Devorah came to in a small room dominated by a stone fireplace and a gathered family. She’d been tucked into a dim, quiet corner of the room, away from the hustle and bustle around the great table where no fewer than three generations of the Fieldsman family, farmers from an area not far outside Wheatridge in Jaywin Province. The youngest of them was only an infant, a girl less than a year old, the youngest of five children born to a family who relied on strong children to help run the farm. The eldest was a withered old woman, a refugee from the Isle of Domini, an island in the far south of the Taranaki Empire, an island disputed between Taranaki and Khulanty before the treaty. The old woman had fled the island to escape the Imperial Army.
All this Devorah knew within moments of consciousness. She gave her shield a mental tap to assure herself it remained in place. The liquid shield felt good against her touch, yielding from within but impenetrable from without, working with her power rather than against it.
Interesting.
Devorah kept her eyes closed and her breathing even, doing nothing to alert the Fieldsman family she’d awoken.
She’d been found by one of the boys, Nathanial. Little younger than herself, he was, nonetheless, limited in scope. His concept of the world extended only as far as Wheatridge. He had brought her to his family’s home where his mother, Beatrice, had bound her broken hand, brewed her willow bark tea, and ordered everyone to leave her to rest.
The story of being found came to her easily from the thoughts of the family. None of these simple folk had a mental shield.
Devorah bit back a sigh of envy. There was appeal to such a simple life, a life without powers, without politics, without combat. What might it be like to encourage the burgeoning crush Nathanial had on her, to become a farmer’s wife? But the temptation didn’t last long.
Devorah took hold of the shadows and spread awareness through them. Evening settled slowly over the late spring of Khulanty.
It was autumn when I was captured. I spent all of winter in the High Cleric’s dungeon. Colonel Lambert will be furious with me.
She sent her awareness through the deepening shadows to the south, going first to Upton Port, where last she’d left her army. She found there a town under martial law. Men in the black and blue of Kempenny patrolled the streets, armed and armored. Their thoughts revealed they were recently recruited and not particularly suited to the job of patrolling the port town for troublemakers. Their thoughts revealed that the trouble in town came from them. She felt compelled to correct them.
“I know you’re awake.”
Devorah opened her eyes, keeping her expression neutral, stilling herself from reaching for a weapon. It was Beatrice, the matriarch of the family, the one who’d bound her hand. She both distrusted Devorah and was concerned for her safety, a peculiar dichotomy.
Devorah nodded. “I am.”
Behind Beatrice, the Fieldsman family continued their dinner, oblivious to the conversation, believing Beatrice was only checking on her patient.
“What in God’s name were you doing naked in our wheat field?” Beatrice demanded, genuinely curious and expecting no sane answer.
Devorah gave her the truth. “Escaping.”
Beatrice gave her an incredulous look. “Escaping who?”
Devorah could tell Beatrice had a lot of questions, and Devorah wasn’t inclined to answer them. She stood, feeling remarkably good after her rest in the Fieldsman’s house, and prepared to shadow-travel to Upton Port.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Beatrice demanded, gaining them the attention of the family. She didn’t wait for a response. “You’re half starved, child. You must at least have dinner before you leave.” The silence after that pronouncement was filled with the secret thoughts of the Fieldsman family: concern, curiosity, compassion.
Devorah was about to object, but her stomach rumbled as though on cue. Upton Port could wait. Beatrice smiled the small smile of victory, and Devorah gave in.
“That would be lovely, Mrs. Fieldsman.”
Beatrice seated her next to Nathanial, her suspicious concern not outweighing her assessment of Devorah as a strong woman and potential wife for her son. Devorah kept her eye-rolling to herself. Dinner was simple and plentiful. Bread was in great abundance, but also no less than three plump, roast chickens and a wide variety of roasted vegetables.
With everyone watching her, Devorah piled her plate high with everything offered. Her enthusiasm broke the table of its silence, and conversation quickly started up. The topics were mundane: the weather, the health of their animals, the condition of a fence on the northern end of the property. But as she listened, Devorah realized that, to these people, the topics were matters of utmost importance, even life and death. They had no time for the political machinations or movements of war in the south.
