City of Keys, page 31
The last stanza was a bitter irony in light of their circumstances, but his heart lightened as he sang the words. A serenity that had nothing to do with his Marks. Alexei knew where he chose to die—alongside the defiant men and women at the gates.
The battle was as good as over. It wasn’t a matter of numbers. The sides were more or less equally matched. But those of the Order who’d survived were wielding death ley. Alexei had seen dozens consumed by those reaching tendrils.
For the hundredth time, he wondered where the reinforcements were. What of the garrisons along the city walls? The knights patrolling the Morho? He couldn’t believe they all followed Gray. From what he could tell, most of the Nants were loyal to Clavis.
The last words faded and the song began anew, drifting over in snatches.
“They did right to try to contain the enemy here,” Misha said. “Worst case . . . I mean to say . . . .” He trailed off in obvious confusion.
Morvana touched his sleeve. “It’s all right, Captain.”
He blinked rapidly, pressing a hand over one eye. “Worst case, they can open the gates. At least there’s a line of retreat.”
“Then let us join them,” she said, adjusting Alice in her arms.
For the first time in hours, Alexei noticed glints of gold in her short hair. The diamond stud in her nose and fine lines that touched the corners of her eyes. Dawn was breaking.
They picked their way through broken glass and bodies cushioned with arrows. Worse sights he’d grown numb to. The singing grew louder. Then Gray’s forces launched into their own anthem. A discordant clamor of shouts and taunts and blood-curdling howls.
The white hounds trotted out to form a line across the plaza. Behind them, dozens of half-human beasts prowled. Then about a hundred cloaked figures and a scattering of armored knights.
Gray himself had yet to appear. No doubt hiding inside the palace, the coward.
The defenders were a mix of knights and clergy. When they saw the trio limping towards the gates, a few beckoned them on. Two broke from the crowd. One tall and slender, the other built like a balding sledgehammer. Covered in mud and blood, yet undeniably Patryk Spassov and Natalya Anderle. Tears stood in her eyes as she cupped Alexei’s face.
“We’d given up hope,” she said.
“Should have known better,” Spassov grinned.
A ragged cry went up from the knights in the gatehouse. The chains of the portcullis winched upward. Alexei’s heart lifted at the sight of hundreds of blue banners. A sea of them stretching back across the drawbridge beyond.
“That’s what they were waiting for!” He grinned. “The Wolves from Kvengard!”
Misha clapped him on the shoulder. Morvana closed her eyes. “Danke der ley,” she murmured.
The first Kvens poured through before the portcullis was fully raised. A double column of knights in blue tabards followed by light cavalry and archers. The sun broke over the walls, shining on breastplates and pikes. The defenders let out a resounding cheer.
Not even the appearance of Kommandant Rademacher in the van could dampen Alexei’s joy. The sound of marching feet and jangling harness filled the air. Rademacher rode out to the center of the plaza.
The white dogs were snapping and pawing at the ground. One streaked toward his horse. The animal whinnied nervously. Rademacher sawed at the reins and the mount quieted. His troops were fanning out, penning the defenders into the center of the plaza.
Alexei glanced up at the palace. A figure watched from one of the high balconies. Even at a distance, Alexei could make out the deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks of the Pontifex Luk. The realization of what was happening struck him, but it was already too late.
Rademacher wheeled around, turning his back to their enemies.
“Throw down your swords,” he shouted, “and you will be treated as prisoners of war with all the rights accorded under Curia law! Resist and you will be executed on the spot!”
There was a stunned silence. Then angry mutters swept the crowd. The defenders milled in confusion.
“Drop the portcullis!” someone shouted desperately.
The heavy iron grill was designed to slam down in an instant should the need arise. A struggle erupted at the gatehouse. It was swiftly suppressed by the Kvens. The portcullis remained open. There seemed no end to Luk’s army.
“On your knees!” Rademacher barked. “Hands in the air!”
Steel scraped on leather as the Kvens drew their swords. Arrows notched to bowstrings.
“Do it! Or I’ll unleash the dogs on you!”
