When I imagined what Bridgehold would be like, it never occurred to me to imagine pipes. They’re everywhere, massive rusty leaky things running level with the eaves or dipping down to head height. Beneath them, the gutters at the edges of the street are a turgid mass of water and detritus. Being situated on a river at the foot of a hill, Bridgehold must be at constant risk of flooding – yet despite the presence of that river, a large tank adorns every roof. Rain-collectors. I asked Fabithe about them, and he said that if the river here is anything like the one that flows past Easterwood, it’s too polluted to drink from.
Pipes, gutters, rain-collectors. Yet the streets are sheeted with a thin layer of dirty brown liquid like a shallow, muddy stream.
We spent two days toiling through the mud to get here, without even a road to follow this time; two days travelling cross-country, following streams that used to be paths, skirting the edge of a lake full of stagnant water that apparently wasn’t there last year. Two evenings scouting for a place to sleep, Luthan and I doing our best with the cooking while Fabithe and Oriana continued their weaponry lessons. Two nights shivering around a concealed firepit and trying to get some rest in imperfectly waterproof shelters – though since I’d have had nothing at all without Fabithe there, I can’t complain. Still, I’m exhausted. But we have to keep going, because we’re only just sticking to the plan. In fact, it’s already slipping a little. Fabithe made us stop early on the second evening, then get up before dawn this morning to finish the journey to Bridgehold. The reason for that became clear as we neared the town and began to pass an increasing number of makeshift settlements: clusters of tumbledown houses made from mud and scrap timber and bone. Even though it was still dark, I sensed movement in the shelters, people watching us through the empty doorways.
They’d kill you for a copper coin and a scrap of bread, Fabithe said. Stay close.
We reached the town as the sky was only just beginning to lighten, yet there was already a queue at the vast pair of doors that serves as the gate. Waiting to show their identification marks, Fabithe said. Or pay a fee. And for what? The privilege of entering a filthy, miserable town where goods are scarce and jobs are scarcer.
I thought we came here for supplies, I said, and he gave me a look.
If you have a better option, Alyssia, let me know.
Getting through the gate itself turned out to be easier than I was expecting. Back on Othitali, we talked about the various possibilities, Fabithe ruling them out one by one. Identification mark, if you’re a Diamond citizen – which we’re not. Mercator’s trade docket, if you’re a backstabbing bastard who made his money exploiting the poor. Pay the entrance fee, only to have the guards take it and arrest us for stealing.
How do you usually get in? I asked. He gave me a cynical smile.
Trickery. How else?
At that point, Isidor stepped in to offer us passage-tokens, of the kind used by noblemen and messengers. And sure enough, when Luthan showed whatever was in her pocket to the guards at the gate, and talked to them softly, they let us through. I still don’t know if that was her own magical brand of trickery or a hangover of Isidor’s obviously wealthy past, but I’m not going to ask. The important thing is that we got into the town. Now here we are in the marketplace, three of us trying not to get in the way while Fabithe haggles – with some vigour – for the limited supplies on offer at the traders’ stalls. He’s been irritable and restless all morning; the towns of Castellany seem to make him angry, which is odd given the amount of time he’s spent getting up to no good in them.
“Right.” He turns away from the final stall. “I’ve done what I can. Resign yourselves to a diet of black peas and waterwheat till we get somewhere I can set a snare.”
“Is this all there is?” Luthan asks. “It doesn’t seem enough for a whole town.”
“It’s all there is for people like us, yes.”
“But – ”
“Not much grows in waterlogged soil. And herdbeasts don’t thrive when they have nothing to eat. You saw what it’s like outside the walls. This is what most people in this country live off, if they’re lucky.” Without looking at Oriana, he adds, “Not everyone has a rain barrier to protect them.”
“We have tried to extend it.” To my surprise, she answers the jibe calmly. “Yet the Sapphire’s power no longer reaches that far. We send what produce we can to the towns in our territory, vegetables and meat and grain – but lately even our crops are beginning to fail.”
“Is that what they told you?”
“It is what I know.” Now her cheeks do redden, but she doesn’t back down. “I have spoken to my father about these things. I have talked to the Keeper and looked through the records. You may think I know nothing about anything, Fabithe, but the Sapphire and all its people are my responsibility.”
His eyebrows lift in challenge. “Yet here you are.”
She flinches. I glare at him. “That isn’t fair, Fabithe, and you know it.”