Devorah kept out of the conversation, focusing on her food, but Nathanial’s thoughts interrupted. It was plain he was interested in her. Devorah had to smile at the shyness of his thoughts. It was nice to be thought about so gently. But she had work to do and she didn’t want to string him along. Besides, she couldn’t help thinking of Rory. Of Gitonga. Of all her mistakes.
She ate steadily, saved from invasive questions by Beatrice’s piercing gaze. Once done, feeling full and happy, Devorah stood.
“I appreciate the hospitality, but it’s time I left.”
“Now?” Nathanial asked. “Will you come back?”
Devorah shook her head. “Not likely.”
“If you change your mind, you’re always welcome here.”
His word left a warmth in Devorah’s chest even as she left via the front door, a heavy, solid slab of wood. Once alone, she slid into the shadows, on her way to Upton Port.
• • •
She appeared at the edge of the port city, clad in the simple dress Beatrice Fieldsman had put her in. She scanned the shadows and found the local guardsmen had headquartered themselves in what had once served as the mayor’s house. Devorah was about to shadow-travel to the building, when a shout caught her attention.
Two blocks down, at one of the seedier pubs in town, there was a disturbance. Lantern light and chaotic thoughts made it difficult to know what was happening. But at the edge of the crowd was a young soldier watching the event with trepidation and uncertainty. Most importantly he stood just on the dark side of the shadows and had a sword at his side rather than in his hand.
Devorah slid through the shadows, the intervening space drifting past, to just behind the young soldier, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and easily pulled it from the scabbard. He spun to face her, ready to flee or fight, but when he saw her, his eyes went wide. He was frightened, but more than that, he was ashamed. He recognized her by her black hair, and knew she had caught him in a moment of dereliction.
“You know who I am, guardsman, and you know your duty. Come with me.”
Devorah strode into the tavern taproom, sword in hand, clad in humble clothes, one frightened soldier at her side. The situation was not immediately obvious. Whatever had caused the scream that called her to this place was not evident, though its passing had left tension in the room. The dim light of the room gave her plenty of shadows and she sent them eddying as she sifted through secrets. Most were inane: love affairs, cheating at dice, beer tapped longer ago than advertised. But a small knot of guardsmen leaning oh-so-casually against the bar drew her attention.
Without looking at him, Devorah addressed the guardsman at her back. “What’s going on here?”
He didn’t want to admit it, and so she knew immediately. The guardsmen who patrolled this section of town were notorious for running a protection racket. Just now, his superior was in the office behind the bar, intimidating the proprietor.
Devorah shook her head, exasperated. “Stay here,” she snapped at her guardsman. Then, sword still in hand, she sprinted at the bar in three easy strides and vaulted it, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. One of the lounging guardsman shouted his objection and put his hand to his sword hilt, but Devorah pointed her newly won weapon at him.
Though he had never seen her before, he knew the stories of the young Governor of Kempenny, and stilled his tongue for fear of losing his life. Realization of her identity spread quickly through the room and trickled into the street before she managed to force her way into the small office. The sergeant, a weathered man with a sly grin and a mean disposition, jumped from leaning over the small proprietor when she entrance. Devorah gave him no chance to challenge her. She put her sword point at his throat.
“Sergeant Thatcher, you’re under arrest. Come along quietly, or I’ll execute you where you stand.”
• • •
Rumor of her arrival preceded her to the converted guard post. She was met at the entrance by Major Clarke, a harried man who knew his duty but not how to enforce it. Standing behind Major Clarke was Scribe Johann, clad in his native furs but with the Kempenny unicorn rampant stitched onto his vest. He had been assigned the job of head house keeper. Devorah was pleased to see him.
“This man is under arrest,” Devorah said. “See to it, then meet me in your command room.” She looked away from the major and Sergeant Thatcher to Scribe Johann. “Scribe.”
“Warchief.”
“I require your council.”
“As you wish, warchief.”
He turned and led her into the building, leaving Major Clarke to deal with the mess she’d put on his doorstep. If he handled it well, she would allow him to keep his position.
“Word of your arrival spread quickly, warchief. The major has already given up his quarters to you. I’m still in the process of removing his personal belongings I’m afraid, but it should suffice for now.”
