The Price of Valor (47 page)

Abby shook her head. “I don't like it. Do you have any idea what they'd do to a girl like her if they found out who she really is?”

“Yes,” Winter said, “I do. But if de Ferre has us try to storm the walls . . .” She frowned. “You don't think she'd do it?”

“She'll do it. She'd jump at the chance.” Abby's brow furrowed. “I'm just not sure we should ask her to.”

“If she knows the risks . . .”

Winter paused.
It doesn't work like that. Rankers don't get to assess the risks and decide if something's worth doing. We point, and they go. Working out whether it's worth it is our job.
It wasn't so long ago that she'd been marching in the ranks herself, but it was easy to forget how it felt.

“I think,” she began again, “that this is the best chance we have of preventing a massacre.”

“You may be right.” Abby grimaced. “What happens if it works? What then?”

“Let's worry about that once we get there. Can you find Anne-Marie for me?”

“Yes, sir.” Abby stood, saluted, and left. Winter stared after her, trying to fight a sick feeling in her stomach.

Anne-Marie, when she arrived, was as excited as Abby had predicted. She seemed to have suffered nothing in the march or the subsequent battle that a few nights' rest hadn't been able to cure. Her uniform bore signs of recent, careful patching, and her blond hair, cut short when she'd joined, was just getting long enough to curl at the ends. She saluted and stood at attention, practically vibrating with the effort.

“Sit down,” Winter said. “How much did Abby tell you?”

“Only that you specifically requested me for a special mission, sir.” Anne-Marie's Vordanai was much improved, though her Hamveltai accent remained strong. She sat cross-legged, and daintily picked a stray bit of mud off her boot.

“Something like that. I need you to do a bit of playacting.”

Anne-Marie blinked. “Sir?”

“We need to give the Hamveltai in there”—Winter gestured in the general direction of the fortress—“the impression that we're about to come in and slaughter them all. Unfortunately, Janus has been making a point of being correct toward Hamveltai prisoners, so he doesn't have the right kind of reputation to be convincing. I thought one of their own—an escaped refugee, perhaps—might go a long way toward spreading the news of our new commander.”

“You want me to go into the fortress?” Anne-Marie said. “And . . . convince them?”

“Yes, in a nutshell.” Winter shook her head, suddenly embarrassed. “It's a hell of a thing to ask, I know. But you're Deslandai, you know the language, and you're . . .” She waved a hand vaguely.

“Sir?” Anne-Marie said again.

“A pretty girl,” Winter managed to get out. “Men are always a bit more gullible when there's a pretty girl involved.”

“Oh.” Anne-Marie went quiet for a moment, cheeks slightly flushed.

“If you don't think you can do it, we'll think of something else,” Winter said, forcing herself to ignore the fact that she had no idea what “something else” would be. “But it has to be tonight.”

“Of course, sir. I'd be glad to.” Anne-Marie smiled brightly. “I was just trying to think of where I'd left my dresses.”

It turned out that Anne-Marie's trunks, containing everything she'd brought with her when she ran away from home, had been thrown on the regimental wagon train by the quartermasters, which meant they'd arrived along
with the rest of the baggage. It took Winter, Abby, and a whole squad of rankers nearly an hour to locate them, until finally they found the battered, expensive-looking luggage under some empty ammunition cases.

“I don't know why I thought I'd need any of this,” Anne-Marie said, opening the case right on the back of the wagon and sorting through a mess of frilly, lacy things. “I just tossed in whatever I could lay my hands on.”

She selected a green velvet dress of a conservative cut, and jammed the rest carelessly back in the case. Winter watched in bemused surprise as Anne-Marie wadded up the flimsy garment, took it to the nearest wagon rut, and dunked it liberally in mud. She held the filth-encrusted thing up and inspected it with a critical eye.

“Let me get it on,” she said, “and I'll see what I can do with a pair of scissors and a few good tugs.”

