The ride back through the mountains into the Aspen River Valley was a quicker journey than tracking Baron Erskine’s raiders out had been. For one thing, Keri and his warriors were free to make their own way, without having to bother with tracking a fleeing quarry. Finally, though he hated to think in that way, it was a lot easier to move quickly without having to care for a sick woman along the way.

It wasn’t, Keri knew, a mark against the huntress’s competence or skill. He and the men and women of House of Bælris who rode at his side had spent their entire lives in the cold mountains of the north. Mountain Home might be somewhat northwest of the peak surrounding Whitehill, but it was located in the same range. They might as well have been camping only a few days' ride from their lands. Both the game available for hunting, and the foraging that would be available as the seasons turned, were practically identical.

But when the Eld had gone to Varuna, Keri wasn’t certain they would ever have made the journey up the Airaduinë, nevermind been in good enough health to take the rift, without assistance from Wren’s tribe. How many of the northern warriors would have been struck down by the diseases of the jungle? More than he would have liked to think about.

No, assuming that Tephania and her father could be trusted, Wren was probably better off in their care, and leaving her behind meant that Keri could rush back to Whitehill and report what they’d learned. It made sense from the point of view of a commander, weighing strategic cost and benefit. But that didn’t make Keri worry any less, look forward to telling Liv where her friend was any more - or lift Ghveris from the long, brooding silences that characterized his company all the way through the mountains.

“We should not have left her,” the immense war-machine rumbled in Vakansa that was becoming more clear and less accented with every passing day.

Keri drew up on his reins, bringing Kersis to a halt, and the shaggy gelding turned about in a circle to approach the Antrian. He caught Linnea’s eye, and she nodded, leading the rest of the troops down into the valley while Keri remained to speak with the juggernaut.

“It’s natural to be worried about Wren,” he began. “But as long as they can keep her hidden, she’ll recover more quickly indoors, with a warm fire, than camping in the mountains with us.”

“That is not why she went with them,” Ghveris rumbled. His enormous, steel-armored legs sunk deep into the snowdrifts, and he leaned backward at an angle, torso twisted to look back up the slope.

“No,” Keri agreed. “She’s the best scout out of any of us, and her shape-changing abilities give her an edge that we don’t have. With any luck, no one will notice one more bat roosting in the castle belfry.”

The Antrian raised his arm, and turned from looking back along their trail to stare down at his own clenched fist. “If I had my real body,” he said, “I could go with her. I could cross the mountains on the wings of a condor, run through the southlands as a jaguar, and run through the enemy castles unnoticed as a climbing mouse.”

Keri raised a hand, then hesitated. What comfort could physical touch be to a man whose very body had been replaced by unfeeling metal? Still, Ghveris had once been a person of flesh and blood, like any other. He rested his glove on the Antrian’s arm.

“You aren’t the only one who is worried about her,” Keri said, quietly. “But you were a general once, for the Vædim. You must once have sent your friends into battle. You know that it has to be done - that the mind of the general must overrule the heart of the friend, the brother.”

“And see what it brought me, Inkeris, blood of Bælris,” the war-machine seethed. “Everyone I ever knew dead. My people dying, less than a remnant of a remnant. I have not even returned to them, yet. The only one that I have met is Wren, and she -” Ghveris made a mechanical noise somewhere between a choke and a cry.

“Do you trust her?” Keri asked, after a moment.

Ghveris nodded. “Yes. She is a good woman.”

Keri set aside the irony of that statement - certainly, most of the Eld would not agree. Wren had served Ractia - been instrumental in the goddess’s resurrection, in fact. She’d been part of the force that assaulted the city of Soltheris. He even doubted whether Wren would be able to stand hearing the words without making some sort of denial, out of guilt.

“Then trust her to come back,” he said. “If you’re right about her, she will.” The words tasted of bitterness in his mouth. He’d trusted Rika, after all, to be there when he got back. To wait for him. To understand why he had to be away. But in the end, Keri thought - and it was the first time the idea had crystalized for him, so clear that the truth of it was self-evident - if she’d been the woman he thought she was, his trust wouldn’t have been misplaced. The fact it had been broken said more about his former kwenim than it did about him. He hadn’t been wrong to trust; he’d just chosen the wrong person to put his faith in.

“Come along,” he said, slapping his gloved hand once against Ghveris’s arm, then lowering it to take up his reins again. “We have much to report. And we’ve been gone long enough that more of my people should be mustering. We’ll see Wren soon enough.”

☙

“I’m not certain it was the decision that I would have made, but I see why you let her do it,” Duchess Julianne said, rolling the broken dreamstone over in her hands.

