Working God's Mischief

23. Antieux: The Widows

Socia shuffled in to join Bernardin and Brother Candle for the isolated breakfast that had become a morning custom. They would consider the demands of the coming day. Come evening they would share supper and assess the day just past.

Brother Candle liked the arrangement. It allowed him to temper the natural ferocity and impulsiveness of the others.

Escamerole bustled around, making sure there was tea and wine and breakfast ale. Socia slumped into her customary seat. The old man asked, “Out again last night?” He wished he could separate her from that crystal.

“No. Lumiere has the colic. I stayed up with him.”

“And you have the assizes today.”

She frowned his way.

“Only two cases,” Bernardin said. “One is Bishop LaVelle with the usual complaints.”

Socia forced a weary smile. “Thank the Good God for that.”

Brother Candle asked, “You didn’t go out? In any shape?”

“Master.” Socia jerked her head at Escamerole, delivering a basket of rolls so fresh they steamed.

Bernardin said, “I’m interested in the answer myself.”

The old man and Countess harkened to Bernardin’s tone. Socia said, “No. What’s happened?”

“The overnight watch reports include multiple sightings of a giant eagle.”

“It wasn’t me. I promise. I wish it was. I haven’t seen Kedle in ages. I don’t even know where she is anymore.”

“Deep in Arnhand, making a screaming nuisance of herself. So what could that have been last night?”

Socia and the old man shrugged. Brother Candle was troubled. “More attention from the Night.”

“No doubt,” Amberchelle said. “Why? I’ll find out what I can while you entertain the Bishop.” Then he snorted and reddened. “Sorry. Unintentional.” With apology wasted. Neither companion recognized the lower-class slang for male masturbation.

* * *

At the evening meal, Bernardin said, “I talked to everybody who saw the eagle. They did see it. Most didn’t know each other. They didn’t discuss it. Their descriptions were pretty much all the same and they all said that this bird was bigger than the one sometimes seen around the citadel. Several witnesses said its right wing tip was deformed.”

Brother Candle said, “I saw a mule today with a deformed right fore hoof. I’ve never seen a crippled horse or mule before.”

“An omen?” Socia asked.

Bernardin, smiling weakly, said, “No. A shape-changing Instrumentality with a deformed right hand.”

Brother Candle said, “That’s a wild leap.”

“I wasn’t serious. But … it could be. We’ve been up to our ears in strange stuff lately.”

“Scary,” Socia said. “But he’s right.”

“I don’t want him to be right. I’m supposed to have achieved Perfection. I can’t believe in…”

Bernardin said, “You know the saying, Master. All things are true inside the Night.”

While Socia said, “They’re minions of the Adversary.”

“Indeed. Are we become minions of minions?” He rolled back his left sleeve. The deadly tattoo had gained color. “It won’t pay off but I’ll see Radeus Pickleu again.”

“You never know,” Bernardin said. “You wouldn’t want to miss something because you didn’t think you’d find it. I’ll put out word to keep an eye out for critters with a deformed right front whatever.”

Socia shivered. “It’s cold.”

“It’s winter,” Brother Candle reminded her.

“I’m going to bed early. I’ll have Guillemette build me a nice fire, then I’ll get under the eiderdown and toast. And I’ll drown Lumiere if he keeps me up again.”

* * *

Socia did slide under her covers early and fell asleep instantly. She wakened around midnight, used the chamber pot, then could not get back to sleep. She could not stop worrying about Kedle.

The world had begun to call Kedle “The Widow.” She and Socia were, collectively, “Death’s Brides,” or “The Deathwives,” depending on the region.

Socia worried because Kedle was unacquainted with failure. Each success lured her on toward something bigger and bloodier. Her luck could not last.

Socia climbed out of bed, went to her window. It was cloudy out but not so much so that she did not catch glimpses of a brilliant moon.

Concealed in a chest close by was a packet of lightweight clothing kept for those nights when she could not resist the need to see Kedle. She could carry it easily in her other form.

She had to have something to wear on the far end. Kedle’s killers were troubled enough by the unexplained appearances of their Countess. Her roaming around naked would be too much.

Socia took the packet out and set it by, ready, before ordering herself not to make the flight. It would take six hours to reach Kedle’s last known location, then she would have to work out where the Widow was now. That might be another hundred miles. It would be tomorrow afternoon before she could catch up.

No. Not practical. This Deathwife had to stay home and do work that needed doing here.

To soar where the clouds lay in fluffed and silvery drifts below her would be wonderful, though.

That Instrumentality had given her a unique and marvelous gift. Had any other human being ever been so blessed?

She did not think so. Not outside the legendary beings of antiquity.

She suspected that flight was not a wonder to creatures of the Night.

Socia stripped to the raw, positioned her crystal. That she would not take. She would be right back. She opened the window, swinging its two panes outward, sideways. Winter wasted not one instant before tasting her bare skin.

Shivering, Socia changed, then launched herself. Her feathers held the heat generated by her exertions.

She flapped lazily, let the wind carry her to one side. She banked right, looked for an updraft. How marvelous! How liberating! She could forget a thousand cares as the things of the earth dwindled below. How she wished she could show this to Brother Candle. But he was down there in the darkness, trapped in flesh that could never be anything but an old man tangled in a restless, sweating dream of a delicious devil.

The moon jabbed rays through a gap in scooting clouds, sweeping Antieux with patches of racing light that rippled across the rooftops and the gullies of alleys and streets …

Socia’s heart leapt into her throat.

She was a thousand feet up. Between her and the rooftops below a vast eagle was rising.

The moonlight swept onward. In the instant the eagle’s eyes would be adjusting Socia tipped over into a strike dive.

She closed most of the separation before the eagle discovered her. It thrashed out of her way, evading attack. But a strike was never her intent. She continued her plunge. The eagle lost track.

Socia changed into a naked young woman as fast as she could. She dressed, clumsily, shaking badly.

She watched the eagle from the darkness behind her window as it searched for her.

She squealed when Guillemette asked, “Are you all right, Countess?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing here?”

“I came to build up the fire. I do that every night. I’ve never found you awake before.” Nor with the window open, her curious glance said.

“I had a bad dream. Then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Once Guillemette finished building the fire, she shut and latched the window. “Good night, ma’am.”

