Chapter 11

I rode through Temitte — Theo had brought back Jenner — with the remnants of my escort, calling kir. Looking for Gauvail’s elect, or any gifted who might still be in the city. There were few and all belonged to the city governance.

When the afternoon waned, I returned to Castle Willefreá. In the courtyard I paused a moment to kneel by our six cloak-covered dead and touch Rostislav’s hand again. What had torn half his ribcage away, I didn’t know. But I owed him my gratitude.

Qadeem sat on the raised rim of the fount, one hand in its water, his eyes closed. They opened when I sat beside him and he took his hand out, let the water drip off. The fount’s subdued glow veered around a black burn spiraling across his arm where the grounding-line had run.

“Oh.” I reached without thinking and he let me see it. The sphere’s kir-fire had left a mark after all: a slender welt, skin-deep, from palm to elbow. Where Gauvail’s needle had punched through my shield and our hands, he had already healed.

“The burn will fade,” Qadeem said.

I’d have thought it painted on, if I hadn’t known better. “His charm split my shield,” I said, circling the spot on his palm with one finger, “but didn’t break in doing that.”

“Yes, that was Gauvail’s deadly quirk. But you unraveled him just the same. As I hoped.” My saint smiled and I echoed it. “Perhaps Kiefan can master such a thing, if he has the focus for it.”

I’d thought Qadeem’s hands soft, but they were long-fingered and felt full of wires. I hadn’t noticed the sharp angles of his knuckles before. And my skin seemed pale, beside his.

“Strange?” he asked when I lingered over his details.

“So brown,” I murmured. Arcea was well south of Wodenberg and its people tanned easily but not so dark as Qadeem. “Rasila must be far away.”

He took his hand back with a thin smile. “There are far browner men than Rasilai in the world. Yes. Black, even.” My surprise must’ve been clear on my face.

“Sheep come in many colors,” Saint Woden said, folding his arms as he stopped a few paces from us. “I’ve not seen a spotted man yet, though.”

Kiefan followed him, rolling a sheet of paper as he came.

“Surely somewhere,” Qadeem said.

Woden nodded at the guardian sphere overhead. “You were right to convince Aleks to re-build our guardians. I see why.”

I remembered the Pool, deep in Castle Kaltkern’s belly, and its Door whose teeth had scraped over me as I passed. A trick like Qadeem’s wouldn’t work on it, clear enough.

“Did Seraphine get through to the Pool on the night of the slaughter?” Kiefan asked.

Woden shook his head. “I didn’t give her time to study the Door. It took a bite of her.” He put a hand on Kiefan’s shoulder. “You have this in hand now. Win your people over. Watch closely for treachery — and opportunity. Should the Empress try to reclaim this fount, we’ll be ready.”

He stepped over the rim onto the knee-deep landing inside the fount. Qadeem put out his hand, as he passed, and they clasped briefly. “My thanks. You were at my back.”

Woden flashed a grin. “And I’d thought you had eyes under that hair, till now.”

That had been Woden’s kir that pulled the vulture down. “That vulture. Was it —?” I asked.

“Seraphine?” Woden nodded. “But that one’s more slippery than an eel. I couldn’t get a grip on her.” Woden raised a hand in farewell and stepped off the landing. The glittering water swallowed him. I craned my neck to watch him vanish into the black deeps and caught Kiefan leaning over the rim too.

“All founts are connected, like beads on a string” Qadeem told us. We looked to him as he turned, on the rim, bringing up one leg and setting his ankle on the other knee. “Guarded by those who own them, to be certain. This fount leads to Mount Woden on one side and Reowan on the other.”

“The Empress is in Reowan, then?” Kiefan asked.

“She struck from there. Reowan’s fount is a junction of three, as Rukharbor’s is, and she may have traveled there from any of Arcea’s linked founts.” Before we could ask, Qadeem said, “Which of Caercoed’s founts is linked to Reowan, I do not know.” He paused a moment. “What news of our army?”

Kiefan sat on Qadeem’s other side. “The burg-meister gave his surrender and ordered the gates opened — we just got in ahead of word of the Tadhlon Guard attacking the north bridge. Seagrace reports,” he said, holding up the rolled paper, “that the Dúnforst-éa camp was taken by surprise but fought bravely. They were reluctant to surrender, but likely will now that the burg-meister has sent word the fount is taken. Scyfe kept his word and never moved against us.”

“The bridges?”

Kiefan nodded. “Both broken. With luck, Elect Teleri will see our banner once it goes up over the city gates and creep from wherever she’s hiding.”