Muttering something under his breath, he stalks off without waiting for anyone to join him. The rest of us follow more slowly. It’s in this prickly, strung-out state that we reach the bridge across the river – the bridge after which Bridgehold was named. It’s an impressive enough structure: wide enough to fit three carts side by side, a tall arch at each end, side panels carved with what look like battle scenes. The Five again, probably.
I follow Fabithe through the near arch, sparing only a passing glance for the wide brown river. Although the streets we’ve just left were crowded, the bridge itself is almost empty. And when we reach the apex –
“Northerners!” Fabithe stares at the three men ascending the far side of the bridge, uniforms distinctive amid the drab colours of the town. He turns, and his mouth tightens. “Behind us, too. We walked straight into a bloody trap.”
I look wildly in both directions. Six men in all: not good. I should have asked Fabithe if I could join his lessons. Not that Oriana thinks she has any skill with weaponry, even now; she told me she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to use it in earnest. And Luthan doesn’t kill animals for food, let alone people. We’re all armed, because Fabithe insisted on it, but we barely make one decent warrior between us.
“How did they know we were here?” Oriana whispers.
“Ifor probably sent orders to watch the gates in every town across Castellany.” Fabithe scowls. “Coming here at all was a mistake.”
Oriana draws the dagger from her belt, though her hands are shaking. Fabithe’s gaze moves from the quivering blade to her face.
“Do you want a proper knife?”
Her chin lifts. “It was sharp enough to brand me. It is sharp enough for this.”
Fabithe covers her hands with his, stilling their tremor. Heedless of the dagger blade, he leans in closer, speaking with soft intensity. “They’ll not take you back to him. I promise.”
By now the bridge is deserted, save for us and the approaching northerners. Instinctively I move closer to my friends.
“Lady Oriana.” The northerners halt a little distance away on each side; one of them addresses Oriana directly. “We’ve come to take you home.”
“I would rather die,” she flings back.
“Is that him? The man you abandoned your husband and your duty to run after?”
What? Oriana’s shock and confusion hit me like a cold wave. It’s followed by a colder wave of guilt. I knew this. I knew what Ifor was saying about her. And I decided not to tell her.
“We’re not going to kill you, my lady,” the northerner says. “But as long as you’re alive when we get you back to the Citadel, nothing else matters.” He spits on the ground. “Faithless oathbreaker.”
He reaches for her, but Fabithe steps between them. “Leave her alone.”
“Dark Knife.” The spokesman grins. “Does she know what kind of man she’s opened her legs to? A traitor and a heretic? Lord Ifor is most anxious to see you again. He doesn’t like people stealing his possessions.”
Fabithe’s jaw clenches. “He doesn’t own her.”
“The law says he does. And what are you going to do about it? You’re outnumbered.”
“I would call these pretty good odds.” No hint of fear colours Fabithe’s voice; he looks perfectly capable of dealing with three armed men at once.
Which leaves the three on the other side. I turn quickly, reaching for my own knife. All right. I need to concentrate. It can’t be that difficult to stab someone, surely? Except the men in front of me also have knives, and somehow they look far more dangerous than mine. And already, everyone else’s emotions are rising around me, dragging me in.
They think I –
You can’t own a person, you piece of –
I shake them off. The nearest man lunges for me, and I slash at his arm. He hits my hand, a single solid blow, and my fingers open. When my knife lands by his foot, he kicks it away. Then, as I try to run, he grabs my wrist and begins to drag me back down the bridge. I kick him – I scratch his hands – I wriggle and squirm, trying to shake him off – but still he pulls me, little by little, away from my friends. He didn’t even need to draw his weapon. And still, I’m distracted by the voices in my head.
I won’t kill anyone.
He’s going to –
“Alyssia!” Fabithe yells. “Duck!”
I do it, dropping to a crouch before I can decide whether I heard it with my own ears. A throwing-knife whizzes over my head. The man who was dragging me grunts, scarlet blooming across his shoulder. I turn to run, but something skids under my foot and I lose my balance –
As soon as he sees the man fall, Fabithe spins on the ball of one foot and retrieves his combat knife from his belt. One northerner is already groaning at his feet, right arm bloodied and limp. Another two are watching him warily. They meant what they said. They want to take us alive. I can’t let that happen.
He pushes the fear aside, repeating the mantra he was taught a long time ago. Filter out distraction. Lucky Ifor’s men don’t carry swords in Diamond territory or we’d stand no chance. Filter out emotion. He knows I’m alive. He knows it was me who helped Oriana escape. Bring yourself back to the weapon, and the weapon alone.
