Turning the Storm (32 page)

I straightened. “She's dead,” I said. Lucia reached out for me as I went into the next cell. The next cell held the body of a man. He was naked, and had been tortured. The implements were scattered on the floor beside him. His throat had been cut, as well. The next cell held the body of a woman, chained down to a table; she had also been tortured.

My stomach rebelled. Lucia caught me as I fell to my knees. “Let's get you out of here,” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “No! We have to be sure. Someone might still be alive.” I spat to clear the taste from my mouth and stood up. The Lupi were shaking their heads. Lucia was weeping. “Giovanni,” I said. “Help me look.”

Giovanni took one of the torches and went with me as we made a rapid circuit of the cells. Most of the cells were occupied. Every prisoner was dead. In the last cell, there were two bodies. Next to the body of the prisoner was the body of a Fedele priestess. She had driven the knife into her own throat, when she'd finished killing the prisoners—to avoid capture by us, presumably. Beside her body was a folded paper; I picked
it up.
FOR HER GLORY
, it said, in an elegant, ornate script.

I recognized that script. I knelt by the body and turned the priestess's face toward the torchlight. It was Rosalba.

The anger rose around me like steam as we went up the stairs. “Why?” someone was whispering between sobs. “I don't understand. Why?”

“‘For Her glory,’” Lucia muttered. “These weren't the everyday heretics, these were the dangerous ones. These were the Redentori.”

I still felt like I couldn't breathe; as soon as we were up the stairs, I went outside. The news of what we had found in the dungeon spilled through the city, and furious Lupi returned, looking for me, wanting orders, wanting a target for their anger.

It was late afternoon, and the sun slanted down, glinting off the stained-glass windows of the Great Cathedral. Lucia stirred beside me. “For the glory of God,” she shouted. “Destroy Her Chapel! For the lives of the Redentori slaughtered in cold blood—burn the Cathedral of the Lady!”

W
e gathered outside Cuore like dusk before a storm. From the peak of the hill to the south, I could see the camps of the Lupi and the Imperial Army, tents and campfires fading to the horizon. It was spring now, and the smell of wet dirt and new growth mixed with wood smoke and horse sweat and old blood. The defeat at Manico had been catastrophic for the Circle and the Fedeli. As Demetrio had predicted, the survivors of that battle retreated to the protection of the Imperial enclave. And so we'd still have to take Cuore, but at least it would be easier.

Back in the center of the camp, Placido had arrived. “Good afternoon, Generale,” he said, bowing slightly. He'd brought two Servi priests with him—not the vulture or the screech owl, but Servi nonetheless.

Michel had also come with him. I grabbed Michel in a bear hug, which he returned enthusiastically. “How'd you manage this?” I asked.

“The Emperor gave me permission to fight this battle at your side,” he said. “He knew I wouldn't want to
miss it. Also—did you ever wonder how the Emperor got out alone during Mascherata? Demetrio and I finally got it out of him. There's a sewer tunnel that was built by the old Empire; it hasn't been used for centuries, apparently, and it leads under the wall. The Emperor told me how to find it, and I can lead people there to open the gates to the enclave.”

Placido had brought a letter from Clara, which I pushed aside to read later. “Keep the Servi out of my way,” I said. “I don't want them bothering my soldiers, not the night before a battle.” Placido nodded a surly assent.

“I'm sure you want to speak with the Imperial Generali,” I said. “So I won't keep you.”

“Of course,” Placido said, teeth clenched. He probably wanted a word with me, but he wasn't going to get it if I could help it. I might get lucky and die in the battle, and then I'd
never
have to listen to him.

“What does Clara's letter say?” Giovanni asked when Placido had gone.

“I don't know,” I said, pulled it back out, and handed it to Giovanni. “You read it.”

Michel dined that evening with Lucia, Giovanni, and me. He was doing well in the Emperor's service, although he missed us. The Emperor wanted Michel to stay on as a personal guard even after the war was won. “I'll probably do it,” Michel said. “I lost my family to the famine. My former home is in the wasteland. I don't really have anywhere else to go.”

“That's going to be true for a lot of the Lupi,” I said.

“Doesn't that make you nervous?” Giovanni asked.

“I hadn't really thought past the end of the war,” I said.

“Maybe you should start thinking.” Giovanni slid
Clara's letter across the table to me. “Clara talks at some length about the Emperor's hopes that the Lupi will find something to do with themselves
outside
of Cuore once the war is over. I think somebody's getting nervous.”

Michel looked up from his soup. “Are you saying that the Emperor—”

“I'm not saying anything about the Emperor,” Giovanni said. “I think it's Clara that's getting nervous, and probably Eliana is the cause as much as the Lupi. They're loyal to you, Eliana, not to Emperor Travan. Clara's in a very nice position these days, and it's only going to get nicer when they return to Cuore. Anything that can jeopardize that makes her nervous.”

I picked up the letter and read it. “She's trying to imply a threat, but it's not clear what she thinks she's going to do to us,” I said. “Do you think she plans to send the Imperial Army against the Lupi to get rid of us?”

“The Emperor would never stand for that,” Michel said.

“Clara and Placido,” I said. “What a pair.”

“You know what they say,” Giovanni muttered. “Even in the worst flood, offal floats.”

