Her face lost all expression, save a faint wariness to the eyes, and she nodded, probably in expectation of another barb or hate-filled declaration.
“You want me, all of me,” he continued. “You can have me. We can be together, for as long as you want, you’ll never have to force me again. I’ll never fight you again. We go, we leave, we find some forgotten place, far away from people. And we stay there, just you and me.”
Her face remained immobile but for a faint twitch to her lips, an occasional blink to her eyes.
“You can read my feelings,” he said. “So you know I am sincere in this.”
When she spoke her voice was thick, whether with anger or sorrow he couldn’t tell. “You think that’s what I want?”
“No, it’s what I’m offering.”
“In return for what?”
“Turn away from this path, no more killing. Abandon whatever task waits in Varinshold.”
She closed her eyes and turned away, profile red and perfect in the firelight. “When I was as young as you are now, I knew only hate. A hate as bright and glorious as any love, the kind of hate that calls across the void when married to a gifted song, finding the ear of something that also had a bargain to offer. And I made it, beloved. I made that bargain, sealed it in an ocean of blood, so I can’t make yours.”
She opened her eyes, turning to him, her expression betraying such a depth of sadness and confusion he found it hard to look at her. “You talk of finding a forgotten place. There are no forgotten places, not for the Ally. Our only chance is to fulfil his scheme, don’t you see? Give him his moment of triumph, the last stroke of the brush to his grand design, only then can we make our own. Then, my love, then I promise you, there will be no need for forgotten places, no need to hide. We’ll give him his victory, then burn it all down and him with it.”
He looked away and she moved closer, her arms slipping around his waist as her head rested on his shoulder. “I’m going to kill you,” he said. “You must know that.”
She kissed his neck and for once he didn’t flinch, though he had the freedom to do so. “Then, beloved,” she said in a whisper, breath hot on his neck, “you would doom yourself and every soul in this world.”
They hid for another three days until all sign of pursuit had faded, the forest free of the distant barking of dogs or the scent of soldiers’ fires. They journeyed north, remaining cautious, avoiding roads and well-trammelled tracks, too wary even to risk stealing from the few farmhouses they saw. The woman’s purpose consumed her now, allowing no chance of failure. She spoke rarely, made no more use of him at night. They travelled, they slept, they foraged, nothing more.
It was another two weeks before they reached the flatlands and the road to the Brinewash Bridge, both notably thinner and besmirched from so long in the wilds, something the woman seemed to find comfort in. “Escaped slaves are rarely well-fed,” she said the night before they were to enter the city. They camped on the riverbank a few miles upstream from the bridge, lacking any coin for the toll and wary of drawing the eye of any guards who might be in attendance.
“We met in the pits,” she told him. “Two slaves thrown into the same cell in expectation we would breed. I was stolen from my people as a girl, one of the fierce northern tribes will do, the name doesn’t matter. They’re renowned warriors, many of the Kuritai are bred from stock stolen from the northern wastes. I expected you to be bestial, inflicting your lust upon my innocent flesh, instead you were kind, in time love bloomed between us and we contrived an escape. Our journey across the empire was an epic of trial and bloody adventure, until we made it to Volar and concealed ourselves upon a ship to the west, sailing all the way to Varinshold, where you will be recognised by a kindly lord at the docks.”
She smiled thinly, reading his surprise at the mention of the kindly lord. “This has been long planned, my love. The Ally has many tools.”
They swam across in the morning, the rising sun raising mist from the river as they fought the current to make the opposite bank. At the western gate guards waved approaching wagons to the side and pushed back travellers seeking entry. The reason became clear shortly afterwards as the first regiment trooped through the gate. Frentis recognised the standard, a boar with red tusks, the Thirtieth Regiment of Foot, wiped out at Untesh and now evidently reborn. Behind them came the Sixteenth, the Black Bears, followed by one regiment after another until it seemed the whole Realm Guard was on the march. They edged closer to a group of onlookers, hearing the words “Cumbrael” and “Tower Lord” most amongst the general chatter.