Outnumbered thirty to one, the defenders complied with grim faces. Alexei sank to his knees. So did Patryk and Natalya, who muttered vile oaths under her breath. Only Morvana and his brother remained standing. The bishop looked livid. She gently set Alice down and strode forward with clenched fists. Misha followed. Rademacher watched them approach with a stony expression.
“What is the meaning of this?” Morvana demanded. “Have you gone mad, Kommandant?” She turned in a slow circle, glaring at the Kvens. Some flinched away from her gaze. Most stared back impassively. “Do your vows mean nothing? We just signed a binding treaty with Nantwich! Our brothers and sisters in the Via Sancta! You would follow the orders of a traitor?”
“They are not my orders,” Rademacher said with satisfaction. “It is the will of the Reverend Father Luk. You are the traitor.”
Morvana followed his eyes to the balcony. The blood drained from her face. She shook her head in denial.
Maria Karolo had joined Luk at the balustrade. The sharp corner of her hair brushed a chilly half-smile.
“You are under arrest, Ziegler,” Rademacher said. “Stripped of all offices and authority by order of the Reverend Father.” He raised his voice. “The Nuncio is hereby excommunicated!” A nod at his men. “Take her into the Arx.”
Misha raised his sword. “Touch her,” he said loudly, “and it will be the last thing you do.”
“No!” Morvana laid a hand on his arm. It was so quiet, Alexei heard her words clearly, though they were spoken for his brother. “You will not die for me, Captain. I will go.”
“What will you do with Her Grace?” Misha demanded.
“That is for the Reverend Father to determine.” Rademacher stared down from his horse. “My orders are merely to take her into custody.” He smiled. “Come, Bryce. We know each other. Surely we can settle this without bloodshed.”
Misha’s lip curled in derision. “Without bloodshed?” He looked around. “You are mad.”
“Enough!” A sharp gesture to his knights. “Detain them both.”
A dozen men came forward. Alexei feared his brother would make a stand, but he threw the sword down. His eyes never left Rademacher’s face as the knights dragged him away. Morvana strode for the palace with her back straight and head held high, her captors hurrying to keep her surrounded. Alexei sensed their unease. The bishop might be excommunicated, but she had been Luk’s chief aide for years. None seemed eager to lay hands on her.
Rademacher hadn’t seen Alexei yet, but he would at any moment. And it wasn’t himself he feared for.
“Go,” Alexei hissed. “Leave, little sister.”
Alice’s ears drooped. She wedged her tail between her legs, avoiding his eye.
The white hound at Rademacher’s side sniffed the air. It caught her scent and barked aggressively. The others picked it up. They trotted across the plaza, muzzles frothing with saliva. A demonic chorus.
“Hide!” Alexei repeated fiercely. “Or I will die to protect you, understand?”
Alice tipped her snout up and bayed at the sky. The pack was coming now, lean hindquarters bunching and lengthening. Blood matted their jowls. The tiny pink eyes shone with anticipation.
“You can’t save me if they tear you to pieces!” Alexei seized Alice’s scruff and shook her hard. “Go away, damn you!”
Alice growled in fury and despair. She faded to smoke just as the alpha sprang. Its jaws snapped on air. The creature gave a whimper of surprise. Its head swung around, panting and snuffling the ground. Alexei kept perfectly still, on his knees, palms upraised. His heart thundered as the pack surrounded him, so close he could feel the chill radiating from their bodies, smell their coppery breath.
“Bloody Kven bastards!” someone shouted.
Rademacher’s face darkened. He rode forward. “Who said that?”
The defenders kept their heads down. No one spoke.
A sharp whistle and the white hounds loped off.
Rademacher surveyed the prisoners. “You will march to Westfield Stadium in an orderly fashion. Cooperate and you will be treated well. Resist and you will learn how far my mercy extends.”
Lances prodded them to their feet. A gap was opened in the Kven ranks. The skies were darkening. A thin rain began to fall as Alexei emerged from the portcullis.
“They had it all planned out,” he muttered to Patryk, who walked beside him.
Spassov grimaced at the sky. “It’s not over, eh? Maybe Clavis will come back. Kick their asses.”
