“Well, I don’t. The Kettral are still gone. Il Tornja is still missing. And Horonius Van still has his booted heel on the throat of this fucking city.”
“Perhaps,” Kegellen suggested, “you should let him leave it there. At least until after this … war.” She frowned, as though that final word were unpleasant even to pronounce. “He will be weaker then and you might need him a little less.”
That, in fact, was exactly what Adare would have preferred to do. Much as she loathed the military takeover of Annur, there was no way around the fact that Van would make a better commander for the coming battle than Adare herself, probably better than Lehav. Certainly, the addition of the Army of the North gave the entire city a fighting chance against the coming horde. The Urghul, however, were not the only foe; not even, if Kaden was to be believed, the greatest foe. Il Tornja’s absence from the front was evidence enough that there was another struggle going on, a quiet war invisible to almost everyone, a battle that might decide far more than the fate of a couple of continents. Adare had no idea why il Tornja would want the Dawn Palace or the Spear, but the fact that he wanted them was reason enough to try to deny him those very things. Not that she could tell Kegellen that. Despite their alliance, she didn’t trust the woman much more than she would a half-rabid dog.
“It ought to be possible-” Adare began again.
A sharp rap on the door cut her off.
Kegellen frowned. “I try to give the clearest instructions to my staff, and still they will disturb me when I have asked not to be disturbed.” She shook her head as she set down her wine, then levered herself up from the chair. “If this is not a pair of naked young men-preferably beautiful but dumb, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five-I will be quite displeased.”
Despite the woman’s levity, Adare’s stomach had knotted up suddenly, viciously at the sound of the knock. It had been a long time since unexpected tidings meant anything but death or disaster. All over again she saw her son’s eyes, burning, terrified. She was clutching her wineglass, she realized, clutching it so tightly she was amazed it had not already shattered. Deliberately, she set it down as Kegellen swung open the door.
“What is it, Serise?” the woman asked.
Adare exhaled slowly. No stranger come calling after all. Just one of the household slaves.
“Apologies, my lady,” a meek voice from beyond the door replied. “A note. It was delivered with some urgency.”
“And did the bearer of this note speak the crucial words?” Kegellen asked.
“No, my lady, but-”
“Then it cannot be so urgent, can it?”
“Pardon, my lady, but the note is not for you.”
Adare felt sick all over again.
“Ah,” Kegellen said, extending her hand. “How interesting.”
By the time the woman had closed the door, crossed the room, and passed the note across the table, Adare found she was trembling. There was no seal on the paper-it was folded over twice and tied with a length of rough twine. Hardly a terrifying epistle, and yet Adare eyed it as though it were a viper, and instead of reaching for the note, she raised her goblet, swirled the liquid around the glass, then drained it.
“And just what kinda lump-brained ritual is this?” Nira demanded finally. “Ya gonna look at the ’Kent-kissing thing or are we all gonna sit here guessin’?”
Adare ignored the woman, took up the paper, opened it. It didn’t take long to read the hastily scrawled lines, and only a moment more to understand them. She looked up from the message, relief welling up inside her. There was no word of Sanlitun. It had nothing to do with her son. Which meant she could believe, if only for another day, that he was still alive.
Kegellen cocked her head to the side. “Good news?”
“Good news doesn’t come creepin’ in like a kicked dog,” Nira said, watching Adare warily. “Out with it, woman.”
Slowly, Adare dragged her eyes back to the text. Already, the relief was seeping away, replaced by something colder, more dangerous-some feeling balanced on the knife’s edge between hope and horror.
“He has returned,” she said.
Nira leaned forward, suddenly hungry, predatory. “Il Tornja?”
Adare shook her head. “Kaden. My brother. And he has Triste with him.”
57
The Kettral returned to Annur a little after midnight, when the moon’s blade had lodged itself in the dark horizon. Gwenna put the birds down in a quiet square just south of the city’s northern wall. A couple of empty plinths flanked a fountain at the center of the open space. Someone had already toppled and hauled off whatever statuary had stood atop them, but the fountain still ran, water gushing up from the pipe’s mouth, tracing a glittering arc through the night air, then splashing into the open sandstone bowl. The huge birds, free of their soldiers, gathered around the fountain, dipped their beaks into the water over and over. The motion was strange, almost mechanical, but delicate.
“Our staging area,” Gwenna said. “Compliments of the Emperor.” She gestured to a series of buildings fronting the square. “Barracks. Command. Livery. Infirmary. Supply. Our little slice of the Eyrie right here in Annur.”
Valyn studied the silent structures. There were no lamps or candles in the windows. No smoke issued from the chimneys. He closed his eyes, listening for the rustle and murmur of sleeping men and women. Nothing.
“Where are the people?” he asked. “Who lived here?”
Gwenna shook her head. “Fuck if I know. I told your sister I needed a staging area, and she gave us this.”
The Flea nodded. “A good spot. Close to the fight. Plenty of room for simultaneous landings.”
“There’s a bigger square a little to the west,” Gwenna replied, “but this one’s close to the Emperor’s own command post.” She pointed north toward a blocky tower rising above the wall a hundred paces away. “Figured it was worth trying to consolidate the command.” She glanced over to where two soldiers were carrying Newt toward one of the buildings. “Enough bullshitting about the logistics. Your Wing needs medical care, better care than we could give you in the field.”
“See to Newt and Sigrid,” the Flea began. “I’m fine.…”
“Horseshit,” Gwenna snapped. “You’re bleeding through your bandages while we stand here.”
“I know what this body can take, Gwenna. I’ve been fighting in it a long time.”
“And I need you to keep fighting in it. We’re not losing the best fucking soldier we’ve got to a case of his own stubbornness. You are going to the infirmary if I have to tie you up and kick you all the way there.”
The Kettral close enough to hear the outburst turned, tried to watch the conflict unnoticed as they went about their work. They knew the Flea. Washouts or not, everyone knew the Flea, and this was not the way people talked to the Flea. Valyn himself took a step back. After a pause, however, the older man just chuckled.
“I won’t say no to a bed and a few hours’ rest. Just make sure you don’t let me sleep through the war.”
Gwenna grunted. “Don’t you worry about that. When the war gets here, I’m planning to hide behind you the entire time.” She turned to glare at Valyn. “You, too. The fuck’s wrong with you people? Get to the infirmary and put your heads on the ’Kent-kissing pillows.”
Only when Valyn and the Flea had almost reached the building did Gwenna finally turn, barking orders at the Kettral who still remained in the square.
“Never should have put her in charge of Andt-Kyl,” the Flea murmured, shaking his head with mock regret. “Now, anytime there’s a city to defend, she acts like she runs the place.”
Valyn just nodded.
Gwenna was a different woman from the headstrong cadet he remembered; there was no doubt about that. The old fire was still there, hot as ever, but she’d found a way to harness it. Back on the Islands she’d been almost out of control half the time, a danger to herself and everyone around her. Not anymore. She was still dangerous, more dangerous-that much was obvious just from the way she held herself, from the steel in her voice-but she’d found a way to hammer her anger into a blade, one that she could hold, wield, master.