Keri and his soldiers had been immediately ushered into the great hall upon their return to Whitehill, where they’d kicked snow off their boots, hung sodden cloaks by the great hearth, and drank hot mulled wine. By the time he’d finished reporting to Julianne, Lady Beatrice, and Guildmistress Every, the castle footman had begun to bring out platters of mana-rich food, including cuts of venison that had been salted and preserved, likely since before the winter.

The soldiers from Mountain Home cared less about what they ate than the fact that the food was positively bursting with mana. Linnea and Olavi dug in to either side of Keri at the high table, while Ghveris loomed near the fire, dripping puddles onto the stone as his ice-encrusted armor plating heated up.

“So,” Every said, glancing over to Triss, “Thurston Falkenrath was Matthew’s source.”

“I’d rather we didn’t say that out loud more than we have to,” Beatrice warned her. “I don’t think we have any traitors in this room, but if it gets back to Benedict, he’ll have Thurston executed. He’s not the only source, either - just the best of them. We know a lot of culling mages from years on the road, and there’s plenty who aren’t happy with the new direction of the guild.”

Keri looked over Liv’s sister-in-law, and had to work to keep a frown off his face. Beatrice ate nothing, and only occasionally sipped at a cup of tea. She hadn’t looked well when he’d first arrived at Whitehill, and the time that had passed during his long journey through the mountains and back didn’t seem to have resulted in any substantial recovery on her part.

“We have to trust Wren to hunt the cult of Ractia within Benedict’s forces,” Keri said, as much as he would have rather had the job himself. “And that she’ll get in contact with us once she’s learned something. In the meanwhile, while I’ve been away, how many of my people’s forces have arrived?”

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

“Two hundred more from House Däivi,” Beatrice answered. “Evenly split between archers and infantry. A hundred archers from House Keria. Liv’s kept the warriors from her father’s house at the waystone with her, but the rest have already gone south to the pass.”

“I should be with them,” Keri said. “We’ll stay the night, and then move out.”

Duchess Julianne set the dreamstone aside, reached across the table, and laid a hand across Keri’s. “I am no military commander,” she began. “That’s where I trust my husband and my son. But I do know that your soldiers have been on the road, camping in winter, for long enough that they must be exhausted. Give them a day or two to rest before you march out again.”

Keri made the mistake of glancing to where Linnea sat at his side. “I know you’re anxious about our people,” she said. “But Eilis can handle everything for another day. Unless you want to see even our people start to get sick, like Wren did.”

Even Ghveris turned to regard Keri with even, unblinking eyes of burning blue. There was nothing to do but admit defeat, at that point. “Thank you for your counsel,” Keri said. “We’ll remain the night, tomorrow to recover, and set off the morning after.”

“Excellent,” Julianne said. “I’ve already had your room prepared, and space in the barracks set aside for your troops.”

☙

Though he would never have admitted it, a night’s sleep in a real bed did a great deal of good for Keri. He had expected to have trouble sleeping - there had been a lot of restless nights since things had ended badly between him and Rika. But after days of hard travel in the mountains, he’d fallen asleep the moment he pulled a blanket over his body, and remembered nothing at all until he’d woken in the morning, well past his usual appointed hour.

In fact, by the time Keri made his way down to the great hall to break his fast, the bacon had gone cold, and most everyone else had already finished eating. He made himself a plate from what was left on the platters, lifting one cover after another to see what was available, and then brought it out to the courtyard, where the clang of steel reverberated through the chill morning air.

To Keri’s surprise, he found not only a few of his soldiers sparring with Whitehill guards, but Lady Beatrice, wearing a padded doublet and leather fencing mask, crossing blades with both Linnea and Olavi at the same time. He’d never actually seen Liv’s sister-in-law fight before, and if you’d told him the sickly woman he’d seen the night before would be handily fending off two of his best fighters at once, Keri wouldn’t have believed it.

As he ate his food and watched, Beatrice’s eyes sparked a brilliant blue through the holes in her fencing mask; when she moved quickly, trails of light were left behind by the movement of her head, floating in the air for a moment before dissipating.

She moved as if she knew what her opponents were going to do before even they did. Keri, like anyone else who dedicated their life to learning a weapon, was skilled at keeping track of his opponents in his peripheral vision - of noticing a shift in the hips or the feet that predicted a lunge, at tracking patterns and habits, at learning tells. But in the entire time it took him to clear his plate, Triss never once fell for a single feint.

When there was nothing left to eat, Keri set his empty plate down on the cold stone of the courtyard, snatched his spear up from where it leaned against the wall of the keep, and spun it around, letting the blade whistle through the air, as he crossed the training grounds to where the other three were practicing.

The sound drew their attention, and everyone backed off for a moment.

“Looking for a match?” Beatrice asked, panting from behind her fencing mask.

