“The child’s name?” Desmena asked, so far her only interruption.

  “He didn’t say. In truth, I don’t think he knew her name, having taken to his heels the night of her birth.”

  She lowered her gaze. The hour had grown late and the light of the fire we sat beside painted her bruises and swollen jaw in garish hues. “That is not the act of the man I knew.” I heard no accusation in her voice, just a grim disappointment.

  “Because the man you knew was not that man,” I said. “As he grew older the more his past misdeeds pained him. ‘There is much I wanted to atone for, Scribe,’ he told me. ‘When I took the throne, I would have sent for my child, if she could be found. I would have made her a princess.’” I drained my cup and held it out to be refilled by the dagger man who had charge of the barrel.

  I paused to take a sip, savouring the burn on my tongue. This was good stuff. “Sometimes,” I went on, “I think his rebellion was one grand act of atonement. An attempt to depart the world a better man. He told me the tale of when it all began, one miserable rainy day at a village in the eastern Rhianvel borderlands. Lochlain had come west with a small mercenary band, hoping to earn coin in the local dispute between Rhianvel and Althiene. At the village he found an old man being flogged to death by the local lord for failing to pay rents. Lochlain said it was the old man’s cries that stirred him to act, for he didn’t beg for his life, but the lives of his family. ‘And that fat noble just laughed, Scribe,’ he said. ‘Just laughed and kept swinging the whip.’ He killed the lord and freed the old man, but it was too late. He died in Lochlain’s arms. Naturally, the lord’s kin came in search of justice. The old man’s village rose in support of the heroic warrior from the east and so began the first step on the road to the Pretender’s Revolt.”

  I drained another two cups of brandy before the bulk of the tale was told, relating Lochlain’s proclamation of his claim to the throne by right of blood. I noted Desmena’s attempt to conceal her surprise that this claim had in fact possessed a nugget of truth. I went on to describe how disaffected churls from Rhianvel, Althiene, and later Alberis, flocked to the Pretender’s banner, leading to his first battles proper with the Algathinets. The following years saw the tide of success ebb and flow with the seasons. A harsh winter saw his horde dwindle only to swell come the spring.

  “But always,” I said, setting my cup down for I would need unclouded wits for what came next, “victory eluded him and he realised that to win Albermaine his promise of a better future must be extended beyond the commons to the nobility. Which brings us to you, my lady, and your brother.”

  Desmena’s face betrayed a small twitch of emotion, but she said nothing as I continued. “Lochlain said this of you both: ‘Never was I blessed with two more faithful lieutenants. One all kindness and selfless generosity, but with the courage of a lion in battle. The other with the skills of the most fearsome knight, and the keenest mind hidden behind a mask of beauty. And they believed, Scribe. They believed in the rightness of our cause. Had I a hundred like them, it would be me ordering the gallows built this day.’ It grieved him when your brother fell, for he sensed that this one loss had doomed him. ‘A king rises or falls not on his own merits, but on the merits of those who swear him fealty. From that day on, the True King’s Host knew only defeat.’”

  Desmena’s jaw bunched and I saw her throat constrict as she blinked, averting her eyes. “That…” She swallowed again. “That sounds like him, to be sure.” Taking a deeper breath, she faced me. Although tears trickled down her face, her expression was hard now, implacable. “Did he tell you how my brother died?”

  “I heard the tale from Wilhum…” A harsh, grating laugh cut my words short, Desmena leaning forward to hiss at me.

  “An ambush in the Althiene mountains, yes? An unfortunate mischance in the chaos of war. That’s what he told you? Did that faithless coward tell you he rode away and left my brother to die?”

  “He told me Aldric broke his neck in a fall from his horse,” I said, my voice flat for I sensed the outcome of this meeting was now finely balanced. “He told me Magnis Lochlain had to drag him clear of the fight else he would have joined him in death. Sometimes, I think he wishes he had.”