* * *

“She would have caught me if she’d walked in five minutes earlier,” Socia said.

Brother Candle nodded. “A cautionary event, then.”

“For sure. It was looking for me, Master.”

“You thought fast and did what you had to do. Another cautionary event.”

Socia scowled. “Always lessons. Always learning.”

“And when you don’t pay attention you end up suffering through the same lessons again.”

“Stuff all that. I want to know what the hell was chasing me.”

Brother Candle said, “I’ll visit Radeus Pickleu again.”

“As soon as you finish stuffing your face.”

Brother Candle told Bernardin, “You would think that, after all my years educating her, I would have drummed some manners into the girl.”

Socia chose her response from the vocabulary of a day laborer, and added, “I’m as civilized as the world lets me be.”

“Or, we could say, the world is as civilized as you let it be.”

Socia stared, glared, growled, “There’s no winning with you, is there?”

“There won’t be breaking even if you observe normalcy’s rules.”

* * *

Bernardin had a soldier trail Brother Candle. The protection proved unnecessary. The Perfect found Pickleu’s home by asking. The physician welcomed him as an honored guest. “Come in, Master. Come in.”

“I hope I’m not intruding…”

“Not today. No patients. Somebody might break an arm later. We all thank you deeply for speaking to the Champion. It’s been peaceful since. How may we honor you?”

Brother Candle vaguely recalled having heard Bernardin called Champion at some point. “I’ve got another mysterious Instrumentality to identify. I hope to have better luck with this one.”

“Yet here you are at last resort. I hope I’m more use this time.”

“Yes. Well. So. Last time here I was not entirely forthcoming. As you no doubt realized.”

“My feelings suffered no permanent damage. It must be hard to trust the discretion of a man who never stops talking.”

“Indeed. I’ll be more honest this time.”

“Something has happened.”

“Yes indeed. Something entirely unexpected. The Countess may be in danger from this Instrumentality.”

Pickleu frowned, pursed his lips, made a little sweeping, bouncing hand gesture. “And this is a different one?”

“For certain.”

“All right. You have my word. Short of torture no one will hear any of this from me. But let me make sure the wife and the boy don’t hear something they should not.”

Pickleu gone, Brother Candle considered the small room. It was perfectly comfortable and reflected Pickleu’s personality. It was busy and cluttered.

Pickleu returned with two pieces of Firaldian glassware, probably blown in Clearenza, simple cylinders in glass of mixed colors. “Rhaita was just making lemon water. She’ll do her marketing while we talk. The boy is out working somewhere. So say on.”

Brother Candle provided a more detailed report on the visit from the girl, to which a dreamy-eyed Pickleu said, “I wish she would come see me. So. She blessed you with deadly tattoos. And put strange fish into Amberchelle’s flesh.”

“Yes.”

“What do they do?”

“We have no idea.”

“And the Countess? It stands to reason the demon’s gift to her stands behind this visit.”

“In a way.” Brother Candle explained the power of the crystal and Socia’s use of it.

“Ah,” Pickleu said. “I do believe I’d like that even more than seeing my little friend learn to stand up all over again.”

Brother Candle had not withheld the fact that his own little friend retained its renewed vigor-when he thought about the demon girl.

“A marvelous gift,” Pickleu said. “The crystal.”

“You said before that you might have heard of something like it.”

“I was wrong. I don’t know of anything that bestows the ability to change shape. The Countess hasn’t shown much imagination using it, has she? She’s treating it like a toy.”

Brother Candle nodded.

“I understand that she is an impulsive sort. That she still has little feel for the weight of station that came with her marriage.”

“She is trying.”

“So. What has you so excited? A new Instrumentality in the mix?”

Brother Candle related the facts as they had been given to him.

“She was chased by an eagle several times her own size.”

“With a deformed wing.” The Perfect was sure that was important.

“Right wing tip. Yes. Uhm. Not many Instrumentalities are known for their deformities. Some pantheons have a smith figure with a bad leg. Said to harken to a time when a tribe’s smith was so important its people broke his leg, then let it knit badly, so he couldn’t run away. The Devedian experience makes me suspect that those smiths were outsider slaves. Otherwise, most gods and goddesses resemble your visitor. Young and ferociously beautiful. Or middle-aged and endlessly randy.”

Brother Candle sighed. He sipped lemon water. Pickleu’s spouse had garnished that with a touch of honey.

Pickleu said, “The northern pantheon has several handicapped gods. A Beyish, Bayish, Boyish, something like that, was blind because of a cruel practical joke. Zaw, or Zer, the god of war, was missing a hand that got bitten off by a monster. Which he killed with the mystic spear, Heartsplitter, using his off hand. And the top god only had one eye. Sacrifice was big with the Shining Ones. He traded the eye for…”

“Which hand?”

Pickleu shrugged. “I don’t know. Right hand sounds logical, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Is that the extent of it, then?”

“My expertise is entirely relative. As you should know by now.”

“And you know no better source?”

“Certainly. But I don’t think you can tap it.”

“That would be?”

“The Collegium. In Brothe. Several Principatés are as conversant with the old religions as they are with their own.”

“I see. So, once again I return to the Countess no wiser.”

“Here’s a thought. Have her fly to Brothe and take the shape of a member of the Collegium. She could ask those who have access to the right information.”

* * *

“Take someone’s else’s shape?” Socia asked. “He actually suggested that?”

“He did. And he was dead serious.”

“Can I do that?”

“I don’t know. I never thought of it.”

“Nor did I,” Bernardin said. “I expect on account of the old stories. Shape-shifters turn into animals. Especially wolves. Not into other people. An evil sorcerer who wants to disguise himself as somebody else always uses a glamour.”

“A glamour would be easier for your garden-variety sorcerer. He’d only need to make somebody think he sees who he wants them to see. In real life you would need to mimic mannerisms and speech patterns.”

“I get it,” Socia said. “And, suddenly, I realize that we haven’t put any serious thought into what we’ve been given. Or to what she thought we should do with it.”

Brother Candle chuckled darkly. “So the next stage in my life is, I become a sixty-nine-year-old professional assassin.”

Bernardin cocked his head. “Something is going on. I’ll be back as soon as I find out.”

Socia and the Perfect exchanged looks. The old man said, “I didn’t hear anything.”

