12th of Petrarium, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Recha traced the crudely carved letters etched in the back of a worn, marble statue of a woman pouring a pitcher in the center of a fountain. No water flowed through it, though. It had clogged years ago and been left neglected.
S. y R. was dug into the center of the woman’s back.
Forever was scribbled underneath.
A mild breeze rustled the leaves of the trees surrounding the fountain and rippled through Recha’s hair and skirt that she held up above the ankle-deep water. She still remembered the day Sebastian had waded into the fountain—working then—took out his dagger, and carved those words.
They were both thirteen years old. Sebastian had wanted to show her something after his fencing lessons. He had led her to the ground’s cottage behind her now and showed her a tree nearby with the same carving dug into the bark.
That was the first time Sebastian had said he loved her. She had laughed.
Recha smiled, remembering it. He had tried so hard to be suave and romantic. She couldn’t help but laugh at how awkward and cliché it had felt instead. Something out of a romance tale told to make young girls giggle.
“Are you just trying to kiss me to tell your friends, Sebastian Vigodt?” she had teased with her hands on her hips. “The bark will grow back, you know.”
Recha had eavesdropped on Sebastian and his comrades’ fencing lessons for years, entertaining herself by watching them try to best each other and trade insults. Recently, before then, some of those insults had turned into who had kissed how many girls and who.
Instead of denying it or making a joke, Sebastian had charged off, straight into the fountain, and chipped away at the marble with his dagger until he’d completed the same carving.
“Stone won’t grow back!” he had declared. “I’ll love you forever, just like this will be here forever.”
Maybe it was because she was young or something in the way he’d said it, but Recha’s heart had drummed at that.
She’d been lost in the haze of youthful emotion until she’d blinked and realized Sebastian had been leaning in to kiss her. She might not have caught him in time but for him being sheepish about it.
She had playfully pushed him back, and he’d lost his footing in the fountain’s slippery surface. Recha had gasped and cupped her face, watching him flounder in the knee-deep water. When Sebastian had come up, spitting water, completely drenched, her face had burned, darkening red, and she’d run away.
She had giggled as she had, too.
Despite it being immature, Recha giggled now as she remembered it . . . until her finger traced over the final R of forever. Then her giggles died.
Her arm suddenly felt heavy, and she let it fall, lightly scraping the coarse stone with her fingernail.
It can’t last forever if we’re apart, she solemnly thought.
“Morning, La Dama Mandas.”
Recha turned at the humble voice, the algae coating the fountain’s floor squeezing between her toes and the water rippling and splashing.
Inez, Baltazar Vigodt’s home secretary, stood patiently behind her with his hands folded in front of him. The middle-aged footman was aging gracefully. His once dark hair was now ashen gray but still thick and neatly parted. A couple of age spots had grown on the right side of his angler face, beside his dark eye. His left was covered with a patch.
“Good morning, Inez,” Recha greeted back. She gingerly walked through the fountain and eased one foot after the other over and out of the pool, careful not to slip. Her white dress would be ruined by the oily, black-green water. “I was”—she paused, kicking algae off the bottom of her feet on the soft grass—“remembering a precious memory.”
Inez’s eye flickered at the statue. “I understand, La Dama. Sira Vigodt wished to know if you slept well. She’s preparing lunch on the veranda.”
The moment Recha had arrived, Mama Vigodt had been shocked by her fatigued appearance. She’d remarked that Recha had bags under her eyes that made her look twice her age, which was the last thing Recha had wanted to hear after being gone for so long. Mama Vigodt had insisted she get rest right away with no hope of Recha persuading her otherwise. There was only one place, though, she had wanted to stay.
She smiled thoughtfully. “Tell Mama I slept very well and thank her for letting me use the ground’s cottage.” She gave the humble dwelling behind Inez a reverent, longing look.
The small cottage was nestled between a grove of trees. It had once been meant for a gardener and his family but had been rundown and abandoned for years while she was growing up. Sebastian had taken it as a special project to make it livable again between campaigns.
At first, Recha had thought it was his romantic streak running away with him again. Yet, as he had fixed the slated roof, put up new walls inside, and cleared the weeds and shrubs away from around its rock walls, it had become clear it meant much more than that to him. It had been a way of gaining some independence from his father’s shadow as he had turned it into a little place where Recha and him could get away from everyone.
The outside might have been fit for a servant, but the inside was fit for a baron. She had fallen asleep the moment she had crawled into bed last night and had only awoken an hour ago.
