‘I’m putting a lot of faith inyou, Shipwright. You won’t let me down.’
Arissa adjusts her helmet, kicks her horse forwards a few steps.
Waits.
This close, the smoke above Luss still sings of burning, of hot stone and ash. She can remember when the city rocked with laughter, when she got teenage-drunk in its pleasure gardens. She wonders how quickly the flowers burnt.
Eventually, the crowd parts and a horse edges forwards, black and beautiful. The figure atop it is faceless, shrouded by a mask of milky, shifting stone, its hair bound in thick, dark braids. Shroudweaver shifts to stand beside Arissa as she moves to meet it.
Arissa draws herself straight, feeling her pulse race in her throat. She imagines Declan’s big, brash face and tries to keep her voice steady. She takes a breath.
‘I am Arissa Fallon. Of Hesper. Of the Grey Towers. We come to the aid of our sister city, at her request.’
The figure watches blankly. Its long fingers fidget with the horse’s bridle. She clears her throat and continues. ‘We have come to order the immediate withdrawal of the Empire from the city, the surroundings, and all unlawfully ceded territory.’
The figure regards her for a moment. Its featureless head tilts slowly, gloved hands moving softly. When it speaks, its voice is soft.
‘The Emperor is here, but will not speak. I am the Gem. I speak for him.’
Arissa composes herself. ‘Then we present these terms.’
Its hand raises, palm out. ‘There will be no terms. The statement is this. Luss belongs to us now, as she always should have. In time, you will belong to us too.’
Arissa feels her heart lurch. ‘So, you will not negotiate?’
Its head moves back and forth slowly. ‘We do not negotiate. We claim. We restore all to peace.’
It pauses, gestures to the approaching army. ‘You bring us war.’
Arissa takes its measure, but gets nothing from the featureless mask. ‘It doesn’t have to come to this.’
The thing is briefly silent, then begins to shake. It takes a moment for her to realise that it is laughing.
It points at Shroudweaver. ‘Ask your pet, Grey Lady. Ask it how little we care to stand one side or the other of life and death.’ Its hand closes into a fist. ‘We will kill you in a moment. You may run, if you wish.’
The Gem turns its horse away. Opens its fist, fingers spread wide. Shroudweaver recognises the gesture. Not quite shroudweaving, but close enough. He feels the power pulse from its outstretched fingers into the ranks of the dead and senses something in their tattered souls awaken, something else inside that, dark and hungry.
Fills his lungs. ‘Run!’
To her credit, Arissa is as fast as a strung bow, heels into the flanks of her horse, turning towards the shelter of their army.
Distantly, he hears the first creaking hum of Hesper’s ballistae as they wind back. The chunk of release, and the sky begins to darken with quarrels. Covering fire. They ride back under falling shadows as the air vibrates like a harp.
The horses’ necks stretch out, juking and turning to avoid the jut of shattered buildings.
For a moment, he thinks they might make it – Shipwright crouched low, clinging on white-knuckled; Arissa as effortless as a show rider, spine scalloped against her horse’s back.
The front line of their troops approaches, peeling apart to draw them in.
Shields locking. The rough voices of the captains readying their crews.
From behind comes a shriek like an eagle. Those blonde warriors surging forwards, arms lifting, and suddenly the sky is filled with bright, leaf-bladed spears. There’s a tearing sound over his shoulder, and one strikes the ground to his left. The next kisses the skin on his cheek with a spatter of blood.
He bites back a yell, calls to Shipwright. ‘Now!’
Somehow, she manages to kick the spinner into gear. Herright hand hanked mercilessly in the horse’s hair, her left shifting forefinger and thumb until the buzz of the brass singes his teeth.
Shroudweaver dips to the grass and gathers what power he can, all the little souls of worm and mouse and bug. The earth blackens as his horse’s hooves churn it into ash. The spears fall like percussion, like the beaks of birds. The spinner hums, and he saws the reins, pulls his horse closer to Shipwright, to her buzzing hands.
