The Providence of Fire (67 page)

“And why,” Pyrre asked, “would the assassin do that?”

“Three reasons,” the Flea replied. “You're stubborn and you don't want Long Fist spreading his pain-worship over half the earth.”

Pyrre frowned. “Where did you get that idea?”

“You're not the first Skullsworn I've come across. I know how Ananshael's priests feel about Meshkent.”

The Skullsworn's eyes went wide with surprise, then she pursed her lips appraisingly.

“All right,” she said, nodding, “and the third reason?”

The Flea met her gaze. “If things go wrong, there'll be dead piled high as the eaves.”

“Indeed,” Pyrre replied, nodding slowly, then smiling. “One could make a great prayer to the god.”

“What about you?” Gwenna demanded, staring at the Wing leader. “Once you've warned il Tornja, you're coming back? Why are
we
holding the choke point? I mean, I want to do it, to help, but you're the fucking vets.…”

“And because we're the fucking vets,” the Flea replied, “we're going to do the hard work.”

“Meaning what?” Annick asked.

“Meaning killing Long Fist and his ex-Kettral traitor of a pet leach before they get to you.”

 

36

The finest quarters in Aats-Kyl were not, as it turned out, particularly fine. The soldiers who had prepared for her arrival had done their best—scrubbing the wooden floors, hanging lanterns from the log walls, kindling a roaring fire in the wide hearth—but the two-story building at the center of the town was little more than a lodge, and the central hall, though cavernous, was gloomy. Adare could feel the cool northern breeze moving through the unchinked gaps in the logs. The antlered heads of moose and deer seemed to watch her with their stone eyes as she stalked across the floorboards.

As soon as the young soldier went in search of il Tornja, Fulton scoured the room, looking behind every door, checking beneath the rustic tables and chairs, even sticking his head into the flaming hearth, as though someone might be hiding behind the roaring fire, ready to leap out. When he had satisfied himself that the room was secure, he took up a position just inside the front door, blade drawn.

“Shall I kill him as he enters, Your Radiance?” he asked.

Adare hesitated. Sweat slicked her palms, and she could feel it cold on her spine beneath her robe. Her heart pounded under her ribs. She could end it all as soon as the
kenarang
entered. And yet … slowly she shook her head. “There's too much going on here that I don't understand. I need to talk to him first.”

The Aedolian's jaw tightened. His wounds from the Everburning Well had mostly healed, and he had regained some of the weight he lost searching for her after her escape from the Dawn Palace, and yet something had changed about the man. He had always been hard, even severe. The severity, however, had been leavened by Birch, by Fulton's obvious affection for the younger man. With Birch gone, there was nothing left but duty.

“I would ask that you keep the table between you and the
kenarang
at all times, Your Radiance,” he said, gesturing to a wide pine table stained with grease and circles of ale. “I will be at your side, but added distance will serve us well.”

“You still think he wants to murder me?” Adare asked.

“I believe everyone wants to murder you, Your Radiance,” Fulton replied. “It is my job.”

Adare shook her head, suddenly very weary, then turned to Nira and Oshi. The old man, oblivious to the tension in the room, had retired to a dark corner where he was gently patting the mounted head of a black bear. Adare watched him for a moment, wondering what it would feel like to have lived so long and to remember so little. Sometimes her own short life felt filled to bursting, the record of her days crammed with memories she could neither understand nor dismiss.

“He'll be here soon,” she said to Nira. “How about some counseling?”

The old woman frowned. “Supposed ta be pretty bright, ain't he?”

“He's supposed to be a 'Kent-kissing genius,” Adare replied bitterly. “I know next to nothing about military matters, but he certainly outmaneuvered my father.”

“The thing about smart bastards,” Nira said, shaking her head, “can't trust 'em, but sometimes ya need 'em.”

Adare stared. “You're not telling me to let my father's murderer live?”

The woman raised her brows at the tone. “I'm suggestin', ya willful sow, that ya rule your bright little empire.”