“Nor did I.”

Neither mentioned it but both had noticed. Bernardin was growing brighter and more alert, quicker, and sharper in his senses. And Brother Candle felt younger. Not a day over sixty-one.

* * *

Bernardin returned accompanied by an exhausted, filthy soldier no more than sixteen years old. “And here she is herself, lad. Tell her what you told me.”

The boy tried to make his obeisance. Brother Candle feared he would collapse and be unable to get back up. Socia said, “Never mind all that foolishness. Talk to me, Aaron d’Fitac.”

The boy glowed. His Countess knew him. “I ride with the Widow. We were in a big fight. The biggest yet, near the ruins of old Vetercus. We were up against Anne of Menand’s best.”

Brother Candle’s spirit sank. The way the boy approached his story hinted that Kedle had found the end of her string.

“And?” Socia croaked.

“We killed most of them. The Widow told us to take no prisoners because it might be the fight that broke them. We took none amongst the nobles and knights.”

Bernardin settled the boy in his chair, then, as his story unfolded, had Escamerole bring food and drink.

The boy attacked food and drink alike, but between mouthfuls he named Arnhanders known to have fallen. The list sounded like a roll call of Arnhand’s peerage.

“No prisoners,” the boy said again. And, “The Widow’s ambush was ingenious. They didn’t suspect anything till we started killing them. They were all piled up at the ford. They were following a game trail, trying to get behind us so they could cut us off from the Connec. But the Widow knew their plan. She always knows what they’ll try to do. So she had us there waiting, hiding. We discharged four falcons into their horses. They probably lost three hundred men just in the stampede. Meantime, every man who could bend a bow or span an arbalest laid missiles into the confusion. Even the proudest knights. There isn’t a man amongst the Vindicated who will do aught but what the Widow orders.”

Brother Candle asked, “How large was this Arnhander force?” It would have grown in the boy’s mind, he was sure, but he knew it would have been sizable if it had included that many important men.

“You will think me a liar but at least a thousand by actual count.”

Bernardin said, “The Commander of the Righteous slaughtered a vastly superior force at the Shades without the advantages the boy mentions, using falcons.”

Socia asked, “How many were you? How many falcons did you have? And where did you get them?”

“There were three hundred eighty-six of us. We had four falcons taken from the castle at Artridge.”

Brother Candle said, “I’m lost. Where is Artridge? When did Kedle capture it?”

Socia shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not allowed to go see her anymore.”

Bernardin said, “There is more. The critical more.”

Brother Candle realized that this was the point where the boy would pass on the dread word that he had ridden so long and hard to deliver.

Socia said, “Aaron, you came to tell us what else?”

“We killed more than a thousand. By honest, actual count. We lost only thirty-seven of our own.”

“Aaron!”

“They captured the Widow, Countess!” The boy burst into tears. “There was snow on the ground. All the blood and trampling around turned the earth to mud. She led the attack on the last Arnhanders. There weren’t a hundred who hadn’t fallen or fled. Her horse slipped in the mud. She didn’t jump free. The horse fell on her. It crushed her leg. The man leading the Arnhanders then was Stephan of Bley, a really big man. He grabbed the Widow and threw her across the neck of his horse, then galloped off. He outran us. He’s holed up in the castle at Arngrere with survivors from the battle. He’s threatening to have his revenge on her.”

Bernardin grumbled, “The Society must be salivating over the opportunity to put her on trial.”

Brother Candle nodded. That would make a great show.

Aaron went on. “He has been warned that if he harms her, not just he will pay a cruel price but all those of his blood will as well.”

Brother Candle could not speak. He had been expecting this forever. He had schooled himself to bear it. But the shock was still fierce, as it was when a long-suffering parent finally surrendered to the Will of the Night.

Socia said, “Bernardin, start putting together an expedition…”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“That would be pointless. This drama will play out long before we can influence it. It may have done so already. Aaron d’Fitac, how long did it take you to get here?”

“Six days, and some. I came as fast as I could.”

“You see, Countess? A week already. How long to assemble a force, arm and victual it, and get it to Arngrere? How long for the witch of Menand to put together a force to welcome us? Kedle’s whole campaign has depended on her not being where she was expected.”

After her initial emotional response subsided, Socia saw the truth in what Bernardin said. Still, “But I can’t sit here and do nothing.”

“Not only can you, you must. For the sake of Antieux and the Connec.”

“What?”

That was an odd thing to say. Brother Candle heard it but was too focused on Kedle’s predicament to concern himself.

The old man felt a fierce, shooting pain in his right temple. For a moment he feared this was the end. That his allotted time had run out. That the Good God had chosen to spin his ever-lapsing Perfect round the Wheel of Life again. He gasped out, “Socia, this is exactly where I’ve been warning you that we were headed.”

“Yes. Enjoy your vindication. Aaron, is there anything more? Can you break my heart one more time? No? Then go somewhere. Sleep. For a week if that’s what you need. Escamerole. Come out of there. Have you been spying?”

“No, Countess.” Face red, Kedle’s cousin slipped into the room. “And it please you, I just wanted word of my kin.” She was shaking. She did not like being the center of attention.

“So now you’ve had word. Grim as it is. Show Aaron somewhere to lie down, then come to my apartment. Bring Guillemette. And don’t breathe a word about what you’ve heard. Understand?”

“I do, Lady.”

“Master? The same for you. If you go jogging off to tell the Archimbaults I’ll have Bernardin cut your tongue out. Clear?”

“Clear.” He exchanged glances with Amberchelle. Bernardin shrugged.

Socia said, “You two go get some sleep, too. You’ll need to be rested, clear of eye and mind, and ready for war in the morning.” She rose and stalked off, pulling an emotional vacuum along with her.

Brother Candle considered Bernardin momentarily. “There was something else we needed to hear about, wasn’t there?”

“She didn’t give me a chance to bring it up. It won’t be official till the Queen’s deputies get here from Khaurene but I had a secret warning from one of Isabeth’s agents. So we would be ready when the delegation arrives.”

Brother Candle said, “What?” He had no idea.

“Isabeth is going to do what we thought she never would. She’s going to confirm Count Raymone as her brother’s heir as Duke of Khaurene.”

“But he’s dead.”

“Despite the fact that he’s dead.”

