Chapter 18
"Even the most experienced climber may be killed by an unexpected gust of wind at the top of a sequoia. Experience and hard work help to build one's fortune, but there is no way to prevent every disaster."
- Katisha Franklin, 33 Vebweri, 1788 AC
Aidan glared at the raggedly dressed man who knelt before him, wishing he could blame him for the misfortune he had just relayed. Then he could at least punish someone, and while that wouldn't resurrect the half of the Shrikes who had been lost defending against a posse raid, it would make him feel a little better. Just a little.
"How many are left?" he asked, forcing himself not to growl. It had been a blessed two weeks since the first big hunt, and they'd been trading their hauls of deer meat with the Shrikes for all sorts of vegetables and pigeon pies. At least we received him in private and not where passing ears may hear of this misfortune.
"Don't have an exact number," the man mumbled, then quickly added, "Sire."
"Give us an estimate, then," Charlene said, her voice a little shaky. She probably knew most of the dead.
"Maybe," he scratched the back of his neck, "around thirty or so? Won't know for sure until I get back. Some of those lads who survived looked in pretty bad fortunes."
"If I may, M'Lord," Rodrig said, speaking slowly and cautiously, "perhaps we could lend them the heretic for a week or so."
Aidan looked at him as though he'd just proposed they all amputate one of their own legs. "What good would that do?"
"Most Wizards have at least basic medical training, Aidan," Marke said, clearly impatient at his friend's ignorance. Aidan had never heard such a tale. He wondered briefly if it were true, but this was no time for curiosity.
"We can't spare him," Aidan said, looking first into Rodrig's eyes, then to Marke's, "else I'd send him straight away."
Marke attempted a protest, "But surely he-"
"His work here is too important," Aidan growled, hoping his voice carried the finality he intended. We are not a parliament, and this is not a debate.
"They should at least join us," Ygretta said. Aidan nodded, but some of the others must have looked hesitant because she continued, "to be protected from another assault. The Deputy's lapdogs would have to be suicidal to make another attempt upon us."
"We stuck a finger in their eye, though," Rodrig said, pausing to whistle, "and rubbed the King's face in it. They may not be eager to come back in winter, but come spring they'll be thirsting for our blood."
"All the more important that we proceed," Aidan said. "We feel the loss of each of our fallen friends, but we must make sure they didn't die for no reason."
The others around the table nodded, and Aidan dismissed the council for lunch, inviting the Shrike messenger to eat his fill before returning. Charlene stayed behind, drying her tears.
"I am not offended by tears," Aidan said. "Mourn your friends."
"I will mourn them when our task is complete, and not before."
Aidan shrugged, uncertain how far he ought to push her. She knows what's best for herself, she's survived twenty-seven years on this world without your intervention. He kicked a little at the embers dying in the middle of the tent, small wisps of smoke snaking up and out through the hollow pole in the center.
"That was lovely what you said at the end, there." Charlene hugged him tight, and he was never so happy to feel the air forced from his lungs. "'We must make sure they didn't die for no reason.' Did you read that somewhere?"
"My brother's journal. Troy used words like weapons."
"It was beautiful."
Yes, thought Aidan, considering this latest setback and recalculating their chances of victory. I almost believed it myself.
They left the tent separately, Charlene to lunch with the others and Aidan in the other direction. The snow was finally crunching again, and he was glad to feel his boots stomping firmly through it rather than slipping over the icy surface they'd had to deal with a week earlier. Slow but certain, spring arrives. The old saying had confused him as a child since he spent winters inside near the hearth, being warmed and regaled by his mother with tales of Caledonia's past. He was still thinking of those tales, those fables, when he encountered Windhill.
The heretic was sitting on a stool at a long table in front of his tent. The table was covered with shiny brass fittings and gears, glass Plaz capsule casings, and various tools, which looked to Aidan like horrifically oversized spider legs. The man was busy tinkering with the breech fitting of a plain musket, looking down its barrel as though scouting the horizon.