“Maybe.” Alexei shivered as the rain thickened, soaking his shirt. He thought of what Gray had said. “But I’ll tell you who else is coming, Patryk.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Malach saw the smoke rising over Nantwich before they reached the walls. Scouts rode ahead, returning to jubilantly report that the city had fallen to the Kvens.
Our new allies, he thought, still stunned that Luk, of all people, had broken from the other Curiae.
He glanced at Falke. “Get your hood up, Severin.”
The pontifex of Novostopol slumped in the saddle with a dazed expression. It lifted Malach’s spirits.
They passed through the city gates, garrisoned by the Wolves now. The company numbered twenty mages, all young and handpicked by Malach for their level heads—and more importantly, their loyalty to him. Sydonie and Tristhus rode on either side, gaping at the tall buildings and broad boulevards. The Arx had spared no expense when it rebuilt after the war. Nantwich wasn’t a large city, but the elegant baroque style rivaled Novostopol’s oldest, wealthiest districts.
Shiny automobiles lined the curbs. Traffic lights flashed, though not a soul moved in the streets except for Kven soldiers on horseback. The patrols eyed their red cloaks warily, giving the mages a wide berth. Not for the first time, Malach wondered exactly what he’d gotten himself into.
He reminded himself that Nantwich was just a stepping stone. The ultimate goal was his own city. Not as it stood now—a looted husk occupied by Falke’s Ravens—but a place of beauty and light.
The children had never seen a car that wasn’t rusted out. Never peered into a single shop window. Most of the mages hadn’t, either. When they entered a deserted commercial district, Syd leapt from the saddle and ran to a smashed plate glass window, sticking a hand through to fish out a beribboned sunhat and jam it on her head.
Malach reined up. “Make it quick, Syd.”
“Okay, Cardinal!” A pair of huge sunglasses followed. She struck a pose, hand on hip. “How do I look?”
Whatever Sydonie did, Tristhus had to copy her. The younger boy slid from the saddle and ran to the shop.
“Watch the glass!” Malach called. Rachel squirmed in front of him.
“Want one, too,” she whispered.
It was the first words she had spoken on the journey—to him, at least.
“Get a hat for Rachel,” he called.
“Take whatever you want,” Valdrian added with a dry laugh. “Spoils of war.”
All the mages descended from Bal Kirith bloodlines—not Bal Agnar. Malach had made sure of that. They knew Syd and Trist and tolerated their antics with gruff indulgence. In turn, the children understood precisely how far they could go without earning a cuff, or worse. No one even attempted to supervise them except Malach, not that they listened to him.
Trithus found a silk top hat. It kept falling off, but he seemed determined to keep it. Syd picked out a man’s derby with a feather in the band. She handed it to Malach, who set it on his daughter’s head.
“Can you see?” he asked with a laugh.
She nodded, though he knew she couldn’t. Malach’s laughter died as he gazed at the column of smoke drifting into the sky. Maybe it was better that way.
“Raise the banner,” he told Valdrian.
His cousin galloped back to relay the command. The mage at their rear, a woman named Gammon, hoisted the Black Sun pennant just as a group of Kvens approached on horseback. Their leader flipped up his visor, revealing smooth pink cheeks and a thin, fussy mouth.
“Who are you?” Malach asked.
“Kommandant Rademacher.” Cold eyes studied his crimson robe. “They’re expecting you at the palace, mage.”
“I am Balaur’s Nuncio,” Malach said. “What is the state of the city?”
“We are restoring order.”
“Then why,” he wondered, “is it burning?”
Rademacher scowled. “There was resistance in the Unmarked quarter. They are learning a lesson.”
The Unmarked quarter. Malach thought of Nikola’s flat in Ash Court. The families that lived jammed together in the tenements.
“Organize brigades to put out the flames,” he snapped. “Now.”
Gloved hands tightened around the reins. “I follow the Reverend Father Luk’s orders, mage,” the kommandant replied tightly.
Malach stared at him until he looked away. He turned and repeated the order to Valdrian.