“Where’s Papa?” she asked, rubbing her feet on the grass a little more before slipping on her slippers.
“The marshal is playing jedraz with young Sir Santio in the back gardens, La Dama,” Inez replied.
“I hope he’s playing fair for Santio’s sake.” Recha gave Inez a sly smile and started toward the back lawn of the estate. “It’s no fun playing against someone who could beat you in five turns if he wanted.”
“The marshal would never do that,” Inez said defensively.
Recha stopped and raised an eyebrow over her shoulder back at Inez.
Inez held her gaze briefly. He coughed into his hand and started toward the Vigodt estate. “I’ll let Sira Vigodt know you’ll join them for lunch,” he said in passing.
“Thank you, Inez.” Recha chuckled, grinning at Inez’s hastily retreat toward the main house.
She took a longer path around the house. The Vigodt Estate was modest for a retired marshal. The two-story, brick and mortar house stood out, surrounded by fields of wheat and corn, with the only trees standing in groves within the estate’s five-acre square.
She took a small, deeply worn path through thick ferns and grass to the back of the house. She stepped lightly and took care not to get her dress’s skirt and open sleeves hung on the briers. It was a modest dress but did cling to her figure in places and could be mistaken for a nightgown because of its lack of multiple layers of skirts. It was cool and didn’t make her sweat!
Despite her heritage, her power, and her mansion in Zoragrin, to her, the Vigodt Estate was home, and she was going to relax for the few precious moments she had left.
The worn path turned to rock under Recha’s feet, leading her up a hillside, and finally out of the briers. What Inez called the back lawn was really a cleared training yard. She had spent hours watching Sebastian and his Companions exercise here from the second-story windows in the house when she was supposed to be studying her etiquette.
Weather-worn posts were all that remained from those days, still standing in a line down the back of the lawn, tarnished black from the suns. They were covered in nicks, cuts, and punctures from Sebastian and his Companions practicing the sword, although the boards that held up makeshift shields had fallen off. The rest of the training grounds had been taken over by grass.
Recha snickered at yellowing blades under her feet. Mama Vigodt finally got her back lawn back.
“Are you sure you want to move there?” a low, hoarse voice asked. “You still have to look out for my calleros over here.”
Recha had let nostalgia distract her again and had failed to notice the two people sitting at a small table several feet away.
Baltazar Vigodt sat lounging in a rocking chair with his back to her. His light, cream-colored shirt caught the Easterly Sun’s rays just enough to give him a small halo. The back of his hair was pulled back and bound in a small tail to keep it from curling around the back of his neck. Despite being streaked with gray and he in his upper fifties, Baltazar’s hair was still thick and mostly black.
Poor Santio, however, wasn’t lounging in his chair. The six-year-old boy’s fingers firmly gripped his jedraz piece. His hand trembled with indecision on whether he wanted to let go or not. His cheeks were puffed out and rosy, as if he were pouting, while his hazel eyes danced back and forth across the jedraz board.
Sensing they were both distracted, Recha bit her bottom lip, clutched her skirt to keep it from rustling, and stalked forward on the balls of her feet.
“Remember, Santio,” Baltazar said, “once you’ve taken your hand off, you’re committed. An officer can’t snatch his men away once they’re gone.”
Just—Recha took another step, getting ever closer to Baltazar—a little—another step, slowly bringing her foot down on the brittle grass—closer.
Santio blew out his puffed cheeks loudly and finally committed to leaving his piece where it was. When he looked up, his eyes flickered at her, and he sniffed sharply.
Recha stopped in her tracks, her heart pounding in her ears. Her body went so stiff that a firm breeze could have toppled her over.
“Good morning, Recha,” Baltazar said without glancing back. He started rocking in his chair. “You slept late today.”
Recha exhaled. “Morning, Papa.”
She slapped her hands against her sides, pouting. “Is he playing fair, Santio?”
“No!” the boy replied, folding his arms and sitting back in a huff. “Grandpa’s put his calleros in the middle of the board and won’t move it.”
“Well, you must make me!” Baltazar laughed, reaching across the board. “You can’t expect your opponent to move just because you want them to. As in war and jedraz, you want your opponent to move”—his calloused fingers wrapped around one of his lightly lacquered espi pieces—a man clutching a roll of parchment in one hand and dagger in the other—and slid it diagonally across the board to take Santio’s piece that he had just put down—a charcoal-colored espi—“make them.”
