Now, November snow was already piling up in the high passes. It was late to be going home. It had been a long and bloody marching season.
The scene at Fortress Rocks had been even worse than Lyss had imagined. The slain totaled close to six hundred, including Aspen Silverleaf, who’d gone down in the street with her knife in her hand and two dead mudbacks to show for it. The Ardenines had put everyone to the sword—adults, lýtlings, even the livestock.
Lyss’s salvo spent days clearing away rubble and constructing the funeral pyres that burned on for days. They were writing the epitaph to hundreds of sad stories. In most cases, Lyss and her soldiers were the only mourners—there was no one else left alive. Finn had insisted on riding along to see if he could help with the wounded, but there were very, very few. He seemed to be recovering from his injury, though he still had little to say.
There was one bit of good news. Aspen’s younger siblings were not among the dead. They’d been staying with family at Marisa Pines Camp so that Aspen could catch up on her orders. They returned to find their eldest sister dead and their home in ruins.
The only other survivors were a few townspeople who had managed to flee into the surrounding hills or hide from the soldiers until they marched away. Lyss, Shadow, and Dunedain questioned them, collecting details, assembling timelines, as if this would somehow prevent it from happening again.
The only way to prevent this from happening again is to win this war, Lyss thought. And we are not winning.
Lyss kept thinking about the young captain, leading his soldiers to slaughter in the pass while, farther north, his comrades were slaughtering civilians. How much did he know about the plan of attack? Was he a willing or unwilling participant? A dupe or a co-conspirator? Was that why his own mages had turned on him—was it because they knew they were being sacrificed?
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Then why did she keep dwelling on it?
They laid Aspen to rest in an embroidered deerskin robe made by her own hands. Shadow put her awl and needle in one hand, her dagger in the other, a pile of furs and deerskins at her feet. He held on to her hand until the rising flames forced him to let go. Lyss released a breath of relief when he did. She’d been afraid he might choose to burn with her.
They spent their remaining time at Fortress Rocks rebuilding the temple and enough dwellings to house those few who remained. When Lyss’s salvo received marching orders, Shadow stayed behind to help rebuild Aspen’s shop. Her younger sister, Sparrow, was determined to take it over and make a living for what was left of the family. Their grandmother came from Marisa Pines to help.
Lyss and her salvo had spent the rest of the autumn skirmishing with the enemy at Spiritgate and along the southeastern border. Accomplishing nothing.
Now they were going home. Most of her salvo had gone ahead of them. Lyss, Sasha, Cam, Finn, and Littlefield had detoured and collected Shadow at Fortress Rocks.
They rounded the flank of the mountain, and Lyss found herself looking down into the home vale. In wintertime, it was like looking down into a sea of cloud formed when the steam from the hot springs and geysers met the cold mountain air.
Her father used to call it the Cauldron. Lyss couldn’t help thinking that wasn’t too far from the truth.
As they descended, the air grew noticeably warmer, thanks to the heat that seethed beneath the ground and leaked out in places. The moist air formed layers of ice on cliffs and trees, producing a glittering fairyland when the sunlight hit it. It still snowed in the Vale when the witch wind blew down over Hanalea and dumped its blizzards into the valley. But there were glens and niches that remained green all year long.
Dusk was falling when they finally penetrated the last layer of cloud and Lyss saw the city spread before them, prickling with temple spires. The lamplighters were already moving along the streets—young wizards who spun spheres of light between their hands and lifted them to the tops of the lampposts. Crowds of children trailed behind, hoping the lamplighters would play catch with them before they moved on, the wizard light streaking through the darkness. Sometimes the lighters would lift the lýtlings on their shoulders and allow them to grasp the brilliance between their hands and set the lights themselves. Even now, in wartime, with so many losses, some traditions continued.