“If you encounter any knights, take them prisoner. They can be used as hostages. If they’re mortally wounded, put them out of their misery. But civilians are to be treated gently, understand?”
Valdrian winked. “Got it, Nuncio.”
Rademacher looked irritated, but didn’t try to countermand the orders. Valdrian chose a dozen mages and galloped off toward the source of the smoke.
“If your hand is too heavy, the whole city will rise up against you,” Malach said. “Hearts and minds. Do you understand nothing of strategy?”
“I understand that you appear when the fighting is done and we suffer all the casualties,” Rademacher snapped, anger thickening his Kven accent. “But I will not hinder you, mage.” He flung out an arm. “The Arx is that way.”
Malach rode on, preoccupied with thoughts of their arrival. Falke had kept well back from the knights, face averted, but Luk would recognize him in an instant. Others, too.
When they reached the stone bridge spanning the Caerfax River, Malach sent Jessiel ahead to inform the knights in the gatehouse that he had arrived. A curtain wall enclosed the Arx—twice as high as the one at Bal Agnar—casting a long shadow across the placid river. Malach gazed up at the hundreds of Crossed Keys Wards etched into the battlements; all useless now. He spurred his mount forward.
In short order, the first portcullis was winched up. They rode through a tunnel and beneath a second portcullis into a bailey, which widened further to the vast green plaza that sat at the center of every Arx.
“Don’t look,” Malach whispered. “Just keep your eyes on the horse.”
Of course, Rachel ignored this directive. She pushed the brim of the hat up. He could only make out her profile, but her mouth tightened as they rode along the edge of the plaza. The bodies had been removed, though the signs of battle were everywhere. Grass churned to red mud. Bits of clothing and the drone of flies.
Chars scrubbed blood from the steps of the rectangular palace fronting the plaza. Knights ran forward to take his bridle and attend to the other riders. A tall, slender man in a purple robe appeared at the doors. He trotted down the broad steps with a smile.
“I am Cardinal Lucas Gray,” he said, peering at them through steel-rimmed spectacles. “We are pleased to welcome the delegation from Bal Agnar to our city.”
“The Reverend Father Balaur accepts your hospitality,” Malach replied. “It’s been a long ride. I would like to see our rooms.”
“Of course.” His head bobbed. “You will have the east wing of the Pontifical Palace, Your Excellency.”
Gray’s eyes skipped over his companions. Did they catch for a moment on Falke? Malach wasn’t sure. He handed Rachel down and slid from the saddle, legs aching.
“I hear your own Arx is far more impressive,” Gray said, flashing a nervous smile. “Er, I mean from the outside, of course.”
Both rebel cities had been looted down to the last bauble, but Bal Kirith at least retained a hint of its former grandeur. The Pontifex’s Palace was made of astrum, which shone like cold fire beneath the moon and stars. The front was carved with vines and flowers that made it seem a part of the jungle.
“That is true,” Malach agreed, studying the plain stone structure before him. “But our cities will be restored someday.” He smiled. “And you will weep from the beauty of them.”
Gray nodded uncertainly. He led them up the stairs and through a pair of bronze doors into a marble-floored antechamber. A small woman with straight black hair waited with hands clasped. She wore a ring of keys around her neck. Dark, tilted eyes met Malach’s. She had a direct, no-nonsense gaze.
“This is the Mistress of Chars,” Gray said. “She’ll see you to your rooms. Once you’ve refreshed yourself, you may come to the main audience chamber.” He bowed and retreated down one of the columned loggias.
“If you would follow me, Nuncio?” the Mistress of Chars asked.
Sydonie and Tristhus darted ahead, trailing grubby fingers along the ancient tapestries lining the walls. When Rachel yanked at his hand, he gave in and let her join them. Falke walked a few paces behind with his hood raised.
“We won’t give you any trouble, Mistress,” Malach said as they ascended a wide, curving staircase. “You have my word.”
“I did not expect any,” she replied in a polite tone, though her face was carved from granite.
“But I will need the keys to all the doors in this wing,” he added.
