The Hidden Queen, page 39
Once we’re free of the crowd, we race through the night streets, still too busy for horses, but clear enough to move at speed. Soon we reach streets that are all but empty, keeping away from the wardlights as we head for the spot where Selen waits with the horses and pack animals.
I take a moment with Dusk Runner, putting my hand on his great head and feeding him a carrot as I Draw a touch of magic through him, Reading his love and devotion.
“Ent goin’ to a sunny pasture, boy,” I say, knowing he cannot understand. “Thank you for taking me.”
Then I saddle up with the others, and we ride off, disappearing into the darkness like a gwil in the night.
You ask for a lot, child, and offer little in return.
Pray come look me in the eye, so I can see for myself which Olive Paper I am dealing with.
———A
The handwritten note arrived under separate seal from a formal invitation to visit Angiers. The venerable Duchess Araine, too old and frail for the journey, wished to pay her respects to Hollow’s new duch, in hope that their special relationship continue.
It’s a relationship that served both duchies well. Hollow was once a vassalage of Angiers, but the war reversed that balance of power. Hollow’s forces—Mother and my unborn self among them—took Fort Angiers back from the demons, and returned the exiled duchess Araine and her infant grandson to power. Mother and Araine had been very close. Not just allies, but friends. Family.
Yet despite Tarisa’s assurances, it seems a thousand flamework weapons, ammunition, and training in their use is too great an ask to pass without scrutiny.
The wording of Araine’s note keeps rebounding in my mind. Which Olive Paper I am dealing with. What did the duchess mean by that? Is she worried my time in Krasia has left me compromised? Or is it about my dual gender, and her own designs?
Mother told me once that Araine was eager to arrange a marriage between me and her grandson Rhinebeck. Rhiney and I have been exchanging letters since we first learned the pen. Many times over the years, I wondered if he was handsome, like the painting of his uncle Thamos that hangs in Mother’s keep. I wondered what it would be like to fall in love with a prince.
But now I know. It is pain, and heartbreak, and grief. If Araine thinks she can parlay my request into a political betrothal, she is mistaken.
I ride out the morning after Equinox with a thousand Hollow Soldiers. Arther worried so large a military escort might make the Angierians uneasy, but I need as many warriors as I can take without raising suspicion.
We put on a bit of a show for the Angierian herald. Me acting put upon at such a large bodyguard, and Gared loudly insisting Hollow won’t risk losing me again.
While the folk are still sleeping off the indulgences of the festival, we ride north, a loud and raucous distraction as Darin and the others slip away to the east.
At the same time, Lord Commander Gamon used the cover of the festival parade to take thousands of foot soldiers, archers, and Hollow Lancers west, overland and away from prying eyes, to meet Inevera’s Sharum at Anoch Dahl.
I sent my spear brothers with them, all save Faseek, who refused to leave my side. Krasians are not welcome in Angiers, not since my mad brother Jayan attempted to sack the capital. I’ve stowed my Tazhan alagai-scale in favor of the wooden armor worn more commonly in the North.
Commissioned over the winter, the wooden plates offer full protection—lighter than Tazhan steel, and just as strong, etched with powerful wardwork. Over the suit I wear a tabard of fine wool with a feminine cut that flares like a dress when I dismount. It’s beautiful and functional, but it doesn’t hold Chadan’s blessing. Good enough for a political message, but not what I will wear when we enter the night below.
Even Faseek, riding at my left, consented to wear the uniform of my house guard rather than his Sharum blacks. The order pained him, but his sharp uniform and neatly trimmed hair do little to lessen the intimidation he projects.
Like Gared’s Cutters, my brother rides with spear and shield still on his back, rather than secured to his saddle like the Hollow Soldiers and members of my house guard. Wisdom says they will be better rested if we are attacked, but Faseek will already be killing while they still fumble at clasps.