Calm, detached, he steps back and to the side as one northerner lunges, then scores the man’s wrist with his knife. Disarm. The second man comes at him a moment later, fast and high; Fabithe sidesteps again, knife sweeping up to cut the northerner’s forearm. Disarm. If this were a duel, he’d have won already. Yet they retreat only far enough to give themselves time to draw additional weapons. They might not want to kill him, but they’ll not stop till they have him trussed up and ready to take back to their lord. And although Fabithe doesn’t much want to kill them either, he’d certainly rather they were dead than that he or his friends were subjected to Ifor’s idea of justice.
Draw the sword. The instinct tugs at him, still, after all this time. Draw the sword and show them –
With honour I draw, comes the implacable answer. With justice I strike. With mercy I spare. The words are as engrained in him as the months of the year or the letters of the Western alphabet. No matter how he tries to forget them, they’re always there, as much a part of the sword as the blade itself.
He keeps the code, in his own way. For five years, he’s kept it – which means for five years, he’s drawn the sword only to oil and polish it. There’s been no room in his life for the moral rigor that using it demands, and that’ll not change today. In a fight like this, where he’ll do whatever it takes to keep himself alive and free, there is no mercy and precious little justice.
But to protect the others? The thought wheedles its way into his head, and it’s hard to ignore. To protect her?
I keep the code, he insists. I keep it till I get the chance to remove Ifor Darklight’s head from his shoulders. And then, forget mercy.
The two northerners come at him again, together this time, and he pushes all his circling thoughts aside. Back to the weapon. Back to detachment. He draws a second knife, shifting sideways so his two opponents will get in each other’s way, and aims a kick at the closer man’s knee –
I hit the ground hard, bashing my chin on the paving stones forcefully enough to make my teeth rattle. There’s blood beneath my palms, warm and slippery. I suck in a mouthful of air, taste blood in that too. Gasping and spitting, I try to pull myself to my hands and knees – yet emotions are already clawing their way through the bonds in my head once more.
I am going to die –
– rather die than be back in his –
– have a responsibility to –
No.
… cannot protect me from everything.
I told her I’d –
– but maybe magic could –
Stop it.
Use the dagger –
– sword, if I have to –
Blood. A last resort.
If I have to.
If I have to …
Shut up. Go away. I need to keep you all separate. I’m not going to survive this if I can’t even stay in my own damn head –
Luthan backs away from the nearest northerner. She has never learned how to fight, yet she’s forbidden to use her power to harm ordinary soldiers. Perhaps she could attempt some kind of shield for her companions, but she isn’t sure she has the blood or the skill – and besides, such a blatant display of magic would turn them against her for sure. Which means her sole remaining option is the knife she doesn’t know how to use. It isn’t much, but she clutches it all the same.
A blade darts towards her, and she barely dodges. The man circles and comes at her again, hand tightening on the hilt. This time she’s forced to fling herself to one side, falling to the ground in a flurry of awkward limbs. Blinking the sweat from her eyes, she scrambles back from the menacing point. Red. It must have cut her, although she didn’t feel it – oh, but now she does. A steady throbbing in her left forearm. She grits her teeth. At least she hasn’t dropped her own weapon.
The northerner takes another step forward. He is saying something, but Luthan can’t hear it through the roaring in her ears. Throat dry, vision blurring, she manages to get to one knee. Then, as the man approaches, she stabs wildly upwards.
The knife slips under his ribs with a soft, unpleasant sound, and his blood spills out over her hands. The sweet iron tang of it fills her senses, a dizzy seduction. What would be the harm? it whispers. You have already shed the blood. Why not use it? The intensity of it makes her shudder. She can feel the power of the blood on her skin, soaking into the depths of her soul. All she has to do is let go for a moment, just one moment, and that power will be hers. Hers to end the battle. Hers to make it stop.
I will never use the blood of another. The words are a defence, something to hold on to. I will never use the blood of another. Gradually the fierce urge fades into a dull gnawing sensation, like hunger; unpleasant, but bearable.
Luthan gets unsteadily to her feet. Her knife is still in the northerner’s body, but she doesn’t trust herself to go close enough to retrieve it. The man’s blood covers her hands, hot and sticky. Desperate to be free of it, she wipes them on her shirt, but can’t rid herself of the smell. Come on, Luthan. Think. Surely there must be a way of stopping the bloodshed and keeping to the five laws at the same time. Surely –
Yes. This needs to end before anyone else gets hurt. And if she’s stealthy, she can do it without them realising.