  “A tale he likes to tell, I’m sure. But I have more than one score to settle on his account. It was his family who strung my father up like a common outlaw.”

  “Is a child not innocent of his family’s crimes?”

  “Innocent? When it comes to my father’s fate, I know he is not.” Desmena fell silent, head lowered and features tensing with both memory and contained rage. I also saw a perturbed crease to her brow, one that made me wonder if she fully believed in the source of her own enmity. If so, she was unwilling to disclose it now.

  I let her wallow in introspection for a moment before speaking on, keeping to the same neutral tone. “All I can say is that I have no doubt as to Wilhum’s love for your brother. I know he gave up all claim to his family’s lands and titles to follow the man he loved into the True King’s service, and that he still grieves for what he lost. I also know he’s my friend, one who has risked all to save my life and therefore I’ll risk mine for him. Make no mistake, my lady, to get to Wilhum, you will have to kill me and all who follow me.”

  Desmena’s expression tightened further and I felt it best not to allow her time to voice any counter-threats.

  “But,” I went on swiftly, “if you have an inkling of what has occurred beyond this refuge, you will know that the time for personal feuds is over, or it should be. We have far more grave matters to address.”

  “Your Risen Martyr crowned herself queen and you tried to kill her,” Desmena said. “Yes, we heard. I assume your treachery was bought with Algathinet gold?”

  “Your assumption is wrong.”

  The heat in my words caused a ripple of unease in the encircled audience, although Desmena reacted with a satisfied grin. “No, I thought it unlikely,” she said. “It must have been hard, raising your sword against the woman you love. Tell me, is she truly pregnant with a child conceived through the Seraphiles’ blessing?”

  “It’s true that she’s pregnant.”

  Desmena let out a disgusted laugh, shaking her head. Thankfully, she didn’t feel obligated to point out the obvious conclusion. “So, Scribe, you ask me to set aside just grievance for the sake of your own cause. A cause not our own.”

  “It is your cause. Justice was the True King’s mission, was it not? He spent his life trying to bring an end to tyranny, and tyranny is the least of what the Ascendant Queen has to offer.” I got to my feet, turning to address all of Desmena’s band. “Do you think this is what the True King would have wanted? His best and most loyal soldiers skulking in the wilds like common outlaws?”

  “You may have taken his testament, Scribe,” Desmena said. “That doesn’t mean you speak in his name.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t. But then, who does? You hide here and do nothing while chaos and slaughter rule this land. Lochlain would not have hidden at a time like this. This I know.”

  An angry murmur rose from the band then, one I was glad to hear. Anger was good. Anger is a spur to action. Also, I saw more than a few shamed expressions among the circle of faces. My barbs had been well chosen.

  “What would you have us do?” the dagger man demanded. “Sell ourselves to you? Your army is pitiful.”

  “Our numbers are small, yes,” I conceded. “But will grow in concert with the Ascendant Queen’s cruelty. And hers is not the only army in this realm. The King’s Host will soon join with the Duke of the Cordwain. I know many of you will not abide an alliance with the Algathinets, but I ask you to set aside your hatred for the sake of a greater purpose, as the True King would have done.”

  Their reaction was not what I expected. I knew this lot would not be won over with a few words and allusions to the greatness of their fallen leader. In truth, the most I could hope for was to recruit one or two and negotiate safe passage without further violence. Yet, instead of argument I received puzzlement, the array of faces exchanged bemused glances, a couple even smirking.

  “So,” Desmena said. “You haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “The combined forces of the Crown and the Cordwain met the Ascendant Queen’s Host in battle four days ago. They were utterly defeated. Duke Lohrent was killed and his son has retreated to Castle Norwind. Rumours fly about the fate of the king and his mother, but it’s widely held that they fled north, perhaps hoping to seek refuge in the Fjord Geld. In any case, your war is already over, Scribe. Evadine Courlain is now the uncontested monarch of this realm.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The aftermath of a battle is never a pleasant sight, but usually, the ugliness lingers only for a day or two. The corpses of nobles or men-at-arms will be carried off by comrades or kin for burial. Common levies were typically interred in a mass grave while local churls could always be counted on to scour the field clear of weapons and the myriad detritus that proliferates in the wake of slaughter. Not so the site of the Ascendant Queen’s triumph over the Algathinets. Here the dead lay where they fell, stripped of arms and valuables then left to rot. Consequently, the stink of the place reached us long before it came into view.