“Meaning Lumiere…”

“Exactly. Because Lumiere has a strong mother. Because his strong mother has a terrible friend. The Connec is unlikely to become subservient to Arnhand with those two guarding Lumiere’s interests.”

“But…”

“I’ve known since yesterday. I was sworn not to tell Socia. The Navayans want to tell her themselves. But then that boy rode in.”

“Interesting times,” Brother Candle said. “Better go tell the lad not to spread his news. The Navayans could change their minds.”

“Terrible times. Cruel times. I’ll talk to the boy right now.”

* * *

Socia explained the entire situation to Guillemette and Escamerole, including her entanglement with the Night. She was in a rush. “This is what we’re going to do.” She answered questions while they proceeded.

Socia meant to sneak out of Antieux, avoiding the eagle demon. She and Guillemette were of a size and coloring. Guillemette would pretend to be Socia. She needed only lay low, being seen only from a distance, while the actual Socia was away.

The hard part was getting Escamerole fully engaged. Escamerole grew more timid by the day. She was afraid to leave the citadel. “If you can change shape you don’t need me. You can be me.”

“I need you to manage Kedle’s family, Escamerole. They have to be part of this. And I need them to keep quiet. If I tried to be you they’d know better first time I opened my mouth. So I’ll be Guillemette and you’ll do all the talking. By the time they realize that I’m not really Guillemette, they’ll be caught up in the plan.”

“It’ll do you good to get out of here,” Guillemette told Escamerole.

Escamerole sulked but gave in. “Tomorrow. I don’t want to go out there tonight.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Socia said. “But I could have Willing Davids escort us.” Willing Davids was a handsome young man-at-arms related to Bernardin Amberchelle. Socia had noted that Escamerole became misty and even more timid when Willing was around.

Guillemette said, “Not fair, Countess.”

“No. You’re right. I’m sorry, Escamerole. That was almost cruel.”

The shy girl said, “We weren’t all brought up amongst teams of brawling brothers out at the edge of beyond.”

“Well said. Well done. Only one thing left to do. Guillemette, get undressed.”

Socia was shaky before that part was over but once it was she had become Guillemette’s mirror twin, wearing the girl’s clothing.

* * *

Socia stopped Escamerole outside the entrance to the house occupied by the Archimbaults and other refugees from Khaurene. “Now is when you need to be strongest. Stand up to their bullying. For Kedle’s sake.”

“For Kedle’s sake.” Said with quavering voice.

Socia rolled her eyes and hoped the mouse would hold out at least until she made her getaway.

Maybe she should do it right here, in the street, by the light of the moon, and let Escamerole collect her clothing. That would be easier than dealing with Kedle’s parents.

Maybe. But Socia had to come back once she had done this. Whatever this turned out to be. She was not sure. Something told her she had to help Kedle and had to do it without attracting the attention of that demon out there.

Escamerole found her courage first. “We’d best get on with it. If you’re going to get there before it gets light out.”

“We had best, hadn’t we?”

Kedle’s family surprised Socia. Her worries were all for naught. Escamerole did not hold up but neither did Kedle’s mother or father waste time on argument or recrimination. They remained true Seekers. They loved their only surviving child. They were prepared to play their part with few questions and no disputation.

The Archimbault home had a hatch accessing its roof, a common feature in the Connec. During summer people slept on the cooler roofs.

Roofs were not much visited during the winter, however.

The Archimbaults wanted to see Socia off. Escamerole discouraged them. “She has to undress before she changes.”

To which Madame Archimbault said, “Oh, my!” while Raulet said nothing-though there might have been a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Socia said, “I won’t waste time. I’ll be back before things fall apart.” She was confident she could make everything right.

The Archimbaults offered blessings on her, then withdrew. Socia readied herself. Her bag included not only clothing but the changing crystal. She anticipated having to make several shifts at the other end. Also, she wore the demon’s forgotten necklace. She had no reason to expect it to be useful but wearing it did seem right.

“Ready?” Escamerole asked, teeth chattering.

“Ready. And be brave, little sparrow. Whatever happens, be brave. And make sure this door doesn’t get locked.”

The chill felt extra bitter because a big part of Socia did not want to be out in it, in pursuit of this insanity. She quashed that timorous voice, made the change, took wing. She stayed low to avoid being silhouetted against the sky, though there was a heavy overcast. She thought it might snow. Only the timid girl marked her departure.

* * *

Aaron d’Fitac’s report had been clear enough to bring Socia to the site of Kedle’s amazing success at Vetercus. Just follow the Dechear north to its tributary the Nar, then that into its hilly watershed southeast of Salpeno, and look for a creek … The last few miles were the easiest. Her bird senses picked up the stench.

She settled into a huge dead tree standing alone, overlooking the killing ground. The branch creaked but held. She kept her form. She was tired to the bone. She had flown for eight hours, often into the wind.

False dawn’s light showed most of the corpses cleared away. The Vindicated had cared for their own. Fallen Arnhanders had been recovered by friends and family-excepting those who had no one who cared enough to come looking.

There were plenty of those sad ones still down there.

Socia imposed Aaron d’Fitac’s report upon the field. But to what point? Those events were more than a week old. Events had moved on.

She had to find the castle Arngrere, now.

She readied herself to take wing.

“Prithee, wouldst hold a moment?”

Socia gripped her perch tightly, turned her head slowly. Behind her, seated with knees under her chin, on a branch incapable of bearing her weight, sat the Instrumentality who had given her the crystal. She wore archaic clothing. Her hair was in a single braid wrapped around her crown.

Socia changed her head to something vaguely human, baby size, and squeaked, “Why don’t you talk like a normal person? And what the hell are you, anyway?”

That earned a wan smile. The Instrumentality stood up on her precarious perch, balanced on one foot, grinned, rose onto tiptoe, indulged in a pirouette. “I be the answer to what thee needs do to save thy headstrong friend.” Her gaze caught on the necklace Socia wore. Her eyes grew larger and troubled, but only for a moment.

“I’m listening.”

The Instrumentality smirked.

Socia revealed a neutral expression though her thoughts were not charitable.

“Thy Kedle doth be a genius at making use of what she receiveth but she doth be impulsive.” The Instrumentality’s pronunciations and rhythms remained odd. Her gaze kept drifting to the necklace.

