“Mayhap there’s a castle somewhere in this benighted land you could’ve claimed by right of blood.” I laughed but it emerged as a ragged sob, the first of many. There in that small clearing, I hunched over the corpse of a woman whose friendship I didn’t deserve, and wept until the sky turned dark and I had no more tears to shed.

  “We could’ve dug a grave for her,” Tiler said when I returned to the camp. The hour was late but the fire small, lest it draw enquiring eyes. Thanks to some hard riding, we were at least thirty miles from the city, but our predicament warranted caution. Evadine would have every rider under her command scouring the country for the Traitor Scribe.

  “Her people don’t do that,” I replied, slumping down beside the fire, then wincing at the pain it provoked in my hip. For a time, I lost myself in miserable contemplation of the fire’s meagre flames, looking up when Tiler voiced a meaningful cough.

  “They’ve been wondering,” he said. “About where we’re going next.”

  I glanced around at the twoscore soldiers encamped close by. They were all that remained of the Scout Company and Wilhum’s riders who counted loyalty to their captains above faith in the Ascendant Queen. Quintrell and Adlar Spinner were among them, the minstrel’s presence more a surprise than the juggler’s. It was hardly an army, but I fancied I had a notion where to find one.

  “North,” I said. “The Cordwain. That’s where the king’s host marches, so we’d best join them.”

  “Leannor will have your head off your shoulders in a trice,” Wilhum said.

  “She can be vicious when the mood takes her,” I conceded. “And not so clever as she imagines, but I reckon she’s clever enough to recognise the value of my counsel. Who else knows better the mind of her enemy?”

  Shifting my gaze to Tiler, I saw the grim countenance of a man considering a deeply uncertain future. “I ask no one to come with me,” I told him. “You’re no longer under my command and my task is perilous.” I stood, raising my voice to address the camp. “You’ve done enough, all of you. I won’t judge anyone who chooses their own path from here on. Go with my thanks, and best wishes for a more peaceful life. But, come the dawn, I ride north and my every act will be directed towards the fall of Evadine Courlain.”

  “North is not the wisest choice.”

  The voice came from the black wall of the treeline beyond the fire’s glow. Startled soldiers reached for weapons, but I did not. This voice I knew.

  “She’s on the march,” the Widow continued, her features revealed by the fire as she strode from the gloom, leading Parsal by the reins. Going to her haunches, she extended her hands to the flames. “Couravel’s emptying out. At least, it was a few hours gone. The entirety of the Ascendant Host is heading north.” There was a tension to her face I recognised from the aftermath of combat, also I saw bruises and scratches on those hands and a fresh scar tracing from her forehead into her hair.

  “Did they catch you?” I asked.

  “They tried, and paid for it.” She glanced over her shoulder as another, smaller figure slipped from the shadows. “Luckily, I had some help.”

  As Ayin emerged into the light I found her appearance more alarming than Juhlina’s, even though she lacked any sign of injury. She kept her eyes averted from mine, saying nothing as she sat close to the fire, arms crossed tightly about her midriff. I saw stains of a darkly familiar hue on her clothing.

  “Eamond…?” I began only to fall silent at a warning glare from Juhlina. Ayin lowered her head further, still unspeaking. A story to be gleaned at another time, and I was sure I wouldn’t enjoy hearing it.

  “I found her travelling with a group of townsfolk who’d fled the city,” Juhlina said. “They were in the midst of being set upon by a bunch of crusader scum keen to spread the Ascendant Queen’s message. Got a mite more than they bargained for with us two. We kept one alive, a helpful fellow with a lot to say.” I appreciated the fact that the gaze she directed towards me then was devoid of smugness, mostly at least. “About captive traitor scribes and such.”

  Perhaps I don’t know her mind so well, after all, I thought. I had been so sure Evadine would spend all her energies in pursuit of me and had only one explanation for her decision to march north instead. She had a vision.

  “You saw her host?” I asked.

