Chapter Sixteen

“So you decided to kill four of my men,” Gars said. “You didn’t think to report them ...”

“I stopped them from committing rape,” Isabella snapped back. “Would you have preferred me to just walk away?”

Reginald held up a hand before the argument could end in tears – or transformations. “I informed all soldiers that they were to treat the population with respect,” he said. It was unfortunate that the would-be rapists hadn’t survived long enough to be hanged, but he wasn’t going to shed any tears over their deaths. “We do not need to alienate the workers.”

Lord William made a rude sound. “They’re your serfs,” he said, with a sneer. “They will work for you.”

“And most serfs are lazy assholes who won’t do more than the bare minimum,” Captain-General Jones said. “Freemen are far harder workers, My Lord, but they won’t work so hard if they think their daughters will be raped.”

“She probably asked for it,” Lord William said. “She ...”

Isabella leaned forward. “By somehow inducing them to hold a sword to her father’s throat?”

William flinched. “I ...”

“Enough.” Reginald slapped the table. “The matter is now closed.”

He took a moment to let his words sink in. “What did you find in the Temple of Dusk?”

Isabella looked, for the first time since he’d met her, slightly unsure of herself. It didn’t suit her.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. She looked down at the notebook in her hand. “There was a ... sensation ... of something there, but I don’t know what. It wasn’t magic, Your Highness, not as we know it. It was something else.”

William frowned. “Could you be less specific if you tried?”

“There were ... forces ... in there that I was unable to identify,” Isabella snapped. She sounded as though she was reaching the end of her tether. “There were ...” she shook her head in frustration “... effects of a kind I have never seen before. I nearly forgot everything I saw when I walked out of the building, everything. I am trained to resist all such spells, Your Lordship, and yet they nearly got me. Even now, just thinking about it is hard.”

She made a visible attempt to calm down. “I spoke to a handful of people who visited the temple before we arrived. None of them were able to tell me what happened after they entered the building, not even in vague terms. They weren’t even able to tell me when the temple was founded. Even the city fathers didn’t know!”

Reginald frowned. It was rare, very rare, for a city to refuse permission to build a temple, particularly if there were enough worshippers to make trouble, but surely they’d know when the temple was built! Or who used it. Or ... it made no sense. He was hardly the kind of person to outlaw worship of a particular god, but the stories worried him. Magic was displeasing enough, to a soldier. The thought of something beyond magic was worse.

Gars cleared his throat. “There have always been stories of miracles in temples.”

“Yes,” Isabella said. “And most of them have magical explanations. This was different.”

Academic Milhous leaned forward. “Even a cripple suddenly being able to walk?”

Isabella nodded, shortly. “An untrained magician who prayed would be feeding magic into the building,” she said. “Another who prayed for a miracle might unwittingly direct that magic into a spell, working the miracle. It isn’t impossible to use magic to help a cripple to walk, Academic. It’s just expensive and difficult.”

“This seems ... blasphemous,” Captain-General Stuart said, darkly. “I saw a blind girl suddenly being able to see.”

“And it has a natural explanation,” Isabella said. “There are plenty of spells that can repair a blinded eye. Every miracle I’ve ever heard of, My Lord, is more a case of something being mended, rather than being built from scratch. The magic already had a pattern to follow. It just needed the impetus.”

She paused. “What I sensed in that temple was something different,” she said. “I don’t know what it was. But I do know it is dangerous.”

Reginald took a long breath. He understood military matters. But magic? And religion? It worried him. He certainly didn’t know how to fight it.

“We will be wary,” he said, firmly. He’d sealed off the temple. Perhaps they’d find someone who could give them answers. So far, none of the Red Monks had been found, but it was unlikely they’d managed to leave the city. “But we do have to decide on our next move.”

He tapped the map, meaningfully. “How long until we have landed the first wave of supplies?”

“The first wave should be disembarked by tomorrow, assuming the workers don’t decide to strike,” Jones said. “It will be two or three more days before the second wave is disembarked.”

Which includes most of the siege engines, Reginald thought. Taking Allenstown without them will be a nightmare.

He leaned forward. “We already have pickets heading out to cover all of the possible approaches,” he said. “Once the first wave is disembarked, I intend to march east to Allenstown. We should be able to surround the city before the usurper hears of our arrival.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Gars said.

Reginald allowed himself a tight smile. Fortune – that most fickle of gods – had favoured him beyond his wildest dreams. The Cold King hadn’t launched an invasion, as far as he knew, but the usurper had taken his army northwards anyway. By Reginald’s most pessimistic estimate, it would be at least another day or two before the usurper even knew the invasion had begun. And then it would take at least three to four days to march south. By then, Reginald might well have taken Allenstown for himself.

Lord William coughed. “Should we not wait for a response to our messengers?”

