Chapter 19

/ ? /

I couldn’t say for certain how I knew Anders from Kiefan, through the bonds. Something in the timbre of it.

I sat up in the fount; I’d been floating on my back, my mind creeping through the long tangle of Woden’s battle charms. And his memories of learning them. I’d found my way back to his earliest one and the moment Woden had lashed out in hate at a man who’d started beating his mother in her own home. Which was a tiny, filthy hut even to my peasant eyes. Woden only remembered a vague stream of hate from the man’s mouth, that Mama was a rancid old whore nobody would pay a fish head to fuck. The kir-whip he’d struck with was etched in his memory clear as day, though.

And his mother’s terrified eyes when she saw what he’d done.

Woden hadn’t lied about being poor and a whore’s son.

I put my feet on the underwater steps that ringed the driftwood throne and climbed, trailing fount water. The moons lit the near face of the tree house, traced the twisted paths of the branches embracing it.

Anders was alone in there since Blythe had finished tidying and I’d hoisted her down. Likely, the mass of kir when Qadeem gathered and sent the daily rations had woken him.

/ here /

“Go,” Qadeem said. He sat on the throne’s steps, to one side. “Get some rest. You’ve done much today.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, and leaped to the roof on a boost of kir.

Kiefan was napping, in shifts with now-Captain Garrick, while keeping the governor’s palace surrounded. Reowan’s city guard, which was largely local men, had listened to Captain-general Felstrang and thrown in with us. The governor, the Voice, and half the garrison, all Arceal, were barricaded in the palace. Kiefan meant to give them until morning to weigh their options. Hoping they wouldn’t note how strong their position truly was.

Especially if the other half of the garrison, outside the closed city gates, set their mind to rescuing them. But the situation looked to be holding until dawn.

/ here /

I sent Anders a hug as I padded down the stairs, dripping all the way. His sleepy surprise tickled back through the bond and then he returned the hug with an enthusiasm that made me smile.

/ can do that? / he asked.

/ yes / hug /

I stood in the door. His room had a westerly window and the shutters were closed, so there was little to see until my eyes acclimated. His kir was strong enough to find him, though. I took his hand and he shifted on the mattress. His arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me down, but I was sopping wet; he startled up, awake.

“What’ve —?” Anders breathed a laugh. “The fount?”

“Yes,” I whispered, “it’s very comfortable.”

He pulled my wet dress up to get it off. “You’re dripping everywhere. You’ll get the bed wet.”

“You’ve still got your boots on,” I teased him back, reaching for his feet. “Did your mother let you wear boots to bed?”

My dress fell with a splat. Anders kicked off his boots — he’d never laced them, when he put them back on — and sat up. Found my mouth in the dark. My hands stilled on his woolen cote, too distracted by his tongue to pull it any higher.

/ missed you /

The raw ache in it pinched a whimper from me. My own longing washed back through the bond, along with my gratitude at being in his arms again. Anders hugged me tight, stroked my back, and slipped his hands over my wet shift.

“You’ll catch cold,” he whispered, tugging it up.

For revenge, I coaxed his cote off, too, but as I tossed it aside my joy sank into a muddle of worries. It was him, this time, and no doubting, but — Kiefan had given his word, but —

/ ? / Anders’ cheek brushed alongside mine. His hands stroked over the curve of my hip.

/ he needed me /

My weary anguish went with it. It echoed back to me from Anders.

/ I needed too /

An impression of lust came, with a tangle of despair and fear, a sense of helplessness. Nothing he should ever have to feel; I kissed him again.

/ nothing / forget that /

/ nothing / forget yours /

He sent my thought back firm, with his hand on my cheek. I loved him for that. But there was more.

“He asked me to be his queen,” I whispered. “After I heard you were her bound elect. When I didn’t know if — or why — and he swore he’ll do nothing to hurt you. Because he loves me. And now you’re here, and well, and…”

That morning came back to me, unbidden, of Kiefan’s fingers finding me slick and wanting, his mouth on mine as he stroked me to the verge of ecstasy. I pushed it away, but it clung.

Anders hushed me, likely feeling the struggle, perhaps more. “Do you love me?”

“Yes.” I sent all my aching honesty with the word.

“You are his queen now. And mine. Our saint. What do you wish?”

