Devorah sat staring at a new game of chess, ensconced in the large, comfortable chair in the room in her mind. She hadn’t yet lost a game to the white player, but even so she enjoyed these games. The white player was getting better, though she still focused on trying to protect all her pieces rather than the goal of the game. Seeing the flaws in the tactics of the white player let Devorah better examine her own.

Finally, she made a move and turned her attention to the bookshelf.

Since her first visit to the room in her mind, the collection of books had grown. Some of them she’d brought herself and some had simply appeared. She selected a novel, one of her favorites, a thrilling adventure about children hunting for pirate treasure. On nights when she couldn’t settle her mind, when the day’s events weighed too heavily, when she could not make herself go to sleep, this was her favorite method of relaxation. She could fall asleep reading in the room in her mind and awake in her body.

Devorah could not say how long she sat like that before the noise caught her ears. Sounds from outside the room in her mind while she was within were dim and echoy, and she heard what she thought were the sounds of battle.

In a moment, Devorah sprang from bed. With ease of practice, she belted on her rapier and pulled her officer’s jacket on over her nightgown.

The warehouse, she had learned, was owned by the city and run by the mayor. The warehouse contained a small office outfitted with a narrow cot. Devorah had been afforded use of the cot at the insistence of Lieutenant Birkett.

On the other side of the door, a pair of guards stood at the ready.

“What’s going on?” Devorah demanded.

“Riot,” said one of the guards.

Devorah frowned. She could easily imagine Mayor Theobald making a move, inciting a riot of the Kempenny faithful against the Loreamer occupiers. It was a stupid move. And Devorah couldn’t help worrying that her stunt at the guard station might have helped spur the action. She dashed across the cavernous warehouse to the main doors where a larger contingent of guards stood, Lieutenant Birkett among them. The doors were closed and barred and the guards stood in a huddle, murmuring quietly.

One of the guardsmen looked around as she approached and tapped Lieutenant Birkett on the shoulder. She saw Devorah and her expression went carefully neutral, but Devorah could tell the Lieutenant was irritated at her presence.

“Major. What are you doing here? I thought you were asleep.”

“I was awoken by the dulcet sounds of combat, Lieutenant. I understand there is a riot.”

The Lieutenant nodded. “Every once in a while, the locals protest the presence of Loreamer’s troops.”

“This is a regular occurrence?” Perhaps she had hastily accused the Mayor.

“Well,” said the Lieutenant, “this one seems a bit more… determined.”

“It’s not to worry, Miss,” said one of the guards. He was a large man with a squashed nose. “’You shall have my sword, and my bow, and my axe.’”

One of the other guards, a thin man with a large nose and hair longer than strictly alowed, gave him a disgusted look. “Why do you do that? What does that even mean?”

Devorah smiled. The large guard was armed only with a sword. Clearly he was quoting “It’s from The Epic of the Ring. Sort of.”

The large guard grinned. “That it is. I’m impressed.”

“I used to have a lot of time to read.”

The thin guard scoffed. “It still doesn’t mean anything.”

Devorah returned her attention to the Lieutenant and her neutral expression. “Is there something you want to say, Lieutenant Birkett?”

She watched the Lieutenant’s struggle play out in her expressions: annoyance, frustration, determination. “We have our orders, Major. Collect the supplies, return to camp.”

To Devorah, the simple statement spoke of so much more. “You’ve seen this before,” said Devorah. “It’s why you joined the Governor’s army. You want to see the occupiers tossed out.”

Lieutenant Birkett’s expression drew tight and hard. “What would you know of it?”

But Devorah did know. The more the Lieutenant tried to hide, the more Devorah knew, like an old mystic out of tales. She saw the Lieutenant—younger, out of uniform, unarmed—standing in a well-lit room of stone benches and well-polished tables. Lieutenant Birkett, little more than a girl, sat with her mother on a stone bench and watched while a severe man in black robes and powdered wig passed sentence on a thin man in shackles, Birkett’s father.

Devorah blinked, her breath caught, and her knees went weak. But she refused to faint in front of the soldiers. Instead, she put a hand on the pommel of her sword and spoke.

“They killed your father.” Though she whispered, though the sounds of the riot reached them through stout warehouse doors, though Lieutenant Birkett glared at her furiously, she knew the assembled soldiers heard.

“He stole something, hunted on the Magistrate’s lands. But your mother was ill. There was no other choice. He stole to save you both and paid for it with his life.”

She could see the Lieutenant fighting back tears. “Damn you.”

