The Hidden Queen, page 43
“I do not think the Father of Lies saw us,” she says after a time. “His eye is on…” She hesitates, reaching out as if stroking the air above the dice. “…Shar’Dama Ka.”
That gets everyone’s attention. “Bloodfather?” I ask.
“There is no other,” Rojvah says, but that ent exactly right. There’s my da, missing almost sixteen years now. Folk thought he was the Deliverer, too.
The father waits below, Aunt Leesha’s dice said, and I wonder again what they really meant.
“If you’ve got dice,” Selen says, “can’t we just ask them where Safehold is?”
Rojvah shakes her head. “Every divination affects the currents of magic. If we seek the place directly, the magic will connect us, and give the Father of Evil our exact location.”
“Ay, well then,” Selen says. “Don’t do that.”
“Perhaps there is a way.” Rojvah takes out Micha’s earring and pierces her finger with the pin to draw blood for the dice. She whispers another prayer, seeking its mate, but this time I can smell her frustration even before she speaks. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, nothing?” I ask. “Or nothin’ that made sense?”
“The dice cannot sense the ring’s mate on the currents,” Rojvah says. “It could be out of range, destroyed, or shielded in some way.”
“Ay, well, let’s worry about it tomorrow,” I say. “Everyone get some rest. I’m on watch till mornin’.”
The hot stones keep everyone from freezin’ to death, but not much more than that. Ent enough to dry their clothes, and the cold wind blowing through the hills steals the heat. The magic fades over time, like a fire burning low, and Rojvah makes another pass, draining the magic from her bracelets and anklets to keep our teeth from chatterin’.
Selen and Arick have thick padded coats under their armor. Their body temperatures ent in a danger zone, but Rojvah, shivering on the ground as she clutches a damp blanket around her, is turnin’ blue at the edges. I can see the cold seepin’ toward her chest.
I glance at Selen, and find her staring right at me as she lies with her head propped on her saddle. Her words are quiet as a puff of breath. “Go, you woodbrain.”
I drift over and lie down beside Rojvah, laying the blanket over us both. I don’t say anything, and neither does she, but she rolls into me and lets me put my arms around her, willing my own heat into her as much as I can.
After a time, the chill damp of our clothes becomes a warm humidity under the blanket, and her shivers slow. Rojvah drifts off to sleep, as do the others. Her steady heartbeat is a warm comfort, but I can’t sleep like the others. Not when a fresh pack of nightwolves, or Creator only knows what else, could be comin’ from over the next hill.
Inns and small villages have cropped up along the Messenger Road from Hollow to Angiers, but nothing to accommodate a thousand Hollow Soldiers and the two hundred in Rhinebeck’s Flamework Corps.
I take us west as soon as we cross the bridge over the Angiers River, avoiding the road entirely to move our forces over undeveloped grasslands, just waking from their winter slumber.
“Where are we going?” Rhiney asks.
“Detour,” I say. “Seeing so many soldiers on the march will make folk uneasy. Best we leave everyone in peace.”
Rhinebeck looks doubtfully at the thick mud sucking at the horses’ hooves and spattering his boots. He doesn’t argue, but I know he isn’t satisfied.
He’s blunter at dinner. Rhiney and I have taken to eating together in my tent, a ritual expected of our rank, but one that reminds me all too much of the meals I shared with Chadan before we went into the Maze. The prince has brought along his personal chef, who somehow manages to deliver meals on the road that rival what was served in the palace.
But where Chadan was serene, reserved, and proper, Rhiney is…flamboyant. His stories are like a Jongleur’s show, replete with funny voices and pantomime that have me laughing until my cheeks ache from it. Chadan ate with quick, efficient snaps of his sticks, never spilling so much as a grain of couscous. Rhiney eats with more gusto, calling out flavors, insisting I try things, and gnawing bones like a nightwolf in its den. He’ll speak at length about the origins of a dish or how the sauce is made.
