Bo caught her as she swayed. He led her away from the dismounting soldiers, holding her by the elbow, and when he spoke, the anger in his voice was replaced by concern.
“What happened?”
She shook her head, knowing she must look the fool. Her cheeks would be red, tears streaking down her face. This wasn’t how a Privileged behaved. She felt Bo put a hand on either side of her face as he forced her to look him in the eyes. “What happened?” he asked again.
“I killed them.” Her voice sounded so pitiful, and she hated herself for it.
“Come on.” Bo took her by the hand. He led them through the camp with his arm around her, shielding her from onlookers as a brother might shield his grieving sister. She remembered him asking questions, and her blubbering out the answers, and soon they were back in her tent. He lit a lantern and hung it from the cross pole. “Tell me,” he said.
Nila had managed to regain her composure, and after a few deep breaths she began. “I was back with the baggage and the Kez managed to make a run at us. There were a lot of men—they outnumbered the men guarding the baggage. I was so angry that I couldn’t do anything. I just kept trying and trying to make the connection.” She mimed snapping her fingers, but was sure not to let them touch. “I thought if I could make fire, I could help, and suddenly I did. The right gesture and it flowed from me so easily. I ran out in front of the defenders and I just let loose.”
“Fire?” Bo asked quietly.
She nodded. “It was like watching a wave roll across the plains. I tried to control it, but it just grew and grew and then I passed out.” Nila felt the tears coming again. “When I woke up, the inspector had dragged me to safety. He tried to hide the truth from me, but I saw the scorched plain from afar. I killed them.”
Bo produced a flask from his pocket and handed it to Nila. She took several swallows gratefully.
“Passing out is common when you draw too much power and don’t properly control it,” Bo said. “It’s the body’s defense against destroying yourself with the Else. How many?”
“How many what?”
“Did you kill.”
Nila looked away. “Thousands.” When she looked up, she expected her own self-loathing to be apparent on Bo’s face. After all, she was a monster, wasn’t she? She had murdered so many with just a few gestures.
Instead, Bo’s eyebrows were raised. “Bloody good show, girl!”
She punched him in the shoulder.
“Ow. No, I mean it. That’s amazing. You saved the entire Wings baggage camp, probably thousands of lives, all by yourself.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Can’t you see how horrid that is? So many lives gone in an instant! They didn’t even get the chance to defend themselves!”
“Nila,” Bo said, his expression sobering, “you did an incredible thing. You can’t blame yourself for that.”
“But I do! Are you so insulated against death? Are you so hard of heart as not to realize what terrible power we hold in our hands?” She held her hands out to him, silently willing him to cut them off. Her cheeks were cold with tears, and suddenly she felt frigid. She began to shiver.
Bo frowned at her for a moment, then sighed. He took the blanket off her cot and pulled it around her shoulders, then moved closer to her. He took her by one hand, stroking her fingers as he spoke softly.
“They made me kill my first when I was fourteen,” he said. “Some slave they’d brought in for the purpose—illegal, I know, but legality means very little in a royal cabal. She was probably around seventeen. The olive skin of a Gurlish, with one droopy eye.” Bo sniffed. “I refused to kill her four times, and they beat me soundly each time I did. Then, the fifth time, they told me that if I didn’t kill her, I would be a dead man myself. I still refused, and they told me that if I didn’t kill her, they would slaughter Taniel and Tamas and Vlora. My only friends. Bloody idiot that I was, I believed them. I couldn’t let that happen and so when they asked again, I killed the slave girl as quickly as I could.”
There was the streak of a tear on Bo’s face. He wiped it away when he noticed Nila was looking at him.
“Why would they make you do that?” she asked. The cruelty of it astonished her. To make a fourteen-year-old boy murder in cold blood?
