“How long ago?”
“An hour.”
She sat at his side and plucked the spyglass from his lap. “I wish I knew what they were saying.”
“Something along the lines of You can’t come in and Oh yes we can, I’d imagine.”
“I believe it’s a bit more complex than that,” she said, putting the bronze tube to her eyes.
A white table stood in the field beyond the army, a flag of parley flying above it. Three men sat at it, so distant that even the spyglass couldn’t show their faces. One wore the brown robes of the spider priests. That was Vicarian, then. Knowing that, she could see something familiar in the way he held himself. The others were in dark cloth embroidered with silver or else some light mail. She couldn’t tell. The thing that had been her son raised his hands and shook his head. For a moment, she was back in Camnipol, in the little bed she and Dawson had shared, listening to the haranguing shouts of the high priest in the street. You cannot win. Everything you love is already lost. Everything you care about is gone. Listen to my voice, you cannot win. The morning was warm, but she shuddered.
The forces of Antea stood in ranks. Swords and pikes and bows were in their hands. At the head of each rank the banner of one of the great houses of Antea: Broot, Faskellan, Ischian. Marshallin and Hoit were there as well, though they were the court of Asterilhold. Or had been, before their kingdom fell. But then, those who had passed through Geder Palliako’s private court were among the trusted.
If they had turned, if she’d seen their faces, she could have named each of them. She’d eaten at their tables, and they at hers. She’d traded gossip with their wives and mothers and daughters. They didn’t turn back. But along each rank, another figure strode, walking up and down, gesturing at the men as they stood at attention. More priests. More men like Basrahip. Like Vicarian. Their faces were turned toward her, and she saw joy in them. Wide smiles, open arms. She watched them touch the shoulders and arms of the men. You cannot lose. The goddess is with you, and nothing can stand against her. She will protect you. She could even make out some of the words on their lips. Protect and cannot were particularly easy to recognize.
Something happened. She saw the men start. Not move, not yet, but suddenly sharpen. She moved the glass back, and the parley table had been overturned. Vicarian was on his feet now, shouting at the emissaries of Birancour. His fist was raised, and the other men were stepping back in dismay. The thing that had been her son turned dramatically and stalked back toward the Antean ranks. Jorey, in good mail on a white charger, trotted forward. For a moment, the two brothers spoke. Clara thought she saw Jorey’s shoulders sag, but it might only have been her imagination.
Jorey’s head turned. The rising tones that called the attack rang through the valley. Clara’s throat felt like she was choking on a plum pit. On the field, the soldiers shifted into their positions.
“No need to watch this,” Vincen said, putting his hand on her shoulder.
“These are my men. As much as the deserters were, these are mine. I won’t disrespect them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vincen said.
The forces of Birancour poured into the valley. She couldn’t think what Vicarian might have said that convinced them to charge into the morning sun, but they came nonetheless. Jorey’s men fell back, not in a rout, but with the discipline of practice and plan. Wings of archers swung to the fore, loosing their shafts and falling back. Birancouri cavalry came in answer, but now the priests stood in among the soldiers. They had speaking horns to their mouths, and even at distance, Clara could hear the muddle of voices. The attacking cavalry hesitated, and with every hesitation, a few more arrows fell among them. Clara wanted them to charge. She wanted them to fall back. She wanted the men of Antea and Birancour to join together and cut the priests down where they stood. She wanted her sons back.
With a rush, the cavalry of Birancour came. Their banners floated in the breeze of their passage. Foot soldiers followed, the sun glittering off bared blades. And now the men of Antea—exhausted from months of travel and battle—surged forward to meet them. She put down the spyglass. She would not turn away, but neither did she wish to gawk as men she could not save died.
The banners moved amid the chaos, the colors of Birancour spreading wide and then falling together. The screams of men and horses filled the world like the roar of surf, like a windstorm. The breeze shifted, and brought a smell unlike anything she had ever imagined. She sat utterly still, as if frozen. Vincen took her hand in his, and she squeezed his fingers to assure him that she was still there.
The first of the green-and-gold banners fell. The roar changed. The banners moved forward, toward the mouth of the pass and the fields of Birancour. The rout began, and the soldiers of Antea rushed after their fleeing foes, slaughtering. All banners but one, and it carried her own colors. She lifted the spyglass.
Jorey sat his charger, reins in his hands. His face was little more than a flesh-colored smudge, but he did not ride forward with his men. He watched as she did. And saw, perhaps, what she saw. It was well after midday before it ended. The Antean soldiers didn’t come back, but a trickle of servants did, come to collect tents and carts and move them forward, she assumed, into the conquered army’s camp. All around the bowl of the valley, the body-pickers and vultures began to inch forward, keeping wary eyes out for patrols of soldiers from either side. She stood and began walking down, one foot resolutely in front of the next. Vincen had to trot to catch up to her.
“My lady, please.”
“My people, Vincen. My people, my choices. Mine.”
The first body she came to was long dead, face and throat cut in a single blow. The next wasn’t so fortunate. He still lived and struggled, though there was no reason in his eyes. She poured a bit of water in his mouth, and she thought he tried to drink it, but she couldn’t be sure. When he went still, she moved on. The ground was churned to mud. Men and horses lay under the sun, dead and dying. Cunning men and vultures crossed the field, giving what they could. Taking what they could. A patrol of Jorey’s men arrived and began hauling away the injured of Antea. Only of Antea. The enemy were left to die.
The patrol took no notice of her or the others, and she had little care for them. Birancouri and Antean alike, she did what she could to ease the injured or dying, to help them. She bound wounds where she could, gave ease where there was ease to be given. She took nothing from the bodies of the dead. She had from them already what she needed.
“You should eat,” Vincen said.
“I will.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It keeps being true. I will.”
The evening had come. She and Vincen had made their way back to their little camp, their little tents. Somewhere far ahead, a bonfire was blazing, dark smoke rising into the indigo sky. A victory celebration. Her kingdom’s victory. Her son’s.
Her boots and the hem of her skirt were heavy with drying mud. Vincen held out a bit of salt pork he’d been boiling over their little fire, and she took it, bit off an end, and chewed slowly. She was aware that it tasted much better than it should have. Either she was desperately hungry or any sensation that proved her still alive had become precious. Perhaps both.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I will be.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I am.”
He lapsed back into silence. The stars came out, scattered across the sky like a snowstorm. Clara drew her writing kit out, dropped another knot on the fire, and turned her back to it so that the light fell on the page and didn’t blind her. She took the pen in her hand, paused, and put it back. If ever in her life it had been time for a good pipe, the time was now. She packed the little clay bowl with leaf, lit it with a burning twig, and took the pen out again. She drew it across the ink brick, let the nib hover for a moment over the page. There had been some other thought she’d had before, some strategy for undermining Geder’s army. It was no longer foremost in her mind. She let it go.