  “Yesterday,” Juhlina confirmed. “We were headed back to Couravel. I’m not altogether sure what we’d have done when we got there, but—” she shrugged “—we did. The hour was late but we caught wind of a fracas at the eastern gate, got there just in time to see you lot riding off into the night. Some Rhianvelan cavalry out looking for you nearly caught us, but we got away. Come the morn, the host marched out, following the northern road.”

  “So, how’d you find us?” Tiler enquired with a suspicious squint.

  “Because we camped on this very spot when we were scouting the approaches to the capital.” Juhlina plucked a twig from the ground and threw it at him. “Besides, you’re not so hard to track. Idiot.”

  “The lure of wonders across the sea wasn’t so great, then?” I said.

  The Widow looked away with a shrug. “I was halfway to the coast when I realised I’d nowhere near enough coin to buy passage.” A bald lie, since I knew her to be the most frugal member of this company. Still, it was not the time to press the matter.

  “So,” Wilhum mused, running a hand through his hair. “Heading north is out of the question.”

  “We need to catch up to Leannor’s host,” I said. “Allied with Duke Lohrent, she’ll at least have a chance. More so with my counsel.” Turning to the onlooking circle, I sought out Quintrell. “If you would care to share your insight, master minstrel.”

  “Insight, my lord?” he said in bland puzzlement.

  “Don’t call me that, and no more artifice, if you please. The only route we can take to the Cordwain lies through the Shavine Marches. The question is, which way is your duchess likely to jump?”

  He kept his features inexpressive, save for a slight hardening of the eyes. “I do not presume to speak for the duchess. I fancy you would know better than any that she is, very much, her own woman.”

  Indeed I did know this, as I knew that Lorine could be counted on to act in her self-interest. Having allied herself with Evadine before, she would be considered suspect by Leannor. Also, Lorine would take a typically pragmatic view of the odds in this grand game, judging Evadine the most likely winner. Then I’ll need to convince her that the price of victory is far too high, I decided.

  “Sleep well tonight,” I told the camp. “If you’re here come morning, we ride for the Shavine Marches. If you’re not, accept my thanks and be sure to ride swiftly for distant lands. The Martyr we followed in our foolishness no longer has any truck with forgiveness.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  They all stayed, which surprised me. This collection of erstwhile outlaws, fanatics, churls and disgraced former lords chose to wage war against one they had thought a Risen Martyr not so long ago. I had spent some time at the fire the night before relating what I knew of her true nature, a task that involved a full account of my days among the Caerith. Whether they believed it all, I couldn’t say. But, as I owed Lilat the truth, so I owed them. Accordingly, though it pained me, I also forced out a confession of all that had passed between myself and Evadine. Inevitably, this led to a singular realisation, although only Juhlina felt able to voice it, and then not until we were on the road the next morning.

  “So, do you hope for a boy or a girl?” she asked, riding alongside me. I saw a taunt to her expression, also a certain judgement, though it was not altogether unkind. However, my mind was still too full of Lilat’s mauled, lifeless face to allow for the levity of banter.

  “I don’t need you to measure the scale of my stupidity,” I said. “Rest assured, I know it full well.”

  “She has to kill you. I assume you know that too. You are living proof of her falsity. Not only is she no Martyr, risen or otherwise, the child in her belly is not a blessing of the Seraphile. I’m surprised she hasn’t brought her full strength against us by now.”

  “She’s guided by more than fear of discovery.”

  “Her visions, you mean?” Juhlina grunted in derision. Apparently, she hadn’t been fully convinced by my campfire confession. “Surely just more mummery.”

  “Too many times I saw her perceive what was to come, with too much clarity for it to be a sham. Her visions are real, but they don’t come from the Seraphile.”

  “Careful.” She shifted in her saddle, a wary frown on her brow. “You’re starting to sound like a man I used to follow from shrine to shrine. A man I’ve since come to realise was as mad and mean as a rabid weasel.”

  “Mad?” I sighed, shaking my head. “Perhaps I am. These last days I’ve seen enough to drive a man to madness. In a way, it’s fitting, don’t you think? A mad queen should be brought down by her mad lover.”