  Reining Blackfoot to a halt atop a low rise, I was able to gauge the course of the struggle from the position of the bodies. About a hundred were spread out in a wavering line from west to east, where the number of dead swelled to create a ghastly mound. The general absence of crows or other scavengers indicated the easiest meat had already been picked clean. The bulk of the corpses were strewn or clumped together in a curving northward procession which ended near the summit of a tall hill known locally as the Crest. Accordingly, the name used most often by scholars when recording this event would be the Battle of the Crest.

  “Met them in the base of the valley,” Wilhum mused as he surveyed the scene with a grimace of professional disdain. “Didn’t guard their left flank well enough. I’d guess Duke Viruhlis led the charge with his knights, smashed a way through. After that, the outcome was never in doubt.” He nodded to the corpse-strewn hill to the north. “They should’ve stayed up there, forced Evadine to advance up the slope. Whoever Leannor put in charge of this farce deserves to hang, if he’s still alive.”

  “I’d wager she put herself in charge,” I said. “She never was one for tactics.”

  “I’d have thought she’d put her host in Ehlbert’s hands, or Lord Altheric.”

  “Ehlbert’s a fighter, not a general. And Lord Altheric’s cachet is most likely exhausted after his failure to capture his daughter. Leannor probably suspects his loyalties.”

  “Must be over a thousand dead,” Juhlina commented, voice muted by the rag she held to her nose against the stench.

  “Twelve hundred and fifty-six,” Ayin said, drawing surprised glances from all present. Apart from a quiet mutter of negation whenever I tried to rouse her to speak, these were the first words we had heard from her lips since Couravel. “So far as I can see,” she added.

  I didn’t push her, but resolved to elicit more when we camped that night. “A grievous toll,” I said. “But not so great as to rob Leannor of her host.”

  “This isn’t all of it,” Desmena said. To my surprise, it had been easy to persuade her to lead us to this site, albeit at the cost of two golds from Lorine’s purse and all the spare horses Tiler had stolen in Alberis. She accompanied us with her full company of diehards, maintaining a watchful silence throughout the journey. As a condition of handing over the gold, I had made her swear not to renew her duel with Wilhum. It was an obligation I also imposed on him, much to his annoyance.

  “Don’t be fooled by her supposed devotion to a dead pretender,” he warned me. “She has always put her own ambitions above all.”

  The first heads we found were arrayed on stakes running along the crest of the hill. Over fifty in all, each one with the word ‘heretic’ carved into their foreheads. The brown flakes of dried skin covering each gaping, empty-eyed face made it plain this torment had been inflicted before decapitation.

  “I know this one from Highsahl,” Tiler said, peering at one of the heads. “A knight from the Crown Company.”

  “How can you tell?” Juhlina asked, grimacing at the ragged, crow-pecked flesh.

  “This.” Tiler prised the head’s mouth open to pluck something shiny from the upper jaw. “He won’t need it, will he?” he said, ignoring Juhlina’s disapproving scowl as he consigned the gold tooth to his purse.

  “It seems they got lazy after this,” Wilhum observed, surveying the gently sloping flank of the hill’s north side. I detected a small quaver beneath the forced humour of his tone. Good people will resort to flippancy when confronted with sights that should have sent them screaming.

  Many more heads lay in a mound, the bodies in a less orderly pile close by. I was grateful for the days that had passed since this outrage, for the whole field would surely have been swarmed by flies when the meat was still fresh. The carnage became more chaotic further down the slope, decapitation giving way to swift murder, many of the slain lying face down, their throats cut and hands tied behind their backs. The sprawl of corpses continued for more than a mile, tracing over the undulating fields in a parade of massacre.

