Lyss knew that any other commander would have signed him right up. He was likelier than many they had in the field. There was nothing to stop him from going elsewhere if she refused.
“Who’ll look after your brothers if you go to war?” she’d said.
“I have older cousins near West Wall,” Cam said. “They can stay there during the marching season.”
“What about school?”
“I’m pretty much finished at the Temple School. But I’ll study hard, when I’m home.”
Lyss sighed. She knew what happened to that kind of promise. “Why do you want to go to war? Find an apprenticeship. Something you can carry on with, after the war.”
“After the war, ma’am?” Cam looked baffled. “Do you really see an end to it anytime soon?”
And Lyss could not lie to this boy who’d lost so much already. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Then I want to help,” he said. “I want to go after the ones that killed my mother.”
In the end, Lyss had put in a word with Captain Byrne, and Cam had been allowed to sign up with the Gray Wolves. That would keep him off the battlefield, and he could be posted close to home. This summer, though, he’d managed to get assigned to Lyss, so he’d found his way to the battlefield, anyway.
Who’s to say the Vale is any safer? Lyss thought.
The queens of the Fells were bound by blood and history to the Spirit Mountains. Their Gray Wolf ancestors were the guardians who dwelt in the forests and high mountain passes. The peaks had always stood as an impenetrable barrier to the south, holding evil at bay. Twenty-five years ago, when her mother, Raisa, was a young queen, the monstrous Gerard Montaigne, king of Arden, had breached that barrier. His armies had marched all the way to the gates of Fellsmarch, demanding surrender.
They’d driven him off then, and reinforced the borders, and through twenty-five years of war they had kept him at bay. Then, four years ago, the killings began. They started with her father and brother, but were not limited to the royal family. It was most often wizards, but included military officers, clan warriors, government officials, and members of the nobility. What they had in common was their importance to the war effort, or their close connection to the queen.
How were they supposed to protect themselves against an enemy who could be anywhere, and might strike at any time?
Lyss dipped her waterskin into the bone-chilling creek, refilling it for the ride ahead. The streams that ran down from Alyssa Peak were always cold—fed by snowmelt that ran from spring until the new snows cloaked her rocky summit in late summer. The southerners had a different name for her—the Harlot, because she was a mountain that broke men’s hearts.
Ardenine hearts, maybe, Lyss thought.
Over the past several days, they’d ridden hard from Way Camp to join the rest of their salvo in Queen Court Vale. The queendom’s eyes and ears had sent word that the Ardenine general Marin Karn had landed a large force at Spiritgate. Their intended target could be Fortress Rocks to the north or Queen Court Vale, which spread out in front of them, a checkerboard of small farms in the middle of the harvest season.
“Somebody’s coming,” Sasha said, pointing over Lyss’s shoulder. Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “It looks like Shadow Dancer.”
“Really?” Lyss said. “I thought he was still at Demonai Camp.” She turned to look, squinting against the morning sun at the horseman riding hard from the direction of the command tent across the Vale. “You’re right. It is him. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
Shadow reined in next to Lyss, saluted, dismounted, and produced a dispatch tube with a flourish. “From General Dunedain, ma’am,” he said.
Lyss threw her arms around him, ignoring the dispatch for the moment. The scent of flux and charcoal and metal said that he hadn’t been too long away from the forge. “What are you doing here?”
“I dropped off a load of new gear to your quartermaster,” Shadow said.
That made sense. At sixteen, Shadow was already one of the most talented flashcrafters in the queendom—clan artisans who made weaponry and magical tools in support of the northern war effort.
That still didn’t explain why he was delivering dispatches. “Since when are you playing messenger?”
“I heard that there might be a chance to kill southerners today, so I decided to extend my visit.” The many braids in Shadow’s hair were evidence that he rarely said no to a fight, and that he usually came away with a kill. Though the work he did in his shop was critical to the war effort, it was all but impossible to keep him off the battlefield. He was the fiercest metalsmith in the queendom.