Light spilled from doorways into the dusk. Lyss heard the faint sound of music as the last of the shops closed up and the inns and music halls opened their doors. People filled the streets, moving from work to play, going home to their families, or meeting lovers and friends. Once, Lyss would have been among them. As a child, she’d loved walking the familiar streets of Southbridge and Ragmarket with her father, cloaked in anonymity, visiting the markets and attending music programs in the temples. Letting the music lift her and take her away.
Not anymore. Maybe it was the gathering dark that meant it was the beginning of the month-long solstice season. This time of year always brought with it memories of past grief and apprehension about the future. Solstice would be forever tainted by the deaths of those she loved. As the monstrous king of Arden no doubt intended.
Once their horses realized where they were going, their steps quickened, and it was more a matter of reining them in than of urging them forward. Mincemeat tried to take the bit in his teeth and forge ahead.
Everyone’s glad to be going home but me, Lyss thought. She looked up at Shadow, riding just ahead of her, shoulders still rounded from grief. Almost everyone.
Lyss’s sixteenth name day hurtled toward her, bringing with it her coronation as the princess heir and her launch into the marriage market.
Lyss had a few memories of her sister Hana’s naming party, in the optimistic past. Lyss’s father had danced with her, his serpent amulet glittering at his neck, a proud grin on his face.
“Did you know that I hired your mother to teach me how to dance?” he’d said, leaning close to speak into her ear.
“What?” Lyss had frowned at him, convinced he was teasing her.
“It’s true, I swear on the dead queens,” her father had said. “It was the only way I could think of to get her to dance with me.”
“Well,” Lyss observed, “she did a fair job, I suppose.”
Her father had come out of the slums of Fellsmarch, a charismatic streetlord whose silver cuffs signified a magical legacy. He had become the queen’s bodyguard, then a member of the Wizard Council, and finally High Wizard and consort to the queen. Never a king. He’d never wanted to be king. What he wanted was the queen, and he’d paid a heavy price.
We’re a lot alike, Lyss thought. He didn’t want to be king, and I’m not so keen on being queen.
If Hana still lived, Lyss’s naming would have signified nothing more than a milestone, a festive party that signaled her entry into a career. Once she’d thought to be a musician or a poet; now she’d probably choose a military career. As it was, more and more, she’d be pulled from the battlefield, where at least she knew what she was doing.
Lyss inhaled the mingled scents of Fellsmarch. Flowers of all kinds, and the little charcoal burners the street vendors used to grill the sausages and flying fishes that they wrapped into flatbreads. The lights from the carousel sparkled out on the green like raindrops on a windowpane, blurred by the tears in her eyes. Her father had brought it in pieces through the mountains and ordered it reassembled so all the lýtlings in the city could ride flying horses, too.
Four years, she thought. Four years since the last attack on the royal family. Did it mean that King Gerard had turned to other targets? Or did it mean they were due?
“Captain?” Sasha urged her pony up beside Mincemeat. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Lyss lied. “The smoke burns my eyes is all.”
“It does that every time you come home,” Sasha said, with a sympathetic smile. “Nothing that a meat pie and a pint won’t cure.”
“Have I ever told you that I love you, Talbot?” Lyss said.
Sasha snorted. “
Me, I’m happy to be home. I can’t wait to see my nieces and dig into some Solstice cakes.”
“I can’t wait to dig into some hot wassail,” Littlefield said.
Lyss glanced over at Finn, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. “Finn? What are you looking forward to? Will you be working in the healing halls right away?”
The question seemed to take him by surprise. “Oh! I’ll . . . look forward to seeing people . . . I haven’t seen for a while,” he said. “And I’ll begin working with Lord Vega as soon as . . . I’m needed.”
“I hope you’ll take a little time off, Finn,” Lyss said. “After everything that—”
“I’m fine,” Finn snapped. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”
“Easy, sul’Mander,” Shadow said.
“What about you, Shadow?” Sasha said, then clamped her mouth shut as if sorry she’d asked the question.
“I won’t be home long,” he said. “I’ll stay a few days and see my father, but then I’m going back east.”