“To harden me. To show me what life in a royal cabal is really like. I tried to run away seven, maybe eight times. They beat me a lot for that. I was the magus’s own apprentice and he said he wasn’t going to let my talent go to waste just because I was weak-willed. Pit, I hated that man. I did everything I could to make his life miserable: embarrassed him in public, started bedding his own concubines by the time I was sixteen. I even took a shit in his bed once.” Bo chuckled. “And every bruise he gave me, every markless, sorcerous torture they inflicted on me, I used to reinforce my hate. I even swore to kill him, but Tamas took care of that for me.”
Nila felt hollow inside, her energy and emotions sapped. “Is that what I’m to become? Someone driven by hate and self-loathing?”
“Hey now,” Bo said. “I’ve never been driven by my self-loathing. I keep that locked up tight in the back of my head.”
Nila felt the corner of her cheek lift at the joke.
“No,” Bo went on. “I don’t want you to become that. I want you to learn to wield your power and to follow your conscience. But sometimes, your conscience will require you to kill. That is the life of a Privileged. The burden of such power is to protect your friends and countrymen.”
Nila felt herself nodding. She couldn’t find any words.
“It’ll get easier,” Bo said. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t become callous, though. Don’t become like me. You must do your best to prevent that.”
She felt his hand move down her side. “Was any of that true?”
“Pardon?”
“Or are you just trying to get in my skirts?”
Bo flinched, and Nila saw immediately she’d said the wrong thing. It had been true. Every word. And she’d just thrown it back in his face—even if it had been in jest.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean…”
He smiled crookedly at her. “Nah. That’s fair enough. I should go find my tent.”
“Don’t leave.”
He frowned at her, then squeezed her one more time.
Nila fell asleep with her head on his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. As she drifted off, the screams echoing in her memory seemed quieter.
Something told her there would be more in the future.
CHAPTER
20
Tamas sifted through mountains of reports on the battle that he had been given credit for winning.
The men had taken to calling it the Battle of Ned’s Creek, after the stream that ran down the middle of the battlefield. It seemed, based on camp gossip that excluded any mention of Tamas’s four-day disappearance, that Abrax had decided to keep quiet about his absence, despite her anger, and that Olem had managed to keep his Riflejacks silent. For now. Several hundred people knew he had gone to rescue Taniel. Word would get out. But the more time that elapsed until it happened, the better.
Tamas had read Vlora’s report three times. He’d also read reports from three generals, five colonels, two captains, and a sergeant. Vlora’s was by far the most comprehensive, but the others had filled him in on details that Vlora had either missed or chosen to omit.
He rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh. What he’d give for a bowl of Mihali’s squash soup. Or even just a few minutes to chat with him. Mihali, for all his faults, had a way of relaxing Tamas that he hadn’t even realized until he’d been told that the god was dead.
Perhaps it was just sentiment.
“Olem!” he shouted. “Olem!”
The tent flap opened and a guard stuck his head inside. Shadows played on his face from Tamas’s lantern. “Sorry, sir, it’s Olem’s off-hours. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Ah, no. Never mind. I can… W
ait, what time is it?”
“I think it’s around eleven o’clock, sir.”
“Thank you. Find Inspector Adamat for me. If he’s still awake, have him meet me here in half an hour. Otherwise, let him sleep.”
Tamas had read the inspector’s report as well. The man deserved his rest.
He climbed to his feet and stretched, only to wince as the pain shot through his gut. Pressing a palm against his wound, Tamas crossed to his desk and rummaged around until he found a plate with the night’s dinner. The biscuits were hard, the cheese moldy, and the beef stringy. He choked down half of it before he gave up completely and gathered up a pair of gold bars from his desk, pocketed them, and stepped out into the night.
Somewhere nearby, a soldier was playing her fiddle, singing softly with the tune, her voice carrying over the otherwise quiet camp. Tamas’s guards snapped to attention. “At ease,” he said. “I’m going for a walk. You can tag along, but give me some quiet.”