Devorah nodded. “I know you think of me as a child, a brat undeserving of her rank, a soft noble without experience. And you’re right.” She looked around at them. She saw embarrassed agreement in their expressions, but also surprise at her honesty.

“So, perhaps this is my inexperience talking, but this is a Kempenny city, and there are Kempenny citizens out there getting hurt.” Her gaze flickered to Lieutenant Birkett’s. “We won’t win this war tonight, we shouldn’t jeopardize the Governor’s long-term goals, but perhaps we can keep too many well-meaning citizens from getting killed.”

The sound of fighting had faded. When they opened the doors, they found the street deserted but for debris, shadows, and an unmoving body. Devorah could see through the moon-shadows as clearly as daylight—more clearly—and she saw the body had once been a young man, his chest pierced by a great gaping wound. And the more she looked at him, the more she knew him, not who he had been in life but what he was in death. It was like her felicity with weapons, her familiarity with the dark, her knack for knowing what others were trying to keep hidden. She knew for how long he had lain dead (seven minutes), what had killed him (blood loss from a sword thrust), and the condition of his body (aside from the chest wound, fresh and whole).

A tingling power pressed at her fingertips, caught her throat, twisted her insides. It was a cold, dusty power, like long-forgotten graves and crumbling paper. It drew her to the dead man. She knew if she could fill him with it, he would rise at her command.

“Major?”

Devorah blinked and the moment passed, the power faded. Lieutenant Birkett was at her side. Devorah could see her indecision: she wanted to follow Devorah but had reservations.

“This way,” said Devorah as though nothing had happened. She set off through the dark with confidence and knew a contingent was at her back. She could feel through the shadowed streets to where the fighting continued. There were pockets of fighting throughout the city, but the main concentration of conflict was at the guard station. She led her contingent through the dark.

The guardhouse was closed up tight with archers on the roof and the one short tower. A mass of people gathered before it, bearing torches and old pikes and spare bits of wood. They were shouting at the men in and upon the guardhouse. And as Devorah and her contingent approached, the crowd’s voice synchronized upon a single, clear message, “Loreamer get out! Loreamer get out! Loreamer get out!”

Devorah looked at her following contingent, her gaze resting on the squashed-nosed man who’d quoted The Epic of the Ring. He was a large man, tall as well as broad. When she looked at him he looked at her, and she beckoned him forward.

He approached with a small bow. “Yes, Major?”

“You’re a big man. Might I use you as a podium?”

“‘As you wish.’” He quoted and winked. He knelt and lent his knee as a step up to his shoulders, where she sat.

“I’m not too heavy for you?”

He chuckled. “’A rock feels no pain, ‘” he quoted again.

“Thank you, Rock.”

He chuckled.

She looked at Lieutenant Birkett. “We need our instigator. Can you find Mayor Theobald in all this?” She waved her hand at the tumultuous crowd.”

The Lieutenant looked at the crowd then up at her. Her expression hardened and she saluted smartly. “Yes, sir.”

At her word, Rock stood slowly, and she kept her balance like a veteran sailor. She knew she must look peculiar, a barefoot girl sitting on the shoulders of a soldier, clad in a nightgown and officer’s jacket, like a child playing dress up. All she needed now was to gain everyone’s attention without them laughing at the sight.

She looked at the mass of bodies, their fists and torches and clubs raised in anger, roaring at the well-armed, entrenched establishment. From here, it seemed there was little chance of being heard over the noise, of changing minds over the anger, of keeping them all safe. She was reminded of the white player’s common mistake, protecting all her pieces.

“But this isn’t a game of chess.”

“What’s that, Major?”

She looked down. “Take me to the doors, Rock.”

He grinned and saluted and waded through the morass. He was met with angry shouts and oaths and elbows, but as the crowd realized his size, it made way and quieted and looked at the girl perched upon his shoulder. Rock mounted the two steps before the doors and turned so they faced the crowd. Silence fell, interrupted only with the occasional crack of fire on torches.

Devorah stood, balancing with ease, and rested her hand on the pommel of her sword.

“I know why you’re here.” She did not yell but her voice carried. “You see times are hard, food is scarce, nobles are harsh.” She knew their fears and frustrations as though laid out before her like pawns. “Winters have brought more snow than usual; summers have brought less rain. And why should we of Kempenny Province struggle to put food on the table when it was Kempenny who devised the methods of pipes and pumps that put hot water in Royals’ washrooms, Kempenny who’s foundries cast those pipes, Kempenny whose mountains provide the copper and silver?”

