She’d been shot, Klint had informed her. The lead ball had partially fractured going through the amour that protected her neck, and while most of it had passed cleanly through her, he’d removed a small fragment lodged in her flesh. Beyond the coagulants and the remedies to ward off blood-poisoning, there was nothing more he could with what he had.
Will I live, Sasheen had asked in a whisper, upon first hearing what he had to say.
Klint had placed a clammy hand on her arm, though she could barely feel it. Perhaps, with a miracle, he told her grimly. And then he had smiled, and asked for her permission to perform one, explaining how.
Moments later, the physician had returned with a vial of Royal Milk held aloft in his hands. With care he’d peeled off the bandages on her neck, and as her aides held her down had poured some stinging drops into the wound.
Now, in the draughty heart of her tent, with the canvas flapping and tugging all about her and the priests and generals arguing at the top of their voices, Sasheen felt calm, and strong, as the Royal Milk still coursed through her blood. They were arguing over what to do with her; what to do with the army’s advance. Sasheen barely listened to their words. For a while she studied the flames of one of the braziers as a draught coaxed and flattened them, the smoke lingering beneath the roof before it trickled out through one of the vents. She thought of Q’os and home and the son she had so recently lost. But their voices grew more insistent, became a cacophony in her head.
‘ Enough,’ she commanded in a croak, not at all what she’d been expecting.
Still, it silenced them.
‘Matriarch,’ said her old friend Sool as she hurried to her bedside. ‘Please, you mustn’t talk.’
‘Hush yourself woman,’ Sasheen responded. ‘Talk is all I’m good for now.’
Sool hesitated, then bowed and took a few steps backwards. Sasheen asked for water, and caretaker Heelas dribbled some past her dry lips. ‘Did we win?’ she asked him quietly.
The old priest nodded his head, concern in his eyes.
She spoke up as best she could. ‘Archgeneral,’ she said to Sparus, who was standing with his helm under his arm, facing young Romano, both their faces flushed. The two generals turned to regard her. ‘What is our situation?’
‘Matriarch,’ Sparus began with a bow of the head. ‘Creed has taken refuge in Tume. He evacuates the citizens and has torched the bridge, though we hold one half intact. We will begin rebuilding it at first light. Our light cavalry and skirmishers surround Simmer Lake as we speak. Our artillery is moving into position. It’s only a matter of time before the city falls.’
‘So what is at issue here?’
Sparus looked to the ground with his lips pressed tight.
‘General Romano?’
The young man stiffened. He looked at her as a wolf looks at its wounded prey. She noted how he did not bow, and in an instant all her loathing for him came flooding back. ‘Matriarch.’
‘Speak your mind.’
‘We have no idea how long it will take for Tume to fall. According to our local guides, winter may be coming early to the islands. It will hamper us badly, should we fail to take Bar-Khos before it fully arrives.’
‘And?’
‘We can take half the army and push hard for Bar-Khos. Nothing stands in our way now.’
‘Archgeneral?’
Still Sparus would not meet her eye. It was her physician, Klint, who spoke out. ‘We can’t move you far in your condition. A jolt on the road might still kill you.’
She blinked at the ruddy-faced man, then at Romano.
‘I see,’ Sasheen said, seeing the bind that she was in.
Romano wished to push on for Bar-Khos to gain the glory for himself, knowing it would strengthen his claim for the throne. And if she sent Sparus instead, that would only leave her in the hands of Romano, surrounded by men loyal to his purse.
I’m holding up our plans, she realized, and her gaze flicked around the tent, seeing the downcast faces, how they refused to meet her eye. She saw how pitiful she must appear to them, the divine leader of the Holy Empire, immobilized in her bed with her doctor fussing around her.
Her hands clawed at the sheets. Sasheen found herself trying to rise from the mattress.
Sool rushed over and pushed her down hard. ‘ Enough now!’ the woman hissed. Sasheen tried to fight against her for a moment, but it took what little strength remained in her. She ceased her efforts and collapsed back against the mattress, her nostrils flaring. A sense of helplessness washed over her, filling her belly with nausea.
Sasheen’s sigh filled the awkward silence of the tent. There was never any respite from it, she reflected. Even here, on campaign, she must fight always to maintain her position. And as she thought of that, she felt her body grow suddenly heavy, as though all the burdens of these few years in power were trying to crush her.
Perhaps the Royal Milk was wearing off at last.
‘We must stay together,’ she croaked to them. ‘All of us. At least until we have taken Tume.’
Her words brought a scowl to Romano’s face. Sparus bent low, though, as did the rest of them.
For a moment, Sasheen closed her eyes and drifted.
‘Matriarch,’ came a distant voice, and she looked about her, and sensed that some time had passed.
‘Leave me,’ she whispered, but then she saw that they had already gone, and only Klint remained, warming his hands by the brazier, and the twins Swan and Guan were there too now, standing over her bed.
‘Matriarch,’ Guan said again. His face was wet, and he rubbed a hand across his scalp to clear the water from it. ‘There is something you need to know. Your Diplomat has deserted.’
‘Che?’
Some droplets fell from his chin as he nodded his head.
‘You are mistaken.’
‘He was seen leaving the encampment after you fell,’ Swan told her.
Sasheen was too tired for this. ‘You are mistaken,’ she breathed. ‘He is loyal. He has proven it to me.’
‘Holy Matriarch. He has gone.’
Klint stepped into view next to the two Diplomats, though they ignored him and continued to gaze down at Sasheen.
She couldn’t fathom what it meant, and she stared at the canvas roof of the tent as it flapped violently in the wind, something forlorn and angry about it.
‘Do what you must,’ she said quietly, and she closed her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A Game of Rash
Ash awoke coughing in a darkened room. He tried to recall where he was while his hands groped against bedsheets soft and luxurious.
‘Easy,’ said a voice, and he turned his head towards the source of it, his breath wheezing. A figure rose from a darkened window, approached the bed with something held in its hand.
Ash pushed himself up against the deep pillows and accepted the wooden gourd passed to him. He coughed once more as he took a sip of cool soothing water, then drank more deeply.
‘Thank you,’ he rasped as Che returned to a chair by the window.
With delicate care, Ash he swung his feet off the bed and settled them on the cold wooden floor. His head lurched with nausea. His skull throbbed dully where the lump had formed. He felt hardly rested at all.
‘Where are we?’ Ash managed after a few shallow breaths.
The silhouette of Che turned to regard him. ‘Holed up in a city that everyone else seems fairly desperate to leave,’ the man said, and then turned back to the view beyond the window.
Ash rose to his feet, cracked his back with loud pops while he waited for his head to stop reeling. Gunfire could be heard in the distance, and he smelled something burning in the air. With a groan he padded over to the