“Administering justice,” Adare replied stiffly, “is central to rule.”

“What is central to rule,” Nira snapped, “is doing what needs doing, and if you think that's always the same thing, then you might as well have the big man in the armor there put his blade between your breasts because ya ain't gonna make it long, girl. Ya ain't gonna
survive
.”

Adare started to reply when the rear door to the lodge clattered shut. Nira whirled about, cane at the ready, then cursed. Oshi was gone.

“The old fuckin' fool never did know when ta stay put,” she muttered, striding toward the rear of the large hall. “I'll be back in a skip. Don't kill anyone till I'm back.”

Adare started to protest, but the woman had already followed her brother out the back of the building, cursing beneath her breath and brandishing her cane. Adare turned to find Fulton shaking his head. “I don't know where you found her, Your Radiance, but she is a liability.”

“These days,” Adare replied bleakly, “you're about the only person who's
not
a liability, Fulton. And I include myself in that accounting.”

Before she could say more, the front door clattered open, and il Tornja strode in, his boots, breeches, and coat splattered with mud. Adare's stomach twisted at the sight of him. He approached the table smiling, arms spread in welcome. Even after Fulton laid the broadblade calmly against the
kenarang
's neck, Adare found herself stepping backward, as though she stood on the shore watching a great wave roll in. She had rehearsed the moment a thousand times on the long march north, first from Olon to Annur, then from Annur to Aats-Kyl, had prepared over and over again what she would say, how she would hold herself. Now, faced with her lover, Annur's
kenarang
and regent, and her father's murderer, it was all she could do to stand, to keep the trembling from her legs, to meet his eyes.

If il Tornja shared any of the same concern, he didn't show it. Despite the mud marring his clothes, he looked just as she remembered: handsome, cavalier, even a little bit louche. Instead of armor, he wore a blue wool coat over a darker blue tunic, the latter tucked into leather riding breeches that flared out above black boots polished smooth as stones. It wasn't a legion uniform, wasn't a uniform at all, and yet the man had a way of carrying the clothes that made them seem wholly appropriate, as though every general in Annur ought to be dressed the same, as though the half-dozen rings he wore, cut gems winking in the firelight, were somehow wholly appropriate to the business of battle and war.

The cold northern wind had riffled his dark hair, but his eyes, those steady, unflinching eyes, studied her with the same amused curiosity Adare remembered so well. She felt like livestock, suddenly, like a horse or cow brought to the block to be picked over before the auction, and the feeling kindled a fury inside her, a red flame of rage. For a moment she almost ordered Fulton to twist his sword and have done with it.

“Nice army you brought,” he said, waving a lazy hand toward the wall of the building. “Good marchers. There's no end to the irritation when an army can't march.” He shook his head, evidently recalling past frustrations, then shrugged. He didn't so much as glance at Fulton or the blade ready at his throat. “You take up generaling while sojourning in the south?”

“A soldier named Vestan Ameredad has the command,” Adare replied stiffly.

“Ameredad?” He raised his brows. “That's what my men told me, but it was a tough tale to swallow. I seem to have missed a verse or two since last we danced. Weren't we trying to pound the dear, pious Sons of Flame straight into the mud not long ago?” He glanced speculatively up into the rafters. “I seem to remember a priest named Uinian—dead. Then there were those Accords you drafted so enthusiastically.…”

“Enough,” Adare spat. “I know you murdered my father. Adiv gave me your letter, but I didn't need you to tell me. I knew long before that. I intend to see you executed for your crimes, and the only reason I've waited is to try to make some sense of what's happening here in the north, what's going on with the Urghul. If you want to discuss that, fine. If not, I'll be happy to instruct Fulton to take your head from your shoulders.”

“Ah.” The regent set the single syllable between them, still and inscrutable as a stone on the
ko
board. He didn't move. “How did you learn?” There was no gloating, no guilt. He looked … curious.

“My father,” Adare said. “He was hunting you even as you murdered him. Your attack triggered his trap.”