“Ah!” Santio grunted, gaping and making the cutest expression of a child getting his toys taken away from him. Which he was.
Both he and Recha tracked Baltazar’s hand that added the taken espi to the rest of his conquests. Baltazar had captured over half of Santio’s pieces while Baltazar was barely missing a quarter. Only two of Santio’s soldiers—the frontline pieces—were left, and on opposite sides of the board, leaving the entire center for his grandfather to move.
He dominated that space with a single calleros, a lacquered man on horseback, right in the center facing down Santio’s marshal, the tallest charcoal piece, a man with a scepter in his hands. A marshal could be placed in three locations on the board—center back or one of the squares beside it—and he couldn’t be moved once set. A player had to defend his marshal and capture the opponent’s marshal to win.
“You’re not making it fun for him, are you?” Recha commented, pursing her lips.
Baltazar chuckled. “Being patronized is never fun, either.” He lifted his head and gave her a knowing smile. She felt his dark eyes take her in at one glance, deep pools which, even relaxed, demanded respect under his commanding brow. He had let his mustache grow out, thick and curling, but kept the rest of his weathered face clean shaven.
“Nor is never winning,” Recha retorted.
“But being allowed to win, isn’t winning.” Baltazar shook his head. “That’s not how the game is played. Your move, Santio.”
The boy was grimacing at the board and his scattered, remaining pieces. He sat hunched with his arms wrapped around him like he had a stomachache. His eyes constantly danced from one piece to another, but Recha followed his line of sight and saw he was mostly studying his grandfather’s pieces.
Uh-oh, she thought, he’s defensive now. After losing so many pieces, he’s too worried about losing the rest. He’s afraid. And going to lose.
Baltazar, however, rocked back in his chair; calm, gentle rocks. He laid his head back and waited, patiently watching his grandson.
Recha suddenly got an idea and grinned. “How about we even the odds?” she asked.
Baltazar shot her a glance. Then his eyes narrowed. “On your toes, Santio. Recha’s evil look is upon us.”
Santio sat up and tilted his head, curious.
“Why do you always—” Recha put her hands on her hips and shook her head. He was trying to get into her head now. “What’s the matter? Not up for a challenge in your old age?”
Santio gasped. His mouth flew open in silent laughter with the edges of his lips curling, and he eyed his grandfather.
Baltazar remained cool and relaxed, his rocking speed unfazed. “Age has nothing to do with it. State your challenge.”
“Take a look at the board,” Recha replied, pursing her lips in a half-smirk. “Take a good, long look.”
Baltazar took a long, unblinking look at the eight-by-eight square board in front of him. Recha figured he probably knew where all the pieces were, but she wanted to be sporting. Of the sixteen pieces he had started out with, Baltazar still had eleven, including all his important pieces, save one calleros.
Poor Santio only had eight left, with only his hero piece—the second tallest piece shaped like a man with broadsword—in position to defend his exposed marshal. The boy was in a bad predicament.
While Baltazar was studying the board, Recha causally moved behind him. “Think you’ve got a good look, Papa?” she asked, winking at Santio.
The boy giggled.
“I think I have,” Baltazar replied.
“All right.” Recha reached over his head and put her hands over his eyes. “See how good you are now.”
Baltazar stiffened momentarily, but then relaxed.
“Aunt Recha!” Santio cried, concerned.
“No, no.” Baltazar waved. “It’s all right. I’m up for this kind of challenge. The fog of war is no stranger to me. But”—he raised a finger—“if I’m to play like this, then Recha, you can’t tell Santio where to move. He’s the marshal, and he must be responsible for his own moves. And if I win, I get to say I defeated both of you.”
Recha felt his rough cheeks push against her hands. He was smiling.
She gave Santio a confident look. “We can best him.”
“Yeah!” the boy agreed with a determined nod and looked back to his pieces eagerly.
A little too eagerly.
Santio took his remaining calleros and advanced it three spaces up and one to the right, directly between two of Baltazar’s soldiers. In two more moves, he would be able to threaten Baltazar’s calleros in the middle of the board, or his espi.
Baltazar reached out and hovered his hand above his pieces, barely grazing them with his palm. Recha made sure her hands covered his eyes, preventing him from peeking from under them.
Baltazar’s hand paused over Santio’s calleros then took the soldier to its left, moving it up one.