She noticed, as she spoke, that the small square in which they had gathered, wherein the guard station’s front doors opened, was well equipped for ambush. In fact, she knew without seeing, that archers had been placed on the roofs of the other buildings of the square, crouching in the darkness, awaiting orders. She could sense their fears too, that the rioters would overwhelm the guard station, that they would be given the order to fire upon townsfolk, that they wouldn’t receive the order and die instead.

“I stand with you in your frustration, but this,” she gestured sweepingly at the crowd, “will not get you what you want. This will only get you killed.”

She scanned the darkened buildings behind the crowd and found there the face she sought. It was the private she had competed with only hours ago. The man she’d let defeat her in the end. And she hoped that move would pay off.

“Private.”

She could see him clearly though he was shrouded in shadow. He straightened and stood at the edge of the building top, looking at her. He gave her a small wave and she waved back, startling him. He was certain she could not see him.

“You’re prepared to fire on these people, but is that what you want?” she asked over the uneasy murmurs of the crowd. “Is that what any of you want?” She swept her gaze across the rooftops and saw the archers shift uncomfortably.

She returned her gaze to the crowd. “My name is Devorah Kempenny. I am the niece of Governor Erin Kempenny. I stand with you and would see Loreamer’s soldiers return to their own province, but there is another way.”

There was a commotion at the head of the crowd and Mayor Gregory Theobald was pushed forward by Lieutenant Birkett. He sweated nervously and objected in hissed whispers. When he broke through the front of the crowd at Rock’s feet, he stumbled and looked about, blinking, as though having come from a dark cave into the sunlight.

“Ah…” he said, his voice betraying his nervousness though striving for surprise. “Major Kempenny. How good… that is… what are… I mean… uh…”

“Are you responsible for this, Mayor?” Devorah demanded, her voice carrying across the crowd. Immediately, those nearest him moved away, as though her accusations put a miasma upon him.

The mayor never got the chance to respond. Someone from deep within the crowd threw a rock. It wasn’t a particularly good throw, it struck the guardhouse well away from the top where the archers stood ready. Then someone else let fly a stone, and another; three in quick succession. And Devorah knew it was a setup, that those throwing stones had been planted by Captain Godard, that they had thrown on a signal from the captain himself. And before she could do anything, Captain Godard shouted into the silence.

“Subdue the rioters! Fire!”

It was as though Devorah was connected to each bow above the crowd. She heard the rasp of wood and metal on leather as arrows were drawn, felt tension on bowstrings as bows bent, saw arrowheads gleaming in the light from the crowd. She tasted fear and smelled blood to come. Then she was loosed a dozen times over, and then again, and she soared into the blinding light and sank into flesh and pierced bone, and over the screaming she was nocked and drawn again.

Devorah blinked and gasped and pulled her self to herself. Only a moment had passed, but arrows had found marks. Some were wounded, some were dead. The square was a mass of panicked and injured, screaming and running, fear and blood. Devorah knelt and put a hand on Rock’s shoulder to steady her perch. But she realized she was not the one losing her balance. She looked down to see Rock grasping at two arrows, buried to their fletchings in his chest.

“Hold your fire!” It was the voice of the private, shouting over the crowd at his fellows. Devorah didn’t know if she could hear him over the panic in the square because he was that loud or because of her peculiar penchant for hearing what others could not.

Rock staggered forward and Devorah lost her balance; she toppled to the street. She hit the cobblestones hard and tried to roll but the breath was knocked from her and her ankles were jarred. Dazed, she pushed herself to her knees before a large weight collapsed upon her. Darkness embraced her like an old friend.

• • •

She sat on the edge of forever, staring into a great cosmic void, an expansive starfield upon a black field tinged with purple, and wondered if she were dead. At the thought she could smell ancient earth upon a cold wind. She blinked. She sat now on a throne of shadow staring at a checkered field where an army of black-clad warriors awaited her command. She stood opposed to a white-clad army. The white army had taken the opening move and she knew if she did not react in kind, if she did not prepare a counter offensive, she would be overrun.

She stood and the black army shifted, ready.

• • •

“Major!”

The weight was lifted, only her legs were pinned now. Devorah blinked into torchlight and worried faces. She tried to get up but couldn’t move. Someone grabbed her shoulders and hauled her out from under the weight and stood her on her feet. She wobbled a bit and was steadied from both sides.

“Major Kempenny?” Lieutenant Birkett stared into her face, shaking her by the shoulders gently. “Are you hurt?”