I searched his eyes for a jest but saw none. “Peace. A family.”

“And kisses?” At last, a smile. “Be his when he needs you. Be my wife, else-wise.”

I breathed a laugh. “And forget the Mother’s discipline?”

“It’s twice the discipline, is it not?” He twitched one shoulder. “Next you speak to the Mother, ask her advice.”

There was that. Some part of me had been waiting for the Mother and the Father to appear, to explain it all to me. Especially why they’d chosen me to guard their Flock. No sign of them yet. More danger that Kiefan and Anders would turn jealous, hate each other, and duel again.

“But if jealousy —”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let me forget that.” Anders lapsed back to his bond, rather than words. / all I need /

I kissed him. The need for air broke us apart eventually and then I really ought to get that wet shift off and it was silly to be sitting on top of the blankets when it was far warmer to be under them. Wrapped in him.

Anders was an un-hurried lover and we were both tired — we dozed off and woke back to our play without truly noticing. The bond made a seamless shift of it, echoing warmth, longing, and then lust in a rising loop until we were grinding and moaning and clutching each other so tight that it skirted the edge of pain. My head spun so hard, at the climax, I grabbed the mattress to keep from falling off — impossible as that was. We collapsed and lay there panting.

/ very distracting /

I burst out laughing, a little hysterical, at Kiefan’s dry comment. I managed to mash a sincere answer together.

/ so sorry / distracting? /

He sent me back a rumble to the effect of if I’d come over there, he’d demonstrate how distracting it was. I sighed a deep breath and sent him back a hug. A long one.

Anders rolled onto his back, beside me, and managed to chuckle as his breathing evened out. “I didn’t know that would be so dangerous,” he got out.

“Something to practice,” I murmured. I groped for his arm and pulled it over me as I rolled onto my side. He obligingly cuddled up to my back with an agreeing purr.

Next I opened my eyes, a trace of morning light lightened the shadows. The feather bed and blankets, nicely warm, were tempting but I felt well rested. And —

A soft creak of floorboards pulled my gaze to Anders. He buckled on a belt, a sheathed dagger hanging at his side. Then he finger-combed his knight’s crest back and tied it in a tail with a leather string. Ready to go, perhaps.

Save that he was naked.

/ ? /

Caught him, by the guilty look he cast me. I felt a muddle of things through his bond. “There’s something I need to do.”

I sat up, reaching for him. “And you thought to just leave? Like that?”

He took my hand but didn’t come when I tugged. “It’s no simple thing to explain.”

So I went to him, naked as I was. “Try to.”

“Seraphine… among her charms and the memories with them — or I think they’re her memories… it’s such a tangle…”

He didn’t have a memory Blessing to help him, either. I traced my fingers along the downy fuzz below his ridges, calling his pattern. His mind still swirled, still a blizzard of whorls and sparks. No painful knots.

“The empire is tied to her throne.” Anders’ voice dropped to a murmur, as if someone might overhear. “Not to her face. I harvested her. I have — I’m her heir.”

“No.”

“I have to go.” He whispered it, pushing my arms from him.

/ no! /

A flicker of Woden, of his stringence charm, crossed my mind and I snatched it back. I wouldn’t hurt Anders. No. Even if it made him stay. Even if my heart burst of panic, which it was galloping toward.

/ will protect / all /

/ need you here! /

“I swear it, Kate,” he said, dropping to his knees. Both my hands in his. “On all my love for you, for Rafe, I swear I can keep Arcea from our throats.”

“By becoming the Emperor?”

His eyes met mine, steadfast. “No. If I leave now and reach Arcea before they put aside their differences, I can unravel it all. Seraphine bound her saints, bound the whole empire — I hardly have the words for it but I can see the whole knot. I know what to do. Do you trust me?”

He’d rescued me and killed his bound saint for me. The answer slipped through my bond without words. He blurred through my tears. My knuckles turned white, gripping his hands, but with a little ripple of kir they slipped from my grip. Anders strode from the room without a backward glance. Misery tore a bitter thought from me.

/ not afraid / my stringence? /

/ she taught me / worse things /

I heard his feet on the steps and trotted after him. “Anders.” I climbed after him. “Anders. Only swear that you’ll return. Please.”