“There’s no time,” Reginald said. It would be at least two days before the messenger he’d sent reached Earl Oxley – and five or six days before the other messenger reached Earl Goldenrod. He doubted either of the earls would immediately march to support him – or the usurper. It was far more likely that they’d sit on their hands and wait for a clear winner to emerge. “The chance to capture Allenstown cannot be allowed to slip away.”

He studied the map, carefully. Trying to hold Racal’s Bay against a determined attack would be risky, even though he had more and better troops than the late Sir Garston. Reginald’s offensive had smashed the defences flat, after all. Rebuilding – and then improving – them would take more time than Reginald had. He couldn’t take the risk of being trapped against the sea. No, he had to take the offensive. The usurper could not be allowed to seize the initiative.

“Prepare the troops to march out in two days,” he ordered. “And make sure they’re ready for anything.”

There was another reason to continue the offensive, he knew. Soldiers got restless in barracks – and that went double for mercenaries. Staying in Racal’s Bay would eventually lead to more and more trouble between the troops and the locals, no matter how many men he flogged for insubordination. Better to have the troops in the field than venting their frustration on the civilians.

“I shall see to it personally,” Gars said. “I assume there has been no response from Allenstown?”

Reginald shrugged. Lord Francis – another stranger raised to the peerage by the usurper – probably knew about the invasion already. It was hard to believe the usurper had left much authority in Lord Francis’s hands, but any local commander would have the freedom to take limited action without waiting for orders. And yet, what would Lord Francis do? Take whatever forces he could muster and march on Racal’s Bay? Or dig in at Allenstown and force Reginald to come to him?

“He won’t have received our surrender demand yet,” Reginald said. He’d happily recognise Lord Francis’s title – and allow him to keep his lands – if he surrendered at once, but somehow he doubted it. No one would be left as de facto regent – and rear commander – if he wasn’t trusted. “We will assume that he won’t surrender.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Gars said.

Reginald looked around the table. “Are there any other matters of concern?”

“Merely the voyage back home,” Lord William said. “I believe the autumn storms are on their way.”

Reginald shrugged. The sailors had made it clear that only an idiot – or someone tired of life – would try to cross the channel during the storms, but it was hardly a problem. They’d have won – or lost – by then. He could winter on the Summer Isle and return to the mainland in the spring, if necessary. He’d certainly not been planning to return home for several years.

“We will have enough supplies by then to win,” he said, dismissively. He frowned. He’d hoped to leave Lord William in command of Racal’s Bay, but it was clear that the job required someone with a working brain. He made a mental note to choose someone later and leaned forward. “If you have any other concerns, bring them to me before we resume our march. Until then ... I’ll see you all for dinner in the Great Hall. Dismissed.”

He met Isabella’s eyes. “Please remain behind.”

Isabella nodded, sharing a glance with Lord Robin. Reginald leaned back in his chair as his councillors slowly departed the room, keeping his thoughts to himself. He had every intention of luring Isabella into his household and it was clear that Lord Robin knew it. Why not? A sorceress who worked directly for him would be one hell of an ace in the hole. Isabella had already proven she could be more than merely useful. And there was something about her – she was so different from the sheltered court girls – that he found appealing.

He waited for the last councillor to leave the room, then looked at Isabella. “Can you make this room private?”

Isabella waved her hand in the air. “Done.”

Reginald frowned, inwardly. There was no way to tell if it was done. And yet ... he sat upright, dismissing the thought. He had to trust her. She’d had plenty of opportunity to turn on him if she’d wished. Her face, oddly puckish, betrayed none of her feelings. He couldn’t help wondering just what she’d gone through, before winding up in his service. She was just so different.

She has power, he reminded himself. And so many other women do not.

It was an odd insight. Reginald had power, and he would have more when he succeeded his father, but his sister would never wield power in her own right. She could give the kingdom to her husband, yet she could never rule for herself. It wouldn’t be long before their father picked a husband for her, someone who needed closer ties to the royal family. Sofia was a princess, yet she was powerless. Her life didn’t belong to her. Ruling Queens had been rare, before the Empire’s collapse. Now, he knew of only one Ruling Queen who’d managed to retain power.

But Isabella? She had power and she was willing to use it. She didn’t need to flirt with him, she didn’t need to influence him ... she didn’t even need to pretend to like him. It made her ... different.

He leaned forward. “How dangerous are the Red Monks?”

“I wish I knew,” Isabella said. The frustration in her voice was all too clear. “I’d understand another sorcerer, Your Highness, but the Red Monks are something ... strange.”

Reginald nodded, slowly. “Can they have disguised their magic in some way?”

“... Not easily,” Isabella said. “The mere act of camouflaging their magic would be quite revealing. Anyone who had the power to do ... to do what I saw wouldn’t have to hide.”

“They could just have devised new spells,” Reginald said.

