The sun had just sunk behind a horizon of trees when Destra arrived at the checkpoint on the Post Road outside Jutterdam. She had laid aside the flowing white robe she habitually wore as magistrar of the Green Isles, and as she had no idea what Mìngyùn’s “Spinner” should wear, she’d settled on an outfit that could have come out of an ancient painting from the years of a royal court in Iga: a ruffled collar of white silk, a surcoat of beige velvet brocade with wide sleeves, and a wide, split-legged skirt of the same material. The pattern on the fabric swirled in a circular motif, flecked with gold thread. The only aspect of her appearance unchanged from her previous life was her long braid of hair, but she now wore an elaborate hat, and the gold streaks in her hair winked and shimmered next to the material.
She found these clothes stiff and confining, especially for so many days on horseback from Sutterdam. The Defiance soldiers at the checkpoint, however, were sufficiently impressed by this costume that they immediately led her to the farmhouse that they identified as “Headquarters.” A bald man with an earring stood guard outside the door. He looked her over, satisfying himself that she carried no weapons. Then he knocked on the door, announcing, “A lady asking for the commander.”
The door was opened by a young lad. “Won’t you come in?” he invited her, rubbing eyes that looked heavy with sleep.
As he led her closer to the fire and lanterns, Destra saw that one of his white shirtsleeves hung empty. “Forgive me for waking you,” she said. “I do need to consult with Commander Thalen.”
The lad said, “He is sleeping now, milady. We sleep when we can. Is the matter so urgent I should wake him?”
“I regret disturbing him, but yes,” Destra replied.
“Very well. Won’t you take this chair by the table, milady? And may I offer you some wine or ale?”
“Wine would be most welcome,” she smiled.
The lad poured her a glass.
“You are very kind,” she said. “You are?”
“I am Tristo, milady, Commander Thalen’s adjutant. I should tell him who wishes to speak to him.”
“My name is ‘Destra,’ lately of Pilagos, but originally of Jígat,” she answered. “But that name won’t mean anything to him. Tell him—tell him, I also claim the title ‘Spinner.’”
As she waited, Destra sipped her wine and gazed around the room. It was a large Free States farmhouse common room. Its ceiling pressed lower, its walls stood thicker, and its hearth stretched wider than the Green Isles spaces she had lately occupied. The furniture appeared helter-skelter; a knitting basket and children’s toys had been jumbled in a corner, and assorted chairs and stools clustered around the large table. Pictures were stacked in a pile leaning against a corner, and someone had used the barren wall as a canvas for a hand-drawn map.
In a few minutes a tall man entered the room. He was young, but his face was already careworn and hardened. Though he held his shoulders straight, his eyes showed not only fatigue, but also pain.
Destra stood, and they regarded one another across the room for a long moment.
“Tha-len of Sut-ter-dam,” she said, savoring the syllables. “At last we meet. I have heard of you since before the Occupation of the Free States. Master Granilton was my tutor, my friend, and a faithful correspondent.”
“Milady, then you have me at a disadvantage,” said Commander Thalen. “Tell me, is a ‘Spinner’ analogous to a ‘Peddler’?”
“Ah, so you have met Peddler and he revealed himself to you?”
“Yes, on a ship sailing to Slagos.”
She nodded. “We must have missed one another by moments, then, because I convened with Peddler and Gardener in Slagos.”
“Oh, there’s a ‘Gardener’ too?” The commander raised his brows. “Won’t you be seated, milady? I see we have much to discuss. But first—Tristo!”
“Aye, Commander,” said the adjutant, appearing at a doorway.
“Could you fetch us some food?” Thalen pulled his hair back into a band and gestured with his chin. “And another wineglass.”
He poured himself a glass and topped off Destra’s. “Now, milady, you have my attention until we finish supping; afterward, I’m afraid, there are scores of things I must attend to.”
Destra needed to win this commander’s trust. She knew that showing trust was a method of winning it in return: she could demonstrate her faith in this stranger by putting her life in his hands.
“I know you are fatigued, and you must have many things on your mind,” she said. “Pray indulge me a moment. I will sketch my tale quickly.
