Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series (18 page)

When the sun set, the villagers were still arriving, and the soldiers lit a pair of bonfires on either side of the podium large enough to shed some light, but not so big that their roar would drown out Lucien’s words. Then Lucien mounted the podium, and silence fell.

“Riorcans,” he began.

He had a good voice for oratory, Vitala discovered: not deep, but clear and powerful.

“I am your emperor, Lucien Florian Nigellus.” He paused for reaction, but there was none, except for the crackling and spitting of the fires. He held up a letter. “In my hand, I hold the latest orders for White Eagle battalion. These orders were not issued by me, but by the traitor who now commands the Kjallan military, the usurper Cassian.”

Hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on the letter in his hand. Vitala was as surprised as anyone; she had not known orders had arrived for White Eagle.

“These orders call for the decimation of the village of Tinst. We are to select one of every ten men, women, and children by lot to be executed by the stake.”

In the near silence that followed, Vitala heard someone quietly sobbing.

Lucien looked over the crowd, pausing to make eye contact with individual villagers. “These orders will not be carried out.” His words were punctuated by an explosion of sparks from the bonfire. “This is what I think of these orders.” He stepped off the podium, walked to the rightmost bonfire, and fed the paper to the flames. Then he mounted the podium again. “People of Riorca, long have you suffered, first under my great-grandfather’s rule, then my grandfather’s, and finally my father’s.” He leaned forward over the podium, and the Riorcans in the audience mirrored the gesture, leaning toward him. “Countrymen, these orders are
vile
. They are inhumane. And do you know why the usurper issued them? To punish Riorca for murdering me. When here I stand before you, alive and well!” He gave a bitter laugh. “The usurper attempted to kill me, and he blames my supposed death on Riorca. But this is no surprise to you. As Riorcans, you are accustomed to being blamed for things you did not do, punished for crimes you did not commit, and forced to labor while others lay idle and enjoy the fruits of that labor. Is this not true?”

Vitala watched the crowd as Lucien continued to speak. They were a worn, demoralized people who had barely reacted to his opening words. But as he went on, chronicling and excoriating the Kjallan abuses of the past, she began to see signs of life—a pair of bright eyes, an encouraging murmur. They were skeptical, but they warmed to him, blinking awake from long, unwanted dreams. Lucien engaged them well; his voice had an intensity that compelled attention, and he actively sought eye contact with his audience.

“No more!” cried Lucien, pounding the podium as his oration neared its conclusion. “Today, my Riorcan brothers and sisters, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes of the past. Riorca shall suffer these injustices no longer. As proof of my good intentions, I offer you a gift. Though, in truth, it is something that belongs to you by right, something taken from you by force that shall now be returned to you. I speak of your freedom.” Several villagers gasped, and Lucien paused to let the words sink in. “Standing on either side of this podium are the Healers of White Eagle battalion. In a moment, I’m going to ask you to form lines before each of them, so that they can remove your death spells. Your former overseers are in custody and will be returned to Kjall. Ladies and gentlemen, Tinst is now a free village.”

The Riorcans greeted these words with a ragged cheer.

“Now, I must warn you,” said Lucien, “there will be some hard times ahead.”

Every eye rose to meet his. They knew there had to be a catch, and here it was.

“In freeing Riorca—and Tinst is but the first of many villages White Eagle is about to liberate—I have all but declared war on the usurper Cassian. He will send troops to oppose me. Though you are a free people of whom I make no demands, I cannot win this war without your support and cooperation.”

Heads nodded hesitantly throughout the crowd.

“I do not ask you to fight for me—that is the battalion’s job—but the usurper will move quickly to cut off our supply lines. Without supplies, my troops will starve, and the usurper will reclaim and re-enslave this village. Yet Riorca, when not saddled with crushing tributes, is a rich land, fully capable of supporting its population and supplying my troops as they fight this war on its behalf. Villagers of Tinst, can I count on your support?”

“Yes!” many cried.