“Of course. Your apartments are at the end of the corridor. They are the largest.” She lifted the chain from her neck and unhooked a second ring of keys. Malach tucked it in his pocket.
The battle was as good as over. It wasn’t a matter of numbers. The sides were more or less equally matched. But those of the Order who’d survived were wielding death ley. Alexei had seen dozens consumed by those reaching tendrils.
For the hundredth time, he wondered where the reinforcements were. What of the garrisons along the city walls? The knights patrolling the Morho? He couldn’t believe they all followed Gray. From what he could tell, most of the Nants were loyal to Clavis.
The last words faded and the song began anew, drifting over in snatches.
“They did right to try to contain the enemy here,” Misha said. “Worst case . . . I mean to say . . . .” He trailed off in obvious confusion.
Morvana touched his sleeve. “It’s all right, Captain.”
He blinked rapidly, pressing a hand over one eye. “Worst case, they can open the gates. At least there’s a line of retreat.”
“Then let us join them,” she said, adjusting Alice in her arms.
For the first time in hours, Alexei noticed glints of gold in her short hair. The diamond stud in her nose and fine lines that touched the corners of her eyes. Dawn was breaking.
They picked their way through broken glass and bodies cushioned with arrows. Worse sights he’d grown numb to. The singing grew louder. Then Gray’s forces launched into their own anthem. A discordant clamor of shouts and taunts and blood-curdling howls.
The white hounds trotted out to form a line across the plaza. Behind them, dozens of half-human beasts prowled. Then about a hundred cloaked figures and a scattering of armored knights.
Gray himself had yet to appear. No doubt hiding inside the palace, the coward.
The defenders were a mix of knights and clergy. When they saw the trio limping towards the gates, a few beckoned them on. Two broke from the crowd. One tall and slender, the other built like a balding sledgehammer. Covered in mud and blood, yet undeniably Patryk Spassov and Natalya Anderle. Tears stood in her eyes as she cupped Alexei’s face.
“We’d given up hope,” she said.
“Should have known better,” Spassov grinned.
A ragged cry went up from the knights in the gatehouse. The chains of the portcullis winched upward. Alexei’s heart lifted at the sight of hundreds of blue banners. A sea of them stretching back across the drawbridge beyond.
“That’s what they were waiting for!” He grinned. “The Wolves from Kvengard!”
Misha clapped him on the shoulder. Morvana closed her eyes. “Danke der ley,” she murmured.
The first Kvens poured through before the portcullis was fully raised. A double column of knights in blue tabards followed by light cavalry and archers. The sun broke over the walls, shining on breastplates and pikes. The defenders let out a resounding cheer.
Not even the appearance of Kommandant Rademacher in the van could dampen Alexei’s joy. The sound of marching feet and jangling harness filled the air. Rademacher rode out to the center of the plaza.
The white dogs were snapping and pawing at the ground. One streaked toward his horse. The animal whinnied nervously. Rademacher sawed at the reins and the mount quieted. His troops were fanning out, penning the defenders into the center of the plaza.
Alexei glanced up at the palace. A figure watched from one of the high balconies. Even at a distance, Alexei could make out the deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks of the Pontifex Luk. The realization of what was happening struck him, but it was already too late.
Rademacher wheeled around, turning his back to their enemies.
“Throw down your swords,” he shouted, “and you will be treated as prisoners of war with all the rights accorded under Curia law! Resist and you will be executed on the spot!”
There was a stunned silence. Then angry mutters swept the crowd. The defenders milled in confusion.
“Drop the portcullis!” someone shouted desperately.
The heavy iron grill was designed to slam down in an instant should the need arise. A struggle erupted at the gatehouse. It was swiftly suppressed by the Kvens. The portcullis remained open. There seemed no end to Luk’s army.
“On your knees!” Rademacher barked. “Hands in the air!”
Steel scraped on leather as the Kvens drew their swords. Arrows notched to bowstrings.
“Do it! Or I’ll unleash the dogs on you!”