“I was born in Jutterdam not too far from here. My father was drawn to statecraft; he served as mayor and then as an elector; my mother, however, was the scholar in the family. She specialized in birds. I showed aptitude in both areas.
“I attended the Scoláiríum, where I read history with Tutor Granilton. In his house, I met his only son, Graville. Graville was—well, Graville became very dear to me. We made plans for a wedding. But first we undertook a trip to the Green Isles. It was part holiday and part a favor for my mother. She studied birds, as I told you, and she wanted us to pick up several specimens. When we sailed to a small isle to purchase a rare black parrot, our ship was boarded by Pellish pirates. They killed Graville.
“I did not have the heart to return to the Free States. I made my home in the Green Isles and tried to make myself useful to the people there. Not many years after I settled in Pilagos, the Islanders nominated me as magistrar. I served in that post for nearly twenty years.
“If it was not the life I planned, it was a useful life. Oh, often wrangling about tariffs or harbor dredging grew tiresome, but I built up relations between the isles. I played a role in the Allied Fleet’s efforts to defeat the Pellish pirates. And when my friend Master Olet came to me for advice and help in setting up a supply chain for a special team of Raiders, I did everything in my power to help him and his associates, a Master Quinith and a Master Hake.”
Thalen had listened intently, staring at her face, leaning forward, his hand in his chin. The last sentence moved him to speak.
“You know my brother?”
“Yes.”
“Hake is in Sutterdam at present, but Quinith is here. Well, not in this farmhouse, but somewhere close by. He’s supervising our provisions and arms.”
“That’s good news,” she answered. “He’s very capable. And he would vouch for me, if you need someone to confirm the public parts of my story.”
Thalen made a gesture with his hand that this was not necessary.
“So,” she continued, “I had made good use of my talents, such as they are. I thought I had contributed enough. Living so long in the Green Isles I had adopted their ways—their dress, their food. I gave thanks to their Spirit, Vertia, the Spirit of Growth, for the blessings bestowed on the islands.”
The adjutant interrupted them at this point by bringing in two steaming plates. They waited in silence as he set one before each of them and left the room.
“Please continue your story,” Thalen said, attacking his food with hunger, though his eyes didn’t leave her face.
“Three moons ago, however, I was summoned to Slagos. There I met with a man I had known for decades, Gardener, who tends the Garden of Vertia. And he introduced me to a visitor, a man who termed himself ‘Peddler.’”
“What does Peddler look like?” Thalen asked, and he nodded assent when she described the bells in his hair and beard and his round green eyes.
“He’s very clever at Oblongs and Squares,” Thalen remarked.
“I wouldn’t have guessed that.” Destra quirked an eyebrow. “Anyway, in Vertia’s Garden, I underwent a change. I became Mìngyùn’s Spinner. And Mìngyùn ordered me to return to the Free States.” Destra drew a breath. “More specifically, the Spirit ordered me to return home, find you, and help you drive the Oros from our country.”
There. As fantastic as the whole tale sounded once spoken aloud, she had followed Mìngyùn’s order, revealed herself, and delivered her offer.
Thalen rubbed his hands over his eyes and face. The silence grew long.
“That’s quite a story,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.
“Yes. Do you believe me?” Destra sought to read his face.
“I believe that you are telling me what you believe to be true—I see no lie in your eyes. But I’ve always had some … difficulties with the Spirits. And I’ve barely even heard of this ‘Mìngyùn.’”
“A skeptical mind,” Destra smiled. “Granilton and Graville too. So.” She held her palms up in the gesture one would use to order “halt,” and then pantomimed moving something in front of her to the side. “Set the Spirits aside for now.
“I served as magistrar for twenty years—a fact that you can easily confirm with Quinith if you summon him.”
“I shan’t wake him,” said Thalen, shaking his head. “There’s no need. You carry authority on your shoulders.”
“Although I am not a warrior, I counseled Queen Cressa and Prince Mikil,” Destra replied, “throughout the Allied Fleet’s war with the Pellish pirates. Are there any aspects of this campaign that worry you? What’s the state of affairs? How stands the siege?”