He’s going to bring out his other calleros, Recha surmised, planning future moves. Santio needs to bring his bulwarks out.
The bulwarks were the two pieces at the ends of the board, carved men with polearms. They could move horizontally up and down the board. They could be perfect defenders for Santio’s center. Unfortunately, Recha couldn’t tell the boy that, per her agreement.
She snorted frustratingly when Santio moved his calleros again, moving predictably two right and down one, obviously threatening Baltazar’s espi.
A little too obvious.
Papa will move it. Even with me blinding him, he’ll—
Baltazar reached out but didn’t feel the board. He went right to the soldier he moved last turn and advanced it up another square.
Recha stared at the board, her mouth slightly gaped and her brow furled.
What’s he doing? She racked her brain with moves, following the path of the soldier and checking to see if it left a gap for another move. But it didn’t. The only thing he can move out was his other calleros, and he could have done with his last move.
Something nudged her in the back of her mind. I’m missing something. I know I—
Santio picked up his calleros again with a big grin on his face and took Baltazar’s espi. Then Recha finally saw it as the boy slammed his conquered piece down on his side of the table.
“Santio!” she gasped.
“Ah!” Baltazar barked, holding up a finger. “You gave your word.”
Recha closed her mouth and painfully grimaced at Santio. The young boy looked between her and his grandfather, puzzled.
Baltazar reached out and took his calleros in the center of the board. He pulled it back two and over one, taking Santio’s remaining calleros.
“Finish,” he declared.
Santio sat up and gaped at the board. His head bobbed and weaved, checking every angle. The boy slowly realized what Recha had seen and deflated in his chair.
Sometime earlier in the game, Baltazar had moved his hero to stand in front of his marshal, hidden behind the calleros. The calleros out of the way, the hero now stared down Santio’s marshal, and Santio had no defenders to block.
Santio’s hero was now blocked by the little soldier Baltazar had spent two turns moving forward. Unable to move his marshal and with no pieces to block with, Baltazar would capture Santio’s marshal next turn.
The game was over. Santio had lost. They had lost.
Recha sighed and took her hands away. She walked around the table again, shaking her head. “How did you do that?” she asked, more astonished that, in all these years, he still had ways to impress her rather than him winning.
“I was challenged,” Baltazar replied, interlocking his fingers together on his chest. He held his head high, pridefully, but his smile was soft, humble. “And I answered.”
Recha shook her head.
“I want a rematch!” Santio shouted. He hit the table, rattling the wooden pieces.
“I’m afraid someone else is looking for you,” Baltazar replied. He pointed toward the house where a plainly dressed young woman, a few years older than Recha, was stepping out.
Julieta walked out onto the lawn, tussling her dark hair in a struggle to tie it behind her head. Her apron was stained with a mixture of grease and orange spots from sauces, undoubtedly from helping her mama in kitchen to prepare lunch. Despite having this large house and servants, the one thing Mama Vigodt would not surrender was her dominion over the kitchen.
“Mama!” Santio yelled. The boy hopped out of his chair and ran to his mother.
Julieta smiled wide and knelt, arms outstretched.
Recha caught a quick glance that reminded her of Sebastian, seeing the way her lips curled and angled her cheeks when Julieta smile. Recha’s chest tightened, watching mother and son embrace.
That could have been—
She stopped the thought in its tracks. It was selfish and ungrateful to the family who had taken her in when she had been young and unwanted. Still, it hurt too much.
She took a deep breath and put on a strong face.
“Morning, Julieta!” she called.
Julieta’s head jerked up from hugging Santio. Her smile barely slipped, but her lips twitched, as if being forced. The scornful, warning look she flashed her was unmistakable.
“Morning, Recha,” Julieta dryly replied then quickly turned away to her father. “Mama says lunch is about ready, Papa.”
Baltazar nodded. “I shan’t keep her waiting.” He remained seated, however.
Julieta passed a glance between him and Recha. She took Santio by the hand and led the boy away, but not without giving Recha one last warning look from over her shoulder.
“She still doesn’t like me.” Recha sighed and slipped into Santio’s vacant seat.
Baltazar grunted. “It’s not that. She’s just being protective of her papa.”
“What’s she got to be protective about?” Recha pouted teasingly. “You’re my papa, too.”
Baltazar smiled warmly but turned his head away. “Guill Mandas was your papa. I was just the looked-over marshal who wouldn’t stand for his late comrade’s children to be picked apart and thrown away.”