I would tell Chadan of my life in Hollow, but Rhiney has heard it all, asking after my friends and family. We’ve corresponded all our lives, and yet for the first time, we are truly getting to know each other.
Tonight I see a different side of him.
“I’m not a fool, Olive,” Rhiney says the moment we’re alone in my tent. “There’s no gain in heading this far west. We’re not headed for Hollow, and we’re not headed east, to the foothills where your mother disappeared. New moon is tomorrow, and we’re making portable circle camp in a field. So again I ask, where are we going?”
He doesn’t sound angry. He isn’t trying to pick a fight. But he’s staring at me with those blue eyes, and I know he won’t accept half an answer like I gave in front of the others.
And I don’t want to give one. I don’t want to be alone anymore. Rhiney has a right to know where we’re going. “We’re going to Anoch Dahl.”
I pause, letting that sink in. Anoch Dahl, the City of Night, is Krasian territory, and Angierians harbor an earned mistrust of Krasians.
But Rhinebeck isn’t just anyone. The Krasians are why his grandmother sits the throne; they killed his father and two of his uncles. Rhiney’s been raised to take that throne, and Araine isn’t the sort of person who would turn her duchy over to a fool. He’ll have intelligence on Anoch Dahl, a once massive city, now part military junction and part archaeological dig. Anoch Dahl stands over the Mouth of the Abyss, the entrance to…
“The hive,” Rhiney swallows hard as he pieces it together. “You’re going to the Core to assault the hive.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say. “I am going to secure the Spear of Ala.”
“The lost fortress in the tales of the Deliverer?” Rhiney asks. “The one full of the demon-blooded?”
“The alamen fae are not demon-blooded,” I say, perhaps a little too forcefully. After a lifetime of hiding my strength, and seeing folk distance themselves from Darin, who couldn’t so easily mask his powers, it’s a sensitive topic. The alamen fae were Krasian warriors taken prisoner three thousand years ago, raised in the demon hive as livestock.
“Three thousand years,” Rhiney says, as if reading my thoughts. “How many generations is that? A hundred fifty? Two hundred? Born, raised, and dying in utter darkness, bathed in the magic of the Core. What would you call them?”
I don’t have an answer. “It doesn’t matter. The Krasians have lost touch with them, and Mother’s prophecy warned of what waits below. I need to get to the fortress and take command.”
Rhinebeck looks at me a while, then nods. “And you think you can do that with a thousand Hollow Soldiers, and two hundred of my Flamework Corps? Why didn’t you say something sooner? I could have taken ten times as many! Night, if it’s that important, why not run a Messenger to Miln? Duke Ragen would send an army of Mountain Spears…”
I shake my head and he drifts off. “What do you know of mind demons?”
Rhiney pales a little at that. “I know one of them took my uncle’s mind. Forced him to beat his wife and unborn child to death. Would have done for Grandmother, as well, had she not found a way to flee.”
He looks at me with wide eyes. “But the Deliverer killed them all…didn’t he?”
A shrill whistle cuts off my reply. Both of us spring to our feet, rushing for the tent flap.
“What is it?” I demand, looking around for the source of the alarm. I see no threat, but several of Rhiney’s men have their weapons pointed to the sky, looking through their distance lenses.
Rhiney takes his own weapon, putting the lens to one eye as he searches the sky.
“Wind demons,” he says, passing the weapon to me. “A flight of them.”
I lift the weapon and close one eye, looking where Rhinebeck indicates. The lenses are warded, and I can see magic’s spectrum through them. Wind demons are not the most powerful of demons, but still their bright auras are easy to spot against the sky unless they find cover in the clouds. There’s more than a dozen of them, and I know from experience that they can swoop in and carry a man off in their talons before he even realizes what’s happening. Worse, I see the stones they are carrying.
Hollow’s greatwards can protect against specific types of bombardment, but even then, the Father of Demons found a weakness for his strike on Solstice. Our portable circles and other defenses are proof against corelings entering the camp, but they will not protect us from mundane attack.
