Terms of Surrender (11 page)

Sunlight pushed its fingers around the corners of heavy curtains. Livia lay flat on her bed, arms splayed at her sides, staring up at the ceiling. Every time she moved, her body punished her with a flood of fresh nausea. It was one of those mornings.

Squirrel’s book was gone. Someone knew. Someone knew what she had and what she’d been dabbling in. Someone knew what she’d done. So where was the consequence? Where was the accusing finger, or the blackmail letter slipped under her door? The silence, the waiting, was worse than anything she could imagine. Every glance in her direction, every veiled whisper, felt like her doom about to descend. At this point she would have welcomed it, just to get relief from the endless tension.

Yet it didn’t happen. The sword above her head dangled there, twisting on a frayed strand of string that refused to break.

And something was wrong inside her body. The headaches and the nausea had only gotten worse after saving Kailani’s life. She fought through it and got her work done—she would always fight through it—but she knew it wasn’t a problem to be ignored. Someone, somewhere out there, had to know how to help her.

She already knew who to call upon, she realized. And though Squirrel’s book was gone, the memory of a spell she’d cast in her father’s mansion stayed with her, indelibly inked upon the skin of her mind. Livia pushed herself up, sucking breath between clenched teeth, and stumbled to her washroom and locked the door behind her.

The ingredients were simple. A porcelain basin, filled halfway with standing water. A razor blade. A string of words, felt more in her heart than on her lips. And a swift, decisive cut.

She knew the chant. Or the chant knew her. The words tumbled from her lips as the tension grew inside her body, muscles going taut, her stomach clenched with a sudden hunger. The pressure built like a storm cloud inside her skull until she spat the last syllable of the last word and drew the blade across her forearm.

The power gusted out of her and the pressure erupted as the blood flowed, torn flesh welling up then leaking crimson into the basin. Blood splashed and spread in the water, turning it into a ruby mirror.

Livia caught her breath, suddenly weak as a kitten, and prayed for an answer. Then she realized the absurdity of prayer at a time like this and fell into a contemplative silence.

*     *     *

Nessa and Mari strolled along a breezy merchant road, taking in the sun. Sometimes they spoke, sharing stories of their past, tiny memories, and sometimes they fell into a companionable silence. A wagon with a two-horse team rattled by, kicking up dust, and they moved farther to the roadside to keep clear. Their forearms brushed. Nessa wore a small, private smile.

Then something squeezed tight in the back of her mind, like a finger plucking a taut harp string. Playing a familiar one-note tune.

“I’m being called,” she said and snapped her fingers at Mari. “Come, we need to find a puddle, something with stagnant water. Dig my mask out of the pack.”

“Called?” Mari asked, following on Nessa’s heels.

“It’s an amusing trick, and useful. Might be Despina, letting us know where she and her brother have gotten themselves off to.”

*     *     *

Livia waited two minutes, then five, then ten, pressing a towel to her cut as she stared into the ruby mirror. The bloody water sat still and silent.

I did it wrong
, she thought,
or she just won’t
—

The water rippled, and the mask of a horned owl peered out, curious. Another woman, one she didn’t recognize, stood silent at the far edge of the reflection.

“Well, well, well,” said the Owl. “Livia Serafini. Oops.
Pope
Livia Serafini. You’ll understand if I don’t kiss your ring.”

“I need your help,” Livia told the image.

“After as much trouble as you’ve caused? Hmph. Some nerve. What, you want Squirrel’s spellbook back?”

Livia’s eyes widened. “You know where it is?”

“Liberated by one of my coven brothers. Oh, don’t worry, he won’t tell anyone. I’m on my way to kill him right now.”

Livia leaned her head back and sighed with relief, the tension draining from her body as if she’d pulled a plug in her foot to let it all out. No fingers were pointing her way. The sword above her head wasn’t going to drop.

“I think,” she said, “I made a mistake.”

“Your mistake was not inviting me into your home for tea, even after I asked you so politely. I know what you did, Livia. I felt it. Every competent witch within a thousand leagues felt it. You cast a spell of your very own, didn’t you? No training, no ritual, just instinct. Like the magic wanted to burst right out of you.”

She nodded slowly. “We were under attack. There were assassins everywhere, and one had her fingers around my throat. I was going to die. I let the power out and they just…vanished.”

