Whisper (28 page)

A moment later the escort came trotting back, and sure enough – his mount stopped before Char, and he caught my eye. “He wants you,” he said.

What did that mean –
he wanted me
? Surely it had nothing to do with possessive terms, I reasoned with myself. The escort must have seen the extent of the confusion on my face, for he granted me an extension;

“He says if he gets to deal with you, they'll leave this ground un-sullied.”

A frown touched my brows. “They'll let us go,” I translated, my tone quizzical.

He nodded.

What on earth...
Of course, there was no question as to what my response was, here, so I nudged Char forward to oblige, attempting to make sense of it as I went.

The commander was a gray-haired, battle-scarred man whose face would never be handsome again. It was pock-marked where the chisel of war had taken numerous stabs at him – perhaps burned, I revised, imagining a splash of coals sparking in his face to such an effect. He had a crooked hawk nose, and one ear of slightly different proportions than the other. Most likely mangled, I thought.

He watched me arrive with cool, calculating gray eyes, beady marbles of insight deep-set behind the creases of heavy, sleepless lids. I called on my fluttery sense of erstwhile bolstered courage, trying to pitch it back up for this meeting. But I was not geared to be glorious in the art of good, old-fashioned human interaction. I could not feed off of invigoration here.

The Lieutenant watched me arrive as well, equally stoic. I was getting no tell-tale vibes off either of them. Best just to let matters reveal themselves, then, it would seem, but I couldn't be at ease with such.

It was the commander's warhorse that really drew me in, as I let my eyes take stock of the restrained beast up close, distracting myself from the human pressures at stake. Never had I been able to look one in the eye except as it was lunging for my throat on the field.

This particular beast was reminiscent of the great Fresian breed – large and black with a mane and tail that flowed like the ocean, frothy dark waves that fell in its eyes and cascaded down its muscular neck, and billowed in its wake like a tousled flag. Similar portions fanned out about the creature's large hooves – feathered fetlocks that glittered with undying embers. Beneath its masking forelock, the creature's eyes were bloodshot, and bloody foam coated its muzzle. From some unseen wound across its dark body, a stream of fresh blood ran down one of its front legs.

“Commander Emanuel Jarvis,” Sonya announced for my benefit as I reached them, but my eyes were riveted to his mount with a morbid sense of fascination.

“And my warhorse,” the commander added in a thick accent I couldn't quite place, seeing my unyielding interest. “Goliath.”

Fitting, I thought – and at last drew my attention away.

“Here she is,” the Lieutenant declared, in a tone that suggested she felt we had now obliged with the terms, and there was no more to see here. Go home, folks – show's over. Our side of the bargain was fulfilled.

Instead of responding, the commander's eyes swept me, very thoroughly, making my skin crawl. I was grateful that Char was an indifferent source of support beneath me, unaffected by the scrutiny. I drew from his composure, resisting the urge to squirm.

While the commander's eyes were otherwise occupied, I cast a questioning glance at the Lieutenant. At first I thought she might not spare me an explanation, but it seemed she found sympathy for me as I stood for the commander's pleasure, and granted me the dignity of opting not to leave me in the dark.

“It seems you've caught Gabriel's interests, Miss Wilde,” she explained. “They've agreed to grant us a forfeit this day if they get to take an up-close account of you.”

It did nothing to cure my crawling flesh. “Why?” I heard myself ask, the question directed at commander of the demon army.

“He's curious,” the commander replied, his accented speech an indifferent, monotonous articulation. “About this girl he hears about – gallivanting about on the battlefield like it's her stage. Some rampant, magnificent horse-mistress; savage rider with a charmed mount. Every move some unfathomable piece of choreographed harmony. To the effect that some of the men beg the question: which is the creature? And which one is the master? The one who leads this dance? Or is this some...centaur, out of a legend?”

It was so dramatic, so craftily spoken – it felt like I was ruining some rehearsed effect when I opened my mouth and let the dry words out; “Gabriel wants to know if I'm a centaur,” I distinguished with a hint of inquisition, prompting confirmation. Gabriel was more taken by this fantasy than I was.

“Of course he doesn't believe in such things. But where there are stories... It pays to put a face to them.”

To humanize them. Of course. I was quiet a moment, a little overwhelmed by the responsibility, the
opportunity,
to have words with the enemy, as if I were qualified to be some kind of ambassador. Then the opportunity struck me as what it was, and I aspired to open my mouth once again. “It pays what?” I asked. “His conscience? So he doesn't have to try to sleep at night or send his men into battle wondering if his monsters aren't the only ones that were created in this world after the quakes? There is more than one way to create a monster, Commander Jarvis.” And with that taunting cryptology, I sealed my lips and let the implications hang.

“So there is,” he granted, but was left unperturbed. “And more than one way to slay one. Sometimes, all it takes is dethroning the illusion.” And with that touche`, he sealed his own hard lips, let his presence intimidate us a moment longer, and then fingered his reins to turn his fiery dark mount. Four neat, smoldering impressions remained tattooed into the ground where Goliath's hooves had been planted, and I watched as freshly-embering hoofprints appeared in the warhorse's wake as he traipsed over the brush back toward his army of waiting kin. His tail caught the sparks of one, and lit – and glittering smolders spread through the hairs there as well, but never seemed to render a single strand to ash.

