Chapter 6

And yet, in the morning fresh dew fell, sparrows sang, and dandelions opened to the sun. Even those that had been trampled; they were tough little flowers.

I looked across yesterday’s battlefield as the sun rose, having already stretched my limbs at Abbot Shaw’s disciple’s dance, and walked into the infirmary to check its rows of patients. There were a few badly broken legs that were too complex for even Physician Brauer to fully set, so I saw to those. Ter Biya put some salve on my burn and bandaged me. As I left, a handful of armsmen arrived carrying three of their companions who suffered belly cramps and the runs.

Outside, the sparrows fell silent as flocks of crows and ravens circled down to the feast laid out for them. Vultures came, too, bullying their way through with dark wings spread. All night, living Arceal soldiers had been herded into the stone-walled fields under guard. Thousands of them, and hundreds of centaurs and minotaurs as well.

/ find Woden / Qadeem’s image of him included the mountain that bore his name, the touch of cold stone. It fit him.

/ sick / wounded / was my reply. They needed me.

/ will remain / Woden /

I fetched Jenner from the stable and rode to the command pavilion. There I found our saint and all three dukes listening as the army’s quartermaster, with Theo Kaufmann beside him, reported on the supplies captured thus far and the preparations to distribute bread and water to the prisoners.

“Give them water,” Woden said, “but hold back the bread until I’ve spoken with their captains. There’s been no sign of the Voice, yet?”

“No, m’lord. Nor the gentle-born lady we were to look for.”

The Voice of the Empress, deSvello Antonin, had been with the army all the summer long. Perhaps he’d left with Clarilunes Graziana, the bride that the Empress had offered Kiefan.

“Word from the Caer?”

“His Majesty has sent for Kaufmann to organize the supplies available in the camp, I believe.” The quartermaster indicated Theo. “I have no specifics beyond that.”

Woden nodded. “Go, then.”

The quartermaster and Theo dipped in obeisance and went. Theo smiled to me as he passed and I was glad to see him well. Woden stood from his camp chair, drained his cup of small beer and passed it to a page.

“Assemble two squads of archers and send them to me at the prisoner pickets,” Woden told Duke Seagrace. Then he turned to me. “Qadeem will have his say, yes, so come along.”

I felt thin amusement through my bond.

Woden took a roan mare and Duke Vysokov’s daughter Nadya for an aide, and led the way. We turned off the Southbound Road and cut across fallow fields, finding our way over the tumbled stone walls to the intact fields used to pen our Arceal prisoners. The captain who had charge of guarding them, an archer Blessed with heat sight as well as hawk’s eyes, trotted to meet us with his lieutenant beside him.

“Captain Eadulf Saltgrass, m’lord,” he said. “Three tried to escape, overnight, but we shot them, m’lord.”

“Good. Bring me their captains.” Woden glanced across the two occupied fields. “Looks to be six thousand men — there should be six captains.”

Captain Saltgrass sent his lieutenant, muttering the orders in Englic. “Drag those tight-assed bastards, if you have to.” He turned back to Saint Woden and said, “Right away, m’lord. What else can I offer? We’ve some hot chicory on the fire.”

Woden declined and walked his mare along the stone wall until he could sight across both fields. Archers and pairs of armsmen dotted the perimeter. More armsmen waited further to the side to catch any who ran the gauntlet of arrows. The two squads of archers he’d asked for joined us, and Woden set them in a staggered array to either side of us.

The four surviving captains were brought. Woden met them face to face; Nadya held our horses. Even in plain clothes, the Arceal officers were leather-tough men with hard eyes. They wore their grey hairs and scars as badges. All had to look up to meet Saint Woden’s gaze, but none shrank from that — even when he let his kir unfurl and hang in a starry green cloak around him.

Each spared me a glance, a faintly suspicious frown, and kept half an eye on me as they focused on Woden. They were too wise to overlook even a slip of a girl, if a saint wished her at hand.

/ let them speak /

But Woden didn’t need a nudge from me. “You acted to spare your men last night,” he told them. “Be as wise now. I will have no slaves in my kingdom. There’s no ransom the Empress will pay for armsmen and mere knights. Renounce her —”

“Never!” The eldest of them spat at Woden.

He slapped the captain and the man’s head spun much too far around. He fell in a heap. “Renounce her and serve me as mercenaries until the war is ended.” Woden finished with the same calm he’d begun with.

A moment’s silence. “None renounce the Empress,” the second captain answered him. “We must refuse.” He was the brownest, of them, with the blackest hair. Black eyes, as well. Like Saint Qadeem’s.