Destra ate her cooling food and listened while Commander Thalen described the morning’s battles and his fears of what would happen next.
“I don’t know what I would do, faced with a hostage situation,” he admitted. “Nor do I know if the Defiance will stand firm. But if we fold, the Oros will resupply and even retake more territory. All the sacrifice to corner them in Jutterdam will have been wasted.”
“Commander,” Destra said, “I have a question for you.” She pushed her plate away and leaned forward on both elbows.
“Is it necessary to kill more Oros to assuage your anger, or is it sufficient that the invaders leave the Free States?”
Thalen took a few moments before he started to speak. He had to clear his throat.
“Yesterday, I learned that one of my closest friends from the Scoláiríum had been killed by the Oros. I had thought that I was done with vengeance. Yet on top of all my other losses, this death shook my sanity. I roared with bloodlust. I wanted to hack as many of them to pieces as I possibly could.”
He looked at his hands and Destra followed his glance, but his hands were clean and she did not see whatever image filled Thalen’s mind. “Milady Destra, this now seems monstrous. I have already killed hundreds, if not thousands of my enemies. I helped burn a city of civilians to the ground. That … is not the person I thought I was. Killing more Oros will shatter me.
“All I want is to save Jutterdam. Perhaps saving Jutterdam would balance burning down Femturan.”
“I know well the desire for vengeance, Commander.” Destra folded her hands and rested her chin upon them. “I have taken no husband, no lovers, for twenty years. Vengeance has been my nightly companion. Earlier I claimed I have lived a useful life. Useful, perhaps. But hollow and lonely, because I could not let go of my phantom. Believe me, I tried; but it always crept back.”
“I tried too,” said Thalen, his eyes distant, “and thought I had succeeded. And then you lose more, and fury roars again.”
The room fell silent, except for the fire in the fireplace making little pops, as they each consulted with their demons.
Destra asked, “If the Jutters could be rescued, would your army agree to let the Oros escape?”
Thalen toyed with his knife. “I believe … I believe that I could persuade them.”
“Did Granilton ever assign you a book—what was its name?” Destra felt her fatigue fogging her mind. “It was about methods of persuasion.”
“Aye.” A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips. “I can’t wait to tell him how useful that one has been.”
Destra’s face fell. “I miss him so much. He used to write me every week or two. I have received no news of him since the invasion; he would have written if he lived.”
Thalen hit the table with his fist. “Damnation! Somehow, I imagined if I could just return to the Scoláiríum, everything would be as it was. Granilton and I would discuss histories or cultural development; Gustie and Quinith would sit across the table from me at the refectory.… I would be the student who had never killed anyone and had never sent others to their deaths.”
Abruptly, he stood up. “I need to check on the wounded. And if they, who have the most right to revenge, agree just to get those scum out of our country, then I will be able to manage the others.”
As Thalen and Destra crossed the farmyard, she noticed that the sky was lightening. They had talked the night away.
Thalen commented to her, “Peddler really drives a peddler’s wagon. Do you actually spin thread?”
“Oh, gracious no! I’ve never so much as touched a spinning wheel and wouldn’t know how to work one.”
The barn door was propped open to the summer air. The commander moved amongst the wounded who were awake, praising them, comforting them, conversing with their healers in a soft voice. He even pulled away bandages and looked at wounds himself. Both the casualties and the healers appeared to draw sustenance from his approval and attention.
Destra couldn’t mix amongst the patients with as much equanimity and reassurance as he possessed; blood and gore distressed her. She leaned against the barn doorframe, her legs stiffening and aching after such a long ride.
She was not worried about Thalen’s skepticism, because Mìngyùn, she now understood, differed from Lautan and even from Vertia. The Spirit of Fate asked for no sacrifices, libations, or baskets, expected no reverence, and cared not a whit whether humans “believed” or remained incredulous. Mìngyùn weighed and judged the quality of men’s souls, not their spiritual devotion.
The commander rejoined Destra. “They desire their city, their country, and their lives back. Revenge doesn’t rank.”
