My plan is prepared. The battle laid out in my mind. The ground is chosen; the principals of the conflict assigned. It is as neat as I can make it.
I hate it.
The night after my conference with Nedwin I lie on my bunk, wings awkwardly spread and a blanket tucked up beneath the feathers. I stare at the stick of incense across from me, at its burning ember end, the coil of perfumed blue smoke that falls, so ponderous, from its tip. I have always burned incense before an engagement, since my very first fight as a common soldier. I have always spent this night (if I had the luxury) alone.
I have always been nervous and uncertain, but willing. Certain that I would pick up spear and sword for good cause. Certain that the enemy would kill me first if they could.
This battle, though: friend against friend, kin turned foe, foe turned ally, betrayal and confusion and shared blood…it makes no sense to me. It is no good cause. Tomorrow people will face me whom I once fought alongside in battle; tomorrow the people at my side will have been in the opposite lines in my life before.
And I, the center of this maelstrom, god-painted, Crowned and called out...
...I am unwilling.
If I could, I would battle all the corrupt or misled or antagonistic leaders of Shraeven’s occupation, from Chordwain to Casandre to Nedwin, one after another without rest. If I could, I would call the Godson out to single combat and put an end to this.
If I could. If only.
I have always spent this night alone, if I had that luxury. My eyes glide from the curl of the incense smoke to the egg warm in its nest. Tonight I am not alone. The future sleeps here with me.
* * *
Morning. A shaft of wan gray sunlight falls across my back. I twist my neck around to squint at the tent flap.
Two silhouettes are blocked in the opening, tall with the curls of those heavy ram horns and short, stocky and feminine. They are rimmed with beads of brittle light and for a dizzied moment I feel it: The Godkindred Kingdom and Shraeven are at my door, male and female, partnered and whole.
Then they resolve into Donal and Ragna and a breakfast tray.
“The Mistress Commander needs food,” Donal says with a grin in his voice.
“The Mistress Commander,” I say, “is still mostly asleep and doesn’t make a habit of eating before combat.”
“It’s broth,” Ragna says just as the aroma passes over my nares. I start salivating.
“Smart people,” I say. “Where did I find such smart people?”
Donal laughs. “Everywhere but the Kingdom,” he teases, and I remember then that he’s Neshanti. I immediately want to berate myself for my little vision of them, but it’s going to be a long day. There’s meaning in the Kingdom finding strength in the countries it’s absorbed but I’m not going to dwell on it. I’ve never been one for poetry. Right?
They eat with me and then Ragna helps me with my armor while Donal sits in a camp chair and reviews the order of battle with me. Ragna is just finishing braiding my hair onto my head when a soldier stops by with a message.
“Yes?” I ask.
“From Master General Nedwin,” the soldier says. “A runner brought it.”
Perplexed, I take it from the soldier and dismiss him before breaking the seal and reading it.
To Mistress Commander Angharad Godkin of the Sunblood Cliffs:
By the Godson’s command, the Governor Chordwain of Shraeven will meet you on the field of honor at noon on this day. We trust you will withhold your army in accordance with the laws of war.
—MG N.G.
I stare at it in shock, which prompts Ragna to look over my shoulder and squint at it. She cants her head. “What game is he playing?”
“What’s it say?” Donal asks.
“Nedwin tells me that Godson has ordered Chordwain to duel me. Chordwain,” I say. “Last I heard, Chordwain hasn’t lifted a sword in twenty years. He’s a politician, not a soldier.”
“He has ordered you to execute the Governor,” Ragna surmises.
“That’s the only thing I can assume,” I say. “But why?”
Donal says, “He’s covering his tail.”
“But that makes no sense,” I say. “If I kill Chordwain and easily, I make my position stronger.”
“I’m not sure it’s going to make your position stronger to be seen cutting down a helpless man in blood cold,” Donal says.
“He’s challenging me to a duel,” I say. “He’s getting himself into it.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mistress, but the Godson is the one who got him into it,” Donal says.
“Yes, but that’s the implicit danger of accepting any political position in the Kingdom,” I say. “You have to be prepared to defend it, personally or with an army.”
“That may be the legality of the thing,” Donal says. “But what the people watching will see is a man probably wetting himself with terror sidling up to you and dying instantly to your more-than-competent sword.”
I wince, ears flattening.
“My people will not like it either,” Ragna says. I glance over my shoulder at her and she shrugs, the barest flick of her whiskers. “We won’t be sad to see the Governor die, but your reputation is for fairness, Mistress. You are a hero—”
“And a hero doesn’t execute her opponents without a trial,” I say with a sigh. “But if I refuse people will wonder if I’m a coward. It will give my people pause.”
“It seems like the better course, yet,” Ragna says.
I squint, press my thumb between my brows. And then it occurs to me. “Colblain…still under guard, isn’t he?”
Donal looks startled. “Yes?”
“Bring him,” I say.
* * *
They march him in beneath Donal’s wary gaze, Colblain Sixblood of the Snowflower Vale. He looks well-kept: bathed, barbered and fed. While his animosity isn’t significant enough to reject my hospitality, he no longer regards me with any courtesy, a fact he demonstrates amply by speaking before I can address him. “What do you want?”
“I believe it’s mine to ask the questions now,” I say, unperturbed.
“I’m not interested in helping you,” he says.
“I would never have imagined.” I lean back, folding my hands over my ribs.
He glares at me. Such a pity, Colblain’s loss…he’s a good man. Upright, intelligent, fierce. Useful. And a beautiful melange of species…for a sixblood, he’s unusually mixed. They crossed species lines with him.
“Well?” he asks when the silence unnerves him.
“You remember Chordwain,” I say.
His ears slick back. “The rightful governor.”
I nod. “I’m supposed to kill him.”
He stares at me.
“A duel,” I supply. “Am I wrong in recalling that Chordwain is no duelist?”
“No,” Colblain says, clipped. “That was never his interest.”
I nod. “You were always good with the law, Colblain. Is there any way out of this?”
“It’s possible,” he says after an extended pause.
“Yes or no, Colblain?” I ask. “I really don’t want to have to kill him. And I will.”
“The only way out of it,” Colblain says, “is if he has a champion fight for him. But he has to decide he needs one.”
“Why wouldn’t he, if he doesn’t want to die?” Donal asks.
“Some people prefer death to dishonor,” Colblain says stiffly.
Donal snorts. “Somehow I don’t think Chordwain is one of them. So why’s he not picking a champion?”
“Because one is required to compensate a dead champion’s family,” Colblain says. “And a winning champion can ask a boon, and the boon can be very expensive indeed.”
“Ah, now that makes sense,” Donal says. “He’s being a miser.”
“There’s no way for me to force him to do it,” I say.
Colblain shrugs. “You can encourage it by choosing a champion of your own, but people will wonder why. Typically military personnel only choose champions if they are injured, are noble and without an heir…or are pregnant.” He eyes me.
I ignore the barb. “Thank you, Colblain. Dismissed.”
He doesn’t stand as fast as the soldiers who escort him like, and they guide him with hands on his arms. He leaves me thoughtful.
“So,” Donal says. “Going to try to ’encourage’ the governor to do the prudent thing?”
“Yes,” I say, and sigh. “Get me a scribe. Then my armor.”
“You could choose a champion yourself,” Donal says.
“Stop bucking for a promotion, mister,” I say. “You’re already second. You don’t want to end up Shraeven’s minister of war.”
He laughs. “A Neshanti in charge of a liberated Godkindred province’s army? Oh yes, indeed I would.”
“Go!” I say, exasperated but amused.
He goes.