Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

Gwenna stared. “So why aren’t there any garrisons there?”

The Flea shrugged. “Lot of frontier. Not so many soldiers. The Urghul never had a chief like Long Fist, so we never bothered worrying about one.”

“This is edifying,” Pyrre said, “but I can’t help feeling as though we’ve strayed from the original-”

The Flea’s backhand caught her square in the jaw. It didn’t look like much of a blow, but it knocked the woman clean off the log and into a patch of thorns beyond. The Wing leader didn’t so much as glance over. “I don’t like many people,” he said, gazing into the cool shadows beneath the trees, talking quietly, as though to himself, “but I liked Finn. We were in the same group of cadets. Went through the Trial together.”

He looked over at Pyrre finally. “It’d feel good to kill you.”

The Skullsworn, unable to break her fall, had landed awkwardly, face half in the moss, half pressed against a rotting stump. With an effort, she hauled herself up, then rose to her knees to meet his eyes. The fall had tightened the noose around her throat, and Gwenna could hear her laboring to breathe.

“You know what the difference is between the Kettral and the priests of Ananshael?” she rasped.

The Flea watched her, but didn’t respond.

“We’re all fighters,” Pyrre continued after a pause. “We’re all killers. The difference is that you kill in order to keep something else alive: your empire, your Wing, yourself. The death is incidental to the life.”

“And you?” the Flea asked.

Pyrre smiled. “For the priests, death is the point, the ultimate justice. You hold the knife, but death belongs to Ananshael, and I will never fear my god.”

The Flea watched her awhile longer, his head tilted to the side, then ran a hand over the graying stubble of his scalp.

“Well,” he said, “you’re going to have to wait awhile longer to meet him.”

The Skullsworn raised her eyebrows.

“My god is patient, but I’m surprised that you are.”

“I’m not patient,” the Flea said. “I’m practical. I can use you.”

Pyrre shook her head, the motion limited by the rope around her neck. “What is it with the Kettral? Why does every Wing leader think I’m a part of their Wing?”

“You’re not coming with my Wing,” the Flea said. “I need you to stay with Gwenna and Annick. To help them.”

“Stay with us where ?” Gwenna demanded. It sounded suspiciously as though they’d been rescued only to be questioned and abandoned. She might not understand a ’Kent-kissing thing about what was going on, but there was a fight coming, that was clear enough, and she’d be shipped to ’Shael before she was left out of it.

“Andt-Kyl,” the Flea said, turning to her.

“What’s Andt-Kyl?”

“Small town,” Annick said, “near the center of the Thousand Lakes.”

“A little to the north of center, actually,” the Flea replied.

“And what are we doing in Andt-Kyl?”

“Getting ready.”

“For the summer fishing season?” Gwenna demanded, incredulous.

“For the Urghul,” the Flea replied. “If Long Fist manages to cross the river, there are half a dozen ways south through the Lakes for an army the size of his, but they all pass through Andt-Kyl. We’ll drop you there. We can hope the Urghul won’t show up, but if they do, it’ll be in three days, maybe four.”

“Andt-Kyl is a town,” Annick observed. “Not a garrison. Not a fort.”

“Your job is to fortify it.”

Gwenna was shaking her head. “And if the Urghul show up?”

“Hold them. Until il Tornja arrives.”

“Il Tornja doesn’t even know they’re coming,” Gwenna said, worry mounting inside her. The Kettral trained to be knives in the night, not to fight pitched battles against entire armies. It was hard to even imagine what they could do. Even with Pyrre, there were only three of them against the assembled Urghul might.

“I’m going to tell him.”

“What do you want us to do with the town?” Annick asked. Her voice was cold and measured as ever, but it was clear she felt no more comfortable with the strange orders than Gwenna.

“It’s vaguely defensible already. Make it more so. Rally the people.” He shrugged. “We spent most of a decade training you. Do what needs doing. The assassin will help.”

“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.”

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.”