Quiet fell among us. The fount burbled, kir slowly rising from its depths to renew its strength. Yet the water never overflowed the rim, just as the Pool didn’t overflow.

“Have you eaten? Either of you?” Qadeem looked to us on either side. “I will see to any news that comes. Take your rest. Sleep.”

Kiefan stood with a tired smile. “Sleep? Here?” He looked up at the inner walls and towers. Woden’s force-sphere had left cracks in them. That diverted kir-ram had smashed the corner off one tower. Lamps glowed in the windows above, now that the afternoon ebbed.

My little tent was far away, if it was set up at all. I did want a bed, though. “There must be officer’s quarters here,” I said. “Or perhaps Theo and his uncle…?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to sleep alone in a strange city where Gauvail’s last elect might lurk hidden.

“There’s a dining hall, at least,” Qadeem said, pointing us toward the nearest unsealed tower door. “One of their squires brought me some beef pastries and a spring ale.”

Kiefan started toward the door and I followed. He turned, on word of the ale. “Is their beer fair?”

Qadeem pinched one eye shut, looking for the words. “Wodenberg’s tastes run to… assertive brews. Moreso than Suevia’s.”

Assertive? “Tea would be enough,” I said. A nice, hot cup to soothe me. “Tea and a safe bed.”

“I doubt I dare sleep, however tired,” Kiefan said as we crossed the courtyard to the tower door. He picked at his mail — he’d stripped off the brown tabard and baldric — and its rips. “It would be good to get this off.”

I’d forgotten the hole in my dress; I’d been showing off my stomach to all and sundry. I put my hand over it and my other over the matching hole at my back.

Kiefan stopped on the doorsill. “Wear your mail tunic from now on. Twice, now, I’ve had to see you wounded.”

There was no jest in his face. As if I faced more danger than he, in this war. “Twice, now, I’ve felt a shockwave and feared it was you.”

We looked at each other, there on the sill. Feared. The word rang true now that I’d said it. I feared seeing him dead. Kiefan’s hand rose, wanting to touch me, but hesitated. “I would not cause you any more pain, if I could.”

My throat tightened, aching. “I know you never meant to.”

His eyes closed, for a heartbeat, and his hand found mine. Warm. I squeezed it. Our fingers threaded together. We went in search of dinner.

I woke before dawn in the small squire’s room I’d chosen. A humble thing, just a straw cot and worn wool quilts, but the door was easily locked with a little charm.

The hollow I’d made in the mattress was warm but when I rolled over I met chilly cloth. Alone. My eyes opened on the small sphere of kir I’d left glowing between my worn boots. Its warm green light, in this cool stone room, seemed as alone as I felt.

A bowl of stewed chicken and dumplings with Kiefan, across a simple table, had been a comfort. We hadn’t spoken — didn’t need to. Simply that he’d been there, un-pestered by messengers or officers, had been enough to warm me.

Kiefan met me at a pre-dawn breakfast in the castle’s dining hall, where the Suevi men gave us wide berth, for a little more of our comfortable silence. Then it was off to our duties. He had the burg-meister of Temitte and his staff, along with the city guard and officers of the surrendered Dúnforst-éa camp, to question and to lay down Wodenberg’s terms to.

Temitte’s town criers would give summons to all discipled and blessed in the city to report to the burg-meister and then Saint Qadeem. They had simple choices: be cut free of their saint and re-bound, or be exiled. Since all disciples were known and tracked in Arcea, any who did not report would be hunted down as presumed enemies.

I was expected out in the camps on the east side of the city to check the goings-on. And to get myself a change of clothing. Overnight, Captain Aleks had led the King’s Guard into Temitte and saw that I had a full hand of knights for an escort. Sir Garrick, freshly promoted to lieutenant, inherited Rostislav’s job.

“Kate!”

I twisted in Jenner’s saddle. Theo raised his hand. His mare clopped across the town square, here before the castle’s ruined gates, cutting through the wagon traffic.

“A moment,” I told Sir Garrick.

“I’ve been checking my sources,” Theo said, drawing up stirrup to stirrup. “Despite yesterday, there were a few drinking in the Weary Ox by the curtain gate last night.”

He gestured toward the Dúnforst-éa. Across that river, a bit more of Temitte was guarded by a sweep of wall from river bank to river bank — they called it the curtain wall. Naturally, it had a gate on the Southbound Road.

“Freshly arrived from Reowan.” That was Theo’s point, by the emphasis on it. He put a hand lightly on my arm and his voice dropped. “They said that over the winter, the Empress kept some secret new pet in her roost.”