Socia nodded. “That’s why she’s a prisoner.”

“Didst thou bring a plan?”

“I can’t keep talking this way. But if I change I’ll freeze.”

“Thou wouldst betray thy treasures as well. Follow.” The girl giggled, became a raven in a wink, took wing, headed west. Socia followed. There was light enough to see the unremembered dead and a few scavengers belatedly trying to find anything else worth taking from fallen plundered for a week already.

The entire countryside would hear about the giant birds by nightfall.

The Instrumentality planed down over the western edge of the wood, landed in front of a woodcutter’s shack. Socia settled beside her. The place was abandoned but had not been so for long. The tenant had chosen not to be discovered in an area where wholesale murder was being done.

Socia changed. “Oh, Aaron’s Sacred Ass, it’s cold.”

“Clothe thyself. I will start a fire, then find thee something warmer.”

“Who are you? What are you? Why must you interfere in our lives?”

“Some call me Dawn, some, Hope. I be the dawn destined to rise beyond the Twilight.”

That made no sense. “What is this twilight?”

The Instrumentality got a fire blazing with magical swiftness. “Twilight is this age. The one in which thou livest. The time when the gods themselves may be slain. Old Ones have fallen in thy own land. Great Old Ones, from the time before time, are dying at the hands of my kin. I, with my brother who is lost, will be the bridge into the time that is coming.”

“Now tell me a story that makes sense.” Shivering despite the fire.

“As thou wist.”

* * *

Dawn expanded her tale in snatches, betimes skipping in and out to steal clothing. Socia stayed close to the fire. In fits and starts the Instrumentality got Socia to explain what she hoped to accomplish.

Dawn said, “Thy ability to change is thy sharpest tool, aye, but thee needs must plan, not just charge and rely on confusion.”

The Instrumentality vanished. She wanted to develop a specific inventory of clothing. She explained, “A common look, so thou may shift face whilst none do look.”

Socia grunted. The child-goddess was thinking more deeply than she.

“Thou hast no mind for the cunning, methinks. Thou art infatuated with the direct. Thou preferest to assail the object of thy frustration till it dost break. Would it not confuse thy enemies more if his captains kept appearing and disappearing with confusing and contradictory orders?”

Socia shut her eyes. She wished Brother Candle were here to advise her-and to tell her what she was learning about the Instrumentality. “Better still if those captains appeared unexpectedly and stuck knives in their comrades’ livers.”

“Ah. Thou art truly the soul sister of the Widow.”

“I’m pragmatic. I go with what works. The opinions of moral scorekeepers mean nothing. The men I may kill would send me to the stake if they could.”

“Let us begin. Arngrere is four miles west. Thou shouldst consult the Widow’s captains. Thou couldst end this with a single bold stroke.”

“I could. But that’s not the way I’m doing it.”

“Pardon?”

“They’ll waste time fussing over me. Then they’ll waste time planning, mainly to keep me far from danger. Which will void my strength and purpose.”

“But…”

“I’ll go straight in. I’ll cause chaos and confusion. I’ll open a gate somehow. You will alert the Vindicated to their opportunity.”

The Instrumentality stared, peeved. She did not have control. But she did not argue.

“We’ll stay here, keep warm, and move after dark.”

“Unless the smoke from yon fire doth attract attention.”

Socia asked, “Are there more like you? Your brother is in prison?”

“He is trapped in another world. Eucereme. The Aelen Kofer have sealed the gateways between the worlds. He is a prisoner in that sense. We will find a means of opening the way.”

“We? There are more like you, then.”

“There are other Shining Ones. None like me.”

“Would one have a crippled right hand?”

“Uh…? No. Zyr lost his sword hand, long ago. But he did not escape the Realm of the Gods.”

Socia understood none of that and was disinclined to find out what it meant. She wanted to talk about the giant eagle. She did note that Dawn’s speech seemed slightly less archaic. For the moment.

Dawn sighed. Despite the fire her breath clouded briefly.

“You do have some idea of what I’m talking about.”

“I know who that was. He must have been investigating sightings of a giant bird. No doubt he meant to deny thee thy ability to change shape.”

“So, not only are there more of you, there are factions.”

“Those Shining Ones dedicated to the success of the Chaldarean invasion of the Holy Lands might view what I have been doing negatively.”

That was a thick slice of cautious evasion. “Old heathen gods, who aren’t even supposed to exist, will help the Commander of the Righteous drive the Pramans out of the Holy Lands?”

“Yes.”

Socia had trouble getting her mind around that.

Dawn said, “Once thou art established with the Widow’s soldiers I shall get the story from Asgrimmur.”

“Weren’t you listening? I’m not going to deal directly with the Vindicated. I’m going straight into Arngrere. You’ll stay outside, with the Vindicated, in whatever guise you like. You want to visit your friends, do it after Kedle is free.”

The Instrumentality’s irritation was intense. Socia felt it as an actual physical pressure. Dawn should not be pushed any more.

“Asgrimmur?” Socia asked. “Odd name for a god.”

“Asgrimmur is no deity. He is an ascendant. A mortal who achieved Instrumentality status. In his case, unintentionally, as a result of his part in destroying two Instrumentalities who tried to use him as a weapon against one another.”

Socia remained at sea.

She continued to engage Dawn in conversation. And concluded that the Instrumentality was not as bright as she thought. Which reinforced the Countess’s estimate of the Old Ones in general, based on myth and legend.

Before Socia knew half what she wanted, Dawn announced, “I am going. Do thou as it pleaseth thee.”

Socia felt an immediate sense of loss, loneliness, and isolation. It might be manipulation but it was real, emotionally. She got up and followed the Instrumentality into the light of late afternoon.

Dawn stopped not far from an outpost where pickets watched for an Arnhander relief force. “They waste their time. The Arnhanders squabble amongst themselves, pointing fingers. That Stephan of Bley holds Arngrere hinders the process. Nobody likes Stephan of Bley.”

“This is where we part,” Socia said. “You go tell them the castle will be betrayed.”

“As thou wilt.”

Socia examined her companion. Dawn had become a woman with hard eyes and weather-beaten skin, like a once-handsome peasant of middle years. She strode toward the pickets with purpose. The soldiers welcomed her, chatted with her, provided her with a horse.