General Gared looms at my right like a mountain. The general’s transformation is complete as he rides in his full regalia. His armor is polished to a sheen, his tabard awash in the color of his many commendations, but I’ve seen him wade into a pack of sand demons in that armor and scatter the lot. Gared’s hair and beard are cropped close, all signs of gray shorn away by thick golden-blond hair. Grandmum said it looked like the sun when he was young, and she wasn’t wrong.
More, Gared’s regained his pride and self-respect. “Still at it like they’re on their honeymoon,” Selen said of her father and Baroness Emelia, after a recent Sixthday dinner.
I feel safer, knowing Gared and my spear brother are close.
Briar travels on foot, yet he roams far ahead of our mounted forces, scouting the territory and meeting us each night at caravan grounds placed at intervals along the seven-day journey up the Messenger Road to Angiers.
Sometimes in the camp I notice Oskar—one of many sharp-eyed recruits who volunteered for this mission, not knowing what they were signing up for.
Part of me wants to send him home, back to Apple Hill. Back to his family. I cost his village enough lives already. But another part of me remembers the look in his eyes when he and Selen charged the rock demon that was attacking his friends. Oskar has steel in him, and I need that where I am going.
His eyes slide by whenever we pass, careful not to meet mine. I do the same for him, respecting his desire to earn his place, not find favor in knowing the duch. He will make a fine officer one day.
As in the Krasian court, General Gared does not put on airs, laughing and eating with his soldiers when we make camp. I tend to get a headache when I stare too long at people’s auras, but I swear I can see the love the Cutters have for him vibrating in the air. They would die for him.
Cutters and Hollow Soldiers take turns challenging the general to feats of strength or wrestling, and the challengers do their best. Some are faster, or more skilled, but no one is stronger. Gared shrugs off blows that would have shattered the bones of weaker men, and even I would balk before attempting some of his feats of strength in front of an audience.
I watch, laughing and cheering with the crowd, but there is a hungry part of me that longs to challenge him. That relishes the idea of facing a hero of the demon war in his prime, pitting my strength and skill against his. If I am who the Damajah believes I am, who Mother believed I am, then it isn’t enough to have the strongest warriors at my back. I need to be the strongest warrior.
“Could beat him, you kept your wits,” a voice beside me says. I turn in surprise to see Briar. How did he get so close without me noticing him?
“But why?” he continues. “To shame your general in front of his men? The Hollowers will not love you more for it.”
“I am not sure they love me now,” I say. “They loved Mother, and they love General Gared, but do any of them truly know me?”
“Does anyone truly know anyone?” Briar asks. “They will love you until you give them reason not to. They love your mother and Gared because time and again Nie came for Hollow, only to find Leesha Paper and Gared Cutter standing in Her way. Would you do any less?”
I lift my chin, looking hard in his eye. “Of course not.”
“Then you are worthy of their love, Olive Paper, for you give it in return.”
* * *
—
“Wooden Soldiers,” Briar advises, moments before we hear the thunder of their approach.
The Angierian force is smaller than our own, in both number and stature. There are perhaps two hundred unarmored soldiers mounted on light, fleet-footed coursers. Angierians on the whole tend to be shorter than their southern cousins, and Gared’s Cutters, mounted on huge mustang, seem giants by comparison.
The Angierians carry no spears or shields, no axes or mattocks or bows. There are large knives on their saddles, but nothing of use while fighting atop a horse. Instead each has a long-barreled flamework weapon harnessed in easy reach, and a smaller pistol, similar to Prince Ramm’s weapon, at their hip.
Their leader is taller than the others, his horse an almost perfect white. His tailed green-and-gold surcoat is crisp and sharply pressed, helm polished to a sheen, but I am not fooled into thinking this is some foppish dandy. He handles his stallion expertly, seeming to fly down the road to us until I feel he will not have time to pull up.
Instinctively I reach for my shield, but Gared and Faseek are already moving their horses in front of me as the rider yanks the reins so hard his stallion rears, hooves kicking so close to Rockslide that I see Gared’s biceps bulge as he pulls the bridle to keep the surly animal from responding in kind.