“Stand up and get in line to have your death spells removed,” said Lucien. “And then we shall celebrate. My men have brought food, and we have musicians. Are there any Riorcan musicians in the crowd?”

A few heads nodded.

“After your spells are removed, fetch your instruments and join the others. But first, hear White Eagle’s salute to the liberated village of Tinst. White Eagle!” He turned and gestured to Quincius.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the ground shook beneath Vitala’s feet as a thousand Kjallan boots, all around her, hit the earth at the same time. “HURRAH!” came the soldier’s cry, so loud and so primal, emerging out of the darkness, that Vitala’s hair stood on end. There was a ringing clash as their swords struck one another in unison. “HURRAH!” Finally came the ear-shattering blast of muskets firing, and the accompanying flashes of orange. “HURRAH!”

Vitala’s flesh felt electrified. The soldier’s salute wasn’t merely a gesture honoring Tinst; it was a demonstration of power—power that was now acting for Riorca instead of against it. To witness it was exhilarating. Having never admired him more, she felt a fierce desire to run to Lucien and embrace him, but she refrained. He’d stepped down from the podium and was surrounded by his officers and by Riorcans who wanted to look on him, touch him, as if he were a god come down from the sky.

She brushed tears of joy from her eyes. She’d dreamed of this moment, offered herself up as a sacrifice in order to help to bring it about, but never expected to see it with her own eyes. Their work wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot; they still had the usurper to deal with. But even if they lost the war against Cassian, at least the Riorcans would die free.

The musicians struck up a tune, and Riorcan couples headed into the open area to dance. Vitala looked about for a partner. Lucien was busy, and anyhow he was not able to dance. She spotted a Riorcan fellow eyeing her; he seemed too shy to approach her. She took him by the hand, gave him an encouraging nod, and let him whirl her into the crowd.

•   •   •

She danced for over an hour, turning often to glance at Lucien. Always he was surrounded by admirers, Kjallans and Riorcans, with whom he clasped wrists and conversed, seldom smiling but nonetheless making himself approachable. She had a feeling he wouldn’t have danced even if he’d had two good legs; to dance with commoners would have diminished him in their eyes. Happily, there was no such restriction on her.

The celebration was still in full swing when Lucien excused himself and headed for the command tent in the company of his officers. Vitala excused herself as well, bidding farewell to the young, pock-faced Kjallan soldier she’d been dancing with, and hurried after him.

Lucien’s party separated, with the officers going to their own tents and Lucien to the command tent he shared with Vitala. The guards admitted her as she followed him, and she found Lucien in the bedchamber, stripping off the outer layers of his military uniform.

His eyes met hers. “I think that went rather well.”

Vitala reeled as if drunk. “You’re a gifted orator.”

His eyebrows rose. “Thank you. It’s good to have that acknowledged.”

The formality of his speech stung. He was still imposing distance between them. Too bad—she’d never been more attracted to him than she was right now. “Surely you’ve heard it said many times.”

He sat on the edge of his cot and began working loose the intricate knots of his sword belt. “Not as many as you might think. And when subordinates praise me, I assume they’re just trying to curry favor.”

“But when you’re emperor, everyone’s a subordinate.”

Lucien smiled. “Now you see the problem. But you’re an exception. You’re not a subordinate. You’re— Well, I don’t know what you are.”

Vitala smiled.
That makes two of us.
“Did you really tear up the orders from Cassian?”

Lucien chuckled. “No, I wrote those up myself. We haven’t received orders from Cassian yet, and, besides, they’ll arrive by signal, not by letter.”

She stiffened. “You lied about the orders?”

“We know they’re on the way.”

She allowed that was probably true, and she didn’t mind a little stagecraft for the crowd. But if he’d so casually lied about the orders, was the rest of the speech also peppered with lies? His words had so affected her. She hadn’t considered that they might be just an act, another bit of strategy well executed. “Did you mean what you said in that speech, Lucien?”

“Of course I meant it.”