“Then we are agreed?” she asked him.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you need to convince me your plan will work. You haven’t told me how you are going to make this miracle happen.”
“’Tis no miracle,” answered the former magistrar. “The answer lies, as so many do, in a network of alliances and in finding shared interests.” And she told him her plan.
Destra slept a few hours in one of the farmhouse beds. While she rested, women washed and ironed her shirt and beat the dust out of her riding habit. At midday she watched as the commander, mounted on a farm wagon, spoke to his followers, asking their permission for this new approach.
A contentious argument broke out, with people shouting out the names of kin that had been killed.
“What about my boy!”
“My daughter—they took my daughter from me!”
“They burned my family’s farm!”
“We must have vengeance!”
“I came to kill the bloody Oros, not set them free!”
“I want revenge!”
Thalen allowed this airing of grief and grievances and then repeated, “More of us will die or be maimed. Will that bring back your family?” When some of the crowd started to listen, he shouted, “I could water the Jutter Plain with blood—but how will that ease your hearts?” When fewer holdouts remained, Thalen’s tone grew steely. “I will not lead you into a battle in which you will be slaughtered.”
One man from the back—a burly figure with a dark beard—then a woman in a healer’s apron, and finally others in the crowd took up the chant, “Get them gone. Just get them gone.”
Twelve hours later, the commander waited with her on the city side of the barricade at Kings Bridge. Thalen’s troops had set up torches at regular intervals, throwing jumpy shadows. Tristo, his adjutant, had rustled up a black stallion for Thalen (with warnings that the good-looking beast was actually wind-broken and couldn’t move as fast as a mule), and had tied black-and-white patterned ribbons to his harness that fluttered madly in the summer breeze. Astride the steed beside Destra and her mount, the tall commander, bareheaded but in a long black coat pinned to fit him, looked imposing. The two waited without speaking, both occupied with their own fears, while their horses shifted restlessly and the time slid toward midnight, the time they had requested for a parley.
A man called down from the bridge tower, “They’re coming!”
Archers in the tower and on the barricade protected them, but when eight columns of Oros came marching into view, Destra still felt exposed. The Oros were moving stiffly and unnaturally. As they came closer into the torchlight she could see that each one of them had a child or a baby tied to his chest and a dagger in his hand.
The sight chilled Destra. She felt faint.
Mìngyùn, help me. I am no soldier. I am out of my depth here.
The commander sighed, but he did not appear as rattled as she felt. He spared a glance at her. “Take a breath,” he said. “Forget about the weapons. Treat this as no different than a negotiation in a council chamber. We know our lines and play our roles.”
The company halted approximately twenty paces in front of them. The lines of Oro soldiers parted to let a mounted officer and his adjutants ride to the front. An officer, made even more imposing by his helmet with red plumes, rode up to within ten paces of Destra and Thalen. “Are you in command?” he barked.
“Yes,” said the commander, his voice level. “And you?”
“I am Fifth-Flamer Lumrith, assistant to General Murnaut, head of the Oromondo Force.”
“I am Thalen of Sutterdam. At my side is milady Destra of Jígat.”
The fifth-flamer ignored Destra—not even sparing her a glance—but he reacted to Thalen’s name. His nostrils flared as he glared at the commander.
“Yes,” Thalen said. “I am the one who burned Femturan to the ground. I am the one who sent all eight of your Magi to your Infernal Flames while you ‘Protectors’ sat here on your fat asses. Or terrorized children.”
The officer made a move to reach for his sword.
“Fifth-Flamer Lumrith,” said Destra in a soft voice, “thirty archers are aiming at you. Wouldn’t you rather see the dawn?”
The officer halted his movement. “If you shoot me, if you don’t follow my orders, we will cut the throat of every one of these Free States brats.”
“You could do that,” agreed Destra, nodding, “but that won’t gain your soldiers any food.”
Commander Thalen spoke. “You know of me. You know I am capable of burning down a city; do you think I will bring down my barricades for the sake of some kiddies?”