"I need an update," Aidan said, causing the poor mechanic to jump nearly out of his skin, "How close are you?"
After he recovered himself, Windhill replied, "About a quarter of the way done, so far. Found some shortcuts, though, so it ought to go a bit faster."
"Will they be ready?" Aidan's mind drifted briefly to the uprising he'd nearly encountered when they confiscated everyone's Plaz weapons. How would they defend themselves if the Deputy sent another posse? Could Aidan be sure there wouldn't be further incursions? He had nearly lost the argument (and, he worried, was about to catch a Plaz round in the face) when Charlene smoothed things over and calmed their fears. I may be their leader in name, but they still jump when she thinks it.
"Yes. I think so, yes."
Aidan sighed. He had learned not to demand precise answers from the heretic, and there was no use wanting an answer where no answer would be found. Still, the news of the Shrikes' slaughter had sent him into a full panic, and he was desperate for some assurance that their campaign had any chance of success. Any assurance would do.
"You've spoken about history," Aidan said, all too happy to distract his mind, "tell me, what do you think of The Roadmap?"
Windhill shrugged and continued his work, twisting a spindly tool, which Aidan assumed adjusted some aspect of the trigger mechanism to which it was attached. "Never read it myself. Forbidden."
"Even among the Wizards?"
Windhill stopped his twisting for a moment and looked at Aidan as though he'd just suggested they glue bird feathers to their arms and attempt flight. "Especially among the Wizards." He went back to his work, shaking his head. "A fellow student was suspected of harboring a copy when I began 'prenticing three years ago. He was tortured but never confessed. The accuser was executed when the poor lad was found innocent. They take that sort of thing very seriously."
"Well," Aidan couldn't help but be surprised that of all the forbidden information that the Wizards apparently had access to, that even they had their limits, "what do you know about the settlement?"
"First or second?"
"First."
"Records that stretch that far back are unreliable. Most say that the Iridonians were here first, but a few Mardoni sources dispute that. They may have arrived together, in fact."
"No Saukasi?"
"Not a patch of white skin to be seen for miles, so they say. Not sure why."
"My mother once told me that the Saukasi laughed when our people left the old home."
"I've heard that too. Then the old home laughed back."
Aidan wondered what it had been like, the old home. Was it a world of forests like Caledonia or a world of sand like New Mongolia? Or was it perhaps like Caledonia of legend, the landscape varying from place to place?
"Do you think the old stories are true?" Aidan asked, gazing at the light-gray clouds slowly rolling into each other overhead.
"Depends on which old stories. The second colonization is true though, that I'm certain of."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Well, power tips toward the Saukasi by default. Aside from your family, there's no other Nobles in the area who don't have lilied skin. Other places aren't much better, either."
"There's Peyrola."
"Yes, our neighbors to the east." Windhill popped the musket shut and peered down its shaft, followed a brown sparrow as it flitted from branch to branch. "Peyrolans are fond of Ma
rdoni names, but their skin doesn't bear out the heritage. Wearing beards doesn't make you Mardoni."
"I suppose that's so."
For a long time, there was silence between them, and Aidan listened to the forest. Baby birds chirped impatiently, and their mothers squawked reassurance. Cicadas buzz-humming as woodpeckers rhythmically hunted their offspring. Somewhere a wolf howled, and across the woods two or three more joined the song. Three more weeks until spring, and yet already the woods were coming alive with sound.
"If you have any problems, let me know," Aidan said, and Windhill just gave a vacant nod as he immersed himself in work. Father always called winter the season of preparation. He walked the camp, thinking about formations and troop movements and the preparations that still needed to be made.
"Terrible news today," Charlene said, coming up on his right flank and handing him a small flask, "but this helps."