Devorah tried to speak, to assure the Lieutenant she was fine, but all that came out was a ragged cough. It was like she was back at the manor house, too ill to speak without coughing, too ill to stand on her own, too ill to be out of bed so long. She blinked and when she opened her eyes again, she stared up at the night sky obscured by so many torches nearby. Lieutenant Birkett was barking orders.

“…back to the warehouse. We’ll leave at first light and send a courier ahead to report to the Governor.”

Devorah struggled to sit up. Blinking, she looked around. The square was littered with dead bodies. Blood oozed along the cobblestones. Loreamer guards secured the square. The riot was quelled.

She got to her knees and had to put out a hand to steady herself. In a moment she knew her palm rested on a dead man, Rock. She felt the tingle of magic at her fingers and pulled away. She felt the itch at her throat and swallowed hard.

“’A rock feels no pain, and an island never cries,’” she quoted quietly.

She got to her feet just as two men approached. She waved them off even though she was still wobbly. She coughed and knew the soldiers looked at each other uncertainly, like they might pick her up despite her rank and protest.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

She and her contingent of guards was still in the square, among the dead. She wondered how Lieutenant Birkett intended to get them past the Loreamer guards. Then she looked at the Lieutenant and realized she was speaking quietly with Captain Godard, the man who had ordered the massacre of citizens. Devorah could hear what they said as though she stood with them.

“You’ve caused me an awful lot of trouble, Alyssa.”

“I know, uncle. I didn’t realize the little bitch would stir up such a mess.”

Captain Godard shook his head. “Humiliating me and sewing dissension among my men, riling up the mayor and his ridiculous rebellion, and look at what she made me do here.”

Devorah put her hand on her sword hilt and immediately felt better. She took a careful breath and did not cough. She said in a voice that carried, “What I made you do? You sent those men to throw stones just for the excuse to give the order.”

Captain Godard whirled about, looking surprised, then angry. “Watch your mouth, little girl. You’re lucky I’m letting you leave rather than tossing you in a cell.”

Devorah drew her rapier and her world steadied. She no longer felt unsteady, she no longer felt the bruises of falling, she no longer felt the tickle that preceded a cough. She pointed the blade at Captain Godard.

“Your services are no longer needed in Kempenny Province. Take your men and leave.”

She knew the men securing the square had turned their attention to her. Some of them readied weapons, but the private was signaling those he could to stand down. The captain was not well-liked and some of these soldiers felt awkward about patrolling a city in a province not their own, among people who didn’t want them there. Devorah felt her footing secure.

The captain laughed and looked around at his men. “You are outnumbered, little girl.”

“Um, uncle, perhaps…”

“Quiet, Alyssa. You’ve caused me enough trouble.”

Devorah sighed. Lieutenant Birkett calling the captain “uncle” had not gone unnoticed by the gathered.

“You haven’t seen her fight,” Lieutenant Birkett persisted.

Captain Godard whirled and struck the Lieutenant full in the face. At this, it seemed the two sides, Devorah’s black-clad guards and Captain Godard’s grey-clad, would face each other on a stone field checkered in blood.

But Devorah held up a hand.

“Just you and me, Captain.” She took a cautious step forward. “There’s no need for anyone else to die tonight. If I win, you’ll take your men and go. If I lose, I’ll withdraw my command that you depart.”

Captain Godard laughed again. “This isn’t some story. That’s not the way things work.” He drew his sword and strode toward her. He spoke quietly so only she could hear. “But I’ll fight you one-on-one if that’s what you want. And when I kill you, all this nonsense about the Governor’s niece will disappear.”

Devorah let the captain draw near. He was smirking, and Devorah was reminded of Ror. He raised his sword in a classic attack position. Devorah held her blade in her left hand and waited. He swung down at her, and it was a simple matter of stepping to the left and thrusting her blade through his throat. She didn’t look at his shocked expression, at the blood he coughed around the blade, at the distraught look in Lieutenant Birkett’s eyes, but she saw them anyway. Before his dead weight could rip the sword from her grasp, Devorah pulled it free, cleaned it with an efficient flick of her wrist, and sheathed it.

There was movement from the guardsmen in the square; they were shocked. Her own contingent moved to stand behind her, guarding her back. Devorah closed her eyes and turned to face the private.

“Return to your Royal. Tell him Kempenny no longer needs his protection. Tell him his soldiers are no longer wanted here. Tell him Kempenny is governed by Kempenny. I expect you to be gone by dawn.”

The private saluted.

• • •

Three days out of Sunslace, Devorah decided she had to confront Lieutenant Birkett. The secret thoughts of the soldiers had grumbled around her head since the incident.

