Neitin felt little grace in the next hour, but as dawn approached, so too did her babe. Outside the tent, the blackness of night gave way to the eerie cobalt-blue that raced ahead of the sun. All at once, the buffeting winds calmed, just in time for another scream to join Neitin’s: tiny lungs, shrieking their indignation at so rude an introduction to the world.
A moment later, Neitin’s youngest sister raced out of the tent. “A boy! A son!” She did not pause as she shouted this to her sisters, but rather raced across the camp toward the tent where her brother-in-law and his war-band had kept vigil. “The erregerra has a son!”
As a cheer went up throughout the camp, inside the tent, Neitin half-swooned on the birthing stool, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as the midwife cut the cord of life and swaddled the babe. Somehow, she found the strength to grab the woman’s arm. “The afterbirth—”
“It’ll be along in a moment, my dear, never fear. I looked to the stars last night; they said you are in no danger, so it should come away clean. No risk of fever.”
“No, that’s not what—” Neitin blew out her breath. Tears had rushed to her eyes; she felt exhausted and elated at the same time. “Wretched Bailar will want it for some foul purpose, I have no doubt. He must not have it. You, you must keep it safe, and cast it in the river for Nabia.”
The midwife stared at her a moment, eyes wide. “Of course,” she said. “That is what is right and proper—”
“Right and proper have little meaning in this camp, honored lady,” Neitin said, hoping the earnestness in her voice and eyes would be convincing.
This mattered, more than she could express. She belonged to Nabia, mother-goddess, not to Bandue, the war-god, and so would her son. Whatever hell Bailar led them into, Neitin could at least keep her son’s soul safe from his perfidies.
“He may order, or he may resort to subterfuge, even threats of violence. Whatever happens, he must not have it.”
The midwife nodded. “I understand, little mother.”
VER
Splinter the First
The world was full of broken things.
Promises. Dreams. Plans. The stones of the road leading south from Aven. The wings of the bird in Corinna’s hands, snapping under the pressure of her thumbs.
It struggled in agony, pecking and slashing, but Corinna’s grip remained firm, despite the scrabbling feet scratching her wrists, the sharp beak assaulting her fingers. She held the bird as long as she could stand it, drawing in the power of its shattered pieces, its pain.
These were the constants of the universe. Anything that was built would be broken. Anything born would suffer and die.
These were a Fracture mage’s strength, her succor.
‘Through this,’ Corinna thought, as the pigeon’s fear and fury crackled through her own bones, ‘I can reshape the world.’ In a swift twist, she snapped the bird’s neck. ‘Through this, I can find grace.’
I
Nedhena, Province of Maritima
With slender green stalks of unbloomed lavender on one side and the murky blue of a flat river on the other, the General of Aven’s Legio X Equestris rode toward his camp.
As praetor of Cantabria, the northern of Aven’s two provinces in the vast expanse of Iberia, Sempronius Tarren had not technically arrived in his appointed domain yet. He wanted to gather his full forces before proceeding south into Iberia. Opportunities would not be lost in waiting, however. The centurions were drilling the troops, preparing for whatever they might face in the Iberian wilds. The quartermasters, under the supervision of Sempronius’s tribunes, were restocking and setting up the supply chains that would support the legions going forward. Sempronius took it upon himself to speak to the locals, to find out what challenges they faced that Aven might help them rise to meet. Maritima was, technically, no business of his, but it was against his nature not to take an interest.
This day, he had gone upriver to inspect the local dye factory. They were doing remarkable work with the materials available to them. ‘A more secure trade network would enable them to apply their processes to finer products. Saffron and indigo, kermes instead of red madder—they could have the beginnings of a flourishing industry here, if Aven would support the necessary infrastructure.’
Sempronius had wanted to learn from the dyers themselves what about the trade routes needed improvement. The conservative Optimates in the Senate sneered at tradesmen’s matters, but they were the lifeblood of any nation. ‘I would see these veins pumping vigor into every extremity of the Middle Sea, and Aven the beating heart.’
The river Atax flowed flat and slow through this part of Maritima, impressing itself between low hills. It was not a clean-flowing channel, and that troubled Sempronius. Practically, it cut down on the channel’s navigability, making it a less reliable trade route—one of the complaints of the upriver dyers. That alone would be reason to see it cleared, but Sempronius had another, though one he wouldn’t admit to even if he could. How ridiculous would it be, to try and explain that the river was unhappy?
Yet that was his sense of it. With the strain of Water magic flowing through him, he could feel the Atax’s choked flow, too clogged with duckweed and silt to move with any speed. ‘Stagnant water is not healthy.’ The slower it moved, the more prone it was to fostering disease and decay.
Sempronius’s other element was Shadow, and that side of his nature argued that even disease and decay had their place. Rot was an essential component of the world’s life cycle. For the Atax, though, Water won out. It yearned for a freer flow, a course that could roll through Maritima, strong and true and clear. Sempronius could feel the goddess Lympha, lady of springs and rivers, calling to him, directing his attention.
‘If it is in my power to help, Lady, I shall,’ he vowed. ‘If I can find the way to set this river free, I will.’ He could rely on the trade-related reasons for doing so, since he could not reveal his magical insights. His whole life, Sempronius had kept his blessings a secret. Mages were prohibited by the lex cantatia Augiae from holding any political office higher than that of a senator, and the Augian Commission, responsible for keeping Aven’s mages in adherence to all magic-governing laws, would ruthlessly punish any offender, if he were caught.
Such restraint had never been in Sempronius’s plans, and he believed the gods were behind him. They wanted him to build Aven into the city of his dreams, that heart of a vibrant and thriving world. He could not do so if stymied by prohibitions of men who feared the misuse of such power.
In any case, he would not have the time to free the Atax now. That would have to wait until after the Iberian venture was finished. ‘So much needs fixing. One problem at a time.’
As he approached the rows upon rows of tents, pitched outside Nedhena’s low earthenwork walls, he thought over the months of his praetorship thus far, and what would need doing in the future. It had taken months to bring the legion this far. The road from Aven to Iberia went through four provinces. First, the high plains of Liguria, where Sempronius had drilled the Tenth Legion until the spring thaw allowed them to get through the mountain passes of Albina. Sempronius had started in March, as early as he could deem reasonable, grateful for the predecessors who had seen to it that an unbroken road crossed the continent from Aven to Nedhena. The passage through the Albine Mountains had been one of the grandest achievements of the previous century. Now, instead of having to wait for the snows and ice to thaw the upper elevations, the army could march at lower altitudes, closer to the coast. The campaign season could start earlier in the year, with a shorter route and fewer accidents and casualties on the road.