/ yes / sadly /

Rasila, he’d said his homeland was called. Long part of Arcea’s empire. Of course there’d be countrymen of Qadeem’s among the Empress’s soldiers.

“You choose the Shepherd over service, then?” Woden asked as kir massed in his hand. It ignited and kept growing.

The Rasilai captain stood at attention, fighting a shudder of fear. “There’s no Shepherd to fear. Only the Empress.”

Woden’s ball of kir writhed, knotting, and spit out stars that circled the little sun. It was big as an acorn squash, now. It held all our eyes with its golden brilliance: the captains, the prisoners, the guards. Our saint stepped back, pitched it, and the curved scythe-wings flashed out on either side to match the width of the field.

The Shepherd’s culling knife cut through the captains near the neck and raced across the prisoners. They fell like harvested oats, bloodless and limp. The first few rows were too dumbstruck to move; those behind them screamed in terror, fell on their faces, ran for the walls. Some stood proud to meet their deaths.

A pit opened in my stomach, but I did not look away. As my master had taught me.

Beside me, the archers shot those who ran. And those who sat up after the blade passed. Woden slung a whip-crack vine of kir after the Shepherd’s knife, as it reached the far end of the fields, to snap the charm. It broke into a cascade of stars and the earth took its kir back. Else-wise, it would have traveled on and on, cutting down all it crossed until it met someone brave enough to hold up a charm to break it.

At a command, the squads of archers beside us climbed over the stone walls and checked the fallen. Huddled, weeping prisoners got a point-blank arrow to the heart.

My hollowed stomach turned sick. I clenched my teeth and fought it.

Woden’s heavy hand landed on my shoulder. “There’s no honor in it,” he said, rumbling softly. “In Arcea, surrender means slavery or the gladiator pits for the poor bastards in the shield walls. But there will be no slaves in Wodenberg while I live, and I won’t call killing a sport. There were too many to feed and too much the enemy to trust them. Pray the Father that the Suevi have more sense.”

Once woken, Elect Renata took in the small tent, Woden and I, and Elect Liandro lying unconscious on the other bedroll with a glance. Woden’s hush sphere pressed against the canvas walls around us. Her gaze came to the low table and the humble meal last. She knelt beside it and ate the fried egg, drank the water, then started on the bowl of oat porridge.

Woden told her about the master-smith’s forge in Ansehen, which had caught fire and then stood gutted for the better part of a year. Arcea had used a smaller forge near the ruined castle, as they’d only needed to shoe horses and mend armor.

Elect Renata nodded; she’d seen the master forge and mourned it. When Woden asked what she’d need to get it running again, her eyes lit. He mentioned that the master smith himself was only a day’s ride away in the city, and he would be a fine assistant. By then she’d already been won over.

Renata told us that the heavy strikers — as Arcea called its centaur- and minotaur-based divisions — had received orders from the Empress to capture our secret fount in the Eispitzen. By which she meant the lamia fount; likely the Empress had sensed it while she was in Vorspitz to murder Crown Ceelin.

Woden chuckled, at that, but said nothing. A thought goosed me; I took a breath to ask if there’d been any word of the Empress bringing a prisoner from Wodenberg. But Woden nudged Elect Renata about Suevia’s founts and the moment passed. She told us all she knew about the layers of protection around them. She’d never been given complete access to either fount but she’d seen much of the one in Temitte. It was protected by a spherical guardian charm, and a castle around the charm, and a city around the castle — not unlike the Pool in Wodenberg.

/ mountain fount / unusual / pool was made /

I had forgotten that Qadeem was listening. / how? /

/ before me / before Woden / Qadeem left that teasing bit of history hanging.

Elect Renata renounced the Empress of Arcea and asked to be bound. Woden did it, then said she’d be a better fit for Saint Qadeem — he agreed, through me — and he’d re-bind her when he arrived. Woden gave her some freedom under hand-picked guard until then. She was eager to start cleaning out the ruined master forge.

“Such as her need to be busy,” Woden said as we walked to the command pavilion. “They need to know their value.”

“I cannot imagine her working a forge. She hasn’t the arms for it.” Saint Aleksandr had been a bear of a man, intimidating until you saw the deft care he took with all things. Him, I could see pounding steel on an anvil.

Woden smiled. “For elect and saints, forging does not need a hammer. Aleks could pull a sword from the furnace as women pull thread from a hank of wool.”