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“I don’t suppose there are any clothes that would fit me?”
Scriibe Johann nodded. “When you disappeared, your belongings were put into storage. Your Colonel Lambert seemed to think it as likely you would return as that you wouldn’t.”
In a small storage room at the back of the building, she changed into one of her own uniforms, knots of rank on the shoulder, unicorn rampant on the breast, rapier and daggers belted snugly. She then met with Scribe Johann in his quarters, a single small room. He sat at a table covered in ledgers and papers and the paraphernalia of a scribe. He lit a lantern on a nearby shelf and turned it up.
Devorah shied from the light, her thoughts going unbidden to the light-reflecting, white tile. Johann noticed and dimmed the lantern without comment.
“My countrymen make up the bulk of your army now. They roam the countryside in search of “bandits” and make forays into the neighboring provinces. They claim to have a personal mandate from you declaring all their activities legal.” His tone made it clear the Mountain Kingdom warriors were abusing their made up mandate. “Your army has mostly taken over guard positions in key cities in the province, here in Upton Port for example.”
“Where is Colonel Lambert?”
“He’s at Pinefort.”
“Captured?” Devorah’s body went numb at the thought. Her own recent experience weighing heavily upon her mind.
“No. Loreamer’s forces gave up the fort not long after you disappeared, or so I understand. When I arrived, my countrymen had already destroyed whatever tentative peacetalks you had started. It seems the conflict is worse now than it’s ever been, warchief.”
Devorah nodded. She hadn’t expected any different.
“There’s another rumor that should interest you. The High Cleric of your religion is raising an army, which is apparently unprecedented.”
“It’s not my religion,” Devorah replied automatically.
Johann shrugged, “Yes, sir.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Johann tensed, suddenly nervous, and Devorah put her hand on her sword hilt. But when Johann bid him enter, it was only a serving boy bearing a tray of tea. Devorah looked at Johann, confused.
“Thank you, Bradley. Just set it anywhere.”
The scribe blushed, dispelling Devorah’s confusion. As Bradley left, bowing to Devorah, Devorah smiled at Johann. Seeing Johann so obviously infatuated made her happy.
Johann noticed her knowing look and looked away, his blush deepening, his pale, southerner skin reddening noticeably.
“Does he know that you’re so taken with him?”
“No.”
“Is he even inclined toward men?”
Johann squirmed uncomfortably. “Please, warchief, if we could just…”
“Would you like me to find out?” Devorah asked, already searching for the serving man’s secret thoughts.
“No!” Johann’s desperation rose from the terror of persecution. Such a relationship, among his people, was anathema and greeted with derision at best.
Devorah’s pleased smile fell as she held up her hands. In all her thoughts of freedom for her people, this particular choice had never been under consideration. For that matter, she didn’t know the thoughts of her people on the matter. Perhaps the people of Kempenny Province held similar prejudices.
Devorah avoided the moment of awkwardness by clearing her throat and moving on. “If I’m to get this mess under control, I’ll need to see Colonel Lambert tonight. Let’s get Major Clarke and any other officers in the city in here and I’ll make my expectations clear. You will be my direct liaison with Upton Port.”
“Don’t you think that will undermine Major Clarke’s authority?”
“His authority needs to be undermined until he proves he can handle it.”
“Then, if I may suggest the meeting room. It’s larger and is better suited to making one’s expectations clear.”
Major Clarke and three of his officers met her in the meeting room. Before they arrived, she had servants move all the chairs to the wall, away from the long table, except for the one she sat upon, at the head of the table. She had them turn the lanterns low, putting the room in comfortable dimness that did not at all remind her of the light of her captivity. Johann stood to her right.
It had the desired effect on Major Clarke and his men as they entered. Put off by the lack of chairs at the table, they stood awkwardly, at once resentful of her usurpation and intimidated by it. They knew the stories, some of which were true, and dared not confront her.
“I have three expectations from those who guard my cities,” Devorah said, speaking quietly, knowing they would strain to hear. “Protect my citizens, enforce my laws, obey my laws. As the former Sergeant Thatcher proves, these expectations are not being upheld. I expect better. As I’m sure you know, I have much to attend to. I cannot be here to oversee that my expectations are met. That is your job. What I can do is look in from time to time, to make certain you’re doing your job.”