“Not such a failure after all,” the woman murmured as the Realm Guard continued to troop past.
Frentis counted ten full regiments of foot and five of cavalry before the final contingent emerged, a contrast to the others with their dark blue cloaks, mail and leather helms, marching under a banner emblazoned with a running wolf above a tower. Their Lord Marshal was younger than most men of such rank, possessed of an aura of competence and toughness undiminished by his comparatively slight stature. He was also dressed in the garb of a brother of the Sixth Order.
The binding surged as Frentis tried to call out, the words trapped in his chest the instant he thought them. The woman gave a regretful smile as she forced him to turn his face away. “Not a time for reunions, my love.”
So he was prevented from watching Caenis lead his Wolfrunners from Varinshold, and none of the veterans had cause to let their gaze linger on the bedraggled but sturdy beggar in the crowd.
The western quarter was much as he remembered, a little cleaner perhaps, but all the streets, alleys and doorways of his youth were intact, although it seemed to have shrunk in the interval. As a child it had been a vast maze, one minute a playground for an impetuous thief, the other a deadly battleground when the gangs went to war. He was permitted to linger outside a boarded-up hovel on Jape Street. The woman who once lived there had long, straggly hair and eyes dulled with too much redflower, and a man who stank of piss and gin, knifed and bled dry behind a tavern over some forgotten grievance before Frentis was old enough to form a clear memory of his face. The straggle-haired woman disappeared soon after, to a brothel he heard, though some said she’d given herself to the river. If she had a name, he never knew it.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said, squeezing his hand. “It’ll all be gone soon enough. No more grim reminders for my husband.”
She led him to the warehouse district, halting before one with a chalked symbol on the door, a circle within a circle. She hammered on the door and waited. The man who answered the door was dressed in the mean garb of a sailor but Frentis knew him immediately as Kuritai, his stature and bearing made it obvious. He gave the woman a nod of respect rather than the full bow that would have been required in Volaria, then stepped aside. The warehouse was stacked high with barrels save for a bare section of floor in the centre where ten more Kuritai waited, scabbarded short swords within easy reach. They bowed to the woman as she entered. “Who is One here?” she asked.
The Kuritai from the door stepped forward. “I am, Mistress.”
“Everything is in readiness?”
“It is, Mistress.”
“What is your allotted target?”
“The palace. We attack one hour after your arrival there. After that we rendezvous at the north gate for the assault on the House of the Sixth Order.”
“How many?”
“All of the hidden companies, Mistress, plus a contingent of Free Cavalry. There should be five hundred in the assault force.”
The woman glanced at Frentis. “It won’t be enough. When the general comes ashore tell him the force is to be tripled, on my authority.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She looked around, nose wrinkling at the musty air in the warehouse. “Is there any food in this shit-hole?”
The were given oatmeal porridge flavoured with berries, the standard fare of the Kuritai Frentis knew so well from the pits. Despite the growing dread that gripped him, his hunger made him wolf down two bowls in quick succession. He was scraping the bowl clean with his spoon when someone began pounding on the warehouse door.
The woman nodded to the One who gestured to two of his men. They drew swords and faded into the shadows on either side of the door before he opened it. The man who entered was tall and finely dressed, with smooth, somewhat delicate features marred by a fearful but determined expression. The woman rose as he came forward, offering him a respectful bow. “My lord.”
The man nodded, his eyes fixing on Frentis. “This is really him? The King will be quick to spot an impostor.”
“I assure you, my lord, this is Brother Frentis, brave comrade of King Malcius risen from the dead, as promised.”
The man’s gaze didn’t lift from Frentis. “Which hand does the King favour?”
Frentis replied without hesitation. “He writes with his left but wields a sword with his right. As a boy, his father forced him to suppress his natural inclination to use his left in sword practice, fearing it would be a disadvantage in battle.”
The man grunted in apparent satisfaction and the woman said, “Why would we seek to deceive you, my lord? Have we not kept every promise made so far?”