“She called the Loreamer man ‘uncle’.”

“Has she been spying on us all this time?”

“Is she a traitor?”

Devorah had hoped to leave the decision of what to do with Lieutenant Birkett to the Governor, but the grumbles were increasing in malcontent. So, on the evening of the third day, she stood in front of Lieutenant Birkett as camp was set up.

“We need to talk about Sunslance.”

Lieutenant Birkett bit her lip nervously. “What do you mean?”

She knew, of course; she was stalling.

“When I heard you were meeting with the Captain of Loreamer soldiers in Sunslance, I assumed he was our contact. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

Lieutenant Birkett took a step back, and Devorah knew she was right.

“Who was the contact then?”

Lieutenant Birkett’s recalcitrance made it obvious. It was the man who’d met them at the gate. Buffoon though he was, Mayor Theobald was the man Colonel Lambert used to get in and out of Sunslance with little fanfare. Lieutenant Birkett’s side deals with her uncle had been unsanctioned.

“What did you get out of it? A Loreamer judge sentenced your father to death. How does this make sense?”

But Lieutenant Birkett had no response, and Devorah could detect nothing further.

With a shake of her head, Devorah drew her rapier and pointed it at the Lieutenant. “You’re under arrest, charged with treason.”

Lieutenant Birkett looked away, but didn’t object.

• • •

Devorah sat with her back to a wagon wheel listening to the quiet breathing of the men in camp. Camp was dark. Cloudcover hid the moon. But Devorah preferred to stand watch without a campfire. She could see better that way.

They were only a day out from Governor Kempenny’s military camp, a day before she’d have to explain herself to the Governor.

Since the arrest of Lieutenant Birkett, Devorah was unquestioningly in charge. The soldiers reported to her and looked to her for direction. She was respected and feared. She wasn't certain she liked the change.

Devorah looked up as she sensed someone approaching. It was Rory Vickers. He came to talk to her every night while she was on watch. The first night, she’d drawn a blade and scared him out of his wits. Now, she just nodded as approached.

Rory saluted smartly before sitting down across from her “How do you do that?” he muttered. “There's hardly any light at all.”

Devorah shrugged. “I really don't know.”

Devorah enjoyed talking to Rory. It wasn’t because he was unafraid of her; he sometimes still trembled when she looked at him. It wasn’t because he treated her as a regular person; he saluted when he approached for their nightly talks. It was because he was genuinely sorry for his part in the hazing at camp.

“You must be powered, like the Saints.”

Devorah snorted.

“You don't believe in the Saints?”

“They didn't help us in Sunslance, did they?”

“’God's methods are a mystery. It is ours to simply work with what we're given.’ Um, that was Saint Weston I think.”

Devorah snorted again. “There is no mystery to what went wrong in Sunslance. It was my fault.”

Rory looked confused. “I thought the mayor and the captain of the guard…”

“I removed my focus from the goal; I let the endgame come too late. I tried to protect every piece rather than take the objective. Sometimes, pawns are sacrificed because a good leader, a good government, recognizes that she must always strive for the greatest benefit for the greatest number of her people. We could have taken that guard station, executed Captain Godard, and rid the city of the Loreamers. We’d have lost some of our own perhaps, but we lost more by trying to save them all.”

There was several minutes of silence before Rory said, “Oh.”

“I'm afraid, Rory.”

“You? You stood between rioters and guardsmen and didn't flinch. You stood tall in a rain of arrows. You slew a better armed man with a single sword thrust. What are you afraid of?”

“The Governor. I'm afraid she'll think I didn't do the right thing. I may have started the war early.”

“Oh,” said Rory again.

They fell silent. Devorah stared into the darkness, not focusing on any one thing, but letting her awareness spread through the darkness like a drop of ink on thick paper.

After a while Rory said, “So, if you don't believe in the Saints, you don't believe in God, right? So, who do you ask for help when you're in trouble?”

Devorah had never considered the question before. To her, the non-existence of God was as obvious as the non-existence of any other deity, pantheon, or fairy tale the world over.

After some consideration, she said nothing.

• • •

Devorah sat in the Governor’s study facing Governor Kempenny, General Vahramp, and Colonel Lambert. It felt like she was on trial, not unlike her vision of Lieutenant Birkett’s past. The curtains on the windows behind the three were thrown wide, back-lighting them in morning glare, making them little more than silhouettes to Devorah. She had just finished explaining what had happened in Sunslance.

