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Things fall into a pattern for days.
Solat disappears, as promised. I watch anxiously at the window as the armies clash at the walls and at the side gate every morning, and neither side seems to be gaining or losing ground by the time both sides retreat to their respective territories. Every night, bodies are burned.
The next morning, the men wake up and do the same. They put on their armor, cheer when Aron gives a war cry, and fight gloriously at his side.
Both sides are fighting for the god of battle, Aron of the Cleaver. The strange irony of that doesn’t escape me. No one’s going to ever back down because why would they? Their god is on the front lines, eating this shit up. The queen cries as her husband goes out to war every morning, convinced this will be the last time she sees him. I can’t imagine her terror. The only reason I’m calm is because I know Aron can’t get killed. He’s loving this, in his element with every swing of the gigantic double-bladed axe he now carries at all times. I want to be happy for him, but they haven’t made progress into the enemy camp, and I worry how long this will go on.
Will both Arons keep flinging their armies at each other until they run out of men? What happens then? It’s a sobering thought, and I think of poor Queen Halla, who clutches her infant son to her chest every day and frets over her husband.
As for me, I wait. I wait for Aron’s army to take control of the Adassian territory. I wait for Solat to send word that he’s found the other anchor. I wait for another assassin to appear. I wait for Aron to come back to me every night.
What else can I do?
I can’t leave. I can’t help.
All I can do is stare out the window and hope that there’s a break on one side or another, or that Solat appears with the information we need…or that the Aron on the other side disappears because Solat’s somehow assassinated the other anchor.
The only thing I can do is stand around and wait for something to change.
But days pass and there’s nothing.
It’s been maybe four days when everything breaks. The day starts as it always does. Aron wakes me up early for a fierce round of quick morning lovemaking before he puts on his armor and heads off to battle. I bathe and dress, then head into the queen’s chambers accompanied by Kerren and several other Yshremi guards who now shadow my every move. The queen sits with her ladies, her face pinched with stress. She was so happy that my Aron arrived, but it’s been days and we make no headway, and people just keep dying.
I sit down across from her and Kerren immediately starts tasting the food set out for me. “Morning,” I say to Halla, rubbing my eyes.
“Good morn to you.” Her voice is even, sweet. She’s good at hiding how she feels in front of the guards. It’s only after they settle to their places against the door that she lets some of her stress show. “Another day of this.” She spreads her hands in her lap. “I want to pray to the gods to watch over my husband, but there is no one in the Aether to hear.”
“Aron says they’re gaining ground,” I tell her. “I hope he’s right.”
“But will it be soon enough to save the lives of hundreds of good men?” She presses her fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry. I know you have as much control as I do on such things. I do have a small bit of good news for you on this day. My wizards have a spyglass for you.” Her smile is faint.
“Oh? That’s great. Where is it?” I’m itching to get a good look at the battle in the same way I’d pick at a scab. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.
“We can visit them once you have eaten,” she says, gesturing at the tray of food where Kerren even now stuffs his face, chewing as fast as he can. Tasting my food is a full-time job practically, because I eat so much. Poor Kerren.
I snag a fruit-stuffed tart that already has a large bite out of it and start eating. I know somewhere down in the kitchens, Markos is watching every bit of food that goes onto my plate. “Tell your cooks I appreciate the efforts. I’ve eaten better here than—”
There’s an urgent knock at the door. Before anyone can answer, the knock comes again and then a soldier rushes in, a chest in his hands.
The queen goes white as a sheet. “What is it?”
Oh god. I stare at the soldier’s grim face, wondering who’s died. What terrible thing has happened…because I know this can’t be good.
“Your Majesty.” He bows his head and sets the trunk on the ground. “We found this left in the bushes by the side gate. It says it should be delivered to Lord Aron’s anchor.”
“Is it a trap? Have my wizards been consulted?” The queen’s voice is sharp and I don’t know if it’s anger or relief.
“It carries no magic,” he says and bows his head. “We looked inside to ascertain this before we brought it in and…it is a man’s head, Your Majesty.”
My stomach churns. Someone’s sent me a head? Whose?
The answer comes before I even reach for the trunk. Oh god. I swallow hard and force myself to get to my feet and lift the lid. I open it just a crack, just enough to see Solat’s sightless eyes staring up at me from his handsome face. There’s blood crusting his hair, and…and I shut the lid again.
Solat.