“You talk boldly,” said the officer, “but Free Staters are soft. You asked for a negotiation?” He barked a command, and a nearby soldier ran up beside him. The soldier’s human shield was a thin, terrified girl of about six summers. Destra steeled herself to meet her petrified eyes.
“We do not negotiate with rabble. You will begin dismantling this barricade now and move aside or the Protector will kill her,” said Lumrith, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light, certain that the Free Staters would respond to his threat.
The vitally important element, Destra had insisted to Thalen earlier in the day, was to show not the slightest hesitation or remorse over the hostages. “We must remove them as a bargaining point,” she’d warned him.
So now, Thalen raised his right arm. “I will save you the trouble,” he said, snapping his fingers.
At this prearranged signal, an arrow twanged through the night. It was fired with such force that it pierced the girl’s body and hurtled through the chest of the Protector holding her. They fell to the ground; the girl with a shriek, the soldier with a groan and an exhalation.
The fifth-flamer watched them both fall, stupefied. Behind him, one of his assistants’ horses reared, and its rider fought to bring it under control. The Oro foot soldiers shuffled uneasily. A cold stillness followed.
The Oro officer barked another command, and a squad of eight more soldiers ran up to the light of the torches.
“Cut their throats,” said Lumrith.
Thalen smiled. “Say your prayers, boys. Your Infernal Flames nip at your heels.” He raised his hand in the air again, ready to snap his fingers.
“Fifth-Flamer Lumrith,” interrupted Destra, knowing this was exactly the right moment. “More arrows will fly, killing your soldiers. Those would be needless deaths. And,” she lowered her voice, “you might spook the rest of the platoon behind you on the bridge. I have no doubt that you are very brave, but will your general be pleased if all your men die tonight and you have nothing to show for the sacrifice?
“I can offer you a way out of this difficult situation. On my signal a fleet of Green Isles ships, crewed by Green Isles sailors, will sail around the headlands. I understand that it might take some hard work to clear the harbor so that they can tie up. But each ship is loaded with food, enough for your men to eat on the voyage and enough for you to return as saviors to Oromondo, bringing supplies to your hungry country. All your soldiers have to do is march onto these ships.”
“What?” he said, turning his attention to her for the first time.
Destra repeated the offer.
“There’s some trick here. You will sink the ships once we are out at sea.”
“No. Think a moment: the sailors have no wish to drown themselves.”
Lumrith stared at her, calculating; glanced at Thalen; and looked over at his junior officers.
“There’s some trick here. We will take the children with us as hostages.”
“You will not!” said the commander authoritatively, though he was improvising past their script. “The sea captains have orders to pull up their gangplanks and sail away if you try to load hostages.”
“Fifth-Flamer Lumrith,” said Destra, her voice athrob with reasonableness. “Please, consider. I’m afraid Commander Thalen will never tear down these barricades, no matter how many hostages you kill. He’s a hard man, a brutal man, a man thirsty for blood. You heard about his mad dash over Electors Bridge almost to the walls of Jutterdam? You see that now. He will hold the barricades while you, your men, and every captive in Jutterdam starves.
“But I beg you to consider—why should you starve to hold Jutterdam? What good does it do you? The rest of your soldiers have returned to the Land you love while you are marooned and forgotten here, without reinforcements, unable to control the Free States or use this country to provision your own. Here I offer you a way to go home, with the honor of bringing desperately needed provisions. All you have to do is clear the harbor and board the ships. Such easy tasks.”
“Where are these ships?” he asked.
Destra knew she had him.
“As I said, they anchor around the headlands. They will sail into Jutterdam on my signal.”
“What is your signal?”
She reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a cylindrical object with a fuse.
“This is a powerful rocket that explodes in the air. When I set it off from the rooftop of the Jutterdam Council Hall, the ships’ lookouts will see it.”
The fifth-flamer regarded her closely for the first time. “Who are you, woman?”
“She is a minister of the government of the Free States and must be addressed with respect,” snapped Commander Thalen.
Lumrith conferred with his junior officers for a few moments.
“You will come with us and set off your signal,” said Lumrith.