  “Stop counting,” I told Ayin, seeing her scanning the scene with a familiar frown of concentration on her brow. Her lack of shock or distress troubled me, looking upon this field of horrors with an expression that betrayed only vague interest. Besides, I didn’t need a full accounting to know that the bulk of Leannor’s forces had met their end in the rout after the battle. It was common for the victors to pursue the vanquished, slaking the bloodlust of combat in cutting down the fleeing foe. However, there was a clear method to these killings that told of something beyond a vengeful frenzy. Most of these soldiers had surrendered, casting their arms away to seek quarter. Evadine had forbidden the Covenant Company from partaking in the slaughter after the Traitors’ Field. Now she had no further use for such scruples.

  “Alwyn,” Wilhum said, drawing my eye to a singular atrocity. This body had been affixed to a cartwheel suspended from a hastily constructed scaffold. It hung, naked, streaked in blood and ordure, head sagging on to a chest of greying, chilled flesh. Moving closer, I saw a few cuts and plentiful bruises on the corpse, but nothing that would have constituted a fatal wound. Spared torture but hung up to bear witness to all this, I surmised, staring up at the bleached face of Altheric Courlain.

  “Can’t say I ever liked you, my lord,” I told him in a grim mutter. “But you deserved a better end than this.”

  I was unable to contain a startled gasp when the former knight marshal of the King’s Host opened his eyes to regard me with a gaze as rich in judgement as it was pain. He tried to say something, but it emerged as a croak. Still, I was able to catch some intelligible words as we cut him down.

  “Our fault… Scribe…” A foul stench gusted from his throat. “Yours and… mine… Our fault…”

  Lord Altheric lasted through the night until the first glimmer of dawn. We bore him away from the battlefield, camping amid a patch of woodland a mile north. Wrapped in blankets, I had him propped against a tree and went about lighting a fire while he drifted in and out of sensibility. He managed to drink only a small portion of the water we poured into his mouth, his body convulsing in a manner that made it clear it was beyond saving. After seeing him suffer for an hour or more, I told Ayin to leave off holding the canteen to his lips.

  “I will have private words with his lordship,” I said. Alone at the fire, I watched Evadine’s father slump into sleep, fully expecting to see the laboured rise and fall of his chest cease at any moment. But, once again he surprised me, jerking awake to spend a few moments gazing at his surroundings in bleary incomprehension. Then the memories flooded back and he shuddered, a plaintive sob escaping his lips.

  “Are…” he began, voice a grating, faltering thing so different from the knight who had called out commands on so many battlefields. “Are… you proud of… what you’ve done, Scribe?”

  “No, my lord,” I said in flat, simple honesty. “I am not.”

  “Good… you shouldn’t be. But then—” he raised his head, cracked lips drawing back from his teeth in a parody of a smile “—neither should… I, eh? It was us, after all. You… and me. We made her into…” He tensed, biting down a scream. “Into a woman who… would do this to her own father.”

  “I didn’t make her a monster,” I said. “I didn’t set frauds and mystics to torment a child beset by visions not of her choosing.”

  “I’ll accept… my burden of guilt, Scribe. But yours is greater… I did what I thought was right. It was a grave mistake. But it is not an easy thing… to hear your child speak things she shouldn’t know. Things no soul should know. Had her mother lived…” His eyes dimmed in weary despair for a second then flared into sudden anger. “But still, your crime is worse. I sought to contain her visions. You fed them. You… made her a queen. Now see what she does… with her kingdom.”

  I forced my eyes not to stray from the fierce accusation in his gaze. It was the least of what I was due. Nor did I seek to deny his judgement. The battlefield and its stink, stinging the nostrils even at this distance, were testament to all my machinations on Evadine’s behalf. I was and remain guilty of the most terrible crimes, and never will I be done with paying the toll.