Terms of Surrender (16 page)

Nessa and Mari rode between the ivory vastness: the endless white sky above, and the endless plain of snow below that crunched under their horses’ hooves. The sun shone down, making the snow glitter like a diamond wasteland, but its heat no longer reached them. Only the gusting winds and the bitter cold, sprinkling frost against the riders’ reddened cheeks as they huddled close on the wagon perch with heavy furs draped over their laps.

“Tomorrow, or the day after, we should reach forest country,” Mari said as she tightened her grip on the reins. “Slower going, but the trees will hold back the wind a little.”

Nessa gave a weak nod, her shoulders shivering. Mari reached out with her free arm. Put it around Nessa and pulled her close, sharing her warmth. They rode in silence for a while.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Mari suddenly said, jerking her arm back. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

Nessa took hold of Mari’s wrist, moved her arm back where it had been, and leaned against her. It was her only reply.

Another hour. The scenery didn’t change. Just a white plain, stretching to every horizon.

“I could almost imagine we’re the only ones left,” Nessa mused. “That the entire world just…went away. And this is all that remains.”

“Only us,” Mari said.

“It wouldn’t be so bad.” Nessa shifted against her, pulling the furs higher on her lap. “We’d just have to keep riding. Looking for someplace warm.”

Night turned the icy sky violet. Mari used the last of the stolen kindling to set a fire, and Nessa prepared dinner while Mari drove stakes into the frozen soil and put up the tent. Imperial rations were next to tasteless—hardtack and some kind of dried fish, a herring maybe—but they were too cold to care. The food quieted the gnawing in their bellies and that was all that mattered.

Then they crawled into their bedrolls and tried to sleep as the freezing wind rustled against the tent and slipped its fingers through the tied-off flap.

Nessa was wide awake.

She glanced to her left. Mari lay curled up in her bedroll, shivering.

“Here,” Nessa said and slipped under the furs with her. Mari jolted, startled, and Nessa put a calming hand on her arm. Then she pressed up against her back, molding her body to Mari’s contours, the two of them fitting like a glove.

“Body heat,” Nessa whispered. “We’ll both sleep better this way.”

Mari rolled over to face her. Their foreheads touching. Eyes bright in the dark.

Their lips brushed. Then again, this time more certain, more firm. Hungrier. Nessa’s fingers caressed Mari’s hip.

“Nessa,” Mari whispered, “I’ve—I’ve never…”

“With a woman?”

“With anyone.”

Nessa paused. “Do…you want to?”

“I think,” she said, pausing. “I think I’ve wanted to since I met you. I’m just…a little scared. And I’m not sure what to do.”

Nessa took Mari’s hand, bringing it to her lips.

“I’ll teach you.”

They moved together slowly. Fingertips, and light fingernails, and soft kisses. Exploring by touch and taste. Nessa found a spot on the curve of Mari’s neck that drew a kittenish whimper, and she smiled in the dark.

Then her hand slid down, into the valley between her knight’s thighs, and every muscle in Mari’s body went tense.

“What is it?” Nessa cradled her cheek with her other hand.

“Will…will it hurt?”

War child
, Nessa thought.
Growing up a refugee in your own homeland. The things you must have seen
.

“No. When it’s done properly, between two people who…between two people who want to be together, it shouldn’t. It won’t hurt unless I want it to. And…I don’t want it to.”

Under her hand, she felt the muscles of Mari’s thighs unclench.

“Do you trust me?” Nessa whispered.

“I do.”

“Then lie back. And close your eyes. You’re going to feel something you’ve never felt before. Something special. I promise.”

And then she kept her promise. She clung close to Mari as her knight bucked her hips and thrashed her ragged hair and cried out in a torn voice, her back arched as she rode to a crescendo then fell, gasping for breath. Nessa held onto her, Mari still and trembling now, a blissful smile on her lips.

Mari wanted more. They resumed their discovery of each other’s secret places, fearless now, faster, hungrier. Not feeling the cold or the howling wind, just basking in one another. Not afraid. Not alone. Not broken.

*     *     *

The sun rose over the endless white. Mari slept off her exhaustion in the furs. Outside the tent, Nessa paced, kicking up snow, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Muttering under her breath.

“Oh, was that not a part of your master plan?” Muskrat perched on the edge of their wagon, still in her ragged gray dress. If the cold bothered her, it didn’t show.

Nessa whirled to face her mother. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“You just spent your first night in another person’s arms in seven years and four months. Believe me, I’ve been keeping track. And while I
did
stay outside of your tent—I mean, let’s not be gauche about this—it
sounded
like you were having a lovely time. So why are you angry?”

“She wasn’t supposed to—” Nessa spat, stumbling over her words. “That
woman
—”

“Turned out to be a woman, and not a plaything?”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. I should have anticipated, should have had a better grip on the situation.”

“Oh, boohoo,” Muskrat said. “The great and terrible Owl finds herself facing a situation she can’t obsessively control. Swear to the moon, it’s like you’re five again. Do you know what your problem is?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

Her mother hopped down from the wagon and approached Nessa. Her bare feet didn’t leave a mark in the drifting snow.