“Ay, ya ripping fool,” Gared growls, “what d’ya think you’re—”
The rider ignores him, raising a hand to signal his escort to pull up. He turns a circle to ride off the rest of his animal’s momentum and sweeps off his helm.
He’s beautiful. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a waxed mustache above an angled jaw. His thick black hair springs back to fullness when the helmet is removed, dark waves above eyes as blue as my own.
But it’s his smile that stands out, bright and wide within a shadow of beard as he meets my eyes. “Olive!”
I blink. Ally or no, who is this man to use my first name like he…
“It’s me, Rhiney!” he cries when I do not react.
That startles me. Is it possible? Prince Rhinebeck and I have corresponded all our lives, but he’s six months younger than I am, while the man before me is in his full growth. I’m used to the effect in my spear brothers—feedback magic pushed our bodies into their physical primes—but Thesan lands are largely clear of corelings, and it’s surprising to see this far north.
I think again of the painting in Mother’s keep. This isn’t the same man, but the resemblance is unmistakable. “Rhiney!”
We mirror each other, throwing legs over the saddle and jumping down to embrace. He’s taller than I am, muscular without being bulky. He meets my eyes like a warrior when we pull apart, but the sweeping leg he makes is Angierian etiquette for greeting a woman of royal blood. “Your Grace.”
“Highness.” I cannot help but smile, spreading the “skirts” of my tabard in something like a shallow curtsy. I outrank Prince Rhinebeck, but likely not for long. He is the only blood heir to the wooden throne of Angiers, and his grandmother has seen close to ninety winters. Soon he will be duke, and I can see his men already defer to him.
“You’re a bit young to be leading a company of soldiers,” I note.
“I could say the same of you.” Rhiney offers me a wink that no doubt makes the girls at court swoon. “There has been an increase in coreling activity in the borderlands. We’ve been hunting them.”
This is news, and it isn’t good. The greatward system in Angiers is not as ambitious as Hollow’s, leaving many of their surrounding hamlets with only traditional warding. Since the Deliverer’s Purge, that has usually been enough. If demons are returning in numbers, it could mean Alagai Ka is drawing them back to the hive. Or it could mean he knows my plans, and is hunting me.
I shake the thought away. “You hunt them with flamework weapons?”
“They’re called rifles.” Rhinebeck reaches into the harness on his saddle, pulling free the weapon. “Mother told me you had an interest.”
“Flamework don’t work on demons.” Gared has dismounted as well. “Saw it myself in the war. Them little pellets shatter or flatten, ruinin’ the wards. Even thundersticks dun’t do much more than make a coreling dizzy.”
Rhinebeck reaches into one of the pouches on his belt, holding up a clear bullet. “Warded glass. A marksman can take down a lesser coreling with a single shot, though the larger ones can require a few hits before they fall.”
“Don’t they just heal up?” Gared asks. It’s a fair question. Demon magic can heal anything short of a severed limb or mortal wound in minutes.
Rhinebeck reaches for his saddle again, this time sliding free a heavy knife with a foot-long, warded steel blade. Suddenly his unnatural growth makes sense.
“You finish them off with that,” I say, “once they’re already down.”
Rhinebeck smiles. “The ale stories say Princes Olive wrestles corelings with bare hands, but I find killing them at a distance much more sensible.”
I laugh. “You aren’t wrong. Are you returning from a hunt?” Rhinebeck’s soldiers look too fresh and clean to have been out in the borderlands.
“Of course not,” Rhiney laughs. “I am here to escort you to Grandmother! Apologies for crowding the road. Got to keep up with the dance, as Grandmum always says. You brought a thousand warriors, so politics demand I meet you with an equivalent force.”
Gared snorts, and I can’t help but share the feeling. “Two hundred Wooden Soldiers against a thousand Cutters is an equivalent force? I don’t know if I should laugh or feel insulted.”
Rhinebeck shrugs. “You don’t have rifles. Your horses are slow. The terrain here would make it difficult to leave the road. That wooden armor may hold off a rock demon, but a glass bullet would punch right through.”