While she worked, Winter had a hurried conference with Fitz. A half dozen regiments were ready to execute their part in the charade, which would consist of unscheduled “exercises” lasting all night. They'd march, up and down, tramping and shouting and generally making a racket the defenders would have to be deaf to miss. With judicious use of a few empty carts and caissons thrown in, it would sound very much like the arrival of considerable reinforcements.

“Your job is going to be to stall de Ferre if he starts asking questions. You can give him the runaround, take him from one camp to the next, and—”

“Colonel Ihernglass,” Fitz said, smiling, “I mean no offense, but I've been handling inconvenient superiors for quite some time. I know what I'm doing.”

Winter nodded. “Right. Well. Good luck.”

She and Abby had arranged passage for Anne-Marie through the section of the lines held by the Royals. They met there soon after full dark, and Winter studied the Deslandai girl's disguise in the light of the sentry's lantern. It looked, she had to admit, convincing. In addition to getting filth on the dress itself, Anne-Marie had coated her hair and skin liberally in the stuff.

She'd made some changes to the dress as well—one shoulder was ripped, so she had to clutch it at her collar and looked constantly at risk of baring her breast, and tears in the long skirt gave glimpses of dirty but shapely legs. The general effect was something out of a melodrama, the beautiful, bedraggled girl just waiting for someone to sweep her up and place himself between her and danger.

Looking at her, Winter felt obscurely out of her depth, as though she were catching a glimpse into some alien world. It was clear that, while she might need work on the manual of arms, in the areas her training had prepared her for—which
obviously included securing male attention—Anne-Marie had long since mastered the essential skills.

“Good,” Winter managed. “You're clear on what you have to tell them?”

Anne-Marie nodded. “We have a new general with plenty of new troops. Marshal Jindenau's army is defeated and retreating, and there's to be no quarter unless they surrender. And I have my heartbreaking adventure and escape ready.”

“Remember, try and talk to di Pfalen personally if you can,” Winter said. “Janus has whipped him twice already. He'll be ready to believe that we can do it again.”

“Yes, sir.” Anne-Marie's eyes twinkled. “You can count on me.”

“Okay.” Winter looked at Sevran, who was waiting nearby. “Your people are ready?”

He nodded, taking his eyes away from Anne-Marie with some difficulty. “They know not to fire.”

“Right.” Winter felt there should be something more to say, but she couldn't think of any grand sentiments. “Good luck.”

Anne-Marie grinned. Janus' ring of fortifications was barely begun, so there were no trenches here yet, just a line of sentries out of cannon range of the nearest bastion. Once Anne-Marie took a few steps beyond them, she was lost to the lantern light, appearing only as a slender shadow flitting across the invisible barrier between the opposing armies.

Winter held her breath until the girl was out of sight completely, and then a little longer. For all that she worried about Anne-Marie being discovered as an imposter, this was the most obviously dangerous moment. If some trigger-happy sentry on the other side saw someone moving and decided to fire . . .

But no muzzle flashes lit the night. Winter let out her breath, feeling something clench tight in her chest.

“Well,” she said to Abby and Sevran, “now we wait until morning.”

To Winter's surprise, Jane was waiting for her when she returned to her own tent. Wordlessly Winter took her arm, and they slipped through the tent flap together. As soon as they were inside, Winter pulled Jane close and kissed her thoroughly, fingers tangling in her slick red hair.

“What's wrong?” Winter said when she pulled away.

“It's . . .” Jane grimaced. “I heard about what happened. De Ferre's really in command?”

“Apparently.”

“Have you . . . I mean . . .” Jane, uncharacteristically, seemed hesitant. “Have you figured out what you're going to do?”

“About de Ferre? I have no idea.”
One crisis at a time.
“I don't know that there's anything I
can
do.”

For some reason, Jane's tense expression relaxed at this. “Good.”

Before Winter could ask for an explanation, Jane was kissing her again. Winter relaxed into her arms and tried not to think about what might happen in the morning.

