It’s not as if I ever wanted to sit in on his war councils anyway, Tarana thought. Still, she had to admit she had felt isolated since the Battle of Fovas Ford. More isolated than in all her time as Calamity. At least she’d been allowed to dine with the prelate and his captains before; they’d been dull company, but company nonetheless.

  A boy’s form appeared outside of the doors of her tent. He cleared his throat. “Calamity? Your Highness?”

  “Yes?”

  “I bring word from Prelate Gratianos. He would like you to come to the command tent post haste.”

  She considered refusing the request out of spite. Instead, she relented with a sigh. “On my way.”

  Prelate Gratianos and his captains were waiting when she arrived, sitting around a wooden table as they sipped wine from clay mugs. She was surprised to see Alafin at the table as well, staring at the woodgrain like a castigated dog.

  “Calamity,” the prelate said. “Welcome.” He gestured to an open seat to his left.

  Tarana stayed at the tent entrance. “Does this mean I’m welcome at your meetings again? Have you decided I’ve been properly chastened for the victory at Fovas Ford?"

  Prelate Gratianos’ eyes flashed with anger, only to be replaced a moment later by a tight-lipped stare. “You know what my thoughts are on that day.” He cleared his throat. “I will not risk a repeat of what happened before. You will never again be privy to my war councils. From now on, you are a soldier like any other in this army. And I expect you to do as ordered.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tarana said, filling the words with as much venom as she could.

  The prelate continued. “I have called you here because I have a task for you. I need you to join with your uncle’s army. Capit Tevani will serve as your guide. In addition, I will send you with a small force to protect you against any threats that may arise. Their leader, Sergeant Dubern, will be in charge of making sure you arrive safely.” He nodded at the final man at the table.

  Tarana’s eyes shifted to the man he’d identified as Sergeant Dubern. He looked too old to be a sergeant; strands of gray hair poked through the otherwise red bristles on his head, and he bore wrinkles on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.

  “Great. So you have given me a babysitter old enough to be my father. What did he do to earn such a distinctive position?”

  “I would be careful speaking that way about him, Capit,” Prelate Gratianos said. “Sergeant Dubern leads a squad you may have heard referred to as the Gray Masques. They are the most decorated squad in our army, and you will show them respect. Is that clear?”

  Tarana felt her anger snap, like a bowstring pulled too far. “I understand you feel cheated due to my actions two weeks ago. We can squabble over whether the war would be over had I not done what I did, but it’s impossible to know at this point. I will not be treated like a babe because I delivered a victory to this army – especially considering it had been years since we could consider ourselves as winning any engagement with the Ma’isans. Before you open your mouth again, I suggest you take a moment to consider who you are talking to.”

  “I know who I am talking to, Capit. Perhaps you would do well to heed your own advice.”

  Tarana gritted her teeth. “Alright, then. If some… calamity were to befall the dear sergeant, who would be in charge?”

  “Dubern’s second. And if anything happens to him, Capit Tevani. You are at the very bottom of the chain of command for this mission. And it will likely be that way for some time.”

  “Capit Tevani?” Tarana asked, noting the new title for the first time.

  Prelate Gratianos nodded. “Yes, Capit Tevani. In light of her decision to help you infiltrate the enemy camp, we have decided she does not possess the judgment required for leadership.”

  No wonder she looks so cowed, Tarana thought. Falling from sergeant to a capit was quite the demotion; she wondered if the young woman’s military career would ever recover. “I do not accept this mission, Prelate,” she said.

  His eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. “Excuse me? This is not a request, Capit.”

  “Oh, it’s certainly a request. I am heir to the power of the immortals. We both know that if I chose to, I could leave this army to its fate and you would be decimated. You can play your word games all you want – call me capit or girl or any other name you’d like – it doesn’t change who I am.”

  The prelate’s voice lowered to a growl. “There is one way to change who you are, girl. And I’m not above using it if I have to.” He pulled a jagged dagger from the sheath at his side and set it on the table. Tarana scowled at the dull green glow of its verdicore edge.