Recha caught the light flickering in Baltazar’s eyes, small trembles in his eyelids. The struggle still raged within him between the side of him who loved her being part of his family and the loyalty he held for his old comrade. Recha had never met her birth father. He had died on campaign against Quezlo.
“Would . . . they be proud of me?” she asked the question long held inside, now tumbling out.
“Hm?” Baltazar blinked.
“My parents,” Recha said then winced. “My birth parents. Would they’d have understood what I’ve done?” She opened her eyes reluctantly, expecting a brutally honest response.
Baltazar licked his lips. His gaze drifted to the board, the ground, the house, all avoiding looking directly at her. He took a deep breath, expanding his chest, and sat up straighter. “Guill would have . . . had reservations. He was the most dutiful and honorable calleros I ever fought beside.” He snickered. “The only thing he ever pursued without asking permission was your mother.”
Recha’s cheeks warmed. He had never talked about her parents’ relationship in that way before. As for Recha’s birth mother, she was barely a memory, more a foggy image.
“Would she have approved?” she asked.
Baltazar finally looked at her, his gaze piercing. “Yes.”
Recha straightened. Few talked about her mother after her death and Recha and her sister had been split apart. Most just referred to Recha’s resemblance to her and that her beauty had been inherited from her, yet none had said they were her friend. Even growing up, Baltazar had never spoken of her like this.
“Marita Agrin was a passionate woman,” he said reverently. “Much like you. I remember when your grandfather tried to marry her off to the Zurit family. She was sixteen and marched into that banquet hall with everybody laughing and drinking, a piece of parchment balled in her fist. She stormed right up to Marqués Zurit and screamed, ‘I’ll never marry your wuss of a son!’ Then she”—Baltazar broke into a laugh—“spat right in his face and lunged for him before anyone knew it. The marriage proposal was halfway down his throat before five calleroses could tear her away. Screaming and cussing all the way out of the hall.” He threw his head back and laughed. “I’d never seen the like.”
Recha leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and her chin resting in her cupped hands, captivated, grinning from ear-to-ear.
Why didn’t I hear more stories like this growing up?
“Were you one of the ones who pulled her away?” she asked eagerly.
“No.” Baltazar shook his head. “I had just completed my training, but I knew which battles to avoid even then.” He chuckled, showing teeth. “Your father, though, he was the first one to jump in and got kicked in the . . .” He caught his words and looked away not too subtly to cough and clear his throat. “Well, let’s just say he was doubled over and wasn’t one of those who dragged her away. But he may have fallen in love that day.”
Recha bit her lower lip, imagining it. The first time her parents had met being one where her mother had made a scene and kicked her father before they had even known each other. It slightly reminded her of pushing Sebastian in the fountain, although they had known each other for years. It seemed she and her mother had a knack for embarrassing the men they loved.
“Like mama, like daughter,” she mused under her breath.
Baltazar hummed in agreement, his ears still sharp in his old age. “She would have understood your reasoning for what you did. But she may not have cared for the marc as well as you. She railed for campaigns against Quezlo for years after Guill died. To the point of almost . . . No, it was absolutely reckless. But she wanted revenge, no matter the threat from the other marcs.”
Recha jerked, feeling slapped out of her warm imagining. Baltazar stared back at her, his eyes hard once again.
“I take it”—she straightened, folding her hands in her lap and assuming a calm, almost calm demeanor—“that was a subtle warning to me, as well?”
“You’ve done a lot of good these past few years, Recha.” Baltazar shifted, resting his hands on the arms of his rocking chair and sitting up for a more commanding presence. “Your parents may have understood your reasons for taking the marc from your uncle, but some of your actions afterward . . .” He let the comment hang, unfinished.
Recha held firm. “I’ve had to make difficult decisions like any marquesa.”
“You ordered columns of men to attack when you should have held your positions and wear down the enemy first,” Baltazar retorted.
“I stopped the Orsembian advance.” Recha still remembered those sleepless nights, marching back and forth, fighting over fifty miles of ground, barely making a difference, and being forced to dig in at a ford along the Márga River.
“You’ve executed many,” Baltazar said accusingly. “Barons, judges, calleroses, old civil servants. Some are still under house arrest.”