RAESINIA

T
he silence in the wagon was oppressive.

There was no real reason to be quiet. It was true that they were hiding, but between the rattle of the wheels and the creaking and shifting of the cargo, the chance of being overheard was too small to worry about. Nevertheless, Raesinia found herself reluctant to speak, and her companions apparently shared the feeling. They sat side by side in the warm darkness under the tarp, and she listened to the soft whistle of Marcus' breath. His shoulder was pressed against hers, and she could feel his arm tense as he clenched his fists in his lap.

She understood, in principle, the need for secrecy. Janus had given strict orders that Willowbrook's precise location was not to be revealed to anyone who didn't need to know, and furthermore too many furtive visitors would raise questions. About the only vehicles still regularly seen on the streets of the city were the wagons that delivered provisions to the estates of the wealthy, though more and more of these were pulled by mules these days instead of horses. The Mierantai courier had explained that the easiest way to get them in without alerting anyone was to put them on the regular supply run.

So, if all went well, no one was even paying the cart much attention. Raesinia found herself tensing anyway, every time a wheel bumped over a stone or they halted for a few moments to let someone pass. By the time the tarp was pulled back, letting in the late-morning sun, she'd been starting to wonder if the journey would
ever
end.

A middle-aged man in a captain's blue uniform stood at the back of the cart, holding a salute.

“Good to see you again, sir,” he said.

Marcus got to his feet, tentatively, and hopped down from the cart before holding out a hand to help Raesinia. Beside him, Andy stretched, shoulders popping audibly. Raesinia climbed down and looked around, curiously. Outwardly, Willowbrook looked like any other small estate that a minor noble or successful merchant might maintain, though the single high tower was architecturally a bit of an oddity. Men in plainclothes worked at the garden or simply stood around in pairs, watching.

“I'm sorry it took so long to arrange,” the captain said. “As you can imagine, we have to be more careful than ever.”

“I haven't got much experience being a wanted man,” Marcus said, then turned to Raesinia and Andy. “Let me do the introductions. This is Captain Alex Giforte, formerly Vice Captain of Armsmen and in command here. Alex, this is Ranker Andria Dracht—”

“Andy, if you please,” Andy said, saluting.

“—and this,” Marcus went on, “is Her Majesty Raesinia Orboan.”

“You may as well call me Raes,” Raesinia said. “I've gotten used to it.”

Marcus had explained that all his communications with Janus went through Giforte's people, who were therefore privy to her identity already, but it still felt odd to reveal herself so openly. Giforte saluted again, but he wore a bemused expression that Raesinia was beginning to recognize.
He's thinking, Wait,
this
is the Queen of Vordan?
She put on a rueful smile.

“Welcome to Willowbrook,” Giforte said. “Colonel, we've just had a message from Janus that you'll want to see. Please, come with me.”

He led them up the path from the end of the drive to the house, as some of the other men closed in around the wagon and started unloading the genuine supplies that had come with them. The door opened at their approach, and though the man behind it wore servant's clothes, he carried himself with a soldier's bearing.

As Raesinia crossed the threshold, something lurched unpleasantly in her skull, and she felt a sharp pain for a moment behind one eye. She stopped, shaking her head, and the others pulled up short as well.

“Raes?” Marcus said.

“I feel . . .” She lowered her voice. “Marcus, it's like at Twin Turrets. There's someone—”

“Ah,” Giforte said. “She warned me this might happen. Feor?”

A young woman came forward, dressed in a plain black robe. She had dark
hair, and skin the pale gray color of ashes. Raesinia found herself staring; while she'd read descriptions, she'd never met a Khandarai in the flesh before.

“Your Majesty,” the woman said. She was younger than Raesinia herself, maybe not even twenty. “My name is Feor.”

“You're . . .” The pain in her head had subsided, but there was still a faint feeling of
presence
, and it grew stronger when she looked at Feor.