“You’ve always been fixated on
this
,” she said, poking Nessa in the forehead, “and petrified of
this
,” punctuating her words with a poke to Nessa’s chest. “Relationships are messy. And random. And sloppy. And you can’t handle that.”

“Oh, I can handle it. I can handle it right this minute. Permanently.”

She stalked toward the tent. Muskrat rolled her eyes.

“What are you going to do? Cut her throat while she’s sleeping? Make the whole problem go away?”

Nessa wheeled around. “I could if I wanted to!”

Muskrat folded her arms.

“And do you?”

Nessa stood silent, deflated, as the winter wind swirled around her.

“No.”

Muskrat approached, taking gentle hold of Nessa’s arms.

“The world is a terrible and fell place,” she said, “even without the likes of
us
in it. It’s all right if you choose to face it alone. But don’t tell yourself you
have
to be alone.”

Nessa let out a faint laugh and shook her head. “For once in my life…I don’t know what to do.”

“That woman,” Muskrat said, pointing behind Nessa at the tent, “has given you her submission. Her strength. Made herself your sword. She isn’t a cheap blade to use in a single battle and then toss away. She’s a master-forged weapon, to be kept in velvet and polished until she shines. Share
your
strength with her, in your own unique way. Become each
other’s
strength. Trust…is not your greatest quality, let’s face it. But you can learn. Just give in, Nessa. Give in to your feelings and stop fighting.”

“I’m not sure that I can.”

“Only one way to find out. You own her, Nessa. Own her properly, or destroy her now. No half measures. Make your choice.”

“All right.” Nessa nodded, her voice soft. “I’ll decide.”

“Nessa?” Mari asked. “Who are you talking to?”

She turned. Mari had poked her head outside the tent, looking perplexed.

Nessa stood alone in the snow.

The witch smiled. One hand dropped down to her hip. Feeling the hilt of the dagger concealed under her dress.

“Come here, Mari.”

Mari slipped outside the tent and approached her. Curious, but trusting. Utterly trusting.

Nessa reached up and traced the curve of Mari’s throat with her fingertips. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind.
Own her properly, or destroy her now
.

Her fingers closed around Mari’s throat.

She squeezed. Not hard. Just enough to get her attention. Mari didn’t fight, didn’t pull away. Her eyes widened.

“Mari,” Nessa said, “listen to me.”

Her hand slid upward and caressed Mari’s cheek.

“I…am going to make you
great
. The strongest, most skilled, and most fearsome of knights. And one day, when I lead our people to Wisdom’s Grave, you will be riding at my side.”

Mari dropped to one knee in the snow, her head bowed.

“My liege,” she whispered.

Nessa savored the moment. Then she curled her fingers in Mari’s hair and gave a playful tug.

“On your feet, and let’s pack up. Many miles yet to go before we stand in Winter’s Reach.” She tilted her head and grinned. “And we’ve got a
lot
of people to kill.”

Livia strolled through the gardens of the keep, watching marigold butterflies flit from flower bed to flower bed. She could still see, here and there, the fresh plantings to replace the flowers crushed by the fall of bodies on the night the assassins struck. The memory was as close as the scent of new roses on the air. The torches going out one by one, the robed figures with their garrotes and their nooses, the cries of her loyal Browncloaks around her.

And the feeling of raw magic erupting in her heart. Summoning a whirlwind of inky shadow that dragged the killers into its maw before whipping shut.

The spell that killed me
, she thought, wearing a faint smile. It was easier to take the Owl’s news if she thought of it that way. She had been doomed to die that night: either by her own misfired witchcraft or by an assassin’s strangling hands. She’d
chosen
her doom, instead of having it chosen for her.

“I wouldn’t think you’d want to see this place again,” Amadeo said, walking alongside her. Behind them, a brace of Browncloaks shadowed their footsteps in silence.

Livia bent down to sniff at a vibrant purple blossom. “It’s not the flowers’ fault that something ugly happened here. And it reminds me. Every day since that night…it’s a gift, isn’t it?”

He thought about it and nodded.

“When Carlo sent his assassins after me, and I jumped from the roof of the White Cathedral to escape,” he said, eyes going distant, “there was no reason I should have survived. I
should
have drowned.”

“The Gardener willed it. Your work wasn’t done.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I am not so egotistical as to think I was saved by divine intervention. Anything I can do for our creator, another man can do better. Point is, I died that night. And so many of my old fears and worries just didn’t make sense anymore. A man who’s died once isn’t afraid to die twice.”

He glanced back toward the stone-faced Browncloaks and then to Livia. Choosing his words carefully.

“I imagine you can relate.”

“There’s nothing
to
fear. These people…these corrupt clergymen and petty coin counters, they think they can stop me. And they’re wrong. I intend to transform this Church, over their de—” She paused. “Over their strongest objections, if I have to.”

Amadeo pursed his lips. And thought about the cabal of men in the king’s confidence, planning her execution.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I have some work to attend to.”

He took his leave, heading inside, and nearly bumped into another Browncloak. Then he did a double take, recognizing the face under the hood.