“They were plotting a rebellion.” Recha stopped from spitting at the memory. Not three months after throwing back the Orsembians, several barons, marshals, and their calleros had conspired their own coup in response to her initial declarations of restructuring the marc’s armies, releasing all sioneroses, and making it clear there would be no more seasonal campaigns. “If Sevesco’s espis hadn’t caught it in time, they could have torn this marc apart. They were betraying Lazorna. For that, they faced justice!”
“You’ve sent the Viden de Verda to drag people from their homes!” Baltazar’s words were so sharp he nearly spat. “You’ve allowed that superstitious cult free reign to ruin people’s lives. For what? Some perverse sense of truth?”
“They’re a necessary evil.”
“Why? Tell me why.”
“I can’t!” Recha bit her tongue.
She knew he hated the cult. Many did. However, she could never tell him about the bargain she had struck or whom she had struck it with. Baltazar didn’t believed in the strange powers of some of the cultist. She didn’t know how to explain to him that a spirit possessed her sister to command the cult. He didn’t even know Elegida was still alive.
“I have blood on my hands, Papa,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t deny I took the marc out of revenge. I killed my uncle, my cousin, their closest friends, all out of revenge. They betrayed the man I loved—your son—and their campaign plans would have betrayed us all. So, I killed them.
“Then I ordered men to die in battle. All leaders do. There was no getting around that. Then I killed to keep my power. Those barons and marshals who were left had to know I would suffer no betrayal, even if it was merely talk. And I’ve let a cult whom, I admit, I do not trust, kill in my name. I have done a lot of bad.
“And look what we’ve gotten.” Recha’s calm demeanor cracked with a pleading look. “Three years of peace. My carriage is accosted by people every time I ride through Zoragrin, men take off their hats, women have raised up their children to me and cried, ‘Savior bless the Marquesa.’
“I saved Lazorna!” She breathed deeply and drew all the strength she could to straighten her poise. “I am the marquesa, and I will bear the responsibility for the good and the bad. Every past and future decision I make is mine, and I will bear the responsibility for all of them. Even those things the great Baltazar Vigodt disapproves of, I’ll bear those, too.”
Baltazar sat like a statue. Unwavering. Undaunted. Not a single blink. He stared back as if the embodiment of an impartial judging, weighing her words on scales only he could see.
“For that,” he said, his face softening and his eyes moistening, “your parents would have been proud. Their little Recha, Savior of Lazorna. Many marqués can find an excuse for what they must do for the marc. It’s the hallmark of a worthy one to accept the responsibilities of their decisions.”
Recha’s body, stiff from sitting so straight, trembled, on the verge of collapse. She clasped her hands together to calm down, but her palms slipped and rubbed against each other’s clammy embrace. Her vision clouded, and tears escaped the corners of her eyes. She had to close them to hold in the rest.
Something inside her very core shook. She didn’t care what other people thought of her. She hadn’t been able to afford to worry in the beginning, just so long as they got the message that she was in power, and she was not to be betrayed was enough. Then she turned her attention to governing and preparing and lost track of people’s thoughts altogether, save for the other marquéses she had to deal with.
Yet, those few words, that small, comforting acknowledgment, were the most meaningful things she had heard in years.
Recha sniffed, regaining her courage. “It can’t last, Papa,” she said, wiping away the stray tears. “Borbin is planning something big this season. If he succeeds, even by a half-measure, he might become too powerful for us to do anything against.”
“You plan to campaign,” Baltazar said, frowning deeply, his lips disappearing under his mustache’s thick curls.
“Plans have already been set in motion.” She sniffed, clearing her head, then began turning the lacquered marshal in circles with her thumb and index finger. “Hiraldo is moving the First Army to our southern staging grounds, and I’ve sent appointments, raising generals for the Second and Third Army to mobilize. The Fourth Army is not at full strength but is already in the south.”
“Armies?” Baltazar raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Recha grinned, excited to finally tell him. “Armies. Model armies. None of those barons-funded, conscript armies with a handful of calleros who ride off whenever they want. Model armies just like you made when you carved through Pamolid, Marshal Vigodt, the Half-Conquering Hero!”
She trembled, nearly giddy. His campaign record was second to none in Lazorna. Probably second to none in all Desryol, save maybe the White Sword. He would never boast or brag about it, but when she was a child, his old comrades had come around to tell war stories. She would be right next to Sebastian, sitting on the floor, mesmerized by every detail.