What Socia saw confirmed suspicions birthed when she found the Instrumentality in her tree.

Dawn explained Kedle’s success. Dawn helped Kedle evade every ambush and showed her how to be perfectly positioned at the perfect time to inflict great embarrassment on Anne of Menand and those Arnhanders who had participated in the invasions of the Connec.

Socia watched till Dawn passed out of sight, headed toward Arngrere and its besiegers. In this unfriendly season the Vindicated would depend more on the Instrumentality for intelligence about food supplies than for the whereabouts of enemies.

Socia withdrew into better cover, with less wind, and awaited the night. She began to learn truths about Socia Rault.

* * *

Socia soon wished that she had retreated to the woodcutter’s hut till it was time. First point of learning: Socia Rault was impatient and impatience always cost. She shivered till she feared her body would be too exhausted to make any changes.

The sky became overcast. Snow might be coming. Eventually, she ground her teeth and stripped, carefully folded each article, and stuffed it into her sack.

The chill gnawed her bare flesh like wolves with fangs of ice. The stones in the necklace felt colder still, but all that retreated to the level of annoyance once she took a winged form.

She rose a thousand feet. From that vantage she quickly discovered the unique nest of shadows that marked Arngrere, which was more imposing vertically than horizontally. It was sited badly for defense. It was one of those Arnhander castles built more to overawe the neighbors than to offer sanctuary in times of danger.

Socia drifted down, looking for sentries. She did not see a one. Stephan of Bley was not fierce enough to make men stay out in the cold when their enemies were content to starve them out. In fact, the defenders could be under orders not to man the walls at night. The castle had not been provisioned for a siege. Men on night duty might be tempted to climb down and run away.

Socia considered a parapet on a tower that rose twenty feet above the rest of Arngrere. Definitely no lookout. She landed there.

She changed shape. The wind was so biting bitter she nearly screamed. Her fingers would not stop shaking. She fumbled fastenings repeatedly as she dressed. She thought longingly of the cozy off-kitchen at home where she ate with Bernardin and Brother Candle. Oh! Had Guillemette been found out yet?

Dressed sloppily, the best she could manage, she took up her bag and crept down the stairway that ran round the inside wall of the tower. She could see nothing. The steps were wooden. She tested each carefully before putting her weight on it. She stayed hard against the wall. No point exploring the axis of the tower. There might be nothing there but a long fall.

The tower existed only to provide a high place from which to observe the countryside. Socia counted steps till she was sure she had descended twenty feet. No change. She descended another twenty before she heard the slow, snorting breathing of someone who, likely, was the man supposed to be in the parapet. Two steps more and she spied a hint of pumpkin-colored light.

Socia entered a small landing watch room, oozed toward a sleeping soldier. The pumpkin light leaked from a lantern turned so low its flame barely remained alive.

Maybe the proximity of human warmth made the soldier stir. Like Aaron d’Fitac, he was just a boy. He sat up straighter, groggily.

Socia’s hand darted to her lips, then to her necklace. She fingered the stones. Their touch soothed her. She prayed that the boy would drift off again so she need do nothing dire.

The soldier shuddered, shifted slightly, and began to snore.

Cause and effect?

Probably not. In case, though, she set her bag down, moved the necklace from around her neck into the pocket of the peasant apron she wore. Sack over shoulder, hand in pocket gripping stone beads, willing the boy to sleep till his relief arrived, she slipped out of the watch room and continued downward.

She reached a deserted residential level. There were neither doors nor door-masking hangings there. Nor were there any people. She suspected that she could beat a drum if she wanted.

She did find people in the great hall. They were crowded around one large fireplace, sharing body heat more than the warmth coming off a dying fire. There was coal light enough to reveal two dozen crowded bodies and just a few sticks of firewood remaining.

She entered not far from that fireplace. Though disoriented she thought the main entrance should face the castle gate. She drifted that way, staying near the wall.

One of the sleepers surged up. She froze. He stepped over, around, and on his fellows to get to a tin bucket. He urinated noisily. Done, he looked around. Seeing no one watching, he chucked the last firewood onto the coals. Socia gripped her necklace and willed herself to be a shadow amongst shadows.

All the while she contemplated the probable layout of the castle. She was at ground level now. The other Arnhanders must have been elsewhere. She did hear snoring from the kitchen beyond the big fireplace. Some might be in the stables, where the horses and any livestock or poultry would generate heat.

Socia started moving again, looking for an exit. She wondered where they kept Kedle. She no longer meant to look. Those fantasies about slipping around assassinating captains and sowing chaos had perished. The cold reality was, there would be no sneaking Kedle out while the Arnhanders brawled with one another.

She was too cold. Or thought she was because of stress. Intellectually she knew the cold had been worse during the winter when she was fleeing from the Captain-General with Brother Candle. This time she was operating alone, with no margin for error. Willful choices had created a potential for catastrophe. If she failed, if she ended up in chains with Kedle, the struggle for Connecten independence would collapse.

That realization struck her immobile. For some while Brother Candle’s voice muttered in the back of her mind, possibly about willful children who refused to consider possible consequences.

She found a door that would let her out the side of the great hall. She pushed out hoping the gust she admitted would not waken anyone. She shoved her right hand into her apron pocket, fondled the stone beads. Her fright and nerves receded. Winter backed off its fury.

A touch of moonlight slipped through the overcast, not enough to help her avoid a pile of frozen horse apples but sufficient to show her the shapes of general features. She was in a courtyard that crossed the front of the keep and stretched along its left side. She was in the foot of the L. The stables were to her left. She moved to her right. More moonlight came down briefly, painting the world in ghostly shades. This might fit some religion’s notion of hell, a cold, dark place where you would be all alone forever.

She approached the gatehouse almost incautiously. Had the Instrumentality cast a spell to put the garrison to sleep? This was going awfully easy.

She found the gatehouse manned by two shivering youngsters, huddled for warmth in a corner, behind a single fat, smoky tallow candle. One boy was crying. He was terrified even before he saw Socia.

“Get up. There’s work to do.”

They clambered to their feet, stiffly. Neither glanced at their weapons, pole arms standing in a corner beside the entrance.

Socia asked, “You. What’s the matter?”