Isabella’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “You might as well start talking out of your arse,” she snapped. “It’s simply not possible.”

“I’ve met a lot of men who talked out of their arses,” Reginald said, lightly. “Aren’t there spells to make it happen?”

“Yeah,” Isabella said. She looked down at the table, then back up at him. “Your Highness ... what I sensed is impossible, by all known magical law. It wasn’t ... it wasn’t understandable. I could take a normal spell apart to see how it was put together, then rewrite it on the fly. This ... I’m not even sure it is magic. And yet, something is happening. I don’t know how to put it into words.”

Reginald met her eyes. “Do you think we should continue?”

Isabella blinked. “You’re asking me?”

“Yes,” Reginald said. He was surprised at himself. It was hard enough to ask for advice from his trusted councillors, even though his father had drummed it into his head – time and time again – that disagreement, expressed in private, was not treachery. Being told no wasn’t easy to hear. He was a prince, after all. But ... he needed to trust her. And he wanted her to trust him. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Isabella said. She sounded honestly perplexed. “Whatever the Red Monks are doing is dangerous. It has to be stopped. And yet ... I don’t know what we might encounter. This isn’t conventional magic.”

Reginald scowled. That wasn’t an answer. It was his choice, in the end, that would determine if the army marched west or returned to the ships and sailed east, but he would have appreciated her advice. And yet, he understood her dilemma all too well. The fog of war – not knowing where one’s own troops were, let alone not knowing where the enemy was lurking – was bad enough at the best of times. Now, facing unknown powers, it was impossible to even guess at what was lying in wait.

Caution dictates withdrawal, he thought. But we cannot fall back now.

He sighed. Retreating after losing a battle was one thing. Everyone would understand. But retreating from a shadow? From vague reports that could mean anything? He’d be the laughing stock of the northern kingdoms. His father didn’t have another son, so there was no way he could be written out of the line of succession, but ... it would be hard to stamp his authority on the land, once he became king. The barons would see him as a coward. The hell of it was that they might well be right.

“We proceed,” he said. “And we will tear down the temple before we leave.”

“Just leave it sealed off,” Isabella said. “You have no idea what will happen if you destroy it.”

“As you wish,” Reginald said. “But we must take one of those monks alive.”

***

The house was practically identical to every other house on the street, Big Richard noted, as they marched towards the building. A wooden front door, a pair of windows ... glass windows ... it was small, compared to some of the other buildings Richard had seen, but whoever owned it had to be rich. Glass was a luxury. He had no idea if the owner was actually guilty of hiding a runaway nobleman or not, but it didn’t matter. Guilty or innocent, his house was about to be turned upside down. There would be plenty of opportunities for some private looting.

He smirked at the rest of his squad, then lifted his foot and kicked the door hard enough to smash the lock. The squad rushed inside, clubs at the ready. An older woman gasped when she saw them, lifting a ladle as if she intended to use it as a weapon. The squad grabbed her, shoving her towards the wall. Richard saw a younger woman sitting on the floor and yanked her to her feet, taking advantage of the opportunity to grope her breasts. They felt full, suggesting she was a mother. He looked around and saw a baby lying in a crib. The little brat looked as though he was about to cry.

“Stand against the wall,” he snarled. “Where are the others?”

The women gibbered in fear. The baby started to howl. Richard snorted and hurried up the stairs, axe at the ready. There was nothing upstairs, save for a pair of bedrooms ... he felt a flicker of disappointment as he realised there weren’t rich pickings after all. And yet ... his instincts insisted that there was something to be found. He looked around and ...

... Something moved, behind him. He spun around. A hooded figure was standing there, wrapped in a red cowl that hid his features. Even his hands were hidden behind long red gloves. Richard grinned, raising his axe. He had no idea how he’d managed to miss the cloaked man, but it didn’t matter. Prince Reginald had offered a large reward for anyone who managed to capture a Red Monk. Richard would make sure he got all the credit. And then ...

The Red Monk reached for his cowl and pulled it back. Richard raised his axe, too late. The face was ... the face ... things were moving under the cowl. His mind refused to grasp what his eyes were seeing. The world blurred, spinning around him. Someone was speaking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. And yet, they sounded important. He tried to listen carefully ...

His eyes snapped open. He was alone. He’d always been alone ... hadn’t he? And yet, he couldn’t escape the sense that something had happened. He looked around, warily, but nothing moved. There wasn’t even anything worth stealing in eyeshot.

Shaking his head, he headed back down the stairs. He’d probably imagined it. He was tired and jumpy ... it wouldn’t be the first time he’d jumped at shadows. Perhaps it had been a spell ... perhaps one of the women was a witch ... he felt a surge of pure hatred, so intense that he almost cried out. Magic-users ... he hated magic users. They couldn’t be trusted.

Something moved at the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. It was just his imagination.

Right?