“What word are you using?” Keri asked her. He waved Linnea and Olavi off, set his feet into a wide stance, and brought the haft of his Næv’bel up to his ear in both hands, holding it out nearly parallel to the ground, tip of the blade pointed directly at Triss’ heart.

“Bheuv,” Triss said, raised her rapier in a salute, and then lunged forward in a feint. Keri swung his spear out in a great arc, using only one hand at the bottom of the haft for full extension. Between his greater height and reach, and the length of his weapon, she was forced to back off, and they began to circle each other.

“That’s a better dueling weapon,” Keri observed, as they evaluated each other’s guards. “You’ll have a difficult time parrying something with the weight of a polearm.” He attacked, cutting directly for Triss’ head with an overhand stroke, but she slipped out of the way as easily as water through a man’s fingers.

“Who says I’m going to block anything?” Triss asked, with a laugh. That blue light was shining out of her mask even more brightly now, and if he were to be honest, Keri found it an unnerving sight.

For the next few minutes, he tried every feint, every combination, every sequence that he’d ever learned. When that didn’t work, Keri began improving, throwing increasingly wild and unsound attacks at Triss from every angle he could think of. He stomped his foot to surprise her, he tried to close and grapple, he even threw the spear at her once, which was a truly horrible tactic in all but the most desperate and unusual circumstances.

And yet, Lady Beatrice evaded every attack as calmly and easily as she might walk in a garden. Worse, every time Keri found himself out of position or overextended, she tapped him with the tip of her rapier.

Finally, he had to concede defeat. “That spell you’re using is incredible,” Keri admitted, sitting down on the stones of the courtyard without any regard for how cold they were. Linnea handed him a wineskin, and Keri gratefully tossed back a gulp of hot, mulled wine.

Beatrice sheathed her rapier, then pulled her mask off. Her face was flushed, and Keri took some comfort in the fact that she was breathing as hard as he was. “It makes fighting anyone who isn’t a mage completely unfair,” she confessed. “I don’t usually use it when I practice, but your friends here were curious. But it wouldn’t stop Liv from freezing me inside a block of ice, or Matthew from wringing every drop of water out of my body.”

“That’s not usually how Liv fights,” Keri mused. “A bit more brutal than her usual style. I see your point, though. Still - quite the advantage in battle. I don’t suppose you would consider sharing it?”

Triss blinked, as if her mind had frozen for a moment at his question. “That’s not legal,” she said. “Not without my father’s permission.”

“Whitehill is in open conflict with the crown of Lucania,” Keri pointed out. “How much do you still care about their laws?” He lumbered upright again, wincing at the ache in his muscles. It was the good kind of soreness: the kind that was earned through honest exercise. “I would be willing to make an exchange,” he offered. “Savel for Bheuv. I’ve never heard of the two being combined before, but I have a few ideas.”

Olavi laughed. “You must have really impressed him, Lady Beatrice. Inkeris has never shown much of an interest in learning a second word until now.”

Triss opened her mouth once, closed it, and then finally spoke. “What does Savel do?”

“It is the word of sunlight,” Keri said. “Do you mind losing that archery target?” He pointed to a stand holding a circle of wound straw, with a few crossbow bolts still lodged in it.

“Go right ahead. We have plenty.” Triss raised her voice, and called out across the courtyard. “Everyone clear the yard! Spell demonstration!”

Keri was amused at how quickly the Whitehill guards scrambled out of the way, and wondered just what sort of accidents a young Liv might have caused that made them so attentive. Once there was a clear path, he raised his spear, pointed the head of it at the target, and spoke a single incantation: “Savelet Fleia o’Mae!”

The magic took a moment to manifest; outside of a pitched battle, Keri saw no reason to rush his casting. The focusing enchantments worked into his Næv’bel did their work, pulling his mana along and preventing stray wisps from escaping into the courtyard. The metal head of the spear began to shine, and then a bar of light so bright that it burned an afterimage into Keri’s vision connected his weapon and the target for a single moment in time. When the light faded, there was nothing left of the straw target but a blackened spot of soot on the stones of the courtyard.

For half a heartbeat, there was silence in the courtyard. Then, the Whitehill guards, both in the training grounds and on the wall, began to exchange excited whispers in hushed voices.

“An exchange,” Triss repeated. “Rust it. We’re already at war anyway. Let’s find a place neither one of us will hit our head when we fall over.”

☙

The next morning, Keri was up before the sun rose. The score of men and women who’d fought with him from Mountain Home to Varuna, and all across the north, were saddled and ready to ride. The people of Whitehill, who’d grown used to troops of armed soldiers riding in and out of the city, cleared the way for them from the castle down to the gate.

As they passed beneath the bare aspen trees along the side of the road south to the pass, Keri saw that the ice along the branches was melting in the morning sun.