She got no answer. The other boy said, “He doesn’t understand your dialect. He’s scared of what Stephan of Bley will do when he finds out that we let more than thirty men get out tonight.”

Socia considered his open face, his wide, frightened blue eyes. She saw no guile. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

She received no answer but a downcast look. And that, she supposed, told the tale. Going would have been worse than staying.

“Time to open up again.”

The spokesman said something to the other boy. Socia did not follow but felt no threat. The two began a reluctant drift toward the doorway. Socia stepped in front of their weapons. “You will be protected. There will be work for you.”

These days most soldiers were in the martial life because they needed some way to support themselves. Common folk suffered ever more as the ice advanced.

Arngrere’s gateway was just wide enough to pass two horsemen abreast. The gates themselves were heavy oaken doors in need of replacement. They could not long resist the advances of a determined ram. They would have been broken long since had Kedle been in charge outside.

There lay the weakness of charismatic leadership. The worshipful followers were too accustomed to having the messianic one do all their thinking. They froze up once the genius was removed.

“How wide do you want them opened, ma’am?”

“Six feet should do.”

The gates creaked and shrieked but no one came to investigate, evidently for the second time tonight.

“Six feet, ma’am.” Voice quavering with fright and cold.

“Step through, please.”

They did so.

The moat was empty, its sides caving in. A bridge spanned it. It was made of planks meant to be taken up in time of siege. That had not been done. The fugitives from Vetercus had been too hard-pressed when they arrived.

“Move to the end of the bridge.”

The boys did that, too. The one who did not understand Socia said something softly, scared. His friend said something reassuring.

Socia looked out into the darkness and wondered where Kedle’s people were. They were supposed to be watching.

Another minute of nothing happening. Able to come up with no alternative but a shout, she reached into her bag and fished around for her crystal. She raised that overhead while fingering her beads, willing the crystal to shine.

The crystal began to glow.

Connecten soldiers trudged out of the darkness several minutes later. They were not happy. They would rather be sleeping somewhere warm. They were not, apparently, especially concerned about the welfare of the Widow. There were just a half dozen of them, far too few to invade Arngrere.

Socia controlled her anger. “If I have to do this over I will be one unhappy Countess.” Next time there would be no fast and easy-though for now Stephan of Bley ought to suspect nothing more than mass desertion.

The soldiers did not recognize Socia. They did not believe she was who she claimed. Still, they were no more rude than they had to be. Socia kept the boys close as the soldiers moved them toward the Connecten camp. Ten minutes later they were inside a warm house, where some of Kedle’s officers did recognize her.

Few were willing to believe that she was the real thing-even if she was a dead ringer for Socia of Antieux and had the Countess’s country accent. They saw a trick by Anne of Menand.

“Weren’t you warned that I would be opening the gate?”

Humprie of Belbois shook his fat head. “The Widow’s friend, Lady Hope, advised us to watch the gate. We did. A band of deserters came out. We rounded them up.”

The boy who understood the Connecten dialect stirred nervously.

Socia said, “The gate is open. The Arnhanders are huddled around their fires. Go round them up. Go liberate Kedle.”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” a man said. “It has to be a trap.”

“Where is Lady Hope? Get her in here.”

“She went away after she told us we should watch the gate.”

Socia could think of no way to convince these men. She became angry. She grabbed her crystal. She gripped the necklace with her other hand. “You will listen! You will believe! You will act now or your sons are going to grow up without an inheritance!”

Eyes got large. Men looked at one another, baffled. Then, one by one, they rose and did as they had been told, albeit as though sleepwalking. But then they began to believe. Soon Kedle’s captains were bustling around like this was all their idea.

And then the newcomers were alone beside the fire with no company but one grizzled veteran nursing a deep arm wound.

The boy Socia could understand asked, “How did you do that, ma’am?”

“Magic.”

* * *

The Instrumentality arrived an hour later, not in her maddening form. “Where is everyone?”

“Gone to rescue Kedle.”

“I thought thou hadst reserved that mission to thyself.”

“I adjusted my goals. You did a bad job telling these idiots what was going to happen.”

The Instrumentality shrugged. She did not care. “It is working out. I went to visit my aunts. There was shouting involved. I learned things of interest to thee and the Widow.”

Socia thought it might not be long before the Instrumentality could converse like she belonged to the present century. She now used a modern sentence structure, in the main, along with fewer archaic verb forms. Of course, she clung to the antiquated second person. That might never go. That might be customary in her mother tongue.

Socia was vaguely aware that languages were in flux. Changes had begun with the fall of the Old Empire.

“Why am I thinking about that?” she asked herself, then realized that she had dozed off. “I’m sorry. I missed most of that. Exhaustion is catching up.”

“Never mind. I will tell it again when the Widow gets here. I visited the ascendant who was trying to attract thy attention.”

“That eagle just wanted my attention?”

“Yes. He was curious. It won’t happen again.”

That smelled like a cartload of goat dung, but Socia was not interested in the ascendant’s motives if, in fact, he did stop chasing her. “That’s good.” She really did need some sleep.

“There. The conquest of Arngrere is complete. The villain Stephan hath been brought low and the Widow freed. She will be with us ere long.”

Socia grunted and went to sleep. The last thing she saw was the amazement of the boys. They should be all right. Kedle’s officers had not demanded an explanation of who they were. They were with her. And the Widow would be back soon.

Sleep felt good, especially so close to a hearty fire.

* * *

Someone shook Socia. She wakened. A sallow, wasted Kedle lay beside her, on a litter that had begun life as a low table. Socia stirred. The chair in which she had been sleeping was miserably hard. She was rested enough to complain. “Kedle?”

“It’s me. Free. Thanks to thee. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I am a clever dancer.” Which made no sense but she was still trying to wake up. “We could toss you back.” She concealed her worry. Kedle looked awful. She was in pain. She had received little medical attention. Stephan of Bley had seen no need. The Widow would be burned after a quick show trial presided over by the Patriarch Serenity.

Would she walk again?

“I’m here, Kedle. You’re free. These handsome young men were very helpful. Find them work that doesn’t require them to use weapons. And talk to Lady Hope. Make her tell you what she really is.”

“I already know, Socia. She can’t really keep her mouth shut-if you’re clever and give her a chance to brag.”

The Connectens who entered Arngrere found fewer than forty men inside, none in a mood to fight. They had lost hope of seeing help from Anne of Menand.

