Kirven was feeling better than she had for weeks. The attack on Harn was not working out as Galderin had expected. His confidence, so strong before, was wavering. Kirven had not felt welcome at his fire on the journey. The other Rai would move away, sneer at her. Now she found attitudes changing. The Rai, once three of their own had died, became less sure of their position around Galderin, began to look upon him as weak, began to think that maybe she was a better bet for them. A better way to power. To survive.
She had watched the Rai and their troops return, heads bowed with the shame of defeat, and smiled to herself. “Beaten again, Galderin,” she thought. “Where is your strength now? Where are your promises to your followers that they would easily roll over these weak villagers?”
Gone, was where.
His army had been held at bay: by one man, a handful of outlaws and the same “weak” villagers he was laughing at only days ago. Now Galderin was the weak one. Now was her opportunity to strike and she would take it. Galderin might be strong in his cowl but he needed the support of the other Rai, and they were quick to change allegiance when it looked like they might be in danger. For all that they revelled in cruelty Kirven thought them cowards at heart, always in the second line of attack and never in the first.
Now they had asked her to a strategy meeting.
She left her tent, walked through Woodedge. She hated the forest, it reminded her of being a child. Of being forced to go into the trees in search of wood, or to check the traps or to gather sap or any of the other tasks the adults, too frightened of the dark between the trees, gave to children. She knew the forest hated the people. Her Rai wife had known her fears. That was why Madrine had once left her tied to a tree in the Wyrdwood for a day and a night, punishment for her pregnancy.
While she struggled Kitath, the secondhusband who fathered the child, had died in front of her. Covered in some sweet liquid that called to orits and their rasping mouthparts had slowly flayed the skin off him while he screamed. His fate was something that Madrine had enjoyed taunting her with, promising it would be hers next time she displeased the Rai. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she felt the trees about her, closing in, intruding on her flesh in some unfathomable way.
Kirven fought down a shudder. She had always thought she would die amid the trees, had felt it coming the nearer they marched to Harn. Yet, here was opportunity among them. Life in Crua was like the forest in a way, the fall of one great trunk allowed another to flourish. She would flourish, Galderin would fall.
He had lost.
Twice.
She heard voices as she approached the large tent Galderin had set up among the trees. The remaining Rai were in conference, discussing tactics, and she felt anger run through her. She should have been part of this all along. She should have been planning with them. Well, that was about to change. Galderin had failed too often.
It was her chance now.
She passed the guards without acknowledging them, walked into the tent to find the Rai standing around a table, Galderin bent over it. On the table bark had been rolled out, and a crude drawing of Harn and the clearing it sat in drawn on it. The two nearest Rai, Vedara and Handlin, turned to her, then turned away. No nod, no acknowledgement of her even though they had invited her. She almost stumbled.
That was wrong.
Not the right reaction.
“High Leoric,” said Galderin, standing back from the table. “We were making plans for the final assault.” He was calm. He should not be so calm in the face of his failure.
“Another one?” she said. Did she see smiles from the Rai around the table? She hoped so. “I seem to remember the first assault was the only one we needed, and the second was the final one.” Galderin stared at her, if looks could kill, she thought.
“Well, Kirven,” he said, “we were given poor information, but I suppose that should be expected when it was provided by someone such as yourself, who is not a natural military leader.”
“I have fought,” she said and immediately wished she could take it back. It had made her sound defensive when she should have sounded sure. “And the information on this place was provided by one of your own.” The atmosphere became colder in the tent.
“It does not do,” said Galderin, coming round the table, one hand on the blade at his hip, “to compare the Rai with an abomination such as Sorha.”
“I told you to bring dullers,” she said.
“And that is the problem” said Galderin. “You think like them,” he pointed out of the tent and toward Harn, “not like Rai. And we have listened to you beg for the life of your child. We have fought like them because of it. We have not been true to ourselves.” A shudder passed through her. He had turned this about. He had made her responsible. “Because of you we have played to their strengths. Not ours.”
“We must take the village intact,” she said.
“Because of your child.” Galderin looked at the Rai around the table. This was wrong. How he was acting was wrong. She stood as tall as she could, made her voice as cold and hard as possible.
“Venn must be brought back to Harnspire alive, for the Cowl-Rai.” They were all staring at her now, eyes too pale, skin stretched across the bones of their faces. Inhuman.
“If the trion is alive we are to save them,” said Galderin. Then he smiled, and it was the dead smile of the Hetton. “And we have seen no sign of them. At all.”
“They probably hide them,” said Kirven, panic rising. She fought it back. “If they know they are valuable, they will hide them.” Galderin did not say anything, only watched her, his face cold as Harsh now. No pretence at emotion.
At being human.
“We intend to fight like Rai, High Leoric,” he made her title into a mocking crown. “No more walking into arrows or traps. We will combine our power, and we will drop fire on those fools in that village. Burn them. Then we walk in and suck the life from anyone left and offer our strength up to Tarl-an-Gig.” Despair, ripping into her. He offered his Rai what they wanted most. Life, strength and power.
“No!” Her legs threatening to give way. “If Venn dies then—” He moved so quickly she had no time to escape. She was in his grasp. His hands either side of her face. Her legs almost gave way and he was the only thing holding her up. Her body held against the cold wood of his armour.
“If they die,” said Galderin, “there will be other trion, Rai are long-lived.” She had never noticed before just how very pale his eyes were, how empty. “That is something you people simply fail to understand. Your lives are short, we need only be patient and wait for you to make mistakes. You always do.” A deeply unpleasant smile. “You have.”
“Let me go,” she said. Each word a triumph of self-control. “I was put in place by the Cowl-Rai themselves. I am the High Leoric of Harnspire.” Did she feel the pressure of his hands on her face lessen? Yes, but only for a second. “I am in charge.” The pressure increased.
“No, Kirven, you are not, you are just fuel.”
“You cannot,” desperate, aware how thin her words were, “how will you explain this to Tiltspire.”
“I am sure they know, Kirven Ban-Ruhn,” he said, leaning in closer to her, pressing harder, “how dangerous a battlefield is.”
“No.” Her words the merest breath of wind among the cold trees.
“You were a fool to come here,” said Galderin. “I will tell the Cowl-Rai you died running from villagers. None will mourn your loss.” She felt the cowl’s touch as a caress at first, as if it were the touch of the lovers she had denied herself for so long. Then he rubbed the clanpaint from her face with his thumb. Heat following. Galderin smiled and Kirven began to burn. Opened her mouth to scream. She could not. She tried to struggle. She could not. “You should be glad,” he said, “that your sacrifice here will aid the Cowl-Rai. Your life will help us burn that village full of traitors.”
“Venn,” she thought, “all I have done is let you down.”
The pain was excruciating.