“Yes.” Feor looked at Giforte and Marcus. “I think Her Majesty and I should speak in private.”

*   *   *

Feor took Raesinia down a long flight of stairs and into a long underground corridor, lit by hanging lanterns. They passed a heavy-looking door, which a young man in a gray robe bolted behind them, then bowed and withdrew.

“You're not a Penitent Damned,” Raesinia said. “Obviously.”

“No.”

“But you're . . . you have a demon.”

“My people would say I am a
naathem
.” Feor smiled slightly. “As are you.”

Raesinia blinked. “How—”

“
Naathem
can sense one another's presence. As you sensed mine.”

The old woman at the warehouse, and that priest, Ionkovo.
Raesinia hadn't fully considered the question, but it made sense that if she could somehow
feel
other demons, then they could feel her, too.
That might make it more difficult to hide than I thought.

“Janus asked me to speak to you,” Feor said. “In fact, his plan was eventually to move me into the palace, to be a . . . tutor to you. Obviously, that scheme has been overtaken by events.”

“You work for Janus?”

“I suppose I do, though I prefer to think that we are allies.” Feor chuckled. “In truth, it is Winter Ihernglass to whom I owe a debt. He saved my life when by rights we ought to have been enemies.”

Raesinia had met Winter only briefly, at a few official functions before the departure of the Army of the East. “He's the one commanding Janus' battalion of women, isn't he?”

“Yes, I believe he is.” For some reason Feor's smile grew wider. “In any event, Janus and I share an enemy, and that is what is most important.”

“The Church,” Raesinia guessed. “The Priests of the Black.”

“Yes.”

“Why? What did they have to do with you in Khandar?”

Feor hesitated a moment. “My own history is . . . complex. I was born to a secret sect of our religion, whose purpose was to safeguard knowledge of the
naath
. I learned very little of our history, but I believe the group I knew was a remnant, the remains of a once-mighty organization that had withered away over the years. We were taught that the
abh-naathem
—you call them the Penitent Damned—would stop at nothing to destroy us, because they craved the power of the Thousand Names. When the Redeemers overturned Khandar, they got their chance.”

Raesinia nodded. “Janus told me their agents tried to kill him and take the Names.”

“The rest of my sect was killed trying to protect the Names. It was Winter who showed me that it was not my duty to die with them. The gods have another purpose in mind. I believe they allowed the Names to fall to Janus because he will use them to finally break the power of the
abh-naathem
once and for all. My task is to help him as best I can.”

“I see.” That kind of sincerity, whether it was religious faith or political idealism, made Raesinia vaguely uncomfortable, as though there was something fundamental that she wasn't getting. “Are they here? The Thousand Names. They, it, whatever you want to say.”

“Yes.” Feor beckoned Raesinia forward. “I will show you.”

The other end of the short corridor was blocked by a curtain, which Feor pulled aside. Beyond was a long gallery, with archways on either side leading to small alcoves that might once have been filled with storage shelves. Feor gestured to the first of these, and Raesinia approached to take a closer look.

She'd expected some kind of
book
, leather-bound and ancient. Crumbling scrolls, or maybe even clay tablets. Instead there was a steel plate taller than a man and wide enough that she would have difficulty getting her hands on either side of it. Its burnished surface shone gently in the lantern light. From top to bottom, it was deeply incised with line after line of an elaborate script Raesinia didn't recognize.

She raised a hand, then hesitated. “Will something terrible happen if I touch it?”

“No,” Feor said. “It is only steel.”

Raesinia ran her fingers over the surface, feeling the shapes of the unfamiliar letters, edges still unrounded in spite of their age.
Whoever made this thing built it to last.

“The
naath
only have power inside a human soul,” Feor said. “The letters are only sounds, until they are spoken aloud.”

“It's just a list? Of names, or spells, or whatever they are?”