She paused, looking squarely at Major Clarke. He feared her, but more than that he wanted to do his job well. He knew of the corruption amongst his men, the deteriorating state of Upton Port.
“You know what needs to be done, major. Do it and you’ll have my support.”
Major Clarke saluted. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Will there be anything else?”
Devorah dismissed the guards. When they were gone, she stood and turned to Johann. “They’ve seen you standing with me, so they’ll treat you with cautious deference. Getting this city back in order will require equal parts intimidation, respect, and appeal to that man’s honor.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do here, warchief.”
“Nothing special. Be seen, do your job, and have the occasional meeting with me. That should do for most of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be off to Pinefort now.”
“Before you go,” said Johann. “I have something for you.”
Devorah hadn’t noticed the leather shoulder bag. Johann turned and withdrew from it a book, bound in black.
“Warchief, it is the most grotesque book I’ve ever transcribed, but if anyone can use it wisely, it’s you.”
Johann presented a black, leather-bound book in both hands. Even after they had removed the mad scribbling and self-aggrandizing monologues, the book was still thick with information. Devorah took the tome in both hands. There was no song, no clinging undead, it was just a book, but it was heavy all the same.
• • •
Pinefort was well-lit. Certainly there were places in the fort itself that were dark, but Devorah didn’t particularly like the idea of shadow-walking into someone’s bedroom or a cluttered supply closet. The halls and ramparts and courtyards were all well-lit enough she could not penetrate them with her shadow-based senses. She also didn’t find Colonel Lambert in her search of the fort, meaning he was likely in one of the well-lit areas, working into the night.
The city, too, was well-lit. Personal homes were in shadow, but, again, Devorah wasn’t inclined to invade a person’s home. The streets, however, were lit so as to banish shadows even in alleyways. The only part of the city she could see was a quarter populated by those who preferred the shadows, no matter the stories of blood-drinking undead, vhamps they called them, roaming the dark.
Devorah shadow-walked into the alleyway behind a raucous pub. She stepped around a man passed out against the wall and a puddle of liquid that didn’t bear much thought. She kept to the shadows as long as she could, but eventually made her way to where the city lamps burned brightly and the guard was on patrol. Unlike Upton Port, Devorah detected no rampant corruption in the guard.
At the edge of the shadows, she hesitated. Not only were the street lamps all lit, but new ones had been erected and people throughout most the city had donated their own lamps and lamp oil to maintain the light. Bare scraps of shadow were all she could find. The white tile flashed in her mind, a cold sweat broke on her skin. She could bring the shadows with her at least a little way, but she could not sustain them with such pervasive light.
“This isn’t Radden’s prison,” she whispered to herself. “You are free, you are safe.” She gripped the hilt of her sword hard and realized her hands shook.
She didn’t know how long it had been since she’d shadow-walked from the High Cleric’s prison, for how long she’d been tended to by Beatrice Fieldsman, but it couldn’t have been long. The months of torturous lack of sleep, incessant light, and starvation was recent in her mind and body. And apparently it would have effects beyond its walls.
Devorah set her jaw, held her sword firmly, and marched into the light, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart and the sweat upon her brow and the shaking of her right hand, which, bound as it was, could not grip the hilt of a weapon.
It was not long before she was happened upon by a pair of guards on patrol. They bore the black and blue of Kempenny, the unicorn rampant emblazoned upon their chests. They rounded the corner from behind her and immediately were suspicious she might be either a vhamp or a criminal.
“You there!”
Devorah reacted. She had known she would encounter her guards, had expected it, but her heart suddenly pounded to drown all sense and she spun, drawing her sword in her left hand and casting a dagger with her right though it caused her pain. The dagger took the man on the right high on the left shoulder, punching through the leather armor he wore beneath his black surcoat. As he fell, Devorah charged the other, rapier ready to strike.
The man shouted as he drew his sword. He drew smoothly, with practice, but he was no match for her. With a clever flick of her blade she disarmed him before ramming her sword into his right shoulder. She withdrew it and prepared to strike again when a shout caught her attention.
“General! Stand down.”