  Her eyes locked with the prelate’s, each daring the other to be the first to look away. “Who would you have do the deed?” she asked. “Is there anyone in this tent that would willingly sentence themselves to that fate?”

  “In this tent, no. I’m sure we could find one among your priests, however. Perhaps we already have.”

  Tarana paused to consider his words. It was possible – likely, even – he was bluffing. Killing her before she had reached the end of her time as an aspect would be unlikely to inspire the loyalty of the one who replaced her. Besides, the power of Calamity had always been held by a member of the Tevulun family.

  Her mind turned to Alafin, and it took all of her power to keep her eyes from flicking over to the girl. She was disgraced, dishonored; no doubt anxious to redeem herself. Technically a Tevulun, even if the relation was distant. Not just a guide, then, Tarana thought. Insurance for the prelate.

  “You sure know how to inspire loyalty,” she said, banishing her thoughts about Alafin. It was better if Gratianos thought he’d successfully convinced her to look to her priests for a traitor. “Demote me, reprimand me in front of your captains, and then threaten murder.”

  The prelate maintained an impassive expression. “Despite what you may think, no one – not even an aspect – is bigger than this war. I am not threatening murder. I am simply reminding you that desertion will be treated the same for you as it would for any other soldier in this army.”

  “Understood. Will that be all?” She expected him to respond to her omission of ‘sir,’ but if he noticed he didn’t seem to care.

  “Yes, that will be all. Get some rest, Capit. Sergeant Dubern and his squad will be around to collect you at dawn.”

  Sergeant Dubern appeared at Tarana’s tent the exact moment the sun began to peek over the horizon. He and his men rousted her in short order, grabbing the items Tarana had neglected to deal with after her meeting with the prelate. Her armor and sword were thrown into the wrought-iron chest built specially to contain them.

  Dubern’s soldiers sorted out three changes of clothes that were thrown into saddlebags. Everything else – including the furniture – was left behind. At first Tarana wondered if the sergeant’s men had made a mistake, but when she asked about sleeping arrangements Dubern shoved a sleeping roll into her arms.

  The Gray Masques, Tarana soon discovered, liked to travel hard. They rode long into the night, often bypassing villages and the offer of soft beds in favor of gaining a few extra leagues before stopping. They took just four extra horses, all of them laden down with the items from her tent. According to Alafin, the journey to join with her uncle’s army should have taken ten days. Sergeant Dubern was determined to make it in seven, and if they had to kill their horses to do it then they would welcome the extra meat.

  On the fourth night, they happened across an inn less than a quarter hour before the sergeant gave the order to make camp. Tarana tried to convince him to allow them to visit the inn, but no amount of cajoling seemed capable of moving him.

  Tarana devised a simple plan to escape: she told the sergeant’s men she was leaving to gather wood for a fire, and cut back toward the inn after entering the forest. After the better part of an hour, she arrived.

  The atmosphere was livelier than she’d expected. Shouting patrons sat at half of the dozen wooden tables, served by a harried-looking woman and a squat man who were both in constant motion. Beside the roaring hearth, a bard was singing a song Tarana didn’t recognize.

  “Damn shame,” a man at the table to her left said. “That company was nothing but boys. And they were wiped out, to a man. Just like that.” He and his friends looked like mercenaries; they wore leather over coats of mail, and at their hips they carried bulky knives. No doubt their swords were nearby, likely within arm’s reach.

  A woman with a broad nose grunted her assent. “Makes sense,” she said. “Any whelp who shows potential gets sent to Gratianos. The Jabari border soldiers are all weak-willed, piss-stained maggots. Half of ‘em were probably too terrified to draw steel before Death got them.”

  Tarana snorted, amused by the woman’s claim – it was accurate, but painfully so.

  The trio of mercenaries all turned to face her. “What are you laughing at?” the woman asked. “Don’t remember inviting you into this conversation, spinster.”