Outnumbered thirty to one, the defenders complied with grim faces. Alexei sank to his knees. So did Patryk and Natalya, who muttered vile oaths under her breath. Only Morvana and his brother remained standing. The bishop looked livid. She gently set Alice down and strode forward with clenched fists. Misha followed. Rademacher watched them approach with a stony expression.
“What is the meaning of this?” Morvana demanded. “Have you gone mad, Kommandant?” She turned in a slow circle, glaring at the Kvens. Some flinched away from her gaze. Most stared back impassively. “Do your vows mean nothing? We just signed a binding treaty with Nantwich! Our brothers and sisters in the Via Sancta! You would follow the orders of a traitor?”
“They are not my orders,” Rademacher said with satisfaction. “It is the will of the Reverend Father Luk. You are the traitor.”
Morvana followed his eyes to the balcony. The blood drained from her face. She shook her head in denial.
Maria Karolo had joined Luk at the balustrade. The sharp corner of her hair brushed a chilly half-smile.
“You are under arrest, Ziegler,” Rademacher said. “Stripped of all offices and authority by order of the Reverend Father.” He raised his voice. “The Nuncio is hereby excommunicated!” A nod at his men. “Take her into the Arx.”
Misha raised his sword. “Touch her,” he said loudly, “and it will be the last thing you do.”
“No!” Morvana laid a hand on his arm. It was so quiet, Alexei heard her words clearly, though they were spoken for his brother. “You will not die for me, Captain. I will go.”
“What will you do with Her Grace?” Misha demanded.
“That is for the Reverend Father to determine.” Rademacher stared down from his horse. “My orders are merely to take her into custody.” He smiled. “Come, Bryce. We know each other. Surely we can settle this without bloodshed.”
Misha’s lip curled in derision. “Without bloodshed?” He looked around. “You are mad.”
“Enough!” A sharp gesture to his knights. “Detain them both.”
A dozen men came forward. Alexei feared his brother would make a stand, but he threw the sword down. His eyes never left Rademacher’s face as the knights dragged him away. Morvana strode for the palace with her back straight and head held high, her captors hurrying to keep her surrounded. Alexei sensed their unease. The bishop might be excommunicated, but she had been Luk’s chief aide for years. None seemed eager to lay hands on her.
Rademacher hadn’t seen Alexei yet, but he would at any moment. And it wasn’t himself he feared for.
“Go,” Alexei hissed. “Leave, little sister.”
Alice’s ears drooped. She wedged her tail between her legs, avoiding his eye.
The white hound at Rademacher’s side sniffed the air. It caught her scent and barked aggressively. The others picked it up. They trotted across the plaza, muzzles frothing with saliva. A demonic chorus.
“Hide!” Alexei repeated fiercely. “Or I will die to protect you, understand?”
Alice tipped her snout up and bayed at the sky. The pack was coming now, lean hindquarters bunching and lengthening. Blood matted their jowls. The tiny pink eyes shone with anticipation.
“You can’t save me if they tear you to pieces!” Alexei seized Alice’s scruff and shook her hard. “Go away, damn you!”
Alice growled in fury and despair. She faded to smoke just as the alpha sprang. Its jaws snapped on air. The creature gave a whimper of surprise. Its head swung around, panting and snuffling the ground. Alexei kept perfectly still, on his knees, palms upraised. His heart thundered as the pack surrounded him, so close he could feel the chill radiating from their bodies, smell their coppery breath.
“Bloody Kven bastards!” someone shouted.
Rademacher’s face darkened. He rode forward. “Who said that?”
The defenders kept their heads down. No one spoke.
A sharp whistle and the white hounds loped off.
Rademacher surveyed the prisoners. “You will march to Westfield Stadium in an orderly fashion. Cooperate and you will be treated well. Resist and you will learn how far my mercy extends.”
Lances prodded them to their feet. A gap was opened in the Kven ranks. The skies were darkening. A thin rain began to fall as Alexei emerged from the portcullis.
“They had it all planned out,” he muttered to Patryk, who walked beside him.
Spassov grimaced at the sky. “It’s not over, eh? Maybe Clavis will come back. Kick their asses.”