Aidan took a single swallow, resisting the reflex to cough and sputter. The mead warmed him inside, and he took a deep breath. He handed it back to Charlene, who slammed it back for several heartbeats and made his drink a sip by comparison. I mourn the loss of numbers, she mourns the loss of friends. He was filled with self-disgust, having to think this way, but took comfort that it was only temporary. There were some who never stopped treating people as if they were merely numbers.
"Do you want to talk about them?"
She looked at him as though he had suddenly transformed into a horse, and took another big drink. "I want to talk about anything else."
"I've been reading."
"Wonders never cease." She smiled and elbowed him playfully. "What did little sis have to say this morning?"
"Not just my family journals, but something Nadya gave me. It's called The Roadmap."
"I've heard of it. Dangerous book to be carrying around."
"If we were safe within Barrowdown's walls, I would have burned it on sight."
"So what keeps it from the flames?" She slurred her words, but only a little.
"Only my father's wishes."
"Dad was a revolutionary, eh?"
"Something like that." Aidan produced the book from an inside pocket of his doublet. "It's kind of like a strange joke, actually."
"Why is that?"
"Legend says this book was meant to be a guide from the ancestors, instructions on how to build new worlds." He handed her the small, gold-lettered book. "And how to do it without the bloodshed that revolution so often brings."
"Wishful thinking," Charlene said, opening the book and flipping a few pages, "by a bunch of soft-headed Saukasi, more than likely."
"Could be. Still," Aidan put his arm around her and drew her close to him, sharing her warmth, "it's a beautiful idea."
She gave him a sideways look. "What are we fighting for, Aidan?"
"What?"
"I mean, when you and I transferred power, you said we were fighting to help you win your family's land back. Good a cause as any." Her eyes narrowed on his, and she pushed away from his embrace. "But there's a difference between pressing a claim and challenging the King."
"Pressing my claim is a challenge to the king!"
"Not in the same way as reading the forbidden book. Aren't the ideas in these pages exactly what you were fighting against in the War in the Heavens?"
"The same war I joined to give gravity to my father's campaign of support."
Charlene blinked and opened her eyes wide in surprise. "That's a new piece of the puzzle. Your father promoted enlistment?"
"He did. Very publicly."
"Why would he support a war against an idea he agreed with?"
"That is something I've been wondering ever since I uncovered my family's secret." His family's betrayal burned him inside hotter than any mead to think that they had excluded him in their secret. Why didn't you trust me, Father? "Perhaps it was a cover, something to put them above suspicion?"
"Hell of a cover. You could have been killed!"
"I nearly was. Several times."
Charlene whistled. "I hate to bring this up so late into things, but are you sure you're fighting the right battle?"
Aidan sighed. Not because Charlene was right, but because he didn't know how to answer the question. He closed his eyes and was caught suddenly in a flood of family memories. Running through the persimmon orchard, their arms full of ill-gotten fruit, he stumbled, and Troy dropped his entire haul to pick him up so he wouldn't be caught. The winter nights they would spend relaxing as Latisha played a harp and sang. The tough, rugged feel of his father's gloved hand as it picked him up off the ground after knocking him there while sparring. The proud smile that spread over his father's face that Aidan did not cry out when he was knocked to the ground.
None of the memories justified his exclusion. But they did remind him of one important reality.
"Whatever their reasons for leaving me in the dark," he said, his breath steaming as he sighed into the frosty air, "I know one thing. They loved me."
"Still, seems to me-"
"Whatever you are about to say, please keep your own counsel about it." His voice was firm as it could be without being snappy or aggressive. "I think they were trying to protect me."
"By sending you to war?"
Aidan clenched his jaw, but resisted the urge to snap back. She doesn't understand the love of a family. Be patient. "Perhaps they believed the war here would be worse."
"If it was their intention to overthrow the King, I'd say they were probably right."
"Then why did he not execute them outright, as traitors? The journals alone would indict them, much more the presence of that book."
"The Deputy or whoever arranged their deaths must have believed it better that the whole matter be kept quiet. Otherwise your claim would be revoked outright."
"It makes me think of your attack. Only one faction fights in such roundabout ways."