“No,” said the commander, resuming his part of the play. “I can’t allow her to go with you. You would harm the only person in this country who is trying to save your worthless necks.”
The Oro officer considered. “I give you my sacred pledge that this female minister will not be harmed.”
Thalen shook his head.
“I swear by Pozhar.”
Thalen spit to the side.
“Perchance,” said Destra brightly, as if the thought had just occurred to her, “if your men would cut down the children they bear, this would be a sign of good faith Commander Thalen would accept.”
Lumrith nodded and shouted orders to the men behind him. The children shrieked when the knives moved, but in each case their captors only cut their bonds. They fell in pitiful, mewling heaps on the road.
“Well, Commander Thalen,” said Destra. “Isn’t that enough? You don’t really want to burn Jutterdam to the ground too, do you?” She glanced at Thalen with a look that suggested he was a dangerous madman.
“Let’s ride into the city, Fifth-Flamer, before this bloodthirsty man changes his mind. The sooner I light this rocket, the sooner you set work crews to clearing the harbor, the sooner you and your men will be on your way back to your homeland.”
She rode beside the officer through the ranks of Oro soldiers down the dark road. Torches on the Jutterdam wall showed the city looming ahead of her.
Mìngyùn, tell me that she lives.
The Spirit answered in her head, Spinner, I will forgive this one impudence. Thou must never doubt that I choose if the Thread of Life is snipped. The child was under my protection. The arrow missed all her vitals and pierced the heart of Pozhar’s filth.
Destra had enough presence of mind to register the Spirit’s disdain toward the Oros. A little giddy with relief, she dared to tease, “Pozhar’s filth?” Mìngyùn, I understood that the noble route was to renounce vengeance?
The voice in her head roared, Don’t bandy thy intelligence with me, Spinner. I am the One Who Judges.
It had been Wareth who pulled the bow.
Wareth had just average skill with archery. But among the choices that night, he was Thalen’s oldest companion and one of the original survivors of the Rout, which had once included Tristo (who was maimed) and Codek (who was dead). Dalogun was the stronger bowman, but Thalen couldn’t ask that innocent boy to shoot a Free States child in cold blood. No, that was a burden he could only lay on Wareth.
Milady Destra had promised that the hostage would live, though how she could possibly know this was obscure. But even if this were true, when Thalen assigned him the task, both he and Wareth knew what it would cost.
Forever after, Wareth had to live with the knowledge that he had the wherewithal to shoot a Free States child in the chest.
Forever after, he would carry the secret pride that when Thalen had needed a friend to make such a sacrifice, he had chosen him.
The arrow sprang from his bow with an aim and speed Wareth realized he had not given it. He waited, hands covering his face, while the confrontation played out below; then he registered the sounds of the Oro column marching away, the bustle of the Defiance fighters opening the barricade, healers rushing to the girl, and more people running to the other freed hostages.
Cerf carried the injured girl to the other side of the barricade, calling, “She’s still breathing!”
Wareth opened his eyes in amazement and peered down from his perch in the tower. Free Staters held torches as Cerf and Dwinny worked on the girl as skillfully as if they had been a team for decades. Dwinny’s knife cut the arrowhead from the girl’s back, where it had pinned her to her captor. Cerf pulled the arrow out from her chest. They had bandages at the ready to stanch the bleeding from both the back and the front. Cerf felt for her pulse at the neck, while Dwinny opened one of the child’s eyes to look at her pupils.
“Hullo there, moppet.” Wareth’s straining ears heard Dwinny’s familiar voice. “Everything is going to be all right now. No one will hurt you anymore.”
Thalen rode his black horse through the barricade, dismounted without caring if the horse was caught or tied, and climbed the bridge tower.
“I think we’ve done it,” he said to Wareth in a raw voice. “We’ve freed our country of the invaders. So much loss, so much pain, but the Free States will be free again. Your sacrifice—her wounds—should be the last injuries.”
Wareth began to weep. These tears escalated into body-shaking, choked sobs. Thalen patted his back, but when Wareth glanced at Thalen he saw that the commander’s own eyes burned dry and haunted.