That widened my eyes, but Woden only nodded to the King’s Guard at the pavilion’s entrance as one of them pulled the door flap open for us. “Saint Woden and Elect Kate, Majesty.”

Theo Kaufmann stood with Kiefan by the map table; both looked to us, as did Gregor who stood by the side-table where a pitcher of small beer and extra cups waited. Theo and Gregor both made a brief obeisance.

“Making arrangements? You’re certain of him, then?” Woden asked.

Kiefan nodded. He waited until Gregor had handed us cups of small beer to answer. “Lucan Scyfe, captain-general of the thirty-first division, mustered entirely from Suevia —” he added that for me — “will do as we ask. So long as we reward him well. He claims it’s loyalty to his house, he wishes to see it restored, but what he wants is money. Land. Possibly a particular woman.” Kiefan shrugged that off.

“It’s much to trust any man with, let alone an enemy,” Woden said. “Safer to put them under the Shepherd’s knife.”

“They’re ten thousand fully trained and equipped Suevi,” Kiefan said. “Scyfe was on his knees before I entered the tent, to ask how they might be spared.”

“How he might be spared.”

That sounded likely enough, to me. I sipped my drink, savoring its tangy bite.

“He’s little use without them. There’s twenty-five thousand or more in Temitte rather than here — our alliance with Caercoed made them cautious, as we hoped. With the Tadhlon Guard and Caercoed’s aid we may match that. We must leave our wounded here, plus a thousand as a garrison and to guard the monsters,” Kiefan said. “Another ten on our side is no small thing.”

A moment’s silence followed. Likely Kiefan and Woden had laid out the plan through their bond, and needed say little on it. “Scyfe is willing to fight for us? As mercenaries?” I asked. “Would they turn on their own people?”

“It would be too much to ask them to attack fellow Suevi,” Kiefan said. “I don’t plan to ask Scyfe to attack even Arceal soldiers, at first. Only that when the time is right, he do nothing at all.”

Woden’s interest perked, at that. “Not to open doors for us?”

“I open the doors.” Theo spoke up at last. He had been fighting to keep quiet, I knew. “Scyfe will grease the hinges, perhaps.”

“For that,” Kiefan said, “it must be someone we trust.”

Theo went on. “My uncle is quartermaster of the supply depot — I thanked the Caer for not killing him — and so long as he escapes along with Scyfe’s division, I can be just another of his foremen.” Theo’s mother was Suevi, and he had blood kin in Temitte. He spoke the language with a native accent. He knew the city well. “Once he and I are there, we can open whatever doors you need. Whatever gates.”

“Herr Bídon has sketched out the military camps around Temitte,” Kiefan said. “He was there two weeks ago. Scyfe will tip the scales for us. His allegiance will persuade other old houses to join our cause. That’s worth his price.”

Woden considered for a few more swallows of beer, and then nodded. “The plan is for the Suevi to escape tonight?”

“Yes. To give them lead time on us.”

An early dinner followed, made slow by many reports on the day’s work. I sat on Woden’s left, Kiefan on his right, at the table carried in by the kitchen crew for the meal. All three dukes joined us along with some captains-general; those who gave their reports stood before the table and were given refreshments off to one side.

It was a great deal of men and foodstuffs and equipment to hear about. Save for the news from the infirmary, it had little to do with me — and that report had me eager to go and help them. Since the morning, men had trickled in with fevers, stomach pain, and flooded bowels. I’d seen dysentery before and I’d suffered it; it had swept through the foulburg when I was young.

/ after / be my ears now /

So I stayed, ate roasted river trout, and tore off bread to dip in the bowl of olive oil. There’d been barrels of it in the supply camp, and the cook had added sliced garlic cloves. It was a strong temptation to stay, on its own, but duty tugged me toward the infirmary.

Spiced Arceal tea marked the end of dinner. I sat reviewing what I knew of bowel diseases with both hands wrapped around the warm tea mug while the dukes and captains began to move toward the door flaps.

Saint Woden stood, so Kiefan and I did too. “Qadeem will arrive by morning,” Woden told us. “You’ll have whatever aid I can give from the fount. And I’ll see you next in Temitte.”

“M’lord,” I murmured, dipping my head. Despite how long he’d been away in Wodenberg, my saint knew more of Arcea, the Empress, and how she guarded her founts. And, he’d told me through the bond, Woden was too cautious to leave the safety of his founts and kingdom to anyone else. He’d come to Ansehen to see the enemy thrown out and now he’d resume his place atop his mountain.