"The Order of the Crown." She spat the words with vicious hatred. Aidan remembered all too well the pain they had inflicted on her, the vacant terror in her eyes as she stared him down, arrow nocked and aimed at his face.
"I got the feeling from some of Kat's entries that there were other Houses involved. Perhaps the Order wanted to make an example of my family so the treason wouldn't spread. They were poisoned to prevent their own martyrdom."
"Gods," Charlene said, handing him the small, troublesome book as though it had caught on fire. "All over some damned paper and binding."
"People are often killed for much less."
The next day, the War Council came together for a meeting most had been dreading. Ygretta was excused because she had told Aidan that morning that she needed every second she could spare to better prepare the Redtails for war.
They assembled early in the command tent, Rodrig and Connel spreading out a great map on the floor, which one of the bandits who grew up near Barrowdown had drawn from memory. It was obvious the woman had started with the middle portion and worked her way to the outsides, as the trees on the outer stretches looked more and more like rocks or just shapeless blobs of greased charcoal. Still, it was a pretty accurate rendering of the broken, patchy ground that lay between the southern edge of Graydon Forest and Barrowdown. It would suffice for their purposes.
"As soon as Ygretta is available," Marke said, placing a large stone on one of the big map's corners, "we ought to get a sense from her about each division's capabilities."
"For now," Aidan said, "we'll have to work with what we know. Every division has a good mix of specialists and general fighters, and we've already seen their platoons in action."
"Indeed," Rodrig said, clapping Connel on the back, "we'll focus on the broad strokes for now. Starting with what Woodsen has told us about the enemy."
According to Woodsen's much-anticipated report, the citizens of Barrowdown were frustrated with the rule of House Kiefernwald. They levied tax a few times a year to host tournaments, which further angered residents because they were too poor to afford admission.
Aidan believed Lord Kiefernwald was trying to impress the King, likely lobbying for some high office or promotion. Barrowdown is a stepping stone to him, at least he treats it with as little respect.
But there was good news: An insurgency. Some locals had banded together to help one another, and they called themselves The Red Tulips. Aidan couldn't help but smile at the name. They remember us fondly. They engaged in the usual resistance-type activities, raiding the Royal coffers and redistributing what coins they could steal, throwing rotten vegetables at anyone bearing House Kiefernwald's livery and painting slogans on the walls of the Keep by night to the point where the Castellan had tripled the night watch and still hadn't caught the perpetrators.
"There's our answer," Rodrig said. "That's how we take Barrowdown without a siege."
"We'll need to establish contact, which won't be easy," Marke said, scribbling notes down in a fresh ledger as he planned the coming month's allotment. "We heard rumors of them in Wishon, but I didn't dare believe they are so organized."
"Even if they are," Ygretta said, twisting her mouth doubtfully, "they'll need real weapons and decent armor. And they'll need someone inside the Keep to prevent our enemies from locking us out."
"Not impossible," Aidan said. "And that is not something I may have used to describe our little campaign when winter fell upon us. If we are careful, if we are clever, we can do this. I know it."
They all nodded in agreement, and Charlene put a supportive hand on his bicep and gave it a playful squeeze. He looked at her, and she winked, smiling in a way that always made him blush.
Rodrig reached into his hip pouch and revealed a stack of thick, folded papers, each about the size of a hand, plopping them on a nearby spool that had been repurposed as a table. As Aidan spread them out and examined them, he realized they were troop numbers, watch reports, the original pledges sent to Lord Kiefernwald from his allied neighbors. He smiled at Rodrig, who beamed with pride at the performance of the young man he considered his protégé.
"This is fantastic," Marke said, echoing the words of Aidan's heart. "Now we can make a plan."
"We can start to," Aidan said, "but we must all remember that the outcomes of battles are only certain after they have ended. Whatever plan we make, it needs to be flexible."
"Still," Charlene said, gently placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, "this is a bloody-good start!"