“Mayor Theobald forced my hand,” she finished. “I should have seen that he meant to make a move soon with his secret meeting place and talk of rebellion; I take responsibility for that, but I made the best of a bad situation.”

“You’ve started a war,” growled General Vahramp.

Devorah nodded but said, “I’ve started the war, General.” She looked at the Governor. “I’m sure you had a better plan than this one, and I’m sorry things escalated they way they did, but I do not see a downside in how I handled the situation.”

“That’s because you didn’t know the plan,” the General said. “This changes everything.”

Devorah returned her gaze to the General. “Then explain it to me.”

The General grumbled inaudibly and it seemed the Governor was content to let him stew, but Colonel Lambert spoke up. “The General is right. This changes things. But so is Major Kempenny. She did the best she could. Better than could be expected even. She's driven Loreamer forces from one of our cities. That's better than we expected to do in our initial salvo.”

“We'll forgo the whipping post then,” said the Governor, and her lips twitched at the General's growl.

Devorah swallowed hard. She hadn't considered she might be beaten for the events in Sunslance. Punished, certainly, but beaten? The idea was barbaric, a punishment out of tales of faraway places like the Mountain Kingdom. She blinked away the memory of witnessing such a punishment when she first came to camp.

“Further,” said the Governor, “this provides us an opportunity.”

“Yes, of course,” said Devorah, reading the Governor's intentions. “This may not be seen as an act of war but rather of independence. The royal may send an emissary and negotiate for control of those cities he's already occupied. We can negotiate and continue plans for war at the same time.”

There were several moments of silence. Devorah realized that perhaps the Governor hadn't been prepared to share that particular tactic just yet.

Eventually the Governor nodded. “An excellent idea, dear niece.”

“Perhaps,” growled the General, “we should continue this conversation in private?” He looked at Devorah. “With all apologies to the dear niece.”

Devorah saluted and turned to leave. And as she did, she noticed a book on the bookshelf, a large, black, leather-bound book. The same book she’d noticed on the Governor’s desk before the Sunslance mission. The same book the Governor had told her to ignore. It whispered a song in her mind, a calling, searching, crying song that pulled at her attention. The song was alluring, and her fingers itched to open open the book.

Devorah clenched her fists at her side and forced herself from the room. The song followed her down the stairs and from the fortress, calling to her.

• • •

A small, sturdy, wagon, one side of which was iron bars rather than wooden slats, stood without wheels on the edge of camp—a makeshift prison. Idly, Devorah wondered what was wrong with the fortress’ dungeons, perhaps it didn’t have any. But she dismissed the thought quickly and focused on the miserable, huddled figure in the cage, her back against the wall, her knees at her chest, her head on her knees. She didn’t look up as Devorah approached.

Devorah stopped, several feet from the bars of the cage and swallowed her revulsion. The thought of being cramped in such a space, no room to stand or to stretch made her shiver.

For several minutes, she said nothing, not knowing what to say, not sure why she’d come to see the disgraced Lieutenant.

“Are they feeding you?”

Birkett jerked and whimpered. She looked at Devorah through swollen eyes guarded by fear. Devorah watched her eyes focus and when she could see, she pressed back against the wall of the cage, a soft, high scream.

Devorah knelt and turned her hands palm out to show she was unarmed. Birkett stopped screaming, but she still looked wild and terrified.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to understand. Why did you work with the Loreamer captain?”

Birkett shook her head and tears rolled down her cheeks. She laughed, or maybe she cried. “You ruined everything. This was all a farce before you got here.” Her voice was raw, like she’d spent a lot of time screaming. “The Governor hid in her fortress and the General bullied his soldiers. It was all going to fall apart. Now there really will be war.”

“You were going to stop the war by working with the captain?”

“I was looking out for myself. When it fell apart, I’d have a way out. Now…” She looked around at her makeshift cell and hid her face against her knees, sobbing.

Devorah stood and walked away. She needed to hit something.

• • •

Devorah felt as though she’d been wrung out and hung to dry. She'd spent the afternoon sparring with any in the army who would stand opposite her. By the end, she engaged four opponents at once and still came out best even though they took it in turns, resting. The spectacle attracted a crowd who burst into applause as she overcame greater and greater odds. The last fight she held only a dagger while her opponents were fully kitted in chain mail, broad swords, and shields.

Now though, after pouring cold water over herself in the afternoon light, after a full meal during which she was congratulated with back-pounding and full-throated laughs and flagons of beer, she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse into her tent.