Shadow had a private’s colors knotted around his neck, as much of a uniform as he’d ever put on. He might have inherited his gift for flashcraft from his clan-born, gifted father, but his looks and reckless, independent spirit came from his Southern Islands mother.
Cat Tyburn had been spymaster for the queendom, until two years ago, when somebody cut her throat and dumped her body in the Dyrnnewater. Cat was the savviest street-fighter in the realm. Lyss couldn’t understand how she’d been caught unawares.
Cat might be gone, but she lived on in her headstrong, mercurial son. Lyss and Shadow had been inseparable as lýtlings, but these days their paths rarely crossed in the marching season. And now . . .
“I would have thought that you’d have better things to do,” Lyss said. “Didn’t I hear that you’re planning a wedding?”
Shadow nodded, a bit of color staining his dark cheeks. “News travels faster than I do, it seems.”
“Have you set a date?”
He shook his head. “My father wants us to wait another year or two. Aspen and I are buried in work, anyway, so it likely won’t be until sometime next year. Don’t worry—you’ll get your invitation as soon as I know when and where it will be.”
Lyss had met Shadow’s betrothed, Aspen Silverleaf, several times at clan markets. Aspen was known throughout the Seven Realms for her fine leatherwork. Her workshop was in Fortress Rocks, a midsized town to the north and east, where she looked after four younger brothers and sisters.
We are a land of orphans, Lyss thought, doing the work of dead parents.
Aspen was steady, practical, and wiser than her years. She’d been good for Shadow. In the time they’d been together, he’d begun taking better care of himself.
Still, Lyss was having a hard time with the notion of Shadow marrying and settling down, even if it might keep him alive a little longer. For years, even when they were apart, they’d been comrades, focused on a common goal: keeping the king of Arden’s army from overrunning their homeland. Wasn’t it tempting fate to be settling down to a life with this war still going on?
“Where do you think you’ll live? After you’re married, I mean.” If he moves to Fortress Rocks, I’ll never see him, she thought. Which she knew was selfish.
“One thing at a time,” Shadow said, laughing. “I’m still getting used to the idea of getting married.” He waved the dispatch tube under her nose. “Don’t you want to read this after I’ve carried it all this way?”
Lyss unfurled the paper inside, scanned it, and crumpled it in her hand.
“What?” Sasha said, instantly alert.
“The gutter-swiving mudbacks have committed themselves,” Lyss said. “They are heading for the pass. Mason and Littlefield are meeting us there.”
Sasha pulled out her spyglass and scanned the shoulder of the mountain. “How many?”
“She doesn’t say, but they must have slave mages with them. They’re sending Finn along with us.”
“Sul’Mander’s here, too?” Shadow looked from Sasha to Lyss, his expression flat and unreadable. “Last I heard, he was in the borderlands with the queen.”
“He was,” Lyss said. “He was wounded back in the spring, and he’s been in hospital since. He just arrived from the capital. They must think we can use a little more talent.”
Even though Shadow and Finn were distantly
related (Shadow’s grandfather was a Bayar), Lyss always got the impression that he somehow disapproved of Finn. Lyss didn’t think it was the old mistrust between uplanders and wizards—Shadow’s father was a wizard, after all.
Maybe it was because they were both intense, in different ways.
“Let me ride with you,” Shadow said, fondling the bow in his saddle boot. “I have talent.”
“I know you do,” Lyss said, rolling her eyes. “But can you follow orders?”
“I can follow orders as well as any Demonai,” Shadow said, which was setting a pretty low bar. “Anyway, General Dunedain already said yes.”
“Fine,” Lyss said, irritated that he’d gone around her. “Just remember—I don’t want to hear whining when the going gets tough.” She didn’t say aloud what else she was thinking—that this Ardenine offensive must be a bigger threat than they’d thought if Dunedain was recruiting their flashcrafter.
“Let’s go!” she said, rousing the rest of her squadron. “Get ready to ride!”
By the time Lyss had loaded her gear, she saw another lone horseman galloping toward them, his pale hair glittering in the slanting morning sun.