A chill shot down my spine, widening my eyes. “Anders?” I whispered.

“It was a mystery at first, but the Empress said nothing and the city near forgot. Until Equinox. And then…” Theo hesitated, bit his lip. He glanced to the King’s Guard who waited on their horses only a few steps away. His voice fell further. “Then she revealed him. A knight of Wodenberg, she said, the only one worth… salvaging… and her bound elect.”

The burst of hope turned leaden in my stomach. My hands clenched around Jenner’s reins. Bound.

“She meant to return to Arcea. With him.”

My eyes hazed. Alive, but bound to the Empress and carried away to Arcea only weeks ago. I wanted to say he’d choose death over living on her leash, but I couldn’t wish him dead.

Theo’s hand clasped my arm and I shifted my hand into his. He understood some of it; he was as hurt by the news as I. His eyes were tender in sympathy. Mine stung. I blinked and the tears broke free.

“But he’s alive,” Theo said.

I nodded. “Yes.” I wiped my face with my sleeve, let go of his hand to do a better job of it. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Mother Love willing, maybe someday — as you’re both elect —”

He meant it hopefully, but it twisted the needle in my heart. I took the reins in my hands, though I could hardly see them. “I have duty, Theo.”

/ ? /

My misery leached through the bond. I sent back a muddle that included Anders and felt a hug. As when he’d told me I wouldn’t see Anders again, and held me as I cried.

“Should you need an ear, Kate, only ask.” Theo said that with earnest eyes.

I nodded. “Thank you.” It came out in a squeak. I tapped Jenner and he carried me away. My knights followed, wary but keeping their silence. My tears came thick and fast for a little while and then trailed off. My cheeks were dry by the time I rode through the camp of the surrendered Suevi division.

It still ached, the question I’d put my finger on one winter night. Why hadn’t Anders stayed? I could’ve healed him. Instead he’d… slunk off to die. Meant to.

He hadn’t wanted my aid. I’d gone to Kiefan first because his cut throat would kill him first. Had Anders thought…? Perhaps he’d let Seraphine take him. If he was gone to Arcea, I might never know. Mother Love’s teachings said little on how long one should wait for proof of a lost husband.

Qadeem’s caution echoed in my memory: not to cheat Rafe of love, and not to cheat myself.

Once the flood of news began, the entire tone of Reowan shifted. Anders had felt an echo of what had stopped Seraphine mid-sentence and made her hiss a breath through her teeth: a sudden lash of pain across the waist. She’d said nothing, only stepped into the fount and vanished. She had returned quickly, darkly angry and saying little but clearly there’d been a great loss. That alone was enough to put the city on its full war footing.

Anders kept his mouth shut. But if the Mother had any mercy, his training might have distracted the Empress from the war, might have given Wodenberg some small edge… in the depths of his heart, far from the saint’s-bond in his hand, that made him smile.

In the mere week since he’d been acclaimed as Seraphine’s elect, his shape-shifting had taken another leap. Far beyond what it had pleased her to dally with the once she’d called him to her bed. Once. Laurent was pissy as a jilted handmaid about that, despite that she had plainly told Anders to take lovers as he pleased and dismissed him. How it was Anders’ fault that the old soldier couldn’t scratch that particular itch for the Empress, he wasn’t clear on.

But no matter.

First word from Temitte, by hard-pressed post rider, arrived the afternoon after Seraphine’s abrupt sojourn. Saint Gauvail and Elect Carina, dead. Castle Willefreá, surrendered. Both river bridges destroyed, leaving ten thousand soldiers on the wrong side.

When Seraphine snapped her fingers, Anders followed her to the main gate out of the beach-side courtyard. Castle Áering, which embraced the fount with strong stone arms, had a killing gallery for a main hall. One might walk from the city square outside, through that hall, directly onto the sand before the fount — passing through charmed gates, under twin balconies of archers, and upriver of whatever kir-fire the saint in the fount poured down.

The Empress stood at the head of the gallery, the fount and the sea behind her, and held a martial court. Anders stood behind her right shoulder, wearing his ridges and knight’s crest openly, as officers and messengers came and went. Blessed-level secretaries tracked numbers and wrote orders. City magistrates waited for word and gossiped in the corners.

Details of Temitte’s fall developed. The field marshals who reported to Seraphine were angry enough to march that afternoon; when the army at Ansehen had broken, they had wanted to counter-attack. Elect Arkho had died and Liandro and Renata gone missing. Only the need to guard against a possible invasion from Caercoed had held them back.