  I looked back over our short column, seeing Ayin riding at the rear, mounted on one of the spare horses Tiler had stolen from an unfortunate farmer. The perpetual cheerfulness I knew so well was gone now, her eyes distant and features grim. “Has she said anything?” I asked Juhlina. “About Eamond, or anything else?”

  “Barely a word since I found her. Got awful upset when I asked about it, crying and such. It was a shock since she never does that. Still knows how to use that knife of hers, though.”

  I turned my gaze ahead, beset by yet another welling of guilt. “I should never have sent them off like that. Little more than children, and I had them play the spy.”

  “She’s not a child,” the Widow insisted. “However she appears. And you made your choices, we all did. We all marched behind a false Martyr’s banner for many a mile. And we made her a queen. So it’s up to us to bring her down.” She hesitated, face tensing with the need to say something I wouldn’t want to hear. “And you know what that might mean. For her, and for the babe she carries.”

  Of course I know! I kept the harsh retort from my lips, instead closing my mouth and spurring Blackfoot to a trot. “I’ll scout the track for the next mile,” I said, not turning. “Alone.”

  We skirted the southern walls of Couravel at a good distance, wary of encountering any troops Evadine may have left behind. The route was free of enemies, but not others. By noon, we had ridden past well over a thousand bedraggled, burdened people making their way back to the city they had called home only weeks before. Most were keen to get clear of our path, unsure of our loyalties and scared by the arms we bore. Some, however, were bolder. These were usually those with little or nothing to carry, impoverished, starved townsfolk driven to return to the only home they knew.

  “You!” one old man called out, bony arm extended to stab a finger in my direction. “You’re the scribe! I know your face, you bastard!”

  I said nothing and kept Blackfoot plodding on, raising a hand to halt Tiler when he turned his horse towards the vocal pauper.

  “Look at us!” the old man demanded, and I found myself unable to resist his command. He stood with his arms spread wide, gesturing to the stooped, wearied folk around him. At his side, a boy of perhaps seven years clutched the old man’s trews, staring at me with wide, guileless eyes. A grandchild, maybe? An orphan of the fire, Martyrs forbid? This old codger the only family he has left. “Look what you did to us!” the boy’s aged guardian railed. “You and your bitch Martyr! Look at what you did!”

  I could have stopped, attempted to offer whatever words of contrition I might be able to muster. Perhaps shared some of our supplies. But our stocks were meagre and had to last us to the Marches. Also, I saw no use in words now. Words had brought us to this. My scribblings and Evadine’s sermons, words that birthed flames and beggared thousands. So I didn’t stop. I rode on until the old man’s ranting faded away. For the rest of the journey, I pulled the hood of my cloak over my face whenever common folk came into view.

  We reached the eastern fringe of the Shavine Forest ten days later, the cool air beneath the vast roof of branches bringing a sense of relief. Even away from Couravel, the country had been thick with dispossessed people, most fleeing south. Careful questioning by Tiler brought forth tales of dark deeds committed by the Ascendant Host as it marched towards its reckoning with the Algathinet army.

  “One poor sod was a bit too slow in swearing his loyalty to the queen,” Tiler reported. “So they strung him up. Lots of folk with backs striped by floggings too, mostly for talking back, but some for not knowing their scripture. Then there’s the queen’s taxes. The way they tell it, every chicken, goat, cow, or horse betwixt Alberis and the Cordwain border has been gathered up to feed the queen’s army, along with all the coin they can scrape from the villages they pass through. Thought Alundia was bad, but this is another story altogether.”

  I knew this stretch of forest reasonably well, it being favoured by Deckin’s band during the summer months when merchant trade between Alberis and the Marches was more plentiful. Some of the old, winding trails we used in those days were faded from lack of use, but remained passable. I chose to lead us along the most overgrown routes, reasoning that, despite the delay it caused, they would be the least patrolled. When Wilhum and Juhlina raised concerns regarding our seemingly wayward course, Tiler let out a caustic chuckle.

