“No knife,” Amara said quietly. “Kalarus has abducted two women. You know who they are.”
Rook said nothing, but something in the quality of her silence made Amara think that she did.
“I want to know where they have been taken,” Amara said. “I want to know what security precautions are around them. I want to know how to free them and escape with them again.”
A short breath, the bare specter of a laugh, escaped Rook’s lips.
“Are you willing to tell me?” Amara asked.
Rook stared at her in silent scorn.
“I see,” Amara said. She beckoned with one hand. “In that case, I’m going to leave.”
Lady Aquitaine-and not Lady Aquitaine-stepped into the light of the circle of fire. Her form had changed, growing shorter, stockier, so that the dress she wore fit her badly. Her features had changed, skin and face and hair, to the perfect mirror of Rook’s own face and body alike.
Rook’s head snapped up. Her tortured face twisted into an expression of horror.
“I’ll go for a walk outside,” Amara continued in a quiet, remorseless voice. “Out in public. With her. Where everyone in the city might see. Where anyone Kalarus has watching will see us together.”
Rook’s face writhed between terror and agony, and she stared at Lady Aquitaine as if physically unable to remove her gaze. “No. Oh furies, no. Kill me. Just end it.”
“Why?” Amara asked. “Why should I?”
“If I am dead, she will be nothing to him. He might only cast her out.” Her voice dissolved into a ragged sob as she began to weep again. “She’s only five. Please, she’s only a little girl.”
Amara took a deep breath. “What is her name, Rook?”
The woman suddenly sagged in the chains, wracked with broken, harsh sobs. “Masha,” she grated. “Masha.”
She pressed closer, seizing Rook by the hair and forcing her to lift her face, though the woman’s eyes were now swollen, mostly closed. “Where is the child?”
“Kalare,” sobbed the spy. “He keeps her next to his chambers. To remind me what he can do.”
Amara steeled herself not to falter, and her voice rang on the stone walls. “Is that where they’ve taken the prisoners?”
Rook shook her head, but the gesture was a feeble one, an obvious lie. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
Amara held the spy’s eyes and willed resolve into her own. “Do you know where they are? Do you know how I can get to them?”
Silence fell, but for Rook’s broken sounds of grief and pain. “Yes,” she said, finally. “I know. But I can’t tell you. If you rescue them, he’ll kill her.” She shuddered. “Countess, please, it’s her only chance. Kill me here. I can’t fail her.”
Amara released Rook’s hair and stepped back from the prisoner. She felt sick. “Bernard,” she said quietly, nodding at a bucket in the corner. “Give her some water.”
The Count did, his expression remote and deeply troubled. Rook made no sign that she noticed him, until he had actually lifted her head and used a ladle to pour some water between her lips. Then she drank with the mindless, miserable need of a caged beast.
Amara wiped the hand she’d touched the spy with upon her skirts, rubbing hard. Then she stepped outside and got the keys to the woman’s shackles from the legionare on guard. As she stepped back into the cell, Lady Aquitaine touched her arm, her features returned to normal, her expression one of displeasure. “What do you think you are doing?”
Amara stopped in her tracks and met the High Lady’s cold gaze in a sudden flash of confidence and steel-hard certainty.
Lady Aquitaine’s eyebrows rose, startled. “What are you doing, girl?”
“I’m showing you the difference, Your Grace,” she said. “Between my Realm. And yours.”
Then she went to Rook and removed the shackles. Bernard caught the spy before she could collapse to the floor. Amara turned and summoned the legionare, then sent him to fetch a healer’s tub and water to fill it.
Rook sat leaning weakly against Bernard’s support. The spy stared up at Amara, expression mystified. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why?”
“Because you’re coming with us,” Amara said quietly, and her voice sounded like a stranger’s to her ear, certain and powerful. “We’re going to Kalare. We’re going to find them. We’re going to find Lady Placidus and Atticus’s daughter and your Masha. And we’re going to take all of them away from that murderous slive.”
Bernard shot a glance up at her, hazel eyes suddenly bright and somehow wolfish, glowing with a fierce and silent pride.
Rook only stared at her, as though she was a madwoman. “N-no… why would you… is this a trick?”
Amara knelt and took Rook’s hand between hers, meeting her eyes. “I swear to you, Rook, by my honor that if you help us, I will do everything in my power to take your daughter safe away from him. I swear to you that I will lay down my own life before I let hers be lost.”
Rook stared at her in silent shock.
Without ever looking away from the prisoner’s eyes, Amara pressed her dagger into the spy’s grasp, and lifted it so that Rook held the blade against Amara’s throat. Then she dropped her hands slowly away from the weapon.
Bernard let out a short, sharp hiss, and she felt him tense. Then abruptly he relaxed again. She saw him nod at her out of the corner of her eye. Trusting her.
“I have given you my word,” she said quietly to Rook. “If you do not believe me, take my life. If you wish to continue your service to your lord, take my life. Or come with me and help me take your daughter back.”
“Why?” Rook demanded in a whisper. “Why would you do this?”
“Because it is right.”
There was an endless, silent moment.
Amara faced Rook, calm and steady.
Then Amara’s knife clattered to the stones. Rook let out a sob and collapsed against Amara, who caught her and supported her weight.
“Yes,” Rook whispered. “I’ll tell you anything. Do anything. Save her.”
Amara nodded, lifting her eyes to Bernard. He laid his hand on Amara’s hair for a moment, fingers warm and gentle. He smiled, and she felt her own smile rise to answer his.
“Your Grace,” Amara said after a moment, looking up, “we need to depart at once. The guard should be bringing a healing tub. Could you please see to Rook’s injury?”
Lady Aquitaine stared down at the three on the floor, her head tilted to one side, frowning as if faced with a mystifying silent theater performed by lunatics. “Of course, Countess,” she said after a moment, her voice distant. “I am always glad to serve the Realm.”
Chapter 17
Tavi slept in a tent he shared with several other junior officers. In the middle of the night, unusual noises disturbed his rest, and a moment later Max shook him roughly awake. “Come on,” Max ordered him in a low, growling whisper. “Move it.”
Tavi rose, pulled on his tunic, grabbed up his boots, and followed Max out into the night. “Where are we going?” Tavi mumbled.
“To the captain’s tent. Magnus sent me to get you,” Max said. “Something’s up.” He nodded down another row of tents as they passed, and Tavi looked up to see other figures moving quietly through the night. Tavi recognized the shadowy profile of one of the Tribunes Tactica, and a few moments later, the ugly, rough features of Valiar Marcus, the First Spear, appeared from the night and fell in beside them.
“Marcus,” Max muttered.
“Antillar,” the First Spear said. “Subtribune Scipio.”
Tavi abruptly stopped in his tracks, and looked up. The sky was overcast, making the night very dark, though the clouds were low and swift-moving. Thunder rumbled far in the distance. Through gaps in the cloud cover, the stars glowered down in sullen shades of crimson. “The stars,” he said.
Max looked up and blinked. “Bloody crows.”
The First Spear grunted without slowing his pace.