The guards followed at a respectful distance as he wandered through the camp. He waved away soldiers who tried to stand and salute, and soon the sound of the singing infantrywoman had faded, leaving the night to be punctuated by distant cries and moans that came from the north, where the surgeons had set up hospitals. Fourteen hundred men had lost limbs since the battle, and hundreds more had taken fatal wounds. For the latter, doctors could only give them mala and wait for the inevitable.
After the adrenaline had worn off and medals had been awarded and the glory meted out, only the suffering remained after a battle.
“I should have been here for them. Led them into battle,” Tamas muttered.
“Sir?” one of his guards asked.
“Nothing. Have either of you any idea where Captain Vlora has bunked down?”
“No sir,” they both answered.
Tamas found Olem’s tent not far from his own. Several of the Riflejacks still sat around the fire. One was reading by lamplight, while another whittled at a piece of wood. They all stood when Tamas approached.
“At ease,” he said with a sigh. He gestured to Olem’s tent. “Just here to see the colonel.”
Two of the Riflejacks exchanged looks. A third, a woman of about thirty with blond hair cropped short, cleared her throat. “I think he’s asleep,” she said.
Tamas squinted at her. “He’s a Knacked. He doesn’t need sleep.” Everyone knew about Olem’s Knack. What was she going on about?
“I… I think I saw him leave earlier,” one of the others said.
Tamas sprinkled a bit of powder on his tongue and headed over to Olem’s tent. “Olem, are you…?” The vision in his powder trance allowed him to see the inside as if it were day, despite the lack of lamps. Tamas thought he heard a giggle, and then a curse, and Olem sat up in his cot. He was stripped to the waist.
“Sir?”
Tamas eyed the lump in the cot next to him and couldn’t help but crack a smile. Perhaps Olem had reconnected with the pretty laundress. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
“No problem at all, sir.”
“I was just looking for Vlora.”
Olem cleared his throat. “Er…”
“I’m right here.” Vlora sat up in the cot next to Olem and brushed her hair out of her face with one hand.
“Ah,” Tamas said. “I, uh, will wait outside.”
He retreated to the campfire, where the Riflejacks studiously avoided his gaze. Tamas tapped his foot, trying to think of something to say to Vlora other than “fraternization between ranks.”
“Sorry, sir,” one of the Riflejacks mumbled. Another one kicked him in the shins.
“It’s all right,” Tamas said. Part of him wanted to laugh. “I’d expect nothing less from one of them”—he thrust his thumb at his guards—“if I had someone in the sack.” That brought out a muffled snort from the same Riflejack. He received another kick for it.
Vlora stepped out of Olem’s tent a moment later, pulling her jacket on over her half-buttoned shirt. Her boots were still unlaced, and she paused to do them up while Tamas waited, then followed him away from the campfire.
“I’m not sorry, sir,” she said when they were out of earshot of Olem and the Riflejacks.
“Hmm? Sorry for what?”
Vlora stiffened and Tamas turned to her with a sigh. “It’s life, Vlora. You said that to me yourself. I’m glad you can still find something in each other’s arms. I wish I had that same luxury.”
“Sir?” Vlora stared back at him openmouthed, and Tamas smothered a small smile. He could still surprise people. That was good to know. Vlora continued, “Do you mean…?”
“I’m not here to reprimand you or anything. I wanted to find you for something else. Fraternization between ranks is still an offense, mind you. But I don’t have the energy for that right now.”
“Thank you, sir.” Vlora regarded him with guarded eyes, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. “You’re giving mixed signals, sir.”
“I know. Sorry. I wish life were a little more direct, but I think I’ve come around since our last talk on this particular subject.”
Vlora tilted her head to one side. “Olem thought you promoted him just to keep us from being lovers.”
“He did? Huh. Wish I had thought of that. But I didn’t. I promoted him because the circumstance called for it and he’s one of the few people I can trust completely.” He sighed, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand, fighting the urge to say something else. He still didn’t approve of the relationship, but he no longer felt it was his place to say. “Speaking of which, I’m promoting you.”