Uncertain whether her performance this afternoon would spare her the tiresome pranks she'd endured since her first day in camp, Devorah made her way to the supply wagons. Quartermaster Dewhurst's men hadn't quite finished unloading all the supplies and she found her personal gear just where she'd left it, untampered with. Pleased at her forethought, she made her way to where the soldiers had their tents in neat rows, making her way through the darkened camp easily.

From behind, someone grabbed her. A large forearm clamped across her throat, preventing her from crying out. She dropped her bundle of supplies and reached for her sword, but her attacker ripped the sheathed sword from its straps and tossed it aside. The attacker's other arm wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides, and she was trapped. She tried kicking, but the attacker was armored.

“Hello, brat.”

Devorah had no trouble recognizing General Vahramp's voice. She tried to respond, but his arm across her throat prevented her.

“You've been doing very well for yourself, eh?”

Devorah stopped struggling. There was no sense expending what little energy she had left. The General relaxed his hold on her throat just a bit.

“What do you want?” she rasped, afraid she knew the answer. She remembered how he'd held her aunt, how he'd held her only a month or so ago.

The General laughed and it rumbled against her back. “I'll not have a Kempenny interfering in my plans again. Even if she can fight off half the army with nothing but a knife.”

He let her go suddenly and she stumbled. As she whirled to face him, she realized she could not see him in the dark, and she could not read his intentions. He was invisible to her. She remembered too late that he had been so when he'd accosted her before as well. His fist caught her along the jaw and she fell. His boot took her in the ribs, then the belly.

He laughed as he walked away. “Next time I'll not be so gentle.”

• • •

The weathered woman who looked up as Devorah entered the medics' tents bore the sunburst of the Church of Khulanty.

“Saint's Mercy,” muttered the woman. She chivvied Devorah onto a cot. “What happened to you?”

“Sparring accident,” Devorah lied. She didn't want this woman to know she'd been assaulted by the General. She didn't know how that knowledge would play. She reminded herself she had enemies in camp.

“Fools sparing in the night. And you just a child. Is it just your jaw?”

Devorah hesitated.

“If you don't tell me now you'll just be back when you can't stand the pain any longer. I promise not to tell your commanding officer you were behaving foolishly.”

This woman didn't know who she was. That put Devorah at ease, and she told the woman, in pained whispers, about the blows to ribs and stomach.

“Can you move to disrobe?”

Devorah gave it some thought before shaking her head.

The healer woman produced a pair of scissors and cut Devorah’s clothes from her. Devorah bit back her protest.

“I'm Sister Clarice,” said the healer woman as she ran her rough hands over Devorah's torso.

Devorah winced.

“Two... three... five cracked ribs. God’s Wounds. And there'll be plenty of bruising.” Sister Clarice sighed. “Well, I suppose I'll have to expend some power on you. I'll fix the ribs but the bruises and aches will stay, so you'll not make the mistake again.”

Devorah did not object. In fact, she was curious to see what, precisely, Sister Clarice meant by 'expend some power'. Rory’s suggestion that Devorah might be powered made sense. Watching what the healer woman did might further her understanding.

Sister Clarice closed her eyes and rested her hands on Devorah's cracked ribs. Devorah winced. And then, with no other outward sign, Devorah's side began to itch terribly and the stabbing pain faded, replaced by the dull ache of bruises.

Sister Clarice sighed. “There you are then.”

The itch faded and Devorah made to sit up, but Sister Clarice's hands were still on her ribs and she looked at Devorah oddly.

“Are you powered, girl?”

Devorah shrugged.

“I think you might be a bit of a healer. It's got an odd taste to it though.”

“Could I get up and find something else to wear?”

“Hmm? Oh. Right. You'll be sleeping here tonight. Just in case there's more serious injuries to attend to.”

“And you want to test your theory,” Devorah said, reading the Sister's intentions easily.

Sister Clarice nodded. “Absolutely.”

Devorah was exhausted, but she was also just as curious to see whether or not Sister Clarice was right. Could she be a healer? What else might she be able to do? What about her ability with weapons? Certainly, training with Colonel Lambert had taught her much, but with so many different weapons so quickly? Was she truly able to read people so easily? What about the strange dreams she had, the room in her mind, and the ease with which she could see in the dark?

The healer found Devorah a well-worn dress, carefully patched. Then they sat across from each other at a small folding table.

“What if you’re needed?” Devorah asked.

“Then I’m needed,” the healer replied. “Don’t worry, I won’t let this take away from my duties.” She smiled warmly. She held her hands out palm up, and Devorah placed her hands on them. The healer closed her eyes.