  “I’ll join whatever conversation I please,” Tarana said, her eyes narrowing at the other woman. They exchanged looks until the older of the two men clapped his hands together.

  “Seems like the spinster’s giving you a run for your money, Aali,” he joked. “Come, sit with us. We were just talking about the tragedy at Lelet.”

  Tarana – who’d been about to take him up on the offer – paused at the mention of Lelet. “What happened in Lelet?”

  The man’s eyebrows raised with genuine surprise. “Where have you been hiding out, lass? It’s all folks have been talking about the last couple days. Word is Lelet’s been burned to the ground, along with the whole company stationed there. No one knows exactly why. Pretty obvious as to who, though.”

  “Ma’isans?” Tarana asked, falling into the only open seat at the table.

  “Ma’isans,” the older man confirmed. “The story I heard is the bodies were put to the torch. Who does that besides the Ma’isans?”

  “The Artesians do it too,” the other woman – Aali – pointed out. “I hear for them it’s a religious thing.”

  Tarana’s mind ran back to the last time she’d seen something like the man was describing; a field of pyres large enough for a thousand bodies, arrayed in neat rows and columns as far as the eye could see. The Ma’isans only do it when they’re trying to hide the touch of Pestilence, she thought. But at this point, they must know we can see through the ruse.

  “Doesn’t make any sense to be Artesians,” the man responded. “They’d have to cross the entirety of the Jabari Protectorate first. All for… what? The opportunity to raid a small border village? They have nothing to gain. At least for the Ma’isans it might make sense.”

  “I’m just saying.” Aali shrugged. “It could be someone else.”

  The conversation entered a lull for the next few seconds. Then the older man turned to Tarana. “The name’s Jib, by the way. What’s yours? Unless you want us calling you Spinster all night, that is.”

  “Spinster is fine,” Tarana said, her mind only half-focused on the conversation. The rest of her psyche was reeling from the news the mercenaries had shared. They appeared to have dismissed it as nothing more than another battle in a war that had long overstayed its welcome, but paired with the knowledge of Pestilence’s disappearance from the western front it took on more import.

  Pestilence is attacking from the southeast, Tarana thought. Most likely with the entirety of Prelate Faris’ army behind her. The battle-hardened veterans Faris commanded would be able to cut through the eastern Tevulun forces like a hot knife through butter. The only question in her mind was to what end.

  The most logical target was Vicrum, Accalia’s capital. It was the only large city in the area; the only city that would hurt the Tevuluns if taken. But at the same time, it was the least logical target. Vicrum’s walls had been built by the immortals. They would hold for centuries before being breached from the outside. And Vicrum’s port was the center of trade for the entire nation. If the Ma’isans tried to blockade it to starve the citizens out, they’d only hurt their own merchants.

  “Why do you think the Ma’isans would attack Lelet?” Tarana asked, interrupting the conversation that had passed her by. “There’s nothing for them over there. All the important cities are on the western side of the bay.”

  Jib shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Let the ‘great’ families worry about their own petty squabbles, that’s what I say.”

  “Damn right,” Aali said. “Long as there’s folks to kill and money to be made.” She flashed a deadly smile at Tarana, displaying chipped canines.

  Tarana grimaced at the woman’s features.

  The other man – the one who’d been quiet since Tarana had sat at the table – was first to break the silence. “I care, Jib. How many young women have you met who’re interested in the military strategies of Ma’isans? For that matter, how many young women have you met who’d willingly rub shoulders with the likes of us?” He focused on Tarana, his dark eyes narrowing as if he could peer into her very soul. “I suspect you have a story to tell, girl. And I’d suggest you start sharing.”

  It took a moment for Tarana to decide how to react. Her first impulse was to laugh off the thinly veiled threat, but doing so would reveal more than she wanted to. The thread of her connected to the power of calamity reached out to the fire burning in the hearth nearby, waiting to strike if the situation turned ugly.