Vlora blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”
“I said I’m promoting you. To colonel, actually. For now, you’ll be on special assignment, just like Olem, but I intend on putting you in charge of your own regiment before the end of the war.”
“I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything to deserve that.”
“You haven’t? Captain—I mean, Colonel—I have spent the last two days poring over reports of the battle and of your actions. They were, in a word, brilliant.”
“I was only working with your instructions,” Vlora mumbled.
“No battle plan is perfect. Not even mine. Over a dozen critical situations required your response, without my guidance, and you handled each one exactly as I would have. In the case of sending the two companies to relieve the Wings’ camp, you did it even better. I would have let them burn, then cleaned up the mess after the chaos died down, which would have been the wrong thing to do.”
Tamas hadn’t meant to go on, but he found the words tumbling out of him. “These are, of course, extraordinary circumstances. We lost a lot of officers over the last couple of months, and not all of them to death or wounds.” Hilanska’s betrayal and Ket’s thievery and flight still rankled. “There will be hundreds of promotions in the next week, and you won’t be the only one to skip ranks. I’d always meant to keep my powder mages as marksmen and soldiers, but I see now that I need to promote those with the talent.”
“Andriya should be promoted too.”
“He will be, as soon as he arrives with the Deliv king. But Andriya is too hotheaded. Too vengeful. He’s always been better with small groups, which is why he’s been in command of the cabal since Sabon. But you’ve always had a talent for seeing the bigger picture and you proved it the other day.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tamas nodded. “This war isn’t won yet, Colonel. Don’t thank me until it is.”
They stood in silence for several minutes, and it was Vlora who spoke first.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“May I go?”
“Oh. Oh, yes! Go on. Wait, take these.” Tamas put the gold bars into her hand, then folded her fingers over them. He had the sudden urge to bend and kiss her on the forehead gently, a blessing for a daughter, but he stifled it just long enough for her to lunge forward and hug him. Tamas found himself returning the embrace. The
n she was off, and Tamas watched her for a moment.
“Uh, sir,” a voice said.
Tamas turned to find a secretary waiting nearby. “What is it?”
“Inspector Adamat is waiting for you.”
“Ah. Yes. Of course. I’ll come right away.” He tossed one more glance in Vlora’s direction, but she was already gone.
Adamat shifted from one foot to the other and stifled a yawn. It was almost midnight, and there was still no sign of the field marshal. Should he go? Should he wait?
No doubt that Tamas wanted to question him about the series of events that culminated in Vetas’s death. It had all been in his report, of course, but a report was never as good as the real thing. Tamas was the kind of man who liked to be thorough. Adamat just hoped he wasn’t going to be too thorough.
Any questions about Josep, Adamat had already decided, would be evaded as well as possible.
Adamat ran his hand through his hair and scratched at his bald spot. He’d spent countless hours examining that Warden in his mind and he had come to the conclusion that a perfect memory was most certainly a curse. Without it, he may have convinced himself that it was just a trick of the light: That Warden was nothing like his son, and the missing ring finger was simply a coincidence.
But the more Adamat considered the deformed back and twisted but still boyish jaw and the smooth cheeks, he was convinced that his boy had been turned into a Warden.
What had they done to his innocent boy? First a captive, then a powder mage sold into slavery, and now this. Adamat tried to remember everything he knew about Wardens. They were regular men transformed by Kez sorcery into twisted creatures devoid of anything but rudimentary intelligence and brainwashed to obey Kez commanders. These new Black Wardens, created out of powder mages, were only a recent development. Some of the soldiers whispered that they had been created by Kresimir himself, as none of the other Privileged would be powerful enough to twist a powder mage.
What suffering had that caused? What pain had the villainous god forced upon Adamat’s son? Adamat replayed the scene in his head over and over again, and examined the eyes of the creature. He expected, upon a closer look, to find anger and sorcery-fueled rage in those eyes.