“There is a good deal more than that. Commentary, warnings, ritual, and practice. They were created over many decades, or perhaps centuries, I believe.”

“Are there really a thousand?” Raesinia looked at the giant plate. “That seems like a lot to fit in, even on something this size.”

“There are eleven more.” Feor waved a hand at the other archways.

“Oh.” Raesinia felt suddenly small. “And you're working on . . . what? Translating them?”

“In part. There are hints at pieces of our history that I believe nobody living remembers. And descriptions of what purposes the
naath
serve, although they are often vague or metaphorical.”

“Okay.” Raeisnia turned to face her. “So if I read one of these out loud—assuming I learned how to read this language—then that's it? Poof, I'm a
naathem
?”

“In your case, no. One soul cannot hold two
naath
. A
naath
read aloud by a
naathem
does nothing.”

“Right. But someone else?”

“Perhaps.” Feor shook her head. “The
naath
binds to the soul, and the soul must be strong enough to bear it. Some
naath
are weak, and nearly anyone may bind them. For the strongest, only one in a thousand might be able to speak the
naath
without dying in the attempt. And each
naath
can only be spoken once, until the bearer dies.”

Raesinia closed her eyes. She remembered lying in bed, every breath a labored agony, while a bearded priest had knelt beside her. He'd asked her to read something, and there had been pain. She'd never been sure whether the episode had been part of her fevered delusions.
They gave me something like this to read.
She stared, inwardly, at the binding.
And it made me into . . . this.

“Can you . . . stop being a
naathem
? Is there a way to get rid of one?”

“Janus said you might ask that.” Feor sighed. “In short, I do not know, assuming you want to survive the process. I hope the answer may be here, somewhere.”

“Somewhere.” Raesinia looked up and down the massive plate. “It's going to take a while, isn't it?”

“Years, perhaps,” Feor said. “But I would persevere, even if Janus had not asked. It has become clear to me that Mother—the leader of our sect—concealed a great deal from us. This is the closest to the truth that I can get.”

“Do you know where these came from? How old they are?”

“Not precisely. The language is not Khandarai, though there are hints of an influence on modern Khandarai. Nor is it directly connected with any of the modern languages of your people, though again there are a few odd similarities.
As best I can tell from events that are mentioned, the plates were carved sometime in the second or third century before the life of your prophet Karis.”

That made the Names at least fourteen hundred years old. Raesinia didn't know much ancient history, behind what had made it into
The Wisdoms
and Church doctrine. The time between the Fall of the Tyrants and the Judgment was a vague era of chaos and destruction, where the lands were ruled by sorcerer-kings and demons of all sorts. All that wickedness had prompted God to send the Beast of Judgment to exterminate mankind, and only the intercession of Karis the Savior had convinced Him to stay His hand. Afterward, the Church had launched the beginning of its endless campaign against sorcery and sin, to prove to the Almighty that His continued mercy was warranted.

That was the version old Father Nuvell had taught her, anyway. There was nothing in there about the Priests of the Black employing sorcerous assassins, so she was pretty certain there were probably some other missing pieces.

“I'm interested to hear what you find,” Raesinia said. “Even apart from . . . my condition. If I ever get to be a proper queen, you'll have any support I can offer. You won't have to live in a basement, to start with.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Feor said. “But as long as the Black Priests exist, the Names will never be safe in the open. I am afraid hiding in basements may be my lot in life.”

“Then at least we can get you a nicer basement,” Raesinia said.

She grinned, and Feor smiled back. Before Raesinia could think of another question, there was a sharp pain at the back of her head, as though something had popped underneath her skull. She saw Feor stagger slightly.

“Is that . . . ,” Raesinia said.

“Another
naathem
,” Feor said. “Very close by.”

“A friend of yours?”

She shook her head, face white. “They have found us.”

*   *   *

MARCUS

Marcus—

Yours received. Timing unfortunate. M.'s representatives already arrived here, situation unstable. Will send word of further developments.