“What?” Lyss said, startled. She’d been counting on spending time with her friend while they were both in the capital. She wasn’t good with matters of the heart, but she still hoped she could find a way to help him the way Adrian had helped her after Hana died. “You won’t be home for Solstice?”
He shook his head.
“Are you going back to Fortress Rocks?”
“I plan to make a stop there, and drop off some more supplies to Sparrow, but I have business on the coast in a week. I’ll be working at Demonai Camp through the spring, so there’s not much point in traveling all the way back for the holiday.”
“Yes, there is,” Lyss said, thinking fast. She didn’t believe that story about business on the coast. If he was traveling east, it might mean he planned to follow through on his promise to go after Marin Karn. Shadow had always danced on the edge, but now there was a recklessness about him that she’d not seen before. Worry squirmed in her middle—the worry that he would never come back.
She groped for a way to keep him in the Vale, or bring him back for the Festival of Light, at least. “But . . . I was counting on going hunting together to put some meat on the table for the holiday. If I have to eat barley all winter, I’ll cut my throat.”
“You’re a better hunter than I will ever be,” Shadow said. “You’ll do better on your own.”
“No, I won’t,” Lyss said. “Anyway, you can’t fight this war every minute of every day.”
“Hang on,” Sasha said, staring at Lyss. “What did you just say? I think something’s gone wrong with my ears.”
“Shut it, Talbot,” Lyss growled, her mind still churning, trying to surface an excuse to convince Shadow to stay. “The thing is, there’s something else I need your help with.”
Shadow’s eyes narrowed. “Something else?”
“Right,” she said. “Something else.”
“Like?”
Before Shadow’s name day, when he took up flashcraft, music had been a connection between them, and central to his existence. She could use that.
“Remember how we used to take music lessons together at Southbridge Temple? And how you were always better than me?”
“Barely,” Shadow said, as if he thought he might be walking into a trap. “That was a long time ago.”
“So, you know how Speaker Jemson holds that benefit for the Briar Rose Foundation every winter solstice?”
“Ye . . . es,” Shadow said, scrubbing his hand through his curls. “So?”
“I promised Jemson that the two of us would do a set for the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Briar Rose Ministry.”
“No.”
“But I promised.”
“You promised, I didn’t,” Shadow said. “It’s been forever since I’ve picked up a basilka.”
“That’s something you never forget,” Lyss said, with false confidence. When Shadow kept shaking his head, she rushed on. “If you’d seen Jemson’s face, there’d be no way you could say no. He was so excited. You know how sentimental he is about his former students. And you know the ministry is more important than ever these days. So many people are going hungry during the holiday.”
“All the more reason to focus on the war,” Shadow said. “You don’t need me. You’re the one that will draw the crowds. You’re a war hero, and the heir to the throne. Who could resist?”
It was down to begging. Lyss leaned out of her saddle, gripped both his hands, and looked him in the eyes. “Please, Shadow,” she said. “Don’t make me get up there alone. I would rather face a hundred howling southern mercenaries than a temple crowd.”
Shadow laughed, a rare and precious sound these days. “I do believe you would,” he said. “All right. I’ll do it. But I won’t be back until just before the holiday. Let me know what pieces you want to play and I’ll try to get in some practice while I’m gone.”
“Thank you,” Lyss said. “I owe you. I can’t wait to tell Jemson.”
She watched Shadow wheel his horse and ride away, thinking Jemson would likely be the most surprised of all.
Littlefield, Mason, and the remaining Highlanders peeled off as they entered the city, heading for the garrison house. Lyss, Sasha, Cam, and Finn continued on, making for the castle close and the tower of Fellsmarch Castle, poking above everything else.
“Will you be staying in town?” Lyss asked Finn, hoping that was a safe question. She’d expected that Finn would break away and go directly to his family’s compound on Gray Lady Peak.
“I’ll be staying in the palace,” he said. “The princess Mellony has arranged housing for my family over the holiday.”