  “It’s not much of a story, I’m afraid,” Tarana said. “I’m with the Tevulun army, traveling north to connect with Finn Tevulun’s forces. I snuck away from my squad for a little amusement.”

  The man’s face betrayed no reaction. “If you’re with the Tevuluns, who’s your commanding officer?”

  Jib stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. “I’m going to get another drink. Want anything, Aster? Aali?” They both shook their heads.

  Tarana felt their eyes on her, studying each minor shift in her expression. “Sergeant Dubern. Third squad of the valley, company unassigned.”

  Aali cackled at that, slapping the table. “By Calamity, that takes it. You’re saying you’re a Gray Masque? And old Gnarl Dubern let you just walk away from your post to grab a drink? That’s…” she trailed off at a raised hand from Aster.

  “Do you know why they’re called the Gray Masques?” he asked.

  Tarana reluctantly shook her head.

  “It’s said that after they kill an enemy, they cut out their throat. Each of them carries a special razor knife for the job. All the blood drains away, see. Hence… gray masque.” He made a show of looking at Tarana’s waist. “Don’t feel bad. It’s a common mistake of liars. They pepper in interesting details thinking it’ll make them more believable. When – in fact – those very details are the ones that trip them up.”

  “Looks like her friends just showed up,” Aali said, tilting her head toward the entrance. Sure enough, Tarana saw two men who belonged to Dubern’s squad. They cut imposing figures in the light of the hearth; a moment later, Jib stumbled up to the men, blocking them both from view.

  Aster’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Last chance, girl. I’m guessing the appearance of those men isn’t good news for you. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  Tarana stared into his eyes for a second, straining to get the man’s measure in the moments she had. In the end, she decided that rolling the dice on an unfamiliar group of mercenaries was preferable to being forcibly taken back to the camp. “I’m Calamity,” she said. “Those men are escorting me to join my uncle’s army.”

  “Hmm.” Aster’s brow drew down as he considered what she’d said. “Aali, handle it.”

  “You got it, boss. Fisticuffs or knives?”

  “Fisticuffs, of course. Those are good men. No need to kill them just for doing their job.”

  Aali nodded, rising from her seat. She meandered toward Jib and the two Gray Masques, approaching from an angle opposite to where she’d started from.

  At the same time, Aster grabbed Tarana’s wrist, his fingers like a vice as he pulled her toward the back wall. They ascended the stairs in quick order, heading for the first room on the left. Aster didn’t say a word as he threw the animal hide off of a window and leaned out to spot the bottom.

  “It’s a bit of a fall,” he said, pulling his head back into the room. “Maybe enough to injure an ankle.”

  Tarana raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not as delicate as I look.”

  “Good. In that case, you need to drop down from the window and head that way.” He gestured with his arm at an angle. “Until you reach a forest of boulders. Hide in the shadow of the largest one, and we’ll find you when we’re done dealing with the men below.”

  “Got it.” Tarana paused. A surge of fear spiked through her, a piece of her questioning whether she was right to trust the man. She thought of the dagger Prelate Gratianos had threatened her with, of Dubern and his men and their treatment of her. I’ve given enough years of my life to the army. Perhaps it’s time to follow my own path. When compared with the looming prospect of her own death – a few years away at most, and likely far sooner – striking out on her own seemed far better.

  Tarana grabbed onto the window, lowering herself until her arms were fully extended. She let herself drop, her legs shaking with the force of the impact. Then she turned to run in the direction Aster had indicated.

  The trio found her in the early hours of the morning. She’d fallen half-asleep, but the sound of their boots on the dirt woke her in an instant. Tarana sat up, searching for nearby fires or a storm in case the sounds represented a threat, but she found none. There were thunderheads passing several leagues away, but it would have taken days to guide them to her current location.

  “Relax, lass.” She thought she recognized the voice as Jib’s. “It’s only us. I’d light a torch, but the Gray Masques are scouring the whole area.”