Without a word, the Lieutenant turned her own mount from the rendezvous point and headed back toward our own company. The escort and I followed her, no further ado required, and I felt a little disoriented for what had just taken place. That was it? And yet – Gabriel had taken an interest in me. Was personally interested in the character Lady Alejandra and Cambrie and I had aspired to channel, for the sake of our own army. This
Centaur
creature
.
I had to admit, I had not thought to aim for that particular likeness, but I could not be disappointed in the interpretation.

Especially if its intrigue had been enough to see our army spared this day, as the terms of the day's forfeit had demonstrated. It occurred to me, then, that what we had cultivated in me was the only thing that
had
spared our army just now. That intrigue, and the desire to put a name to the secret weapon that I masqueraded as, had provided the terms that granted us our lives this once.

It was an incredible revelation – inspiring and overwhelming in its privilege.

It was just that, at the end of the day, when the high wore off and our attentions turned to other necessary matters at hand, it could only be a small consolation to the lurking awareness that came with it: the awareness that the leader of the empire that marched against us had taken a personal interest in me. One substantial enough that it was worth sacrificing a perfect opportunity to obliterate us in one swift move, just to put a name to my face.

Twenty-Seven –

W
e took refuge back at Safeguard, getting the wounded situated and tending to all the weary, cut-up horses. The soldiers occupied themselves with war talk and strategies in the tents. There was not the same comfortable air that had come back with victorious company from battles past.

This was it, I thought – the end of the golden days. I had felt like I had really been a part of something, while we had managed to stay on top of Gabriel pushing east. But now... Well, we had let him past the halfway point, and surely that was a bleak, discouraging sign no matter whose book you went by. That meant, more than any other indicator, that he was winning. We had taken Kansas and held it, but if he pushed east all around it, we would only be able to hold it until he could come at us from all sides. His endeavors to overtake the country were succeeding. It slew morale like an arrow through the heart.

And morale was done no favors, as far as I was concerned, by the way one Cambrie Gale threw herself back into Jay's company sputtering about how she never wanted to do something like that again. I didn't even get the chance to tell Jay about Fly. And then, waiting through the extent of Cambrie's gushing and Jay showing no signs of redirecting her, I rather lost my enthusiasm. The only complimentary thing I could muster to think on her behalf was: if this was her true stance, I had to hand it to her for not breaking down into a sputtering mess while we were actually out there. But then – who would have listened? I doubted she would have found much sympathy when the rest of us were either out
in
the fray or coming back to camp in miserable shape – or not coming back at all. Complaining would not have been appropriate or at all well-recieved.

It must have truly been awful for her. I felt one single pang of sympathy, and then gave myself over to the disgust that couldn't stand her taking advantage of Jay's gentlemanly policies the way that she did. And taking him from me, when I had special things to inform him of. Things that fell in a relevant category she could never aspire to share.

Fortunately, Toby appeared to occupy my own attention. “I heard it from one of the soldiers,” he said, a hint of a twinkle in his otherwise respectfully-sober eyes. “You turned out to be some kind of savior. What do you think of that?” And then he leaned forward to whisper it, smiling, “
Whisper Wilde.
” And he left me to my chores, teasing triumph aglow on his face.

*

Jay was not so complimentary when next we spoke. He meant business. Letting himself into the round pen where I was schooling one of the mounts, he leaned back against the rail, getting comfortable for the exchange.

“You're not going back out there,” he said.

I didn't spare him a glance. “You say something like that every time you open your mouth in my presence,” I said. “Don't you think it's losing its novelty? Clearly, it never does any good.”

“It's not a suggestion. And this isn't a negotiation. I'm telling you, just so you know.”

“And you've initiated this as what – my legal guardian? Please. You stop being a minor at sixteen in this day and age – tops.”

“I'm not letting you go,” he announced matter-of-factly, unperturbed this time. He really planned on keeping me here.

I faced him, then. If he meant business, fine – I could do business. “Do you know why the army came back this time?”

“Because you made some fool name for yourself, and managed to be the face of some misguided negotiation,” he rattled off, confirming he'd heard the account. “That was the only reason you or any of them came back this time. And it's not going to be a viable card ever again. Things just took a turn for the worse, Alannis. There are going to be a lot more not coming back. You had your fun playing in the battles that were handed to us, but this isn't your game anymore. Things are about to get a whole lot uglier real fast, and being some dress-up mascot isn't going to cut you any charmed slack or deals anymore. From here on out, until and unless something changes back, this is for men who have dedicated their last breath to this. Men who are dedicated to die.”

I stared at him, my temper cooling at the conviction in his words. By no means did my resolve collapse into a submissive heap, but the annoyance at his meddling cooled.

“This is for men saying to themselves
right now
, 'I'm going to go out there tomorrow and give my life',” Jay stressed. “Unless that's you, you don't belong with them anymore.”

I let my eyes take in the ground at my feet, affected enough to fairly consider his words. “And if that is me?” I proposed.

“Then I'll cross-tie you to the stakes of your tent myself. With chains. And sit on you. Forever.”

My gaze returned to him, a small grin of amusement tweaking my lips.

“You think I'm joking,” he said.

Biting my lip, I considered him. What if he was right? How long could I cheat fate this way, anyway? How much did my chances go down every time I went out on the battlefield? It was hard to let go of, though – the fantasy had become an addiction, an avenue for those intoxicating, euphoric hormones. The vessel that channeled my exhilarative calling, that stimulated my newfound livelihood. “You haven't seen me out there,” I told him.