“Including the part about asking forgiveness for the crimes of the past, about there being no more injustices under your watch?”

Lucien tugged off his boots. “Some of the sentiments were overblown, but the gist is true.”

If she’d been drunk before, she was rapidly sobering up. “The sentiments were overblown?”

He shrugged. “A little.”

Vitala fumed. “Is this all pragmatics for you, then? I don’t believe you care a whit about Riorca and how it’s suffered over the years. I believe you’re just flattering and seducing the locals so they’ll provide your army with food and supplies.”

He stared at her in bewilderment. “I didn’t flatter them—I set them free. Are we in this war to win or not?”

“Yes, we’re in it to win!” She shook her head. “It’s just . . . your words were so moving. I couldn’t help thinking you actually meant them. I
wanted
you to mean them.”

“Vitala, old wounds can’t be healed in a day. I’m helping your country. Don’t ask me to love it.”

“It would be nice if you stopped hating it.”

“Vitala,
look
at this.” He jabbed a thumb at his maimed leg. “You expect me to love the people who did this to me? And you! They turned you into an assassin who seduces men and kills them. It’s disgusting. It’s horrifying! What amazes me is that
you
don’t hate them!”

“They didn’t force me to be what I am.”

“Did you
ask
for the job?”

Vitala burst into tears. “Riorca is what your people made it. Do you think the Circle would even
exist
if Kjall hadn’t enslaved my country?”

He gave a sigh of exasperation. “So it’s Kjall’s fault.”

“Yes, it is! If you hate me, if you hate what I am, blame yourself for it. Blame Kjall. We Riorcans only did what we had to do.”

He was silent, and for a while all she could hear were the sounds of her own choked weeping. Finally, she climbed into her cot, pulled the covers over herself—no way was she going to undress in front of him—and reached up to deactivate the light-glow, which plunged them into darkness.

“I don’t hate you,” said Lucien softly.

“Never mind,” said Vitala. “It’s not important.” But it was.

His footsteps padded across the room toward her, and he knelt by her cot. She felt his warm breath on her face. “Can I make a deal with you?”

She screwed her eyes shut. Her sobs had ceased, leaving her in the desolate, empty state that followed. “What deal?”

“I don’t have to love your country, and you don’t have to love mine.”

“Fine. I accept.”

A warm hand touched her cheek, and she instinctively turned toward it, opening her eyes again, though she could see nothing in the darkness.

Then she felt the prickle of his heat, the promise of his lips as they hovered a breath above hers. “I don’t love your country,” he said. “But I love
you
.”

She hesitated. Then, in response, she kissed him.

He rose from the floor to deepen the kiss, climbing on the bed and then on top of her, framing her face with his hands and stroking her neck. “I enjoyed watching you dance this evening,” he said. “I was glad you took part—otherwise all the women would have been Riorcan, and there weren’t near enough to go around.”

“I’m Riorcan too.”

“They didn’t know.” He paused. “I was jealous of all your partners.”

“You needn’t be. I wished every one of them was you.”

He smiled and reached under the covers, where his hand encountered her syrtos. “Did you really get under these covers fully dressed?”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“Let’s fix that,” he said, tugging at her belt, “and then I’ll show you how much I love you.”

20

A
s Vitala and Lucien rode at the head of the battalion, now on its way to the village of Echmor, a messenger galloped up to the troop column. Vitala watched as Lucien unfolded the message, studied it with unblinking eyes, then grimaced and folded it up again.

“What does it say?” she asked.

“Two things. First, it’s the orders we expected from Cassian. We’re to decimate the villages of Tinst, Echmor, and Rynas.”

“I thought you said those orders would arrive by signal.” She poked him in the arm, teasing.

“They did arrive by signal, at White Eagle headquarters. Then a runner delivered them to us on paper.”

“So that’s one thing. What’s the other?”

“We’ve captured the signal tower at Turos Tor.”

Vitala glanced around at the marching battalion. “We have? What does that mean?”