Saint Musaad was on Suevia’s north coast, near Dwyncraig Pass, to see about the truth of that.

Little surprise, to Anders, that Kiefan and Woden had carved their way through the army at Ansehen. By the reports, the two of them had unleashed upon a division of centaurs and left little standing. There was no answer, though, for what tugged at the corner of his mind: where was Kate?

“The enemy came bearing orders to escort a fresh payroll to the Thirty-first division, m’lady,” the next messenger reported. “A dozen knights, two teamsters, and a camp girl.”

Anders’ brows perked for a flicker and then he wiped his face clean of hope.

“Which escaped from Ansehen, or so claimed. Whose command is the Thirty-first?” Seraphine looked to the nearest of the military secretaries.

He scrambled for the answer. “Lucan Scyfe, m’lady.”

“His kin shall be found and executed. Their property burnt to the ground. And all shall know the why of it. What more?”

That order was written as the messenger answered. “One of the teamsters was a saint, disguised, and the girl his Elect. A battle elect aided them — one of the knights.”

“How is the saint described?”

“Southern Arceal or Rasilai, m’lady. Saint Gauvail fought well —”

“If it please the Empress!” A shout came from the killing gallery’s front gate, onto the city square. “Elect Fijolais requests audience!”

“Send her.” Seraphine raised one hand and beckoned. The crowd parted.

Anders recognized her: long, dark braid, haunted eyes, black Arceal robe. Not much older than him. Fijolais had been the elect beside Gauvail in the Order’s courtyard when Saint Aleks died.

Rage sparked in her sunken, red-rimmed eyes when she spotted Anders. He set his hand on his sword and met her gaze steadily. If she wanted a fight, he’d take whatever revenge for Aleksandr that he could. His anticipation had slight hints of what she might do, if she attacked.

Fijolais dropped to her knees before Seraphine and touched her forehead to the ground. “End me, m’lady, for I failed my saint.” The elect’s voice was raw.

A moment’s silence. “For you are his broken little wildcat.” Seraphine nodded. “You’d die? Let Gauvail go without vengeance?”

Fijolais’ eyes tipped up from the ground, all but glowing with hate. “I would see them gutted. May I?”

Seraphine raised her arm and cut her meridian — and the elect was on her feet slicing her own to accept the bond. Eagerly. “For your vengeance,” Seraphine said. “Then we shall find you a new saint.”

“Order me, la.” Fijolais pressed her forehead to the hand that bound her.

“Escort the tenth company, be their aid. I must see what Qadeem’s wits have wrought here. A fine game he played, with a poor hand —” Seraphine cast a glance at Anders and snorted. “None to train what talent he had. Just one battle elect and a healer? Now this must end.” Her voice rose as she said, “Musaad is recalled here to hold command. I go with the tenth to end this.”

The hall filled with orders, questions, and Seraphine stood directing them. Anders clenched his right hand, pinching his bond tight for what it would help keep his roiling emotions secret. Kate was in the army with Kiefan and Saint Qadeem. Perhaps Seraphine thought Kate just a healer; Anders had glimpsed what she’d done to Elect Tannait’s arms, in the brief fight when the two Caer elect came to arrest him. He’d seen her charge up the castle staircase into Father-knew-what danger, the night of the massacre.

That night was a taste of what would happen if Seraphine put her end to this war.

Anders knew what defying her cost: agony, paralysis, his innards laid bare to the wind.

He weighed that against Kate, dead. Rafe.

He took a deep breath and calm settled in.

Seraphine left the rest of the details to the officers and magistrates; she turned and crossed the sandy courtyard, closing the gates behind herself with two kir-vines. Anders followed, keeping close.

“Will I come with you?” he asked, keeping his voice steady. Neutral.

“Time you went south,” she said. “Laurent will prepare the household. All will return to Arcea. For I will follow when this ends.”

Anders drew beside her with a longer stride. “All the gains I’ve earned and now I lose a moon’s training?” When she cast him a sidelong, unmoved glance, he laid out some truth. “I know what trying to escape would earn me.”

“For you think you’ve gained much?”

There was a trap, there. “I thought you were pleased with my progress. That one night, particularly.”

Seraphine stopped below the salt pine and its lofty nest, her mouth quirking to one side. “Shall we test your progress and its true-ness? Your stamina?”

Anders took a breath to flirt, but held it back. Seraphine smirked.

“He learns. Come with me, then, bound in your new form until the animal clouds your mind. For that stamina is what you shall need.”

He dipped his head in a bow. “I’ll be ready —”

“No need,” she said. “You need bring nothing but a halter.”