“Maybe.” Alexei shivered as the rain thickened, soaking his shirt. He thought of what Gray had said. “But I’ll tell you who else is coming, Patryk.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Malach saw the smoke rising over Nantwich before they reached the walls. Scouts rode ahead, returning to jubilantly report that the city had fallen to the Kvens.
Our new allies, he thought, still stunned that Luk, of all people, had broken from the other Curiae.
He glanced at Falke. “Get your hood up, Severin.”
The pontifex of Novostopol slumped in the saddle with a dazed expression. It lifted Malach’s spirits.
They passed through the city gates, garrisoned by the Wolves now. The company numbered twenty mages, all young and handpicked by Malach for their level heads—and more importantly, their loyalty to him. Sydonie and Tristhus rode on either side, gaping at the tall buildings and broad boulevards. The Arx had spared no expense when it rebuilt after the war. Nantwich wasn’t a large city, but the elegant baroque style rivaled Novostopol’s oldest, wealthiest districts.
Shiny automobiles lined the curbs. Traffic lights flashed, though not a soul moved in the streets except for Kven soldiers on horseback. The patrols eyed their red cloaks warily, giving the mages a wide berth. Not for the first time, Malach wondered exactly what he’d gotten himself into.
He reminded himself that Nantwich was just a stepping stone. The ultimate goal was his own city. Not as it stood now—a looted husk occupied by Falke’s Ravens—but a place of beauty and light.
The children had never seen a car that wasn’t rusted out. Never peered into a single shop window. Most of the mages hadn’t, either. When they entered a deserted commercial district, Syd leapt from the saddle and ran to a smashed plate glass window, sticking a hand through to fish out a beribboned sunhat and jam it on her head.
Malach reined up. “Make it quick, Syd.”
“Okay, Cardinal!” A pair of huge sunglasses followed. She struck a pose, hand on hip. “How do I look?”
Whatever Sydonie did, Tristhus had to copy her. The younger boy slid from the saddle and ran to the shop.
“Watch the glass!” Malach called. Rachel squirmed in front of him.
“Want one, too,” she whispered.
It was the first words she had spoken on the journey—to him, at least.
“Get a hat for Rachel,” he called.
“Take whatever you want,” Valdrian added with a dry laugh. “Spoils of war.”
All the mages descended from Bal Kirith bloodlines—not Bal Agnar. Malach had made sure of that. They knew Syd and Trist and tolerated their antics with gruff indulgence. In turn, the children understood precisely how far they could go without earning a cuff, or worse. No one even attempted to supervise them except Malach, not that they listened to him.
Trithus found a silk top hat. It kept falling off, but he seemed determined to keep it. Syd picked out a man’s derby with a feather in the band. She handed it to Malach, who set it on his daughter’s head.
“Can you see?” he asked with a laugh.
She nodded, though he knew she couldn’t. Malach’s laughter died as he gazed at the column of smoke drifting into the sky. Maybe it was better that way.
“Raise the banner,” he told Valdrian.
His cousin galloped back to relay the command. The mage at their rear, a woman named Gammon, hoisted the Black Sun pennant just as a group of Kvens approached on horseback. Their leader flipped up his visor, revealing smooth pink cheeks and a thin, fussy mouth.
“Who are you?” Malach asked.
“Kommandant Rademacher.” Cold eyes studied his crimson robe. “They’re expecting you at the palace, mage.”
“I am Balaur’s Nuncio,” Malach said. “What is the state of the city?”
“We are restoring order.”
“Then why,” he wondered, “is it burning?”
Rademacher scowled. “There was resistance in the Unmarked quarter. They are learning a lesson.”
The Unmarked quarter. Malach thought of Nikola’s flat in Ash Court. The families that lived jammed together in the tenements.
“Organize brigades to put out the flames,” he snapped. “Now.”
Gloved hands tightened around the reins. “I follow the Reverend Father Luk’s orders, mage,” the kommandant replied tightly.
Malach stared at him until he looked away. He turned and repeated the order to Valdrian.
“If you encounter any knights, take them prisoner. They can be used as hostages. If they’re mortally wounded, put them out of their misery. But civilians are to be treated gently, understand?”