“The day after we arrived at White Eagle, I dispatched two squads on horseback to capture the signal towers at Emwar Pass and Turos Tor. All signals from the interior of Kjall pass through those towers. Once I have them both, not only will I be able to intercept all communications from Cassian, but I’ll also be able to send false signals in Cassian’s name.”

“Three gods,” said Vitala, astonished at the power that would grant them. “What signals are you planning to send?”

Lucien shot her a sly grin. “I’ll figure it out when we capture the other one.”

•   •   •

That evening in the command tent, Vitala sat with Lucien as he scratched out a letter with his quill. Their argument the night before, rather than driving them apart, had drawn them closer together. He didn’t have to love her people to help them, and it was a relief to have it known, at least behind the closed doors of the command tent, that she possessed no fondness for Kjall either. The burgeoning alliance between Riorca and Lucien’s army wasn’t a love match, and it didn’t have to be. Riorca didn’t have the resources to save itself; neither did Lucien. But if they worked together, however uneasily, they just might save each other.

How she and Lucien felt about each other was something else. Lucien had outright told her he loved her. He knew her history, some of it, and hadn’t rejected her, which she regarded as a miracle. Unfortunately, there were still some things he didn’t know, like her problem with the visions. He was being patient in the bedroom and seemed content with activities other than intercourse, but how long could that last? Not forever. Their relationship could only be temporary.

Lucien finished his letter and folded it up.

“Who are you writing to?” she asked.

“My cousin.”

“Queen Rhianne? How are you going to get a letter to Mosar? Won’t Cassian intercept it?”

“I’m sending it to her best friend, Marcella, under Quincius’s name,” said Lucien. “Marcella will send it on to Rhianne.”

“You’re certain Marcella won’t betray you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Rhianne might aid us against Cassian?” His cousin had recently been crowned queen of Mosar, a wealthy island nation, though it was small compared to Kjall and battered by a recent war. A war with Lucien’s father, in fact, which didn’t help Lucien’s case.

Lucien shook his head. “I doubt Mosar has any aid to spare, and King Jan-Torres is no friend to me. But Cassian is claiming I’m dead, and word may have reached Rhianne by now. I hate the thought of her grieving.”

She smiled, touched by his concern, but at the same time, she felt a hollow ache in her chest. She had no family members who would miss her if she died.

One of the door guards poked his head inside the tent. “Sire, there’s a man here who wishes to see you.”

Lucien frowned. “Can it wait until morning?”

“Perhaps, sire. The man says one of his squad mates is hiding a woman, not one of the usual camp followers. Shall I dispatch the prefect on watch to deal with the situation?”

“No, this can’t wait until morning. Send him in.”

The young soldier entered the command tent, nervously running a hand through his hair. He bowed his head, knelt before Lucien, and recited, “Matho, Second Century, Green Squadron.”

Lucien clasped his wrist and pulled him upright. “Matho, I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new to White Eagle?”

“Yes, sire. I joined early this spring.”

“Very good, and which of your mates in Green Squadron, Second Century, is the one hiding the woman? Would it be Protus, by chance?”

Matho blinked, startled. “Yes, sire.”

“Show me to Protus’s tent.” Lucien rose, grabbing his crutch.

Vitala grabbed his arm. “Let me go instead of you. If the woman is an assassin, let’s not give her access to you.”

He plucked her hand off his arm and checked the pistol at his belt. “I thought you said the assassin would be after you, not me.”

“Could be both of us. Why make things easy for her?” Vitala wrapped her sword belt around her waist and began to tie the knots.

“Why let her take us on one at a time? Besides, the woman probably isn’t an assassin at all, in which case this is a simple disciplinary matter.”

“Lucien—” she began, but he headed out through the tent flap as if he hadn’t heard her. Two bodyguards moved to flank him.

Vitala trotted after him. “Wait. I’m able to sense assassins through their wards. Let me do that before you send anyone into the tent.”

Lucien halted, and his eyes lit. “How do you sense them?”