But a dozen wind demons are not a significant threat. I lower the weapon, scanning the horizon, but suddenly Rhinebeck grabs the barrel, lifting it high and spoiling my vantage.
“What—” I begin.
“Never point your weapon at your own troops,” Rhiney cuts in. He detaches the distance lens and passes it to me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, taking the device. My embarrassment at my own lack of discipline fades a moment later as I spot reaps of field demons approaching rapidly. Farther out, more slow and lumbering, rock demons follow to finish what the lesser demons begin.
“Kill the wind demons!” I shout, remembering the uncanny accuracy of the attack on Solstice. “Now, before they can loose their stones and foil the wards! Gared! Ready the Cutters!”
Rhinebeck gives a signal, and his men open fire, dropping wind demons from the sky long before they are in range of a Hollow crank bow. Most are taken down in the first volley, stones falling short of the mark. The remaining wind demons scatter, performing dizzying maneuvers before launching their stones.
I expect the stones to be aimed at the wards around the soldiers’ camp, or perhaps even my tent. Instead, they take out the protection of the circle containing the animals and supply.
Wise. Without animals and supply, the journey to Anoch Dahl would be difficult, if not impossible. We’d need to turn back to Hollow or Angiers, losing precious time. Already I fear we may be too late. Even after we reach the Mouth of the Abyss, the accounts of my father and Renna Bales describe a journey of weeks at least.
But while the demons have an opening, exploiting it is another matter. Spear and shield in hand, I take my place in front of Gared and his Cutters, ready to meet the charging field demons head-on.
We needn’t have bothered. Rhinebeck himself puts down the last wind demon, then turns his attention to the demons in the grass. “Turn!” he calls, and the Wooden Soldiers take two choreographed steps to face the horde. “Load!” The corps chamber new ammunition. “Aim!” The rifles go up, and Rhinebeck’s eyes narrow as the demons draw closer, moving so quickly I tense, ready to leap in front of the young prince before he’s eaten.
“Shoot!” The flamework weapons go off as one, a deafening sound as each coughs a gout of smoke and flame.
Field demons shriek and fall immediately, causing those behind to stumble or leap out of the way.
KA-CHAK! The Angierians work the bolts on their weapons, firing another round into the off-balance foe. And again, a third time.
“Break!” Rhiney calls, and the Flamework Corps break their line in the center, smoothly stepping aside.
“Now!” I cry, and race forward without waiting to see if any follow.
With a roar, my warriors follow, just like in the Maze. We tear into the field demons, putting an end to those twitching on the ground as their magic attempts to heal the bullet wounds, as well as those still on their feet. This is where Gared and his fighters are at their best, trampling over a disoriented foe.
Seeing them come over the horizon, it felt like there was an endless stream of demons, like the storms out in the desert, but either Alagai Ka doesn’t have the same numbers to draw upon this close to protected lands, or he is simply testing our defenses. There were barely a hundred field demons, now hacked apart and twitching. The rock demons, advancing a moment before, draw back, vanishing into the darkness.
We return to camp covered in spattered ichor and sweating in the cold night air. Rhiney and his Flamework Corps are still fresh and pristine, but no one can say they didn’t pull their weight. I punch a fist to my chest at them, and the men visibly stand taller as they return the salute.
“You continue to impress,” I tell Rhiney, and his eyes glitter as he sketches a bow that feels both sincere and teasingly mocking. “But this was only a taste of what we will face in the eternal night below. We need to arm my soldiers, and soon.” Thus far, Rhinebeck won’t even let the Hollow Soldiers use live rounds in training, and he collects the rifles when drilling is done.
That sobers him. “Each bullet is precious, Olive. A silver moon apiece just in the making, and all the more valuable because we cannot replace them now that we have left Angiers. I won’t turn them over to your soldiers until I can be sure they will not be wasted.”
I have no argument, so I turn my attention to the camp, making sure the circle of protection around the animals is restored, and additional guards are posted on watch with warded distance lenses.
