Ae rael nima,
it said—“They do not bleed”.
By morning we had found few useful answers, but I had many more questions, two of which dominated my mind above all others. Firstly, if the Wyddin had so much power, why did they not simply crush us? They could have possessed the King himself instead of his nephew, as they had with Ullyd five hundred years before; they could have simply swallowed Three Rivers into the ground. Secondly, why was there no mention in any of the books about the Wyddin being dangerous in any way? Everything I read indicated that the Elovians had lived in harmony with the forest spirits, which contradicted every tale I had ever heard of the kingdom’s fall.
We had very little to show for the night’s work when Bryndine finally knocked on the door to tell us it was time to leave. As Wynne and I followed her outside, each of us carrying an armful of old texts, she asked, “Did you find anything, Scriber? Is there any way to stop them?”
How could I tell her we had found so little of use when so many women had given their lives to find these books? My mouth opened foolishly, but I was too ashamed to form any words.
Then, before I could think what to say, a whispered voice crept through my thoughts and drew my eyes to the fireleaf in the village square. The women bustled about its broad trunk, packing their gear and saddling their horses. Above their heads, branches that had been bare the night before bore a handful of leaves that looked like flame. I knew what that meant now: some of the Wyddin had returned to the tree in the night.
Looking at the newly budded leaves, I remembered that I
had
discovered something, perhaps the most important thing. The Burnt had done it to me more than enough times; it was a favor I would be glad to return. I turned back to Bryndine with fire in my eyes and an answer on my tongue.
“We burn them,” I said. “We burn them all.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
We made every effort to find Fyrril’s books and return quickly. We braved the trip to Ryndport despite the danger and risked the Salt Mountains on the verge of winter; we made the journey back without delay, despite having more than a dozen ancient texts to examine.
We made every effort to report our findings to King Syrid in time.
We were too late.
— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark
I heard little from the Wyddin in the days after we left Waymark—the fireleafs we passed were bare and silent. The Burnt were not in their trees; they were marshalling their forces elsewhere. As we drew near to Three Rivers, though, the voices returned in force, whirling around the city like the first winds of a storm.
But I did not need to hear the voices to know that the city was suffering. As we rode down the Saltroad towards the capital for the second time in as many months, the sight that greeted us was a dismal one. The sprawl of tents and refugees that had once extended well beyond the makeshift palisades had shrunk by more than half. What was left of the camp was crowded into the wedge of land between the Salt and Rynd Rivers; the rest of the land around the capital was completely deserted. The palisades themselves were barely standing, scorched black in places and completely toppled in others. A few Army tents were visible beyond what was left of the wooden walls, brown canvas structures topped by the banner of the burning tree, but given how bad things looked, there were far fewer of those tents than there should have been.
A small group of Army men met us as we rode through the crumbled palisades, eight soldiers and a man wearing the red cord of a Lieutenant on his shoulder. All were on foot; there were no horses anywhere that I could see. The Lieutenant, I realized after a moment, was Ralsten of the First Company. I could barely recognize him—his eyes were sunk into tired, dark pits and he wore a tangled brown beard that hadn’t been trimmed for weeks. The gold-stitched numerals that would have identified him as a man of the First had been torn away from beneath the burning tree on his breast; looking at the others, I saw that they had all done the same.
Ralsten eyed us with suspicion and lowered his head slightly in place of a bow. “Lady Bryndine.”
Bryndine saluted the man. “Lieutenant Ralsten. What has happened here? Is the First in charge of the defense?”
Ralsten laughed sourly. “No companies out here, Lady. Just us.” He spoke without the arrogance or military formality of the man I remembered; he sounded more exhausted than anything else.
Bryndine raised an eyebrow, but did not ask what he meant. “We need to see the King immediately.”
“Don’t we all,” said Ralsten. “Little chance of it though. The gates are barred. You won’t be getting in.”
“What do you mean? This is urgent.”
“I mean the gates are barred, Lady Bryndine. Come with me, I’ll explain.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Bryndine nodded. Ralsten and his men had no horses, so we dismounted and followed them on foot, leading our mounts—save for Tenille, whose injuries made walking impractical.