  “We’re outlaws now,” he told them. “Folk like us don’t move in straight lines. My old man used to say, ‘A man who walks straight in the Shavine Forest marks the path to his own hanging.’”

  Despite my caution, it was barely another day before I became aware of our progress being tracked. The signs were subtle and easily missed by those not raised amid these trees; a muting of birdcalls now and then, a sapling branch twitching without a hint of wind, the faint scent of human sweat on the breeze. Tiler sensed it too, a dark tension lowering his brow as he unhitched a crossbow from his saddle.

  “Leave it,” I said. “We’re here to make friends, remember? Besides, they’re just watching.”

  “For now,” he replied, but consented to retie the crossbow’s strap. “Last time I came here, the Yollands had sway of this patch. A right nasty bunch.”

  I didn’t know the name. “Yollands?”

  “A west Alberis clan. Moved in after Deckin’s fall.”

  “They pay tribute to Shilva?”

  “It’s the Marches, Captain. Everyone pays tribute to Shilva.”

  “Then we have something in common.”

  The watchful Yollands didn’t make themselves known for another two days, by which time we had entered the deep woods proper. A dozen or so ragged miscreants appeared at our picket line come nightfall, demanding a toll for safe passage. Looking over their emaciated faces, poorly patched garb and unimpressive weaponry, I deduced this was more an act of beggary than thievery.

  “Pickings thin these days?” I asked the tallest, assuming him to be the leader. It transpired my judgement was off, for the fellow replied only with baffled hostility, snarling and brandishing a rusty cleaver. It was the stockier, considerably younger man at his side that spoke up.

  “The new queen’s got a fondness for the lash and the noose, right enough,” he said with a sniff. Looking closer, I marked him as more boy than man, little more than fifteen years old, albeit with features bearing the hardiness and scars of a born outlaw. “Uncle Troff’s dangling from a shrine spire a few miles north thanks to her. Him and a brace of my cousins, too.” He scanned me with shrewd eyes that lingered longer on my face than my sword. “You who I think you are?”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  He quailed a little under the weight of my gaze, lowering his eyes to mutter. “The one they calls the Scribe. Deckin’s son, so they say.”

  “They say wrong. But they call me the Scribe, right enough. Here.” I emptied half the sheks from my purse and handed them to him. “Won’t have it said I don’t pay my toll when it’s due. Now, piss off.”

  “Turned against her, din’t ya?” the lad persisted. “That’s the word on the wind, anyways. You’re gonna fight her, right?”

  I paused to survey the youth’s band, most of whom were little older than him, a couple even younger. This, I realised, was the remnant of a once feared clan crushed by the Ascendant Queen’s wrath. As I knew better than most, outlaws with a grudge could be useful.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  The lad exchanged glances with his fellows, receiving affirming nods in response. He swallowed and straightened, steeling himself to meet my eye. “Can we come?”

  “Uncle Troff deserves a reckoning, does he?”

  “He was a mean old bastard. Gave me this.” The young outlaw touched a hand to the scar on his chin. “But he was blood. Yollands always settle a blood debt.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Tiler, who shrugged. “They’ve got no horses.”

  “Doesn’t make much difference in the forest.” I turned back to the vengeful youth. “You know the ground between here and Ambriside?” He nodded. “Good, you can scout us a path, one that steers us clear of others who’ll come looking for a toll. Can you do that?”

  Another nod.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Falko, m’lord.” He attempted a salute of sorts, pressing a knuckle to his forehead in a clearly unfamiliar gesture. Those born to the outlaw life aren’t taught churlish ways.

  “Just ‘Captain’ will do.” I tossed him the purse with my remaining sheks. “Your first pay as a trooper in the Free Company. Share it out, then come and eat.”

  “Free Company?” Tiler asked as we made our way back to the fire.

  “Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “Free Host sounds better. More impressive, like.”

  “Host, eh?” I quelled a bitter laugh. “Let’s leave off changing it until we count our numbers after departing Ambriside.”