Socia asked, “What now?”

“Now I eat. I sleep. I get used to the idea that I’m free again. Hope helps me heal. When I can I’ll go after Anne’s dogs again.”

“You could end up dead, dear heart. Look at you now.”

“I’ll fight them till they put me down, Socia.”

“Suppose you win?”

“Win?” That possibility, apparently, had not entered Kedle’s mind.

“Talk to our supernatural friend. She has an interesting suggestion. Meantime, I need more sleep. Then I need to get back to Antieux. Guillemette could start thinking she’s the real Countess.”

* * *

Socia settled on the roof of the Archimbault establishment. She found Kedle’s father standing vigil. Raulet was vague, confused, and exhausted by anxiety. His grandson, little Raulet, had just brought him a light repast and heavy, bitter tea. The child was not awed by her shape change but was very interested in what he got to see before she clothed herself.

She impressed the elder Raulet as well.

The boy asked, “Did you see my mother?”

“I did. We got her away from the bad people. She’s all right.” Over his head she said, “She had a hard time. One leg was crushed when a horse fell on her. But she’ll recover.”

The old man’s relief was palpable. He looked like he could die happy. Then he pulled himself together. “We need to get you back to the citadel. Guillemette and Escamerole can’t go on pretending that you’re sick.”

“True. I need to get back into the fray. But not till I sleep for a couple of days.”

“That won’t happen. We were scared that you would be gone another day and miss your meeting with Queen Isabeth’s envoys. Guillemette couldn’t fake her way through that, even with the Master’s help.”

So Brother Candle was helping cover her absence. That crafty old busybody.

Socia wondered what that business about envoys meant but was too exhausted to pursue it. All she wanted was a swift transit to the comfort of her own bed.

She did spend a moment cautioning Archimbault. “The boy saw things he doesn’t need to share with anyone. Can you control his tongue?”

“Of course, my Lady. Absolutely.”

“You might do some forgetting of your own while you’re at it.”

“I’ll never say a word. But I will cherish the memory.” His smile was mischievous.

Socia snorted.

* * *

Despite her determination and that of Escamerole and Guillemette, Socia overslept. She was late to her audience with the Navayans. Neither Bernardin nor Brother Candle was able to stall the Queen’s men.

The entire delegation was waiting, irritated, when Socia hustled in to join them. She had dressed in haste. Her toilet had been sketchy. She had not eaten. She looked like a woman who had clambered out of a sickbed to meet her obligations.

She halted several steps short of her formal audience seat. She had recognized one of the Queen’s men, Hercule Jaume de Sedulla, Count of Arun Tetear, one of the most important Navayans and one of the Queen’s favored generals.

The Count was not in charge, despite his exalted standing. The man who held that honor was Count Diagres Aplicova, Isabeth’s closest confidant, advisor, and operative. Rumor suggested that he might have become more since King Peter’s death. It was no secret that Aplicova worshipped his Queen.

Isabeth’s feelings were less well known. There had been no scandal while Peter lived.

Socia began to shiver. The presence of those men guaranteed that this would not be some pro forma scolding about provocative behavior. This was serious.

Though this was her court Socia was junior to both Direcian counts. She strained hard to avoid giving offense.

In particular, she prayed that she had done nothing to rouse the ire of the Queen, whose will was about to change her world. Her personal war with Arnhand should not trouble Isabeth, though. Isabeth’s Peter had yet to be avenged.

Brother Candle stayed close. He helped her seat herself once ceremony allowed her to do so. His presence kept her focused. He whispered, “Stay calm. The news isn’t bad.”

Once everyone was in place Count Aplicova beckoned the Count of Tetear. Count Hercule stepped up, bent a knee, astonishing Socia. His outstretched palms presented a roll of fine parchment tied with a scarlet ribbon and sealed with wine-colored wax bearing the impress of the Navayan royal signet.

This would be something from the Queen herself. It might be written in her own hand. Isabeth was known for her penmanship and her willingness to show it off.

The Count and Brother Candle alike urged, “Open it. Read it.”

Socia started to slide the ribbon off the tube of parchment. Brother Candle whispered, “Untie it.”

Of course. Sliding the ribbon off the wrong end could bring bad luck.

She had not had contact enough with diplomacy to know its special superstitions.

She read the rescript while everyone waited expectantly. This could not be possible.

Raymone Garete had been named Duke of Khaurene, with the title to remain in his line. The Patriarch himself had agreed. The new Patriarch, not the devoted enemy hiding somewhere in Arnhand.

Socia did not know how to respond. The parchment slipped from her hand. She had trouble breathing. Her heart raced. She tried to ask for help but could not form words that made sense.

She thought she might be dying.

Consternation swept the chamber.

The Perfect got in front of her, talked to her, soothed her, did not cease blocking all else until calm reasserted itself.

She regained her breath. “Thank you, Master. That was such a huge shock.”

* * *

The old man faced the Navayan counts. “She’ll be all right. That was too much of a shock in her weakened state.”

Aplicova said, “It might have been wiser to send an informal advisory beforehand, but Her Majesty insisted the news be closely held.”

“I understand.” He surveyed the party behind the counts. He knew most of those men. “So large a delegation.”

“Khaurene has operated without a Duke for some time. These are the men Her Majesty wanted to explain the state of affairs there.” Aplicova sounded like he did not quite approve of Isabeth’s thinking.

He might not. Among those the Perfect recognized were leaders from minority religious factions, senior guild officials, and Mas Crebet, consul again despite his less than savory past.

The Perfect asked, “How pressed for time are we? The Countess has fallen behind because of her indisposition. She will need time to make arrangements. Advance notice really would have been useful.”

Aplicova said, “It’s winter. Nothing is pressing. But the sooner assailed the sooner Khaurene will be tamed.”

Ah. An angle hitherto unconsidered. Kedle and Socia were the sort to tame that fractious polity. “Of course. Socia? My Lady? Are you back with us?”

“I am, Master. Yes. I do not believe I’ve ever suffered such a grand shock.”

“But a positive one this once. Yes?”

“Yes. Positive.”

The old man wondered what all had happened way off in Arnhand. Socia must have seen some unhappy sights there.

He would not press. She would come to him when she was ready.