“Hmm. Definitely something there, but I can't see it properly. Identifying powers isn’t really my skill. I knew a woman who'd have identified you in a moment but she...” Sister Clarice trailed off. “Anyway.”

Devorah saw the sorrow, the guilt, the regret.

“I want you to try a simple meditation exercise.”

Devorah nodded. “Fine.”

“Close your eyes and picture a room in your mind. It's a private room, a room only you can access, a place of calm and safety.”

Devorah looked at Sister Clarice. “I can already do that. I thought that might be a power.”

Sister Clarice looked at her sharply. “You've already had the mindspace training?”

Devorah shook her head. “I learned it on my own.”

“It takes training to learn this technique.”

“Not the first time it didn't. Whoever invented this technique didn't have to be trained to use it, did they?”

“You're untrained, but you independently developed an age-old meditation technique?”

Devorah shrugged. “I don't know. This is your lesson.”

Sister Clarice took a breath and let it out slowly. “All right then. Go to your mindspace.”

Devorah did so. She ran her fingertips gently across the spines of books on the bookcase, looking for any new arrivals; she examined the chessboard, considering her next move; she sat in the familiar desk chair, foregoing the comfortable cooshy chair as this was a lesson and she didn't want to fall asleep.

“Now, I want you to picture a bowl of water. The water is still and cool.”

Sister Clarice's voice came to her as though from a great distance, drifting across the room in her mind. Devorah looked at the desk, a flat plane of lightly varnished wood, the grain familiar under her fingers. She pictured a bowl of water sitting on the desk.

It wasn't like when she brought books from her aunt's library to the room in her mind, or the chess set. This was creating something new. But, curiously, it came easily, and a moment later the bowl of water sat placidly on the desk. Devorah wondered what else she might create for the room in her mind.

“This water represents your power. A still well you can access any time you like. You can dip just a finger or plunge in head first. For now though, I want you to just look at it, to look at your power, and to know it.”

Devorah nodded. She stared into the water. It was familiar, comfortable.

“There's something there. It feels like healing but... I just can't...” And then Sister Clarice gasped. It was a true gasp of horror, something Devorah thought only happened in stories.

Devorah slipped out of the room in her mind and opened her eyes. Sister Clarice looked at her with fear, clutching at her sunburst amulet.

“What is it?” Devorah demanded. And at her question, though Sister Clarice did not respond, she knew the healer's thoughts.

You're a necromancer, a dealer in death and darkness, an abomination in the eyes of God.

The mental accusation reminded her of the whispered song of the black book, shelved in the Governor’s office.

Devorah snorted derisively, stood, and left.

• • •

The morning was cool but not cold. Winter was sloughing off. Still, frost covered the ground and snow drifts persisted in corners. The sun was barely over the trees in the east, washing everything in pale light.

A couple weeks since Devorah had returned from Sunslance, the entire Kempenny army had been gathered outside the main gate of the fortress. They were arranged in blocks, five wide, five deep. Officers were arranged in the front, providing Devorah with an unobstructed view of the recently erected stage.

General Vahramp stood on the stage clad in formal Kempenny uniform, a long, broad, double-edged sword strapped to his back. He stood tall and imposing, arms crossed over his massive chest. Kneeling at the front of the stage, bound hand and foot, clad only in a shapeless, dirty brown robe, was Lieutenant Alyssa Birkett. Her hair had been shorn and bruises stood on her jaw and neck. Governor Kempenny sat in a heavy, ornate chair raised on a dais on the stage, overseeing the proceedings.

Devorah stood at attention at the head of one of the of the blocks of soldiers, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders straight, feet shoulder-width apart. She was of two minds, looking at Lieutenant Birkett. On the one hand, the Lieutenant had colluded with the Loreamer captain, her uncle, in Sunslance. She was a traitor. On the other, she had been loyal to her uncle and wasn't Devorah in Governor Kempenny's army out of loyalty to her aunt?

“You have been found guilty of treason against your Governor, your General and your peers,” intoned Governor Kempenny, and her voice was strident, carrying over the assembled soldiers. “As punishment for your crime, you are sentenced to death by beheading.”

General Vahramp drew his sword in one smooth, arcing motion.

Birkett had doused Devorah in freezing water on that first night, but she had also made certain Devorah had gotten a hot meal. She had colluded with an enemy officer, but she had only done what she thought she had to in order to survive. She had questioned Devorah’s competence, but followed her through darkened streets.

General Vahramp's sword flashed in the early morning light, and Birkett’s head bounced off the wooden stage.