“Well, good news and bad news. The good news is that you’re a phenomenal natural talent. With training and discipline, you could have become one of the greatest witches to ever live.”

“Could have?”

“Right,” the Owl said, “well, that’s the bad news. Half of the craft—the half you never even began to learn—is protecting ourselves
from
the powers we call upon. You opened your mind to the Shadow In-Between without a shield or a care, and it buried its seeds deep inside you. Like a thorn, snapping off and leaving a sharp splinter behind. You’re feeling sick, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Livia said, “I am. Headaches, and my stomach. Is there a cure?”

“Oh, sure,” the Owl said, waving an idle hand. “There’s an easy home remedy. You’ll be up and on your feet in no time.”

Livia’s squeezed the edges of the basin, leaning closer to the water. “Truly?”

The Owl threw her head back, cackling with amusement.

“
No
. You’re going to suffer a horrible and agonizing death. There’s no cure. And that’s what you get for not inviting me for tea.”

Livia felt the world drop out from under her feet. She’d come so far, accomplished so much, but there was still so much to be done. Still a Church that needed to be saved and healed.
No
, she thought,
it doesn’t end like this. It can’t
.

“How long?” she asked, dreading the answer. “How long do I have?”

“Days? Weeks? A month at most. There…
is
a way of prolonging your life, though, possibly even for years. A simple potion, something to boost your body’s natural defenses. I could teach you how to make it.”

“Please,” Livia said. “Tell me what to do. I’m not done. I…I need more
time
.”

“Hmm. You know, I’m not convinced you want it badly enough.”

A tear ran down Livia’s cheek as she clenched her hands at her sides, struggling to hold her quavering voice steady.

“Please. I am
begging
you. I’ll do anything you want,
anything
, but I need more
time!
”

The Owl chuckled.

“Oh, all right,” she said, “I suppose I can grant you some small kindness. But be warned, Livia: this tonic—which you must take every day, without fail—will only preserve your life. It will
not
halt the spreading sickness inside your body.”

“What…what do you mean?”

“Meaning that the longer you cling to life, the more…side effects will manifest. Here, I’ll give you a peek into your future: go look up a man named Gregor Werre. He was a monk in a Murgardt chantry about a hundred years ago. You’ll find his story quite enlightening.”

Livia shook her head. “I don’t care about side effects. All I care about is getting the time I need. I’ve come too far. This can’t be the end of me. It
can’t
.”

“As you wish. Now listen carefully. You’ll need the following herbs, dried, chopped, in these
exact
proportions…”

*     *     *

It had been a minor mistake. A lapse of timing. The Browncloaks who guarded Livia’s chamber door had a shift change in the late morning, and the arriving pair thought—incorrectly—that Livia had already gone out for the day. So when Amadeo arrived with a bundle of parchment in his arms, a delivery for their mistress’s eyes only, they were happy to let him inside to leave it for her.

The paperwork was an excuse. Amadeo thought she was out, too, making it a perfect time to keep his promise to Sister Columba.
Just a quick search of her things
, he thought.
Once I fail to find this “spellbook” Columba thinks she saw, or anything else of ill design, I can go back and lay her fears to rest
.

He still felt sick to his stomach. Livia was his friend. More than that, they’d passed through fire together, facing down her mad brother and his army of killers hand in hand. This was a betrayal, pure and simple.

But it’s a betrayal for a good cause, strange as that sounds
, he reasoned.
The alternative is Sister Columba taking her story to anyone who will listen and tarnishing Livia’s name. Once I prove there’s nothing untoward going on, she’ll have to
—

He froze, hearing a voice behind the closed washroom door.

A chant.

He crept closer, his feet light on the cold stone floor, and listened as the chant became a conversation.

Amadeo was pale when he emerged from Livia’s chamber, and the sheaf of papers trembled in his hand. “I made a mistake,” he said to the Browncloaks. “Brought her the wrong documents to sign. I’ll…I’ll come back later.”

Let this be another nightmare
, he silently prayed as he wandered through the halls of the keep, aimless. But he knew it wasn’t. Not the kind he could wake up from.

And not one he could turn a blind eye to. As a man of the soil, his duty to the Church was clear.

His duty to his friend, that was far less certain.

The bombing of the Ducal Arch had wounded Mirenze but couldn’t cripple it. The City of Coins was still the jewel of Verinia, its salmon-roofed estates and stucco bell towers a monument to the engines of commerce. Nessa wrinkled her nose as she and Mari made their way across the bustling market square.