Finn. Lyss’s stomach did its usual somersault. She’d had a crush on Finn sul’Mander since she was eleven years old. She’d often see him with Adrian and his friends, at a time when her worship of her brother extended to everyone around him.
Back then, she’d tried to pump Adrian for information in her clumsy way. “Is he really your friend, Adrian?” she’d ask.
He raised his eyebrow. “Of course he is. I wouldn’t spend so much time with him if we weren’t friends.”
“But he’s a Bayar,” Lyss said. “Da says we shouldn’t trust Bayars, right?”
“He’s a Mander,” Adrian said. “Anyway, he’s different. He’s not like the rest of them at all.”
Lyss didn’t know what he meant by that, but it was enough to ease her mind. She’d always thought of Finn as solemn, intense, mysterious, and deep. That hadn’t changed. In wartime, many of their age-mates fought young, loved young, and died young. Some tried to live a lifetime before they turned twenty. Despite plenty of opportunities, Finn didn’t seem to play the romantic games that others did. If he’d had sweethearts in the past, it was a closely guarded secret.
Maybe that was why Lyss liked him. Wooing and romantic banter were not in her arsenal, either. When you fall in love with somebody, they just go and get themselves killed. When I marry, she thought, I’m going to find somebody with an army and some warships and a big bag of money. Then I’ll do my dancing on the battlefield.
Finn hadn’t been around much these past four years—he was always either away at the academy at Oden’s Ford, or fighting in the borderlands. The stories Lyss had heard about his steady courage under fire did nothing to diminish his appeal.
She’d had lots of crushes back when she was eleven. This was the only one that had lasted.
“Lieutenant Gray,” Finn said, reining in and saluting her. “I am, as always, at your service.”
For a moment, Lyss was speechless. Finn was still handsome by any measure, but his time in the healing halls had changed him. He looked thin and haggard, his black eyes undershadowed with weariness and pain, his skin nearly as pale as his hair.
Lyss leaned in to take a closer look, worry squirming inside her. “Are you all right? I mean, I heard you were wounded.”
Finn tightened his reins so that his horse danced a few steps back. “I’m well,” he said, his tone of voice and expression telling her to back off.
“Good,” Lyss said, lifting her chin. “Glad to hear it.”
Finn grimaced, and said more gently, “Isn’t that what soldiers are supposed to say, whether we are or not?” He sighed. “It’s just . . . so many have died, and for what? We can win every battle and still lose the war. It’s such a waste.”
“Is there something you think we should do differently?” Lyss said.
“Everything,” Finn said. “I’m willing to give my life for the realm, but I don’t see that making a difference.” He looked away. “Never mind,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’m glad you did,” Lyss said. “My father had a saying: ‘If you keep doing what you’ve been doing, you’ll get what you’ve been getting.’ In our case—an endless war.”
Finn turned back to her, studying her. “You do understand,” he said.
“I don’t just understand,” Lyss said. “I agree.”
Finn smiled, and Lyss melted. She knew a dozen girls who would kill to win a smile from Finn sul’Mander, but he bestowed them sparingly.
“We’d better go,” she said. “Mason and Littlefield are meeting us at the near end of the pass.”
Lyss wheeled her horse, and Finn wheeled with her, so he was riding beside her. Sasha and Cam took their usual positions, one just ahead of Lyss, the other just behind.
As they rode east, the early sun disappeared behind the shoulder of the great mountain, and the air grew noticeably cooler, sending a finger of chill down Lyss’s back.
“There’s something else I should tell you,” Finn said, leaning closer. “I’m not going back to the academy this year.”
“You’re not?” Was this the reason for his unusually gloomy attitude? “Why not?”
“I’m going to stay home. I’ve decided to train with Lord Vega in the healing halls,” Finn said.
“But . . . you always talk about how you love Oden’s Ford.”
“I do love Oden’s Ford,” Finn said. “But it’s time to stop being selfish and do what I can for the realm.”