Woden swept the dukes and captains out with him to give them final orders and advice. Captain Aleksandra and Lieutenant Rostislav were among those. They hadn’t spoken at dinner, but had stood guard at either end of our table.

“Rostislav asked if he may tie you to your horse, next time he must guard you in battle.” Kiefan leaned against the table, picking up his mug of tea.

I frowned at him for a heartbeat, but then that knight’s death cut me afresh. “I didn’t mean to drain him — I’ll take more care, if I must pull kir again.”

Kiefan’s head cocked, curious. “He said that you went haring off into a trap and strung the men out in a vulnerable line, in chasing you. One dead and two wounded.”

I hadn’t asked how Rostislav caught that arrow in his shoulder. My mouth twisted to one side, guilt needling me further. Still standing by the table, I picked up my mug. “I will take more care in that, too. And he should correct me if I’m being foolish. I don’t know anything of the battlefield. I suppose that was a trap, as he says.” I’d caught them off guard, it seemed at the time.

“He’s gotten the idea it’s dangerous to anger you. Some assurance may help him in that.”

Kiefan caught me in a sip of tea and I spluttered. “Dangerous?” He meant the two archers, true, but that seemed a little thing to me now. “I’m not — I’m no battle elect.” My voice fell off as the kir-lit carnage at the side gate came back to me. “Not so dangerous as you.”

He hesitated, then put his mug down. “You saw that?”

“I meant to ride out the side gate,” I said. Kiefan kept his eyes on his tea. “My horse refused.” I’d had to ride out the front after all.

Silence hung between Kiefan and me. I watched his hand, by the tea mug, even his knuckles and nails clean of blood now. Memories of where else that hand had been flitted by my mind. The blood didn’t rest easy, alongside that.

“It was a terrible thing to do,” I murmured.

He was slow to answer that. “But my mind is clear. All the — smoke — the rage. Burned off now.”

Rage. I had put those memories away but I still knew what they were. “Rage for the murders?” Afraid to hear his answer, and I asked nonetheless. Rage at Anders. And…

“For many things.”

The ache twisted into pain and I needed to hear it, of a sudden. That he was angry, still, that he would be polite to me for duty’s sake but that was all.

“Me?” I asked.

Silence. My heart quavered in my chest, waiting for the merciful blow. I wanted to sit down in case my knees weakened any further, but I set my hands on the table and steeled myself.

Kiefan took a step back from the table, folded his arms across his chest, and took a deep breath. “You’ve more right to hate me than I you,” he murmured, eyes downcast still. “I hurt you. I’ve done little but hurt you, it seems. The shame of that is more —” He stopped to swallow. His voice turned rough but he looked me in the eye. “If it would mend that, I would do anything you asked of me.”

Tears blurred my eyes. He’d hurt me, yes, but it wasn’t all he’d done and I didn’t hate him. But if I said that aloud, Kiefan would… hope. I’d spent a long winter alone aching over the loss of him and Anders, knowing I had been a fool and hurt them both. I wouldn’t do them any more harm.

I must be polite with Kiefan. Say nothing until I knew if Anders was dead.

But my winter would’ve been far worse, if not for Kiefan.

When my silence stretched into several heartbeats, he shifted, looking away, and drained his mug of tea. “Clear that away,” he told Gregor, gesturing at the tea service. “Get the training gear. A few rounds, before the sun sets.”

“You hurt me,” I said. Kiefan froze, looking to me. “But Rafe?” I shook my head. “He’s been my sunshine and my hope, and you —” I had to stop and fight for control of my voice. “He reminds me of my younger brother, Leyman. Quiet and alert. Fearless. Though Ley did turn out a troublemaker — and he wasn’t so particular as Rafe is. Rafe will not be persuaded once he’s set his mind. But his smile, when he’s happy…”

When I looked again, Kiefan had drawn a step closer. We stood facing each other, a yard apart, and it seemed we were matched in not daring to get any closer. Too perilous.

“I wanted to come, to see Rafe,” Kiefan said. “I had duties and — I don’t wish to be my father, but he set duty first. In all things. And I could not face you, so soon.”

It had been a long winter. “It isn’t soon anymore.”

“No.” Kiefan took another deep breath. “Is it late?”

Perilous, to ask that. “We have our duties,” I said.

He nodded. “Duty.”

Silence, again, looking at each other and unwilling to break off as we needed to.

Kiefan murmured, “Good night.”

The echo of his first kiss made my breath catch. But I answered, “Good night,” and escaped.