I close my eyes and return to my seat, hands shaking. I can’t even process this right now. I’m so sorry, I silently tell him. I pray this wasn’t in vain. I pray all of this wasn’t in vain. He deserved better than a brutal, lonely death. I’m not going to remember him like this, I decide. I’m going to remember him as the laughing, flirty man who loved to tell stories in Novoro. I’ll remember you, Solat. You and Vitar both, I promise. “Please bury him,” I say.
The guard hesitates. “The dead—we should burn him, my lady—”
“Then fucking burn him,” I snap. “Just do it respectfully.” I get up from my chair and start pacing, my entire body feeling like a live wire about to spark. This is all going horribly wrong. All of it.
Solat’s dead. Captured by the enemy and they knew he was with me. I want to cry but I’m not sure I have the tears left inside me. I feel hollow.
The newcomer leaves with the trunk, his armor jingling. Kerren moves to my side when I stop in front of the window, and puts a kind hand on my shoulder. “Faith,” he murmurs. “You ca
None of us are getting out of this alive. And Solat gri
But it is a big deal. I look at Kerren, his kind face, and I wish I could save him. I wish I could save all of them, the men throwing themselves into battle at the gates, determined to push the Adassian army back by meters, as if that will make a difference somehow. As if that’s worth dying for.
I swallow hard and nod, forcing a smile to my face. “Thanks, Kerren.”
“Come,” the queen says, getting to her feet. She puts a hand to her rounded belly. “My son is staying with his nurse this morning. Let us go and see my court wizards and take a look at this spyglass they have made. If nothing else, it will be a distraction.”
We leave the room and our contingent of guards flank us from all sides. I half expect the queen to head to the dungeons or some deep bowels in the castle inhabited by monsters, but instead, we cross over to the far side of the keep, down a well-lit hall lined with chairs. I can see maps on the walls of a room that we pass—a war room, no doubt—and then we enter another chamber that opens up into a large, book-lined study with a kitchen-like alcove. There are bottles and books on every surface, and two men in tiny, wire-rimmed glasses look up as we enter. Immediately, I’m reminded of Omos’s monastery and a surge of homesickness wells up inside me. Strange how I’m homesick for that and not Earth.
“We are here to see the spyglass,” the queen says politely, folding her hands in front of her belly.
One of the wizards bows. He doesn’t look to be older than me, and the beard on his jaw is scruff more than anything else. “Of course, your majesty. We found the details of it in an old book. A curious invention, long forgotten.” With a swish of long, lavender robes, he moves to a table across the room and starts to pick through a clutter of objects. The other wizard continues to work at a table full of bottles, pouring one murky-looking liquid into a flask and frowning at it.
“Here we are,” the wizard a
Amuse ourselves? He thinks this is a fucking game? “This isn’t for a party game, Harry Potter,” I retort. “People are dying.” I take one of the spyglasses and examine it. There’s a thick, warped piece of glass at each end but it looks about right. “Cool the misogyny for a hot minute, please.”
“I did not wish to offend,” he stammers, handing the queen the other. “Shall I show you how it works?”
Oh dear lord. I bite back a sharp retort. “We’re good, thanks.”
“I…realize there is a war going on, my lady,” he says, inclining his head. “I did not mean to insult. If you both like, I can show you what else we are working on? The ancient tomes have provided fascinating information, and we are working on something I am confident the enemy does not have.”
“What is it?” Queen Halla asks, curious.
I toy with the telescope in my hands, impatient. I want to find a window and start looking for the spider symbol Solat promised he’d use as a signal. Maybe he was able to do it in time.
“The ancients called it Godsfire,” the wizard says, his eyes alight with excitement. “It is a liquid that burns through everything it touches, destroying with a few drops. The ancients would carry it in globes and throw them at the enemy army, turning them to char in a matter of moments.”
Her eyes go wide. I stop examining my telescope and look over at him.
“You made this?” I ask. “This grenade?”
He nods, all pride. “We’ve tested it in small ways, but a vial of it can burn down an entire tent. A full batch could destroy all of the Adassian army.” The wizard holds one vial up, and I can see the dark red liquid churning inside.
“Then make us enough to destroy their army,” the queen says.
“It…is not that simple. We have worked for months just to produce this much.” And he shows us the vial. “It’s small enough to fit in a pocket, but quite destructive.”
A pocket.
Of course.
And suddenly, I know what I need to do.