“
Freda?
”

The freckled girl—the self-appointed shepherd of the Salt Alley urchins back in Lerautia, who had escaped alongside him on the night of the Alms District massacre—gave him a big smile. “Father Amadeo! How are you?”

“Concerned,” he said, pointing at her cloak. “Why are you wearing that?”

She laughed. “I’m a Browncloak now! Isn’t it wonderful? Once Kailani heard about how I helped you and Livia break into Carlo’s office, and how I was in the city on Crucible Eve, she said I
should
have been a member from day one.”

“Crucible…Eve?”

“You know. The night of the massacre. That’s what we call it in the ’Cloaks, because that’s the crucible we were forged in.”

“Do you…have a lot of special words for things?”

“You should join up and find out for yourself,” she said, giving him a wink.

“Freda, this is serious. Assassins have already made two attempts on Livia’s life. You could be hurt, or killed. This is nothing to play at.”

She frowned. “I’m not
playing
at anything. Which is exactly what Carlo’s gonna find out when we take back the Holy City.”

“So you’re going to
fight?
Freda, this is…this isn’t for you. You’re a girl, not a soldier.”

“Girls can be soldiers too. Father, I’ve been in this fight since the day you brought me to the papal manse, and I want to see it through. Kailani says there are only two things you can choose in this life: what you fight for, and who you die for. Besides, I wanted to follow Livia even before I knew the truth.”

He was afraid to ask, but he spoke the words anyway.

“Freda, what’s ‘the truth’?”

She lowered her voice, glancing over her shoulder as she leaned in, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper.

“Saint Elise. The voice against tyrants. The liberator of prisoners. It’s
her
, Father.
Livia is Saint Elise
, returned to save us all.”

*     *     *

Amadeo wandered the halls of the keep. A man adrift, with a weight on his shoulders that he couldn’t shrug off. Up ahead, the doors to the feast hall swung open. Sister Columba emerged.

Through the open door, he saw Rhys, Merrion, Yates, and Byvan gathered around the table. As the door swung shut, Rhys raised his goblet to the others in a toast.

Columba shuffled past him in the hall.

“Sister,” he said.

She stopped.

“Those men,” he said. “What did they want to talk to you about?”

“A private matter,” she replied.

“I meant no offense by asking.”

“And none taken.” She started to leave, then paused. “Father?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“That…matter I asked you to investigate, about Livia. You don’t need to do it anymore. I was mistaken. Everything is fine.”

He watched, mute, as she hobbled away.

He knew. While he’d swum indecisively around the bait, Columba had bitten down on their hook. If they couldn’t get him to lure Livia to her death, they’d use Columba instead.

What now? Warn Livia? Amadeo’s thoughts turned to the Browncloaks. Her circle of self-appointed defenders was snowballing, turning into some kind of…movement.
Not a movement
, he thought.
Call it what it is. They’re a cult
. He wasn’t sure how much control Livia had over them. He could imagine them rampaging through Rhys’s keep in a zealous rage, butchering every conspirator they could get their hands on in order to “protect” their sainted mistress.

Or she might order them to do it
, he thought. How far would Livia go to defend her reign?

Should he stand back and do nothing? Leaving aside the question of Livia’s life, that meant letting Columba become an accomplice to murder. Defiling the old woman’s soul with the stain of a mortal sin. He couldn’t let her do that. Nor, he was fairly certain, could he talk her out of it. In her mind, this would be expiation: redeeming her crime of helping to put a witch on the papal throne.

He went to his chambers, knelt down, and bowed his head in prayer. He thought back to his last nightmare. Livia’s lifeless body falling to the ground. The blood on his hands.

“My lord,” he whispered to the silence, “you…show me things, sometimes. Glimpses of possible futures. I don’t know why. I can only trust that there’s a reason, that you’re steering me to my greater purpose.”

He lifted his head. Opened his eyes and looked to the window, to the storm-cast sky beyond.

“Steer me now. Because I’m lost. I’m lost, and I’m afraid, and I feel so very, very alone.”

When the answer came to him—from the skies above or the depths of his own reason, he could not say—he accepted it with quiet solemnity. It was the only way.

*     *     *

Amadeo stalked the halls until he found Merrion. The king’s advisor was making his rounds, poking his head into the kitchens. Amadeo cornered him, pushing the slender man into a bend in the hallway, putting his back to the wall.

“I know what you’ve done,” he said, “to Columba.”

“
To
her? Hardly. She was simply more receptive to our offer than you were. Eager, even, though she refused to explain the nature of her eagerness. Why
does
she want Livia dead, Father?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re not using her. Leave Columba alone.”

“You haven’t left us with much of an alternative,” Merrion said. “Time is running out.”

Amadeo looked up and down the drafty corridor. Making sure what came next reached Merrion’s ears only.

“Here’s your alternative. Me.”

“You? So what you’re telling me is…” Merrion trailed off, expectant. Forcing him to say it.

“Follow through, deliver everything you promised me at that table, and I’ll be your traitor,” Amadeo told him. “I will assassinate Livia Serafini.”

Merrion’s thin lips pulled back in a cold smile.

“She was a poor pope, but she’ll make a fine martyr,” Merrion said. “And a revered, beloved saint.”