent power is far too
dangerous otherwise.” High Priestess Febe nodded, several of the
priests and priestesses echoing the gesture knowingly. “Suffice to
say that the price is different every time, chosen to suit the time
and place. I urge we look at every option before we choose this,
only at the hour of extreme need.”
“Aren’t we there already?” Folcwita Lapo
demanded. “Look around you!”
“No,” Captain Ercole said quietly. “Not if
we surrender.”
They all looked expectantly at Oria.
“
Don’t give them more opportunity to
argue. You are queen for the moment.”
“Princess Oria, you are inexperienced,
fragile by your own admission, have no mask, and can’t know what a
grave step—”
Oria cut the folcwita off, happy to also
shut down the frustrated rage he sent her way. “I am also the royal
princess and, in the absence of anyone who outranks me, my word is
law. Captain Ercole—how do we go about offering surrender?”
Folcwita threw up his hands. “Without my
help, I can tell you that. I’m not eager to die.”
“We need an emissary,” Priestess Febe said.
“Someone brave enough to approach the enemy within the walls, to
make the offer to discuss terms. The folcwita is correct—the risk
of death is high. They may not wish to listen. The Destrye are a
bloodthirsty and barbaric people, who live to destroy. It’s
entirely possible they won’t withdraw until they’ve slaughtered
every one of us.”
Captain Ercole nodded. “I will do it.”
“No.” Oria smiled at him. If they survived,
she’d remember his stalwart loyalty and courage. “We need you to
continue to lead the guard. I will do it. They won’t kill a woman
under flag of surrender.”
The group exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Finally, Captain Ercole said, “Princess—we believe they won’t
hesitate. They murdered the priestesses on the walls in cold
blood.”
But not her.
She wears no mask. She isn’t
one of them.
“They will recognize me as no priestess. I have
the the best chance of speaking to them of any of us.”
“It’s too great a risk, Oria,” Priestess
Febe said in a gentle, insistent tone. “You may be no sorceress and
perhaps can never take the throne, but we cannot afford to squander
your potential, just in case.”
Oria shook her head, pressing her lips
against the regret. “Such is the fate of a figurehead.” One about
to collapse at that. “You have Queen Rhianna. She is strong and
will recover. Perhaps my brothers yet live. It’s worth the risk to
my small life to perhaps get them back and save what we can of Bára
and her people. To protect the magic well beneath the city, as is
our sacred legacy.”
A short silence settled over the room, no
one mustering an argument against her logic.
“Prepare a horse for me, dress it in white
tack. White is for surrender, yes, Captain?”
He nodded unhappily, but with respect in his
eyes. “I’ll prepare a banner for you also. Would you like some help
with the words to speak, Princess?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll don white also and be
down as soon as I am able.” She hesitated. “I hate to ask, but with
Alva gone, I’ll need someone to help me dress.”
“It would be my privilege to assist,
Princess,” Priestess Febe said with a grave nod.
It seemed they all would be taking on new
roles that day.
“I’m going with you when you ride out,
Princess,” her guard Renzo said from behind her. “I won’t let you
be completely undefended.”
“Thank you.” She stroked Chuffta’s long
tail. “But I have my own defenses, too.”
“
Yes. We will do this together.”
She smiled at the lizard’s fierce thought.
And maybe felt a little fierce, too.