“Where’s Crovan?” Revekah snorted. “That’s how you greet an old woman who’s travelled hard to be here? No respect, Josiri. None at all.”
The twinkle in her eye belied both words and tone. Revekah’s sixtieth year lay long behind her. Nonetheless, she’d not softened an inch since the chaos at Zanya, where she’d heaved Josiri onto her horse and ordered him to flee. She still wore the phoenix tabard over her leather jerkin. Like her, it had faded and worn thin with the passage of time.
“Crovan’s away to the south. Might even be across the Thrakkian border by now.”
Josiri frowned. “What went wrong?”
“A raid went sour.” She shrugged. “It happens. He’ll be back. But not tonight. I saw the shutters, and feared you’d be lonely.”
They’d settled on the shutter-code years before as a way for Josiri to communicate with those southwealders who’d not yet given up the fight. Some, like Revekah, were survivors of his mother’s doomed rebellion. Crovan belonged to a younger generation. Together, they named themselves the Vagabond Council, a bitter jest aimed at the “noble” men and women who ruled the Southshires’ fortunes from Tressia. The law named them Wolf’s-heads – creatures of the wild, not the civilised world – and like wolves they were hunted.
The Tressian army, honed to the bloody craft of massed battle and border skirmish, was too blunt an instrument for rural insurrection. Wolf’s-heads harried the occupying soldiery; ambushed grain convoys and prison wagons. They took shelter in abandoned villages, and in the Forbidden Places, where the magic of the Council’s simarka and kraikons guttered like candle-flame in a storm.
“How are things out there?” he asked.
“They’ve been worse.”
Which also meant they’d been better. “Are we any closer?”
“The weapon situation’s improving. Between the Thrakkians and our sympathisers back in Tressia, we’ve enough blades for a small army.”
“And armour?”
“That’s harder – to get hold of, and to conceal – but we’ve quite the foundry up and running in the Larwater caves. Gavamor got his hands on a simarka amulet. It’s damaged, but he reckons he can make copies, given time.”
That was good news. The simarka were simple-minded, and took instruction from proctors, or else from the wearer of an amulet. With enough amulets, the resistance could neutralise one of the strongest weapons at Governor Yanda’s command. Maybe even turn it back on their oppressors. “How long?”
“Weeks. Months. Maybe never. You know how these things go.”
“We could bring Gavamor here? Anastacia could help him.”
“Anastacia could not,” said Anastacia. “She’s more sense than to mess with caged sunlight.”
Revekah shot her an unfriendly glance, but nodded. “And how would you explain his presence? To your sister, if no one else. I take it you’ve still not told her?”
Josiri shook his head. “Better she’s kept out of it.”
“It’s her fight as much as it is yours.”
“Not as far as she’s concerned.”
“Only because you’ve cosseted her,” Revekah snapped. The lines on her face smoothed. “I shouldn’t have said that. My apologies.”
Josiri grunted. “For speaking your mind? But Calenne’s chosen her path. I won’t interfere.”
“It may not matter anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Hadari are massing beyond Trelszon Pass. Crovan thinks they’re preparing to invade.” Shrewd eyes read his expression. “You’ve heard nothing?”
“Not a whisper.” No wonder Makrov was on edge. Every blade the Council had in the Southshires was pointed in, not out. If the Hadari Empire made passage west over the Greyridge Mountains . . . “Why did no one tell me?”
“Because they’re worried what you might do,” said Anastacia.
Revekah nodded. “The Council aren’t fools. They’re keeping temptation from you.”
Josiri’s stomach lurched. “They think I’d sell our people out to the Hadari?”
Another shrug. “Crovan thinks you should. When enemies are your only recourse . . .”
“. . . choose the one with least to gain,” Josiri finished. “I know.”
She drew a dagger from her belt and set it point-down in the soil, turning the blade this way and that. “Could be that Crovan’s right.”
“What do you think?”
Revekah flipped the dagger’s point skyward. “I think I’m Tressian, even if those inbreds in the north have forgotten that. First of the Emperor’s Immortals sets foot over the mountains gets my steel in his heart. But plenty agree with Crovan. They’re tired, Josiri. They want a way out. They think the Hadari will give them one.”
“A year. Eighteen months. We’ll be ready.”
“You said that last year,” said Anastacia. “And the year before. And the year before that. Dawntithes come and Dawntithes go. And still you wait.”
“She’s right,” said Revekah. “There’ll never be a perfect time. You’ve worked wonders these last few years – even Crovan acknowledges that.”
“I did little more than bring you together. Kept you focused on the goal.”
“You’ve brought us hope. Leadership. If you step out of the shadows, others will follow.”
Josiri scowled, lost in memories of clandestine meetings. The fear of discovery. The elation of new alliances, and growing opportunity. The fear returning as the prospect of uprising brought with it the spectre of defeat.
“Too many still think I’m collaborating with the Council.”
“All the more reason to end this pretence. I’ll vouch for you. So will Crovan. You’ll prove the rest through actions.”
Josiri strove to ignore that familiar, gnawing frustration. “The Council will crack down harder than ever. Makrov’s already talking about another exodus.”
Revekah’s eyes flashed. “Good. It’ll remind our people of what they’ve already lost. They’ll rise up in their thousands before the first transport ship sails north.”
“My mother thought the same. And look what happened to her. We’re not ready.”
Josiri paused. Was that true? Or was he speaking out of fear? A Trelan had led hundreds to their deaths less than a generation ago. His failure would seal the Southshires’ fate. It weighed on his conscience. Never more so than in the long, dark hours before the dawn when Anastacia was snoring.
His mother had spoken of the loneliness of leadership, of holding sway over decisions no other could make. As a boy, he’d thought it nothing. As a young man struggling with Zanya’s aftermath, he’d dismissed her sentiment as arrogance. Only now did he feel the aching truth.
If only he’d someone to confide in. Dignity forbade he confess his fears to Revekah or Crovan. Anastacia wouldn’t understand. For all that she appeared mortal flesh – for all the warmth of her embrace – she never grasped concepts of uncertainty, and consequence. Maybe that was why she fascinated him so.
Perhaps he should have confessed the truth to Calenne. At least then the burden would be shared. But no. She’d made her decision. He’d have to make his. Before events made it for him.