“I’ve never seen so many corelings in one place,” Rhiney notes.
“This was a weak showing,” I say again. “A test to see what your new weapons are capable of, perhaps. The real test will be when we go below.”
* * *
—
I keep our forces on alert through new moon and the dark night that follows. We sleep in shifts, not daring to remove our armor, but Alagai Ka does not strike again.
Did he only want information on Rhinebeck’s flamework? If so, I was a fool to show our hand so soon.
Or is this a sign of weakness, at last? There was no strategy to the attack, none of the precision that let a lone wind demon smash my throne from miles above Cutter’s Hollow itself. If Alagai Ka was in full control, the demons could have circled safely out of range, dropping boulders on supply carts and warriors alike as they took out the ward circles.
I learned in Chamber of Shadows that hora magic dilutes and weakens over distance. Why should the same not apply to the demon king’s mental control over his drones? We are far from the mountains where Alagai Ka keeps his Safehold, and I do not think he can leave the queen’s side so close to a laying. Perhaps we are at the limit of his reach at last.
Or perhaps he is simply running out of drones. Unlike the sands of Krasia, these lands were swept clean of any lingering corelings by the armies of Angiers and Hollow while I was still in the nursery.
We see little sign of demons over the following nights.
I’d hoped to make better time. The spring grasses are long enough to graze the horses, but not so much they hinder us. But it’s melt season, and the carts—particularly Rhiney’s, laden with heavy ammunition—keep getting stuck in the mud. Even the horses need to step gingerly in places, so they don’t lose footing or break an ankle.
Gradually, the mountains come into view. Not a proper range as in the east where Darin and Selen have gone, these peaks look spat violently from the plains, as if rejected by the Ala itself. They stand like a wound, at their center a gateway to evil my ancestors named the Mouth of the Abyss.
It was into the Mouth that my father and Mr. and Mrs. Bales took a captive Alagai Ka, forcing him to guide them to the hive like a hound. It is a humiliation the Father of Demons has not forgotten, and can only forgive by feeding us all to his new queen.
Even in the foothills, I can see the increased flows of magic after sunset, venting from the Mouth—a direct open-air path boring down into the living Ala, all the way to the demon hive, and from there to the Core itself.
We don’t need a map to follow those currents. A few days later we crest a rise and get our first glimpse of the City of Night.
Anoch Dahl sits within an ancient ring of warded obelisks, towering structures that look lain by giants. The stones are pitted with age, but their wards are in fresh repair, much like the city they protect.
Like Desert Spear, Anoch Dahl’s outer city is in ruins, a once vast metropolis, shattered by corelings and the weight of untold ages. But in the center is a thriving town, new masonry and buildings melded to the skeletal remains of old. Part garrison and part archaeology dig.
Anoch Dahl is ostensibly controlled by the Shunjin—one of Krasia’s larger and more powerful tribes—but Father has invested heavily in its revival, drawing merchants and artisans in search of profits, as well as dama scholars of all tribes and their entourages, hoping to unlock something of the history of our people.
Most exciting of all, a significant percentage are said to be alamen fae, the descendants of the armies of Kaji, the first Deliverer. The fae’s ancestors were taken prisoner by the demons thousands of years ago and kept as livestock until they were freed by my father and brought back into our fold.
I have never met an alamen fae, though I’ve read about them in books and seen illustrations. What stands out most in my memory are Mrs. Bales’ bedtime stories about them. Like humans out the corner of your eye, she used to say, but look right at ’em and they…ent.
I flex my fingers to relieve their sudden tension as I look down at the encampments in the ruined parts of the city. There lies Hollow’s army—a thousand of Lord Commander Gamon’s lancers and four thousand foot soldiers billeted directly across from an equivalent Krasian force sent from Everam’s Bounty.
Even from a distance, the distrust hanging in the space between them is palpable. Blood debts and grievances run deep on both sides, and now in addition to my own bodyguard I am adding two hundred Angierians with flamework weapons to the mix.