“Really?” Lyss said, surprised. “Aunt Mellony did? Does that mean I’ll be seeing more of you than usual?”
“Yes,” he said. “You will.”
“As long as you’re in town, you can come dine with us on the holiday,” she said impulsively.
“That’s the plan,” he said. Looking over her shoulder, he added, “Here comes the queen.”
Lyss turned to find her mother crossing the stable yard, Captain Byrne at her heels, Lyss’s aunt Mellony and cousin Julianna following close behind.
“Look!” Lyss said, pointing at Lord and Lady Mander bringing up the rear. “Your parents are here, too.”
Finn nodded, shifting his shoulders. He didn’t seem surprised.
Lyss opened her arms and pulled her mother close. As usual, Lyss felt like an awkward blond giant.
“Thank the Maker you’re home safe,” Queen Raisa said, tears shimmering in her eyes. She tolerated Lyss’s battlefield adventures because they were part of the role of a Gray Wolf queen. The only part Lyss had enthusiastically embraced. A little too enthusiastically, as far as the queen was concerned.
“How long have you been home from the borderlands?” Lyss asked, holding her mother out at arm’s length.
“Just a week,” her mother said. “I’ll want to hear all about the campaign in the east.”
It’s always the same story, Mama, Lyss thought. They march north, we kill some of them, they kill some of us, and then they march south again.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lyss saw Lady Mander sweep Finn into her arms, embracing him with more enthusiasm than Lyss had ever seen her display about anything. His father kept slapping his back and murmuring into his ear. When that trio finally broke up, Aunt Mellony greeted Finn, beaming, as if he were her long-lost son. Then it was Julianna’s turn. If anything, her greeting was warmer than her mother’s.
Everyone’s sure glad to have Finn home, Lyss thought. Not that they shouldn’t be, but . . . it was all just a little overdone, like a play in its first run-through.
Eventually, the lovefest was over. The Manders walked off together, Lord Mander with his arm around Finn’s shoulders.
That was when Aunt Mellony noticed Lyss. “Welcome home, Alyssa,” she said, warmly embracing her. “Julianna and I have been looking for you every day.”
As soon as Aunt Mellony released her,
Julianna gripped both her hands. “Lyss. I never feel the marching season is really over until you’re home safe.”
“You’re looking well,” Lyss said, because it was true. Her cousin’s eyes were shining, and her cheeks were pinked up from the cold, or excitement, or maybe that’s just the way they were.
“We have so much to talk about. Aunt Raisa and I have been discussing ways to prevent another Fortress Rocks, and we wanted to get your insights.”
“Good idea,” Lyss said. She couldn’t help noticing that her cousin’s hands were soft, the nails clean and manicured. It made Lyss hyperconscious of her own hands—callused and cracked and dirt-stained.
Taking a step back, her cousin looked up at her. “You always have so much more color in autumn than you do when you leave in the spring,” she said.
“Actually, it’s dirt,” Lyss said. “We’ve discovered that a thick layer of dirt is great camouflage. In fact, out in the field, a good scrubbing could cost you your life.”
Julianna, brow furrowed, gazed at Lyss. “Really?” she said finally, as if she didn’t believe it but was afraid to call her on it.
“That’s not all,” Lyss said, some devil inside her driving her on. “Mud, it turns out, is an excellent treatment for the complexion. I’ve brought a supply home so that I can apply it on a regular basis here at court.” At that point, her mother caught her eye, scowled, and shook her head slightly.
Julianna pretended not to notice.
Lyss couldn’t say why she was so thin-skinned when it came to her cousin. Was she jealous that Julianna was built like a princess and not a lodgepole pine? Or was it that Julianna had all the traits Lyss lacked—social skills, diplomacy, political smarts, and breasts?
Was it because her cousin was one of her mother’s trusted advisers, though she was only two years older than Lyss? Julianna had become an expert in foreign relations and had recently assumed responsibility for the queendom’s intelligence service. It had been floundering since Lady Tyburn was murdered.