Kir rippled over him as I reached the roof. He faced the sunrise, his profile lengthening into a cruel beak. A dot of sky appeared through it: a vulture’s deep nostril. His arms lengthened, his fingers fused and stretched. White quills sprouted, as they had on Saint Aleksandr, but when they unfurled the feathers were black. His shoulders vanished and his breastbone thrust out to anchor his wings’ muscles.

He was only half a giddha-rukh, though. The feathers gave out across his chest, and though his legs were shorter, they and his feet were human still. Anders closed his eyes in focus and a small fan of quills rose at the base of his spine, unfurled into a little tail. He’d made his toys discreet, too. When his eyes opened, they were golden, set on a featherless head still topped by a flaxen ponytail. That made me smile, through my tears.

/ will return /

He couldn’t speak in that form.

“You must. You need to teach Rafe to ride.” I gave him all the kir he could hold.

Anders hugged me, fiercely tight, through the bond. Then he gathered his kir and rammed himself into the sky on it, less than elegant but he gained height with a few heavy strokes of his wings. The wind caught him, lifted him higher against the red-and-gold dawn, and he tilted toward the south.

That day was filled with the bloodshed of taking the governor’s palace; they would not accept my authority, the kir-gifted among them would not be bound, and they would not surrender the palace.

I didn’t wish to do it. The governor’s wife and children, the servants, and a handful of slaves were inside and innocent of this. After Kiefan laid out the options, I had to agree that breaking down the main gate would be best. Not the stable gate, for that was narrow and worked to the defenders’ advantage. With some kir strengthening my voice — to be certain those inside heard me — I gave my soldiers clear orders to spare anyone who laid down their weapons and surrendered.

One of Woden’s massive kir-rams made firewood of the gate. I stood in the gutted frame with my arms folded, funneling kir to Kiefan and my new disciples among the Reowan city guard.

The Arceal resisters fell back into the palace but I didn’t give them a chance to bar the doors. I’d seen enough by then; I draped my kir in a trailing cloak and walked up to the doors. The red-tabarded city guard on my side of the door-shoving contest felt me coming and scattered to either side. The doors slammed shut for an eye-blink and then I slammed them back open with a wedge of kir.

I walked into the palace’s main hall, Kiefan a blurred swirl of steel around me. Dozens of lamellar-clad knights, with swords clenched in their fists and blood in their eyes, quailed and fell back. There was a dais at the far end and a grand, gilded chair on it.

One hand of men rallied and rushed at me, halfway down the hall. Two tripped over their own spilling guts when Kiefan swooped across their formation. The other three caught my kir-vine across their necks and collapsed in a rattle of steel. I snapped that kir back to my hand, spun it in a sphere, and poured more in until it ignited. Yellow light flooded the hall.

The dozen or so who’d drawn enough courage to yell and run a few steps all but fell over themselves in trying to scatter. They knew about force-spheres and there were stone walls all around them.

It wasn’t one — though I’d harvested that charm from Woden — but no need for them to know.

I walked up to the governor’s chair and swept it aside with that kir. Turning, I faced the hall. Kiefan stood on the dais’ first step, his own kir-cloak glittering, bloodied blade at guard.

Swords began to fall to the floor.

After the soldiers surrendered and I’d seen to healing the wounded, I remained on the dais. The governor threw himself at my feet and claimed the resistance had all been the captain-general’s doing. With far more composure, the former Voice of the Empress, deSvello Antonin, offered me his services as a negotiator.

For the time being, both could wait behind locked doors. There was much to do; Kiefan stayed by my side through it all, leaving the securing of the palace to Captain Garrick and the King’s Guard. From this place, much of the governing of Suevia was done. There were guilds and courthouses and more, as well, and officials to oversee them all. I’d sent summons at dawn and some of them came to declare their loyalty.

It was nearly evening when Kiefan let on that I could do another saintly thing. Qadeem’s question of what I’d do to earn Suevia’s love had weighed on me and I’d found one answer. The sooner I could start, the better.

“If you give it until morning, we might find you something finer to wear,” Kiefan murmured, gesturing at my simple, buttercup-yellow dress. “Look the part of a saint and queen.”

I twisted my mouth to one side. “Better that Suevia love me as I am — a carpenter’s daughter turned saint. You’re their king, and welcome to it.”

“I’m nothing without my saint,” he answered, with quiet sincerity.

