CHAPTER 59

Vlora awoke with a deep sense of unease, and it took her several moments of lying in the dark, listening to the creak of wood and the gentle sound of lapping water to remember where, exactly, she was: nestled among the barrels and crates of supplies in the shallow hold of a keelboat. She practiced deep, calming breaths as the befuddlement of sleep fled her mind. She was among friends, traveling quickly and with a plan. She was still Lady Vlora Flint, a former powder mage and current military commander.

Those simple realities made her feel only marginally better. Something was wrong, and she couldn’t quite place it.

A small gasp escaped from her lips, and she rolled over to feel around in the bedroll beside hers. It was empty and cold—it hadn’t been occupied for some time. But it was there. Olem had returned. She continued her breathing exercises and stumbled to her feet, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. Bent almost double, she crept through the hold by feel alone, making her way out to the deck of the keelboat.

The deck was covered in the gently snoring forms of her bodyguard and the resting polers, who, for sixteen hours each day, propelled the boat down the Hadshaw. As her personal vessel, it was much less crowded than the rest of the flotilla, and she was able to pick her way among the sleeping bodies without the risk of actually stepping on anyone. She approached the stern, where a lantern hung at head height illuminating a single figure sitting with his legs hanging off the deck. She would have been able to identify that silhouette anywhere, but the whiff of cigarette smoke and the ember glowing in the dark removed all doubt.

She felt her mysterious anxiety drop slightly as she sat down beside Olem, her feet swinging just a couple of inches above the water.

“You should be sleeping,” he said gently.

“I don’t feel very well.”

“Sick?”

“I don’t think so.” She searched for a way to describe it. “It’s almost a gut feeling, like I know something is going to go wrong.”

“That’s natural. We’re about to attack a superior force at their stronghold.”

“But it’s not that,” Vlora continued.

“You’re sure?” She could see him looking at her peculiarly by the lantern light.

“I don’t know.” She gave a frustrated sigh. It felt like her body was trying to tell her something, but she had absolutely no sense of what. It made her feel helpless and angry. She tried to shake it off. “Have we heard anything from Delia’s people since we set off down the river?”

“No. The provosts managed to claim a handful of keelboats for themselves, so I know they’re back there somewhere.”

“Delia is probably furious that we’re striking for the Dynize heart. We should have left them behind.”

“Little chance of that.”

“I suppose we can only hope we ruined whatever deal she struck with Ka-Sedial’s generals. Oh well. What time is it?”

“I think it’s around three.”

“How far from Landfall are we?”

“Twenty miles, give or take.”

“That close?” Vlora pictured a map in her mind. “We must have passed the Battle of Windy River site yesterday, then?”

“We did.”

“I didn’t even notice.” She passed a hand across her face.

“You’ve been a bit preoccupied,” Olem said reassuringly, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

They’d spent the last few days in the keelboat together, rarely more than a couple dozen paces apart, and somehow it felt like Olem had never left. Having him close again was like having a limb restored, and she wondered whether the sense of loss that had come with the loss of her sorcery had, in part, been a sense of loss of him. It seemed likely. There was still a thin barrier between them—hesitations, unshared thoughts—but it felt like something that would heal in time.

Then why did she feel so strangely right now?

“We should land tomorrow afternoon,” Vlora told him. “Everyone has their orders?”

Olem lifted his gaze to look out over the river, where they could see the lights of dozens of their immense flotilla of keelboats. “They do,” he confirmed. “We’re moving too fast for scouts to be much good, but the riders we’ve sent out indicate that this region is almost abandoned. Lindet’s forces are fifty miles or so to our west, so that’s where all of the Dynize armies are focused. Aside from the little bit of traffic we’ve come across, this stretch is almost entirely undefended.”

“Could it be a trap?”

Olem chuckled. “That nervous, huh?”

“I’m serious!”

“I don’t think even Sedial could anticipate that you’d slip past three of his field armies and rush downriver in just a handful of days to confront him. If he’s foreseen it, then we deserve to get our teeth kicked in.”

“That’s not reassuring.” Vlora paused, considering all the plans and contingencies she’d made. During the day, looking upon her flotilla and excited by their swift travel, it was easy to feel as if she was on top of everything. But in the darkness of the night, when life felt so very fragile and the world so big, all the doubts began to creep in. What if her plans weren’t good enough? What if her army wasn’t up to the job? What if she wasn’t? What if Sedial had more sorcery at his call, or men guarding his door, than she had expected?

“I’ve been putting on a confident face for the general staff to keep them on board with this plan,” Vlora admitted, “but I’m terrified that I’m about to get us all killed.”

“Hm,” Olem grunted. “You have been downplaying the danger, but I don’t think you’re fooling anyone. We all know this is a mad dash to death or victory. Bo and Nila definitely do. The general staff are not a bunch of fools. Even the soldiers can sense it.”

Vlora rubbed her eyes. “I should be taking it slower. I should have dismantled those three armies piece by piece and marched our way down the river destroying everything in our path slowly, cautiously. The Adran way.”

“That’s not the Adran way.” Olem laughed.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”

“Do you remember,” he went on, “when Tamas tried to flank the Kez forces outside of Budwiel by transporting three brigades through a cave system?”

“Yes. And that didn’t work out well for us.”

“I could name several dozen maneuvers in Tamas’s career that were equally as brash. Most of them did work out. The Adran way is to be the best at everything. Fewer troops, but better trained with better equipment and stronger lines. Quality over quantity. Driving ourselves like a spike right into Sedial’s heart is the Adran way. The general staff knows that. And remember that most of them were present for Kresimir. They know the dangers we’re facing unless we prevent Sedial from using that stone. They believe in the cause. They believe in you.”