“Look at them,” she said. “Squandering their precious, scant years grubbing for bits of shiny metal. No passion. No meaning. I see some of these people and think, you know what would change their lives for the better? One moment of genuine, stark, soul-deep
terror
.”

“Why terror?” Mari asked. “Why not joy?”

“Your life is never as precious as when you fear you’re about to lose it. No breath is as sweet as the one you draw
after
you think you’ve drawn your last. And pleasure and pain have always been close bedfellows. One tends to follow on the other’s heels. No, look around: there’s no wonder to be found here. Living, but no life. No
truth
.”

“Not like in the fairy tales,” Mari said, recalling Nessa’s condemnation of her coven.

Nessa quirked a smile. “No. Not at all. And those stories are so very important. First, they teach children that the world is a cruel and terrible place, an inarguable fact that should be learned as young as possible. Then, they teach them the rules to survive. Stay to the forest path. Remember your courtesies and your politics. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise?”

Nessa leaned closer to Mari, her smile growing.

“Otherwise, some evil witch might come along and gobble you up.”

Mari tilted her head. “Are…we evil, Nessa?”

“I’ll answer your question with a question: what
is
evil?”

Mari frowned, searching for the right words. “Well…doing…what you shouldn’t. Breaking rules.”

“And who decides that? There are codes of ethics, like your vows of knighthood, and books of laws, like back home in Belle Terre…or in the Empire’s laws that guided what they did to our people. Not all rules are righteous, are they?”

Mari shook her head. “No, I guess not. But some rules—okay, what about hurting people? There’s one. You shouldn’t hurt people.”

“No?” Nessa chuckled, lowering her voice. “So when you killed the mayor of Kettle Sands and I washed your hand in his steaming blood…was that evil? Because I thought we agreed that his execution was just.”

“It…it was.” Her shoulders slumped.

“The problem, Mari, is that ‘evil’ is a man-made structure imposed upon a chaotic world that has little use for man
or
his philosophies. Nature, by any ‘civilized’ standard, is pitiless, savage, and remorselessly cruel. So these men, with their green frocks and their incense and their holy books, build the fantasy of a just, good, and divinely blessed universe—while ignoring that the world their god supposedly created for them is,
itself
, evil incarnate by their own standards.”

Mari fell silent, thinking that over as they walked. Nessa led the way down a quiet side street, breaking away from the swirling chaos of the marketplace.

“So to answer your question,” Nessa told her, “you must understand who and what you are, inside.
I am nature
. I am her steward and her student, and I act as she does. Now, if men wish to call me ‘evil’ for it, that’s their prerogative, but I have no obligation to accept or care about such an empty word as that. It’s a box with no gift inside.”

“But…what am I?”

Nessa stopped, taking hold of Mari’s shoulder. She pushed her up against a crumbling brick wall, leaning in and lifting up on her toes to look the taller woman in the eyes.

“You are a
knight
.
My
knight. Disciplined. Honorable. Courageous. You know your code, yes? You know your duties. And what’s expected of you.”

Mari’s head bobbed, her eyes wide.

“Then you know all you need to. Don’t worry about being good. Don’t worry about being evil. Just be the finest example of knighthood you possibly can. Now come along, I’ve got a present for you.”

“A present?”

“Oh, yes,” Nessa said. “It’s been in the works for quite a while.”

Their destination was a blacksmith’s shop, where a thin plume of gray smoke trickled into the clear blue sky. Mari tensed as they stepped through the door and she saw the sweaty, bare-chested man working at the anvil.

“It’s all right,” Nessa said. “He’s one of mine.”

As Giorgio put down his hammer and mopped the back of his hand across his forehead, Mari frowned. “But…at the coven glade, he was on the other side.”

“Glad I was, too,” he said. The big man shook his head at Nessa. “Ant and Moth didn’t make it. Viper leaped over the fire and cut them both down before they could escape.”

“Damn. Worm and Shrike?”

“Fine. At least, last I saw of them. They said they’ll meet you in Winter’s Reach.”

Nessa let out a tiny sigh of relief, then looked to Mari. “Our friend here has been keeping tabs on the coven for months for me. Ears open for useful information.”