Baltazar snorted. “That title was partly an insult. I should’ve gone farther, but—”
“But my uncle stopped you, I know.” Recha leaned forward, not letting his dour comment stop her. “But he’s gone now. So are the barons who complained you didn’t give them their fair due. And the calleroses you denied permission to galivant about and punished when they tried to protest by abandoning the campaign.
“My armies have been recruited and trained to fight as units for years. Look”—she wiped away the remaining lacquer soldier pieces from the board—“no more common soldiers. But columns of pikes.” She picked up the lacquer bulwark pieces and slammed them down in the middle of the board. “Each full-strength army ten thousand strong, mostly of pikemen for the frontlines. Between them and behind, swords-and-shields to route and plug gaps. And between them, musketeers.”
Baltazar perked up, his eyes slightly widened.
Recha nodded, knowing he was seeing it. “That’s right, Papa. I have musketeers. Hiraldo has a tactic that could change the way war itself is fought.”
Everything she saw at Fort Debres came spilling out. The pikemen tightly marching in step and forming a wall of a spear points with a five-foot reach advantage against common spearmen. The swordsmen were each drilled by calleroses and taught the art of the duel and how to fight together with interlocked shields. And the volleys of the musketeers. She shook the table, clutching it and laughing at their rate of revolving fire.
Through it all, Baltazar remained stoic.
“Well?” she asked, wheezing, her shoulders falling up and down. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
Baltazar glanced at the makeshift formation of pieces on the board with a mulling frown then up at her. “You’re too excited.”
“Huh?” Her grin slipped, and she blinked rapidly.
“You’re too excited. Too eager. You say your strength is thirty thousand men—”
“Thirty-six thousand,” Recha corrected. “Hiraldo wasn’t able to recruit enough men to bring the Fourth Army to full strength, but we have an additional six thousand mobilizing, as well.”
“Thirty-six thousand.” Baltazar shrugged. “And Borbin can field how many? Twice, maybe three times that number? This new tactic of Hiraldo’s sounds impressive, Recha—it really does—but if you put too much faith in it and become overconfident, they can still be overwhelmed. You said so yourself—you don’t have all your armies fully armed.”
She bit her lower lip at the cold reality being dumped on her expectations and hopes. Still, she knew they couldn’t let those problems and odds stop them. It was strike now or never.
“That’s why I need you, Papa. I need a field marshal who can command multiple armies at once, either marching together or apart. One who’ll work with me and not be afraid of me. One who’ll help me find a way to take Puerlato, get the rest of our armies’ weapons, and—”
“Forget Puerlato.”
Recha stared at him disbelievingly, her words caught in her throat. “What?”
Baltazar’s nostrils flared as he deeply exhaled. He picked up his calleros piece and put it back in the middle of the board. “Why did I move this here?” he asked.
“To claim the center of the board,” she replied, shrugging, but Baltazar slowly shook his head. “To threaten Santio by being able to strike out any direction.”
Baltazar kept shaking his head.
“To . . . to . . .” She frowned, turning back toward the board. Taking a moment to clear her head, she cursed herself for forgetting the game so easily.
I must have let the excitement get to me. She chafed at the thought.
“It was a diversion,” she answered.
Baltazar nodded. “The calleros itself never mattered. So long as Santio was focused on it, he’d never see the real threat right behind it.”
He leaned forward and tapped the calleros piece. “Puerlato is the calleros. It’s only a danger if it were being used as a staging ground for an offensive, but you are the one attacking. Its only real purpose then is to delay you, a diversion from the real threat.” He pulled back to tap his hero and marshal pieces down the row. “Borbin’s field army.”
Recha soaked it all in then narrowed her gaze at him. “You’ve been thinking about this. You were planning to say yes all along.”
“Old skills never die,” he replied, reaching over the table to pick up one of her bulwarks and put it two squares in front of his calleros. “What you need to do is this.” He took the rest of her pieces, pushed them all the way across the board, then several rows up, facing the rest of his pieces.
“Puerlato cannot move,” he said. “Break every defense outside the city, then surround it with a small, dug-in force to keep it bottled up under siege. Then, with your smaller, faster armies, march into Orsembar.
“Speed is the key.” He looked from the board, his dark eyes so intense Recha fought the impulse to shrink back. “That’s how I marched through Pamolid. I structured my armies to move fast, faster than the Pamolidians could react. Our armies will have to be twice as discipline than them, but it could be done.”