She recognized the voice—Colonel Lambert. But when she spun and saw an armed man clad in black running toward her, she again reacted. She struck thrice, once in each shoulder before laying the blade across his chest. Colonel Lambert fell back, stunned and pained. Devorah’s mind was a confused buzz. The light pressed in on her. All around her was shouting and chaos and she could make out none of it.
Get ahold of yourself, Devorah admonished. She focused as best she could, ignoring the chaos and focusing on one thing at a time. She bit her tongue, the pain bringing clarity. She focused on her hand, holding the rapier, and forced herself, a finger at a time, to release the weapon, letting it clatter to the street. But still the chaos of shouting men, of too bright light, of the scent of blood heavy on the air, urged her to react with violence.
Devorah closed her eyes and in a moment was in the mindspace. The familiar room brought comfort and calm, but still, at the edge of consciousness, the bright light remained, threatening to take her mind. So, Devorah turned to the blank wall and watched it shimmer and disappear, revealing the cosmos beyond, the cosmos where she could lose herself but gain control. She stepped into the cosmos without hesitation.
When she opened her eyes, the fear and chaos was gone, replaced by emotionless calm.
She saw immediately, even in her madness, she had managed not to kill anybody. The guardsmen were tended by a medic. In the wake of recent vhamp attacks, a medic trained in poison extraction was a standard member of every guard unit.
The guardsmen around her were stuck in indecision. On the one hand, this girl had attacked their fellow guardsmen. On the other, she was General Kempenny, and not to be trifled with.
“Stretchers,” Devorah said. “We need to get these men to the fort.”
The guardsmen looked at her, stunned by her sudden reversal.
“Now.”
They jumped to obey and, quicker than Devorah would have thought possible, she was following them to the fort and into the fort’s hospital. Sister Clarice, was in charge of the hospital. She hurried to the injured men and wasted little time in applying her restorative powers to the worst of the wounds, making sure they would neither bleed to death nor suffer permanent injury.
Though she did not ask, Devorah knew Sister Clarice wondered what had happened to these men.
“It was me,” Devorah said without inflection. “They startled me and I couldn’t control my actions. I’m afraid I may have gone momentarily mad.”
Sister Clarice jumped.
“Is that possible, Sister? Can a person go momentarily mad?”
Sister Clarice swallowed hard. “I’ve never put much stock in the idea, General.” Though she was frightened of Devorah, Sister Clarice was not about to be cowed into speaking anything other than her mind.
“I’ve seen it,” Colonel Lambert said from where he lay. “In men who’ve suffered horrors on the battlefield. Sometimes, even when the battle is done, they relive it: dreams, bursts of anger, moments of madness. Where have you been, Scamp?”
The nickname drew from her a shuddering breath, a surge of emotion that broke the calm of the cosmos. Devorah sat hard on the floor. Sister Clarice, despite her trepidation, immediately took her as a patient, calling for a chair and a blanket and hot tea. She put a hand on Devorah’s forehead.
“You’ve got a fever, child. Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?”
Devorah had no response to that.
“You’ll be staying here tonight. I’ll have no argument.”
• • •
In the room in her mind, Devorah sat in the comfortable chair, contemplating a chess board that hadn’t seen a game in months. She has scrawled a quick note:
White,
Still there?
-Black
But she knew from her visions that young Sister Churchstep was playing a different game now, a dangerous game: killing the progeny of Vahramp, protecting the people of Khulanty.
Sitting in her lap were a pair of books. One was the book bound in black leather, the transcription of Dr. Milton’ notes and diagrams. There was no information about vhamps in the book, they were too new, but there was plenty of information about the nature of the undead. Information that, perhaps, Sister Churchstep could use. The other was a set of notes and diagrams uncredited to any author. The notes described the design and construction of a set of weapons it called “fire-arms”. It was the weapons that had been described to her as having been used at the battle of Upton Port. Devorah had spent hours poring over the designs, marveling at the impressive new weapon and contemplating improvements.
Devorah stood from her chair and shelved the books. The fire-arms book she returned to where she’d found, shelved inconspicuously near the bottom of the bookcase. The black book she shelved conspicuously in the middle of the shelf, hoping her little sister would find it.