Ralsten and his men led us by the hastily constructed living areas of thousands of sick, starving, filthy people. Everywhere I looked I saw emaciated children, and sunken-eyed mothers trying to feed their families with what looked like no more than water and weeds. Wounded men carrying makeshift weapons watched us warily as we passed. Of Army men, I saw few—there was perhaps one soldier for every hundred people.
“The first attack came almost three weeks ago now,” Ralsten said as we walked. “It was the first time the Burners attacked such a large target, and we weren’t prepared. There weren’t enough men. The people were being slaughtered. The King ordered us to leave them out here and bar the gates, said it was for the greater good, the safety of the people inside the walls.
“Some of us couldn’t accept the order. We left before the gates shut. There weren’t enough of us protect all the riverbanks, so we gathered as many as we could here and managed to mount a defense. But the rebels have been attacking every few days since, whittling us down. We have maybe seventy-five men left, and that number falls with every attack.”
That Ralsten was among those who had chosen to defy the King surprised me; he had struck me before as the stubborn, duty-bound sort. I suppose, though, that I had not been wrong—I had merely misjudged where he thought his duty lay. But that was nothing beside the greater shock of his story: Three Rivers under siege, the King abandoning thousands to death.
“My uncle would not have done that,” Bryndine said. “It is a complete violation of Erryn’s Promise.”
“He did, Lady Bryndine. He’s different, they’re all different. The nobles, the officers, the High Commander. Ever since Uran took that wound, he’s been acting strange. When the King started taking council with him and pushed Lord Elarryd aside, everything went wrong.”
Concern wrinkled Bryndine’s brow. “Is my father safe?”
Ralsten nodded. “As safe as he can be under the circumstances. He and your mother are in hiding somewhere inside the walls. He’s been sending what help he can, smuggling supplies and soldiers out through the Underground.”
“And Prince Alyn?” Bryndine asked.
“He arrived just before the gates closed, and I haven’t seen him since. The men from inside say he’s deep in the King’s councils, him and Uran.”
Bryndine’s shoulders fell. We both knew what that meant: the King and his heir had been taken by the Wyddin. We were too late.
“Have you sent word to the other baronies?” Bryndine asked, though she must have known what the answer would be.
Ralsten shook his head. “Lady Bryndine, I don’t know if the other baronies are still standing. And if they are, the carrier pigeons are all inside the walls, sending whatever messages the King wants sent.”
We walked in silent despair for a time, until Ralsten came to a halt near a large brown Army tent. “Our infirmary, such as it is,” he said. “Your friend looks like she needs it.” He gestured towards Tenille.
“I’m fine,” Tenille argued as Bryndine helped her from her horse, but Bryndine ignored her protests. I questioned the Scriber within as Bryndine laid Tenille into a cot, and was satisfied—the man was pinned in Medicine, not Warfare. He was working with substandard supplies and in poor conditions, but he could do more for Tenille than I had.
“You did not walk with us all this way for Tenille’s sake,” Bryndine said to Ralsten after we left the tent.
“No,” the Lieutenant admitted. “I had to talk to you. To make sure you hadn’t changed like the rest.”
“And?”
“You seem right enough,” he said. “I haven’t much choice but to trust you anyway. The truth is, there are too few of us to protect these people. Every time the Burners attack, hundreds go missing. The next time we see them, they’re fighting against us, and we’re more outnumbered than before.”
“What can we do to help, Lieutenant?” Bryndine asked.
“Let my men see to your mounts first. We had to slaughter most of our horses for food—we’re going hungry, but there’s horse feed to spare.” He nodded at the soldiers escorting us and they stepped forward to take our reins, leading the horses away.
When they were gone, he said, “Didn’t want them here for this—best the men don’t hear it if you bring bad news. I know you went looking for information on the Burners. Did you find anything of use?” The desperation in his eyes and the eagerness in his tone made clear just how badly he and his men needed the help.
Bryndine outlined what Wynne and I had found, and Ralsten listened attentively. I expected him to scoff, but when she was done, he only nodded.