Recha’s eyebrows leapt upward. “You said our! That means you’re saying yes, right?” Her breathing quickened. She quivered and tingled from the bottom of her soles to her scalp. The excitement threatened to overwhelm her, and she didn’t care.
Baltazar sat back and laced his fingers on his chest again. “If I do take command, I have conditions.”
Can’t you just say yes!
She ran her fingers through her hair, lightly brushing against her misshapen ear. “And they are . . .?”
“If I take command, I will command the armies. I know it’s pointless to quibble about you coming along or not, but regardless, I give the armies their orders. I will not look over my shoulder or have the other officers look over theirs for your approval each time an order is given.”
She swallowed at his harsh tone. But having him agree to campaigning with the armies was a win she could take.
“Agreed.”
“I will have my own staff—”
Recha snickered. “Done.”
“—whom I pick.” Baltazar’s tone remained harsh, fully embracing his commanding role again.
“Of course you’ll have your own staff, Papa,” she said with a wave. “I’ll have Cornelos send you a list of candidates to—”
“I want Tonio Olguer as my marshal of horse,” he interjected, “Manel Feli as my marshal of logistics, Josef Bisal as my marshal of scouts, and . . . Ramon Narvae as marshal second.”
Recha’s excitement died little by little with each name. She clutched the table to stop her trembling but only shook the table and softly rattled the pieces. She knew each name well. They were all connected with the conspiracy to usurp her.
“Traitors,” she hissed, her voice ragged. “Each and every one, traitors.”
“Comrades,” Baltazar retorted, unshaken. “Loyal friends I can depend upon.”
“But I can’t!” She sprung to her feet, hitting the table and spilling pieces onto the ground. “Olguer, Feli, Bisal, all three were running messages for the conspirators. Narvae was one of the marshals arrested with them! I only spared him because he was a friend of yours.” And because he was Cornelos’s uncle, although their relationship was strained now because of the conspiracy.
“They are men of honor.” Baltazar’s voice was cold as he slowly stood from his chair, staring her down with his military bearing, gut sucked in and chest out. “When you took the marc, you killed your family, your blood. Despite your reasons, and me staying out of it, their honor couldn’t let your actions go unanswered. But they have paid for their disobedience and honorably obeyed their house arrest since.”
She shook her head. “But they’re not loyal.”
“They’re loyal to me!” Baltazar gritted his teeth, a mere flash before regaining his composure. “And I am loyal to you. They will follow their honor, and in their loyalty to me, they will be loyal to you.”
Recha set her jaw. Betrayal was betrayal, regardless of the reasons. She needed people who were competent but also loyal. However, she also needed Baltazar Vigodt. There was no other marshal capable enough, no one she trusted enough, to command the armies.
“I’ll issue the appointments in the morning,” she said begrudgingly. “But they will all be your responsibility. If one of them acts to betray me, I will see it as an act by all of them.”
Baltazar mulled it over, his mustache shifting over his twisting lips. “As it should be. They’ll be officers under my command, after all.”
“Done.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “Anything else?” Savior, I hope not.
“Keep the Viden de Verda out of my way.”
Recha froze. Harquis and his truth seekers were going to accompany her armies, per her agreement with Verdas, but she hadn’t told anyone those details. Not even Cornelos. There was no point in lying to Baltazar about that now, though.
“They won’t interfere with you,” she agreed. “Or your orders and staff.”
“Then”—he reached his hand out—“in the name of Sebastian Vigodt, my beloved son, I am yours to command, La Dama Mandas.”
Recha stared at his hand, her stomach fluttering and her heart threatening to burst from her chest. She tried to calm her breathing, to no avail.
“In the name of Sebastian Vigodt”—she took his hand, clasping his rough calluses—“my beloved, I couldn’t be prouder to accept.”
He squeezed her hand firmly, holding it in place as if to seal a pact. Recha squeezed back while also fighting to keep her vision from becoming blurry again. Her cheeks began to hurt from her grin threatening to tear a facial muscle.
Borbin, we’re coming to make you pay.
She was already mulling over what their victory would look like when Baltazar took his hand back.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he mumbled softly while walking around the table and spilled pieces. “You get to be the one to tell Mama Vigodt.”
Her mouth dropped open, speechless at the daunting task, but Baltazar was already walking toward the side of the house, chuckling, before she realized.
“Papa!” she yelped, rushing after him and knocking over her chair in the process.
Even at the end, after getting everything she wanted, he had pulled one last trick she hadn’t seen coming.