Giorgio spread his big hands and smiled. “Nessa knew I’d be more believable if I acted like I was neutral in this fight.
Everyone
came to me to talk, assuming it wouldn’t get back to anybody else, and everyone wanted to recruit me.”

“And now I have one more loyal witch in my corner. Are you coming with us to the Reach?”

Giorgio shook his head. “We’d best travel separately. I’ll be a day behind you. And you’d better be on your guard. The coven’s going all-out. Viper and Fox are both trying to track you down before you reach the Misery, and there’s also…the Dire. She’s with Fox and Hedy.”

“
With
them?” Nessa blinked. “She actually left her tomb?”

“I think you made her mad.”

“Well, this makes things interesting. And convenient. I won’t have to go all the way back to the glade to kill her. Is Mari’s gift ready?”

Giorgio’s face lit up and he beckoned Mari to follow him.

“It is! I’m so happy I got to craft something for one of our own.” He grinned at Mari. “Most of the coven doesn’t have much use for a warrior’s tools, none but Viper and she’s not any fun to talk to. This is a rare treat for me.”

“What is it?” Mari asked.

“Something your mistress asked for, custom made. C’mon, I’ll show you!”

Nessa idled in the shop, studying Giorgio’s handiwork with a discerning eye as she waited. Then the curtain over the back-room door rippled, and Mari stepped out into the light.

Nessa pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled.

Mari’s ragged and mismatched armor, the pieces she’d cobbled together with her old mentor’s help, was a memory. Now she stood in a vest of sleek black brigandine accented with cold brass, over a blouse and leggings of nightingale blue. High boots, tailored to fit, and sturdy black gauntlets. Mari turned her hands, marveling at them, the oiled leather softly creaking as she curled and opened her fingers.

“Patchwork no more,” Nessa murmured as she approached.

Giorgio shook out a cloak of wolfskin, draping it over Mari’s back. It was cut to hang low at one shoulder, joined by a chain of brass. The clasp was an ornate brooch, like the one Mari had carried with her for so many years. This one, though, bore the stylized profile of an owl. Nessa helped fix it in place, her fingers curling around the brass chain and giving a faint tug.

“My colors and my device,” Nessa said. “Well? Do you like it?”

Mari’s eyes shone, and she smiled like a child on Winter Solstice morning. “I…I love it,” she said, her voice almost too soft to hear.

“But you’re not quite complete, are you?” She gave Giorgio a nod, and he scrambled to fetch a sandalwood box from one of his workbenches.

“Nessa told me you use Terrai fighting batons,” he said, bringing the box over to show Mari. “So you need something similar. Weapons with roughly the same reach and weight, so you don’t have to learn an entirely new style.”

He opened the box. Inside, on a bed of crushed velvet, rested a pair of wickedly curved sickles with corded leather hilts. The blades gleamed, sleek steel polished to a killing edge. Mari reached toward the box, hesitant.

“May I?”

Giorgio’s head bobbed. “Of course! They’re for you.”

Mari took up one sickle, then the other, stepping toward an open spot of floor. Her arms rose in slow motion, turning her grip, moving in gentle, graceful steps. Walking through the first motions, an old exercise meeting new weapons.

Then she exhaled sharply and sliced the air. One blow, then another, and another, each punctuated by a vicious hiss of breath. She spun on one booted heel, dropping low, jumping back up again as the sickles flashed in every direction at once. A dance of razor-honed death.

She marched forward, cutting the air, every motion precise and practiced—then dropped to one knee before Nessa, head bowed, the twin sickles crossed before her in offering.

“Rise. And well done.” Nessa looked at Giorgio. “Both of you. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Bull.”

For all his size, the grin on Giorgio’s face made him look like a puppy. He bowed his head. “I’ll meet you in the Reach. We’ll do great things, all of us.”

“Thank you, again,” Mari said as she rose to her feet. “This…this is more than I could have dreamed.”

“Protect her,” Giorgio said with a nod to Nessa, “and serve her well. That’s all the payment I ask, cousin.”

“Cousin,” Mari replied with a formal bow of her head and followed Nessa to the door.

Nessa’s hand rested on the door, when Giorgio called after her.

“Dire Mother?”

Nessa looked back, a lopsided smile on her lips.

“Yes?”

“Will you lead us to Wisdom’s Grave?”

Nessa nodded.

“Yes. I will.”