“So the King is one of them.” If Ralsten was surprised, it did not show.
“Yes,” said Bryndine. There was little more she could say.
Ralsten spoke with resignation, as if voicing a conclusion he had come to days ago. “Then we have already lost. Even if we start burning the fireleafs, the King will send the Army out behind us. We’ll be trapped between them and the rebels.”
“Wait until the next attack comes,” Bryndine said. “If we burn the trees now, it will only warn the Burnt. We might hurt or kill some of them, but as you say, they will stop us. If we wait, they will not expect it. It will not work well more than once, but it may shock them into retreat, or at least make them more vulnerable.”
Ralsten was obviously taken aback; he had never much respected Bryndine as a soldier. “Not a bad plan,” he said. “Not bad at all. Next time the bastards show their faces, we’ll burn them off. At least we’ll go down fighting.” A savage grin stretched across his gaunt, bearded face.
I realized my hands were trembling, and I asked, “A last stand, then? Is that what it comes to?”
Orya’s grin stretched the claw scars the snowcats had left in her cheek and made her look almost feral. “If that’s what you’re thinkin’, Bryn, I’m with you.”
“W—we all are,” said Wynne.
Deanyn forced a smile. “Living was getting tiresome anyway.”
It was plain on the face of every woman in Bryndine’s company—they would follow her in this, and die with her if she asked them to. Only Sylla, at Bryndine’s side as always, wore a different look: one of dismay. Not because she was afraid to die—I doubt Sylla ever gave much thought to her own well being—but because Bryndine might. I was humbled and ashamed by the bravery of these women. For my own part, I wanted to hide somewhere until it was over.
But Bryndine had another plan in mind. “No,” she said. “It has not come to that, not yet.”
“What, then?” I asked, glad for any option that might not end in our deaths.
“I am surprised you haven’t thought of it, Scriber Dennon. We go to the Academy. The Scribers are sworn to the Kingsland, not the King. They will have to lend us their aid when they see the books. If the Council supports us, Scribers all over the Kingsland will do as they say. Hundreds of Warfare-pinned Scribers from every barony will desert the Army—enough to burn a great many fireleaf trees.”
Relief washed over me, and I had to laugh. “It’s a sorry excuse for a Scriber who forgets the entire Academy. Of course we go to them.”
Bryndine turned back to Ralsten. “Lieutenant Ralsten, can you hold here for a few more weeks?”
“I don’t know, La—Captain Bryndine. But by the Divide, we’ll try.”
Bryndine nodded. “We’ll leave immediately, then. There’s no time to waste.”
“There is one more thing you need to see before you go,” said Ralsten.
He led us deeper into the camp, to a flat patch of dirt where a small group—a mix of men in Army browns, commoners in piecemeal armor, and even a Justice in his white cloak—were sparring and running drills. As we approached, I saw a woman in boiled leather armor watching the current match. Her back was turned and I could not see her face, but she was short and stocky, with shoulder length blond hair.
“She said she’s one of yours,” Ralsten said. “Stumbled in a few weeks ago.”
Bryndine voiced the hope we all shared. “Genna?”
The woman turned, and I knew that round, gentle face instantly. And yet, the joy I wanted to feel eluded me. It was too much to believe. I had seen her fall to the Burnt—would they have let her escape without making her one of them? I tried to focus on the whispers, but the air was thick with the voices of the Burnt, and if one of those voices came from Genna, I could not tell it from all the others.
The women must have shared my suspicions, because none of us moved. The company seemed to be collectively holding its breath, waiting to see what their lost member did.
“Bryndine?” Genna’s face broke into a wide smile, and she started towards us. A warmth settled over my heart.
She knows us.
“Genna, how… How are you here?” Bryndine asked.
“They left me. After they pulled me down, they left me there. They were too busy chasing the rest of you to see if I was dead. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I woke, they were gone. I couldn’t find you, so I came back here.”
I could feel the women relaxing around me, the excitement starting to build. Bryndine’s mouth rose into the largest smile I had ever seen from her, and she started forward to embrace Genna.