“Relax my mind and feel for the contact points that conceal the Shards. But walk slower.”

He continued at a slower pace, and Vitala softened her mind, letting the edges of her vision blur. The real world grayed into dimness, as in the faded moments before sunrise, and the colorful undercurrent of the spirit world sprang into view, soft blues and purples and greens. Usually she didn’t see so many wards at once, but she was in the midst of so much tightly packed humanity that her surroundings swirled with them. Yet she sensed nothing in range that suggested an assassin with Shards. “Nothing yet,” she said. “Tell me when we’re getting close to the tent.”

Lucien took her hand and led her through the maze of squadrons.

“It’s up here, sire,” called Matho, pointing. “The one with the green circle on the side.”

Vitala sharpened her mind just enough to spot the tent with the green circle, then relaxed it again to see the wards inside. “No assassin,” she said. “At least, no one with Shards. And judging by the wards, there’s only one person in the tent.”

Lucien’s forehead wrinkled. “Shouldn’t there be two?”

“Well, there could be another person who’s not warded. I doubt it, though.” No one went without wards in Kjall or Riorca, not by choice.

“Could the second person be dead? Can you see a dead person’s wards?”

“No, wards dissipate when their hosts die,” said Vitala.

Lucien shrugged. His bodyguards shadowed him as he approached the tent. “Protus,” he called. “Come out.”

A disheveled-looking soldier appeared at the tent flap and blanched at the sight of the emperor and his entourage.

Lucien exchanged a glance with Vitala. “Let’s go inside.”

Vitala, Lucien, and the two bodyguards squeezed uncomfortably into the interior of a tent meant to house only two.

“Where is she?” Lucien asked.

Protus’s eyebrows rose in poorly feigned surprise. “She?”

“Do not lie to your commander, Protus,” said Lucien.

Protus cast an angry look outside the tent. “I don’t know, sire. I’m not even the one who brought her here. It was my tent mate, Matho. He’s trying to frame me because he thinks I stole his grain ration three days ago—”

“No more lies, Protus.” Lucien’s voice was unusually quiet. He was one of those men, Vitala realized, who raised his voice in passion when arguing a point but lowered it when truly angry. “You’re already getting the lash. How thoroughly and accurately you answer my next question will determine whether or not you also get the stake. Who is the woman, and where has she gone?”

The soldier turned beleaguered eyes on each of Lucien’s companions, wordlessly begging for support. When he found none, he stammered, “Sage’s Honor, sire, I truly don’t know! She was here. Then Matho left, I guess to squeal on me, and I went out to kill a tree, and when I came back she was gone. As for who she was, I didn’t catch her name. I thought she was just one of the camp followers.”

“You or Matho thought that?”

“I thought that when Matho brought her here.”

Lucien turned to Vitala. “You want to question him?”

Vitala leaned forward eagerly. “What did she look like? Was she Kjallan or Riorcan? How old was she? How tall?”

“She was Kjallan,” said Protus. “About your age, maybe, or a little older. Kind of short. Big here,” he said, cupping his hands at his chest.

Vitala turned to Lucien. “That could be Ista.”

Lucien nodded. Vitala followed him out of the stuffy tent into the cool night air, where Matho waited, along with a small audience of curious spectators. Tribune Quincius stepped forward. “What’s the situation, sire? I heard you might have found an assassin.”

“There might be one loose in the camp—we’re not sure. Pass the word among the soldiers. We’re looking for a young Kjallan woman, not one of the usual camp followers, big-chested and a few inches shorter than Vitala. No one is to attack her, but report any sightings immediately.”

“Yes, sire. And . . . ?” His thumb gestured toward Protus.

Lucien frowned. “Twenty lashes.”

Quincius saluted and turned to give orders to his subordinates.

“You don’t believe Protus’s story about being framed?” asked Vitala.

“Not a word of it,” said Lucien. “What now? Shall we walk the whole camp, and you try to sense her?”