It wasn't much of an explanation, but il Tornja seemed to accept it, pursing his lips, then nodding. “Makes sense. Sanlitun was clever. Clever and tenacious. Much like his daughter.”

It was the casualness of the compliment that shattered her reserve. He said the words as though even after his admission Adare might simply slip back into his arms, wide-eyed and breathless for his approval. As though the Sons of Flame and Fulton's blade at his neck—a blade he had not once deigned to look down at—were insubstantial as her father's ghost, wraiths that might be dismissed with the wave of a hand or a strong gust of wind. As though it didn't fucking
matter
that he had murdered the Emperor and seized the throne for himself.

“If my father was so clever,” Adare demanded, voice rising, “if he was so tenacious, then
why did you kill him
?”

“If you read my letter, then you know: he was killing Annur,” il Tornja replied evenly. His gaze was level, sober, all trace of insouciance suddenly scrubbed away.

Adare shook her head, blood slamming in her temples.

“My father was a good emperor. One of the best. He oversaw a generation of peace and prosperity.”

The
kenarang
nodded. “Unfortunately, good men can make bad decisions, and peace is not always possible.” He considered Adare. “You seem to have learned that lesson quickly enough.”

“I raised an army because you
forced
me to.…”

“I did?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Was it my series of brutal atrocities? My callous disregard for the people of Annur? Where are the gibbets dangling with my political foes? Where are the burned-out shells of homes?” He shook his head. “Annur may burn, Adare, but if it does, remember this,
you
brought the fire.”

Adare's mouth hung open. The man had put a knife into her father's beating heart, framed a priest, and he expected to lay the guilt at
her
feet?

“You flouted our laws and usurped the Malkeenian line,” she said, voice tight as a harp string. “I am defending both.”

“More's the pity,” he replied. “I had hoped you might be here to defend Annur.”

“You want me to believe that ‘defending Annur' means sitting idly by while you profane the Unhewn Throne?”

“Your throne is an absurd piece of furniture in which I have less than no interest. I would gladly pass it over to you, although from what I'm told, you've already claimed it for yourself. Your Radiance.”

She couldn't tell if he was mocking her or not. Threatening her or not. She had expected him to lie, to twist, to deny the truth in a thousand ways. Despite his earlier letter, she had not expected this, neither the honesty nor the accusation, and she struggled to find her balance, to take control of the conversation once more.

“And you expect me to believe that you won't kill me, too, when I grow inconvenient? The same way you killed my father and Kaden?”

He shook his head. “I had nothing to do with your brother's death.”

“Well, it's pretty 'Kent-kissing convenient for you that my father's rightful heir never returned to the capital.”

Il Tornja shook his head. “Listen to yourself, Adare. Your father. Your brother. You. The fucking Malkeenians. Even if I murdered your entire family, which I have not and do not intend to, Annur has more pressing worries. Worries that extend beyond the tidy walls of your palace. The Urghul are here.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “
All
of them. I am trying to deal with the threat while you are playing a petty political game.”

“Justice for my father is not a game,” Adare snarled. “And if the Urghul are here, it is because
you
erred. You are the
kenarang
and regent. Why wasn't the Army of the North in place to stop them?”

“I was forced to recall the Army of the North,” he said grimly, “to deal with your religious uprising, to put down the threat of civil war. I thought Long Fist remained at the eastern end of the steppe, but I was wrong. When I pulled the men south to face you, he attacked. Unopposed, he will tear through the northern atrepies like a knife through rotted cloth.”

“Then I will oppose him,” Adare said. “None of this needs involve you.”

“Then kill me,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Kill me if you think it necessary. But then march your Sons and the Army of the North hard. There will be daily messengers updating you on the Urghul movements.”

Abruptly, Adare felt that she stood on the verge of a high cliff, staring down into fog. She could kill the man, could appoint Lehav or Fulton to command the Army of the North, and yet, what did Lehav or Fulton understand about the Urghul? Had either of them ever
seen
one? Did they know the first thing about how to fight them?