“Finn . . . you’ve been a major asset on the battlefield,” Lyss said. “You were seriously wounded fighting for the queendom. That hardly seems selfish to me.”
Finn shrugged that off. “I just think I need to contribute to the war in a different way. After spending months in the healing halls, after seeing the important work they do there, I realized that’s where I belong. Lord Vega has truly been a mentor to me.”
This was almost as surprising as Finn’s decision not to go back to the academy. Lyss recalled Adrian complaining about Lord Vega, and she’d heard much the same from his friend Ty Gryphon. According to them, the wizard was definitely not the mentor type.
Well, she thought, good for the both of them. Vega’s been griping for years about the lack of recruits to the healing service. Either he’s realized that his own behavior is the root of the problem, or at least he’s found somebody who’ll put up with him.
Lyss tried to keep an open mind about Harriman Vega, but, to be honest, she despised him. She hoped it wasn’t because she couldn’t forgive him for failing to save her father’s life. He’d been the one to pronounce him dead in the street.
“Does General Dunedain know? That you’re leaving the Highlanders?”
Finn shook his head. “I plan to tell her when we return to the capital in the fall.”
“It goes without saying that we’ll miss you,” Lyss said.
Finn smiled. “Go ahead,” he said. “You can say it anyway.”
Lieutenants Mason and Littlefield met them at the near end of the pass, along with Captain Starborn, the commander of the salvo. Starborn was one of the rare Demonai warriors who’d enlisted in the regular army.
“Good news!” Starborn said, with a broad grin. “We have many, many flatlanders to kill today.”
“Typical Demonai,” Sasha muttered, shooting a worried look at Lyss.
“How many?” Lyss said.
Starborn rocked his hand. “Our scouts think that it might be a full brigade.”
“A brigade!” Littlefield turned an odd shade of gray.
Starborn nodded. “So.” He rubbed his hands together. “There’ll be plenty to go around.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for reinforcements?” Littlefield persisted.
“We can’t afford to wait,” Starborn said. “We have to keep them in the pass—that way we’ll face only a few at a time.
If they spill out into the Vale, they can use their numbers against us.”
Lyss leaned forward, and Mincemeat shifted under her, sensing her impatience. “Shall we ride, then, sir? My squadron can take the forward position, where Finn will be at his most effective.”
Starborn eyed her appraisingly, then nodded. “Carry on, Lieutenant Gray. We’ll be right behind you.”
Lyss waved her troops forward, settling into the lead with Sasha and Cam on either side of her, Finn and Shadow just behind.
“Do you always have to take the forward position, Lieutenant?” Sasha hissed. “Could you try and remember who you are, sometimes?”
“I never forget who I am,” Lyss said. “That’s why I take the lead.”
3
MATELON
Halston Matelon would never admit that he was looking forward to a fight—but he was. After an endlessly frustrating season watching his back in Delphi, the prospect of leading an army into battle seemed positively appealing. Even if it wasn’t a fight he would have chosen.
A soldier doesn’t choose his battles, Hal’s father always said. His job is to win the one before him. By that measure, Hal was a good soldier. He’d moved up quickly in the empire’s army. At seventeen, he was already a captain. His men were good soldiers, and loyal, and he won more battles than he lost. Only that, all of a sudden, was a problem.
Nine months ago, at Solstice, he’d received new orders—King Gerard was relieving him of his command and sending him to the conquered city of Delphi as the administrator of martial law.
“Why would he do that?” Hal had asked his father over his second tankard of ale. “I’ve been a good soldier. Why would he send me to do a job I have no preparation for?”
“Right now it doesn’t suit King Gerard for you to be a successful soldier,” Lord Matelon said. He rubbed his chin with the heel of his hand. “That’s likely my fault. I’ve been too outspoken in my criticism of the war.”
“But . . . if he wants to win the war, why would it make sense to make a boneheaded move like that?” Hal took a quick look around to make sure no one was in a position to overhear. This even though they were sitting on the terrace at White Oaks, the well-fortified Matelon holding in the countryside.