Valdrian winked. “Got it, Nuncio.”
Rademacher looked irritated, but didn’t try to countermand the orders. Valdrian chose a dozen mages and galloped off toward the source of the smoke.
“If your hand is too heavy, the whole city will rise up against you,” Malach said. “Hearts and minds. Do you understand nothing of strategy?”
“I understand that you appear when the fighting is done and we suffer all the casualties,” Rademacher snapped, anger thickening his Kven accent. “But I will not hinder you, mage.” He flung out an arm. “The Arx is that way.”
Malach rode on, preoccupied with thoughts of their arrival. Falke had kept well back from the knights, face averted, but Luk would recognize him in an instant. Others, too.
When they reached the stone bridge spanning the Caerfax River, Malach sent Jessiel ahead to inform the knights in the gatehouse that he had arrived. A curtain wall enclosed the Arx—twice as high as the one at Bal Agnar—casting a long shadow across the placid river. Malach gazed up at the hundreds of Crossed Keys Wards etched into the battlements; all useless now. He spurred his mount forward.
In short order, the first portcullis was winched up. They rode through a tunnel and beneath a second portcullis into a bailey, which widened further to the vast green plaza that sat at the center of every Arx.
“Don’t look,” Malach whispered. “Just keep your eyes on the horse.”
Of course, Rachel ignored this directive. She pushed the brim of the hat up. He could only make out her profile, but her mouth tightened as they rode along the edge of the plaza. The bodies had been removed, though the signs of battle were everywhere. Grass churned to red mud. Bits of clothing and the drone of flies.
Chars scrubbed blood from the steps of the rectangular palace fronting the plaza. Knights ran forward to take his bridle and attend to the other riders. A tall, slender man in a purple robe appeared at the doors. He trotted down the broad steps with a smile.
“I am Cardinal Lucas Gray,” he said, peering at them through steel-rimmed spectacles. “We are pleased to welcome the delegation from Bal Agnar to our city.”
“The Reverend Father Balaur accepts your hospitality,” Malach replied. “It’s been a long ride. I would like to see our rooms.”
“Of course.” His head bobbed. “You will have the east wing of the Pontifical Palace, Your Excellency.”
Gray’s eyes skipped over his companions. Did they catch for a moment on Falke? Malach wasn’t sure. He handed Rachel down and slid from the saddle, legs aching.
“I hear your own Arx is far more impressive,” Gray said, flashing a nervous smile. “Er, I mean from the outside, of course.”
Both rebel cities had been looted down to the last bauble, but Bal Kirith at least retained a hint of its former grandeur. The Pontifex’s Palace was made of astrum, which shone like cold fire beneath the moon and stars. The front was carved with vines and flowers that made it seem a part of the jungle.
“That is true,” Malach agreed, studying the plain stone structure before him. “But our cities will be restored someday.” He smiled. “And you will weep from the beauty of them.”
Gray nodded uncertainly. He led them up the stairs and through a pair of bronze doors into a marble-floored antechamber. A small woman with straight black hair waited with hands clasped. She wore a ring of keys around her neck. Dark, tilted eyes met Malach’s. She had a direct, no-nonsense gaze.
“This is the Mistress of Chars,” Gray said. “She’ll see you to your rooms. Once you’ve refreshed yourself, you may come to the main audience chamber.” He bowed and retreated down one of the columned loggias.
“If you would follow me, Nuncio?” the Mistress of Chars asked.
Sydonie and Tristhus darted ahead, trailing grubby fingers along the ancient tapestries lining the walls. When Rachel yanked at his hand, he gave in and let her join them. Falke walked a few paces behind with his hood raised.
“We won’t give you any trouble, Mistress,” Malach said as they ascended a wide, curving staircase. “You have my word.”
“I did not expect any,” she replied in a polite tone, though her face was carved from granite.
“But I will need the keys to all the doors in this wing,” he added.
“Of course. Your apartments are at the end of the corridor. They are the largest.” She lifted the chain from her neck and unhooked a second ring of keys. Malach tucked it in his pocket.