“Demonshit,” Gared says.
Rhiney gives Gared an appraising look. Is it confidence I see, or arrogance? “Care to wager on that, General?”
It feels like a trap, but Gared only smiles. “Ay, all right. Got a keg of my best ale on a cart back there. Say, against a cask of Angierian brandy? The good stuff, not that apricot business.”
Rhiney shows his teeth, and the trap is sprung. “General, if you win, I will take you to Mother’s vineyard personally, and let you taste them all and pick your favorite.”
Gared still looks confident, going over to Rockslide’s barding and removing a thick wooden armor plate, enameled in warded glass. It’s thicker than my own breastplate, and the wardwork is exquisite, as befitting a general’s mount. Even I am skeptical Rhiney’s weapon can damage it.
Rhiney slides his glass bullet into the rifle and works the bolt to chamber the round with a loud ka-chak. “Tell your men to hold tight to the reins,” he says loudly. “The sound will startle animals if they are not used to it.”
The prince moves to the side of the road, where he can raise the barrel of his weapon pointed away from everyone. “Whenever you’re ready, General.”
Gared grunts, throwing the armor plate high into the air. Quick as Prince Ramm with his bow, Rhiney puts the weapon to his shoulder, sights down its length, and lets fire with a gout of smoke and flame.
Indeed, there is a ripple through our ranks, animals of war suddenly gone skittish as the deer that have begun to repopulate since the purge. Soldiers work to calm animals as they kick and stomp and rear, even as the armor plate comes crashing back down to the ground.
“Excellent shot, Highness.” One of Rhinebeck’s attendants, Corporal Taler, runs to retrieve the plate, holding it up so all can see the sunlight streaming through the bullet-sized hole at its center.
Gared lets out a low whistle. “Owe you a keg.”
“The glass enamel on wooden armor is thin,” Rhiney says, “which is why the armor is so light. Proof against an arrow or spear, and the wards offer protection from corespawn, but in modern war, armor is…obsolete.”
Gared’s smile is a little pained, now. “Reckon those fancy weapons are great when you have space, but sooner or later, every fight gets in close.”
“Wise advice,” Rhinebeck nods, looking to his men. “ARMS!”
Moving as one, the Wooden Soldiers draw rifles from saddle harnesses, ready to shoot in seconds.
“BAYONETS!” Rhiney calls, and this time the soldiers pull those thick warded hunting blades, affixing them to the end of the rifles, turning them into warded spears.
I look at my soldiers, and sense their worry. Even Gared looks more respectful in the face of so many flamework weapons.
In spite of it all, I find myself smiling.
Seize every advantage.
* * *
—
“Beautiful, is it not?” Rhiney asks, seeing my eyes drift over his lands, up to the walled city in the distance.
Cutter’s Hollow wasn’t much of a place before the war. A town of hundreds, devastated by demons and plague. When refugees began to pour in from the south, the only choices were to expand rapidly or be consumed.
Mother chose the former, designing a series of interconnected greatwards into the layout of Hollow before new ground was broken. Some are small as single farmsteads, others so large they can only be seen by the clouds above, the very roads and lines of buildings in a town or entire barony forming symbols of protection against corespawn.
But Fort Angiers is an older place, protected by a great wardwall with buildings that have stood for hundreds of years and immutable streets. With most of the demons purged, there was little incentive to wipe the slate and start fresh. Forced out of Hollow entirely, it makes sense that any remaining demons would gather in Angiers. But we ride through lush pastures, rich farmland, orchards, and hunting grounds, unspoiled by demons or the engines of industry.
“Beautiful,” I agree. “I fear I look like a bumpkin, staring at everything. I’ve never been so far north.”
“I would see Hollow one day, if I can,” Rhiney says. “Even in peacetime, our mothers couldn’t cease work long enough to take a holiday and visit.”
I think of Arther and his endless papers, and know he’s right. Mother didn’t know the meaning of holidays. But it’s more than that. “I think it was us, more than them.”