My teeth pressed on my lip for a moment. “Let me see the refugees.” Taking a handful of my skirts, I stepped down from the dais. Kiefan dropped to one knee in obeisance, fist over his heart, followed by the sergeant Guardsman on my other side. A heartbeat later, everyone in the hall was on one knee as well.

Warmth crept into my cheeks but I kept my head high. I was a saint now. I put out my hand, at shoulder height, and Kiefan was quick to take it. “Herr Osric,” I said as I walked, “if you would give me that translation?”

Herr Osric was a sympathizer to Kiefan’s claim; Galan Heathugrim had mentioned him. Osric was a master architect and senior guild-member, a Blessed with a knack for wood-shaping and an excellent memory. He’d been taken as a tithe by Arcea, trained there for fifteen years, and been one of the few native Suevi to return home afterward. He’d asked me to cut his saint-bond take him as my own, so I had. And he’d been working on a translation of what I meant to say to my new people.

I wanted to ask Qadeem’s advice on it but he guarded my fount. I’d felt a few nudges against my guardian sphere, through the day, and had to fight down the urge to fly back to the castle each time.

I stood before Reowan’s city gates as they opened. Kiefan stood just behind my shoulder, naked sword in hand. Which piqued my memory. “That isn’t your sword.” Not Woden’s moon-pommeled blade, given to the king of Wodenberg.

He shook his head. “It’s back at the camp by Singréne.”

Messengers had been sent but there’d be no word from there before morning. I hoped Duke Seagrace had survived.

Word had gotten over the wall, of the Empress’ death, the Caer attack, and my claiming the fount. And of the governor’s resistance. The other half of the garrison might yet try to attack but I meant to give them reason to leave peacefully — and take the governor and the surviving Arceal soldiers with them. Perhaps deSvello too; I had not decided.

Trumpets played a fanfare for me. I clenched my hands in fists.

/ strength / Kiefan sent to me, as Qadeem so often had. / together /

Outside, the end of the Southbound Road stood clear. Goodfolk packed it on either side, faces turned toward me and staring. They murmured as they took me in, plain yellow dress, hanging blond braid, kir-cloak and all. A knight and crowned king behind me, for an elect, and officers of the city guard further back.

Herr Osric had recited my speech and I gave it from memory. I told them the Empress Seraphine was dead, Saint Musaad was dead — and had to wait as cheers broke out in the crowd. Then I told them I was Saint Kate, lately of Wodenberg, who’d been only an elect but I’d ascended and claimed the fount. That I had two elect of my own, one of them the son of the Aethlings-dóhtor and rightful king of Suevia.

“You came here fleeing the army of Wodenberg,” I said with my kir-strengthened voice. “I understand why — for I was born a carpenter’s daughter and a peasant. But you have nothing to fear from Wodenberg’s soldiers. Go home, see to your plowing and planting, return to your lives. If there is any more fighting, it will be because of Arceal soldiers. They are the enemy we both wish thrown out of Suevia.”

The people cheered that, clapped. “The Empress is dead,” I repeated. “There will be no more tithe taken from your children.” The noise grew. “I wish to be your saint, Suevia, and I wish to heal what Arcea has done. Firstly, I’m told there’s fever among you, out here.”

Packed together, camping on the Spanne outside the city walls with little shelter, sickness had taken hold of these helpless goodfolk. The few physicians worked themselves to the point of dropping but the Shepherd had still claimed many. Especially children.

I put out my hands with a little kir in each. “Patience. I will see you all, one at a time. If not today, then tomorrow.”

Kiefan wanted to follow me, I knew, but I told him to stay at the gate. I walked into the crowd, calling up their patterns as I went. There was no danger, only fevers and dysentery. A quick touch to a cheek, a pulse to cleanse their patterns, and they’d be well.

They wanted to press close; hands reached over the shoulders of those in the front line. I kept murmuring “Patience, patience,” in Suevi, and made my way down the line. A baby nearly dead in her mother’s arms took a moment longer. Her parents broke into tears when she woke, color flushed back to a healthy glow. The many voices became a gabble of begging and gratitude. They took up my name as a chant and melded it into a song very like the Suncaller’s Lament.

Tears streaked my face, too, but I kept touching, kept healing. I wouldn’t look away from their suffering, as my teacher had said.