Vitala nodded. “I think so. I—” She blinked as something fell suddenly into her hand. Without thinking, she grabbed it, but it stabbed her finger, and she released it with a hiss of pain. She looked down to see her own Shards, ward-broken and released from their hiding places in the Rift, raining from her fingers. Biting back a curse, she grabbed the nearest one from the air, then dropped to hands and knees to scoop the others out of the dirt. Dead Shards, every one of them, their death spells released and lost forever. Only a wardbreaker assassin, someone with the same training as herself, could have done such a thing.

Vitala stood, clutching the Shards, and cried out, “She’s here! Close by!”

“The assassin?” asked Lucien.

“Yes.” She started to relax her mind to sense the assassin—
Ista. It has to be Ista
—but stopped. It was too dangerous. Maybe Ista hoped Vitala would do that; then she could shoot her or rush her with a sword while Vitala’s mind was focused on sensing wards.

Soldiers sprang into action all around her, their movements chaotic and disorganized. Lucien was shouting something, the bodyguards had drawn their weapons, and everyone was running about.

“Don’t attack her—she’s dangerous!” cried Vitala.

“I found her!” cried a voice behind her.

Vitala whipped around, looking for the source of the voice. Gods, what perfect cover this was for Ista—hundreds of nearly identical tents in all directions, with only the open road that passed through the center of the camp providing a reference point. “Where? Don’t touch her.”

“I’ve got her!” cried the voice.

Vitala scraped her sword from its scabbard. She grasped the hilt in both hands for better control and power, and raced toward the row of tents where the voice had come from.

“Vitala!” cried Lucien.

She ignored him. As she ran, she waited for another shout from the unknown soldier to help her locate him more precisely, but it never came. And when she rounded the row of tents and entered the more open space of the road, she saw why. He was on the ground, twitching away the final moments of his life.

A breath of wind tickled her from behind, and she turned just in time to meet the sword that sang toward her. She knocked it away with the flat of her blade and countered with a thrust to her enemy’s midsection, pushing her back. Her guess had been right—it was Ista. Her fellow assassin circled warily in a hanging guard stance.

“Whore,” Ista spat. “Traitor.”

Vitala adopted high guard and sized up her opponent. No visible weapons except for the sword—she’d probably stolen the blade from the man she’d killed. Good. It would not be the right weight or size, though it was slender enough for her to handle. Ista would have Shards too, but there was no time for Vitala to ward-break them; she’d just have to keep her distance to prevent Ista from using them. “Did Bayard recover?” she asked.

“Yes, no thanks to you.”

Ista made a high thrust at Vitala’s neck, which Vitala easily parried—not a serious attack. Ista was feeling her out. Vitala had never beaten Ista in the training room, but the last time they’d sparred had been three years ago. Vitala had a slight height and reach advantage, and she’d improved a lot in those three years.

Soldiers from White Eagle were beginning to reach them, but they didn’t know what to do. They hung back, watching and awaiting orders.

“Bayard said it was a mistake taking you on, that you were never a proper assassin,” said Ista.

“He’s such an ass.”

“He meant it.” Ista tilted her blade upward, shifting into high guard, and aimed a brutal stroke at Vitala’s shoulder. Vitala parried it, feinted high, and attacked low, but Ista’s blade was there to meet it. The strength and speed of Ista’s blows surprised her—her old rival had lost nothing during her years in the field. Vitala pressed hard with another feint followed by a flurry of blows. None of them landed, but she forced Ista to take a step backward.

Vitala smiled. “I seem to be better suited for it than you are.”

Ista returned to hanging guard. Vitala knew well the vulnerabilities of that stance. She struck from middle guard, forcefully beating Ista’s sword point off to the right so that Ista’s wrists were twisted. Then she followed up with an attack to the left shoulder. Ista, still untangling herself, could not parry, but she leapt aside to avoid Vitala’s sword point.

Then something exploded in Vitala’s ear.

For a moment, Vitala had no idea where she was or what was happening. Ista was on the ground, screaming soundlessly as blood welled from her leg.