Ignoring every other possible source, she reaches for the power in the blood oozing from her own arm. She takes a deep breath and raises her head. And then –
And then, it’s as if she’s back in the battle three times over.
Fabithe drives his knife into a man’s guts; she sends a swirl of power to turn the blade before it pierces the skin, another to knock the man out. Same result, far less lethal. As that soldier falls, Luthan trips the one who is menacing Alyssia, then nets his mind in sleep. Back to Fabithe – a knife nearly spits him, but she pushes it aside and lets Fabithe’s return blow cut across his attacker’s shoulder, painful but not debilitating – at the same time making the knife so heavy that the northerner can’t hold it any longer. And now she is tiring, unused to such work, while the flow of power from her wound decreases to a trickle –
“Forgive me?” Oriana cries. “You think Ifor will forgive me?”
Luthan turns as a blade flashes through the air –
I gasp, then choke on the thick taste of iron that hits the back of my throat. At least I’m not dead. However long I was gone for, it wasn’t long enough for some northern soldier to realise I was still breathing and dispatch me. But I can’t rely on luck striking a third time.
When I lift my head, a man in a black and white uniform is running towards me, weapon in hand. Shit. I scrabble back until my head hits the balustrade, groping around me for my knife – but it isn’t there. Then I see it, across the bridge, closer to him than it is to me. Shit. He aims the blade of his own knife in my direction, barking an order – raise your hands and don’t move – and I obey. What now? Either he’ll kill me or he’ll take me prisoner, and I don’t much fancy either option. Maybe if I kick him …
Then his foot catches – on a raised paving slab? a colleague’s outstretched limb? – and he falls. Surprise and alarm fill his face, mixed with confusion. He lands hard, and he doesn’t get up. The knife skitters across the stone to rest near my feet.
How –
That doesn’t make any –
Ignoring his knife, I skirt round him to retrieve my own. He’s breathing; I can see the subtle expansion and contraction of his chest. His face looks peaceful. It’s as if he’s asleep –
Luthan.
Luthan did this. I saw it through her own eyes. She’s trying to keep as many people alive as she can. She protected both me and Fabithe, incapacitating our attackers without damaging them. But then she turned around and –
Oriana.
I’m running before I’ve even finished the thought, the soles of my boots skidding on the bloody stone. I hear a northerner’s voice. He is willing to forgive you, you know. If you return soon. I hear Oriana’s anguished reply. Forgive me? You think Ifor will forgive me? And as Luthan turns, and the northerner’s blade flashes forward, I grab his arm and wrench it aside. He cries out in what sounds like genuine pain, the knife falling from his grasp. Reflexively I let go – but he doesn’t turn. He doesn’t even look at me. He sinks to his knees, hands clutching at his midriff. The hilt of Oriana’s dagger protrudes from between his scarlet-stained fingers.
No. Oh no.
She – we just killed a man.
But if I hadn’t intervened –
Slowly, as though moving through a dream, she leans down and pulls the dagger back out. Blood spills over her hands. A whimper sounds in the back of her throat. I killed him. Her panic is a spiral, pulling me in.
Across the bridge, the last of the northerners falls to Fabithe’s knife.
It’s everywhere. Luthan digs her nails into her palms. Blood gleams at her from steel and stone, from a black and white uniform, from a pale-skinned face. The power in it reaches out alluring fingers. I feel the moment that it overwhelms her. The one dangerous moment when she almost succumbs.
Breathe. I have to breathe. Dizzy spots dancing in Oriana’s head.
No. I have to resist this. The sharp pain in Luthan’s palms her only anchor in the relentless tide.
“Alyssia!” Fabithe jogs towards me, feet sure on the blood-slick stone. “There’s more trouble coming.”
I cannot –
I mustn’t –
Cold spots hit my face; it’s raining. Focusing on the sensation of water against my skin, fighting to keep hold of myself, I look in the direction he indicated. Soldiers wearing yellow coats are sprinting towards the bridge. Unlike Ifor’s forces, these are both men and women, and mostly brown-skinned. Southerners.
“Who are they?” I gasp.
“Diamond Blades. Come to quell the violence, most likely, but if they find out who Oriana is – ”
“So what do we do?”
“We run.”