Vlora laid her head on Olem’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re right. I just need to stop worrying.”

“Worrying is fine. But you shouldn’t let it keep you from sleeping. You, of all people, need rest.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t think it’s the worry. I… just feel strange.” She rubbed her arms. “Jittery! That’s the word. It must just be nerves.”

At the word “jittery,” Olem gave her a sharp glance. Vlora ignored it. There wasn’t anything she could do but try to get some sleep. She’d already prepared all that she could, and her officers were taking care of all the smaller details. There was nothing to get excited about until her flotilla was spotted by the Dynize.

She looked over her shoulder, letting her gaze cross the sleeping forms on the deck and then turning it toward the river. Somewhere along the flotilla she could hear someone singing softly—no doubt a soldier who was having a hard time sleeping. It was a strange feeling, floating on a river the night before a battle with keelboat decks instead of tents, lanterns instead of cookfires, and the lapping of the water against the shores instead of the call of sentries. Somewhere in the distance she heard a horse whinny, and wondered how the cavalry were getting on. They’d ridden alongside the river, pushing themselves hard to keep up with the keelboats, and would be very tired by the time they reached Landfall. But their presence on the shore gave Vlora some comfort that her flotilla wouldn’t be unexpectedly flanked.

Beside her, Olem suddenly rustled. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He climbed to his feet and disappeared into the cabin, leaving her alone in the darkness for a minute or two. When he returned, she felt a goblet pushed into her hand.

“What’s this?”

“A bit of wine. Nothing fantastic, but…”

“Is there something to celebrate?” Vlora asked, giving it a sniff.

She could make out a cautious smile on Olem’s face. “Just a hunch that you needed something to take the edge off.”

Vlora snorted. “I wish it would take the edge off. Even being powder blind I can’t get drunk.” She took a hefty gulp of the wine anyway. She’d already swallowed when she tasted something peculiar, and then the full brunt of it hit her. “By Adom,” she swore. “This is terrible.” The sulfuric taste clung to her tongue no matter how much she sputtered. “What the pit is in…”

She trailed off as a little thrill spread throughout her mouth and into her blood and mind, lighting up her senses in a familiar, but decidedly subdued manner. Her hands began to tremble with excitement.

“Powder,” Olem said. “Just a small spoonful.”

“That’s a good way to ruin a cup of wine,” Vlora said, downing the rest of her glass. She tried not to let her excitement get the better of her as her senses sharpened. The sound of distant singing grew louder, the darkness of the night shifting before her eyes until she could pierce it without squinting. Even the terrible taste of the wine grew more pronounced. Her mind seemed to speed up to compensate for all this new information. She felt her hands tremble and her face flush. “How the pit…” she began, turning toward Olem.

He was watching her eagerly. “Is it working?”

“It is.”

A grin cracked his face and he gave a little sigh of relief. “You would have been furious at me if it hadn’t.”

Vlora held her hand horizontally in front of her face. It only took a brief surge of willpower to still the trembling. The aches and pains and exhaustion were all still there, but they were in a distant place, locked in the corner of her mind, overpowered by the sudden arrival of her powder trance. “How did you know?”

“Your body was giving signs of withdrawal.”

“I don’t follow.”

“That strange feeling you described,” Olem said, waving one of his cigarettes under her nose. “It sounded a lot like how I feel when I haven’t had one of these for a couple of days. It was the word ‘jittery’ that pulled it together for me. Cigarettes, mala, coffee. They don’t affect powder mages the same way they do other people, but the fact that your body was suddenly having withdrawal effects, months after you lost your sorcery…” His grin grew wider. “Well? How is it?”

Vlora cautiously reached out with her senses. She could sense all the powder nearby, in the holds of the keelboats and in the horns and wrapped charges of the soldiers. She tried to temper her excitement and pulled away from it all mentally to try for a self-diagnosis. “Dulled.”

“In what way?”

“Just… not as sharp as it used to be. I can’t see as well in the dark, and the sounds aren’t as pronounced. Maybe it’s the wine you mixed it with, but I think I should be cautious.”

“I agree. Your body is still healing.”

She let out a shaky laugh and could hear her own relief in it. Her sorcery was back! Perhaps not as strong as it once was, but it was there. She could continue to heal. She could be a mage again. “It’s going to be a pit of a time holding back once we get to Landfall.”

“I expect you to do just that. Let Davd do the heavy lifting.”

Vlora clenched her fists, unclenched them, and tried to stop grinning. For the first time in months the urge to blow something up was a joyous one rather than a furious reaction that ended in tears. She forced herself to pull back with her senses. More than enough chance to test them tomorrow. And Olem was right. She needed to be careful. Her sorcery might be back, but it could also be fragile. She would only use it in an emergency.

Leaning over, she kissed Olem gently. “Thank you.”

“You would have figured it out eventually. But I know that jittery feeling.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Now, have I woken you up or do you think you can get some more sleep?”

“I don’t ever want to sleep again.” Vlora looked out over the water once more. Her body had been her enemy these last couple of months. It was still a tangled mess of scars and still-healing wounds, but it was now tense with the desire for action. She could move her arms without hurting. Pit, she might actually be able to fight again. She got to her feet and looked down at Olem. “We might die tomorrow.”

“Always a possibility,” he conceded.

“Join me in the cabin?”

Olem took one last drag, flicked his cigarette into the water, and stood up. “Lead on, Lady Flint.”