“Generale Eliana?” someone called from outside the tent. Placido. I clapped my hand over my mouth; Lucia started laughing silently. I ran through the last few minutes of conversation; damaging, but not damning. I was fairly certain he couldn't have been there for long, as my guards would have announced his presence. In any case, he was here now.

“Come in, Placido,” I said.

Placido came into the tent. He looked annoyed, but
I had no idea whether it was because of Giovanni's insult or just because of Giovanni's presence. “I wanted to bid you good night,” he said. “And to wish you God's grace in the battle tomorrow.”

“May God smile on you, as well,” I said. “Have a seat. We were just discussing Clara's letter.”

“Indeed,” he said. “What did she write? She didn't share the contents with me.”

I was tempted to make up something shocking, to see from his reaction whether or not he was lying, but decided against it. “She raises the question of where the Lupi are to go once the battle tomorrow is won, assuming that God continues to stand with us.”

“Have you ideas along those lines?” Placido asked.

“The Lupi who've joined us over the winter are farmers,” I said. “They have lives to return to, homes, fields to plant. The ones who we liberated from the slave labor camps, though, their farms were in the wasteland. They don't have anything to go back to. But if the Emperor would set aside land for them, farms, they could go there.”

“Where were you thinking?” Placido asked.

“My former village, Doratura, has already been resettled by refugees from the slave camps,” I said. “There are other villages like it; some have already been resettled, but a formal declaration would end any question.”

“I'm sure the Emperor would be willing,” Michel said. “That's certainly an easy enough request to grant.”

Placido gave Michel a look that could curdle cheese. Michel took a bite of bread, not appearing to notice.

“And you?” Placido asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you wish to return to a farm?” Placido said. “What do you intend to do next?”

“I wish to continue to serve the Emperor, in whatever capacity he can best use me,” I said.

“The Emperor wants you to join his staff as an advisor,” Michel said. “He's said so.”

Placido's glare could have lit Michel's vest on fire, except doing that sort of thing was a sin and Placido was probably afraid we'd report him to the Servi. “How delightful,” Placido muttered. “Don't you want to return to your home?”

“My family was killed when the Circle destroyed my village,” I said. “I have no home to return to.”

Placido clucked his tongue with almost-genuine sympathy. “Clara worries about people with no family,” he said.

Probably because we have no one who can be used against us
, I thought. “It was terrible to lose my family,” I said. “But I have found consolation in my service to the Emperor.” I mentally blessed Michel's excellent memory for conversation. I'd have to remember to hint to him later that if he wanted to repeat this entire conversation to the Emperor, that wouldn't bother me at all.

“Have you ever had the opportunity to attend the university, Generale?” Placido asked.

That
was a question I didn't see coming. “No,” I said. “My education was musical.”

“You should consider attending,” Placido said. “For a time, to round out your education—if you're going to become an Imperial Advisor. I'm confident the Emperor wouldn't hinder such a plan.”

“To learn what?” I asked.

“History,” Placido said. “Philosophy.”

“Why would the Emperor need me for such expertise when he has you?” I asked. “Not to mention Giovanni?”

Giovanni had been quietly enjoying the conversation from the corner; his head snapped up and he glared at me. “Michel, does the Emperor want me as an advisor?”

“I don't know,” Michel said. “He hasn't ever said so.”

“Good,” Giovanni said. “I'd like to become a worthless layabout at court. I'm assuming that will be acceptable to him?”

Michel grinned. “I think he'll figure you've earned it, Generale.”

“Did you have any other questions, Placido?” I asked.

“No,” Placido said. “I just came to wish you good night, and God's blessing.”

“Of course,” I said. “Good night, then, Placido, and good luck to you tomorrow, as well.” Not that Placido was likely to need it; I was confident he'd stay near the rear, assuring himself and us that he would only get in the way. University arms training prepared one to be a gentleman, not a soldier.

We finished our meal after Placido was gone. I wanted more wine, but it would be too easy to overindulge tonight, and I would need a clear head tomorrow. I sent for tea instead.

Isabella came to the door before the tea arrived. “Generale Eliana, may I have a word with you?” she asked. “Alone?”

Giovanni, Lucia, and Michel started to get up, but I waved them back. “You stay here,” I said. “Isabella and I will go for a walk.” My bodyguard trailed us at a discreet distance; Isabella and I headed out to the southern hills, past the perimeter of the camp, and sat down.
The sun was setting. I stared at the twilight sky, thinking that I should have brought a lantern for our walk back.

Something glittered at the edge of my vision. I looked up; Isabella had tears in her eyes.

“When you take Cuore,” Isabella said. “I need you to protect my daughter.”

“Daughter?” I said. “What daughter?”

“Miriamne is my daughter,” she said. “The woman you call Mira.”

Now you are truly dead to me
. I remembered Isabella's ritual burning of the lock of a child's hair … and how she had come untouched through the magefire, just as I had.

“I told you I had a daughter who was a violinist,” Isabella said. “When we first met.”

I remembered that, barely. “You said she died during the war. That was Mira?”

“She's still my daughter,” Isabella said, and her voice turned salt and bitter from choked-back tears. “No matter how much I wish she were not, she's
still
my daughter.” She turned to me. “She saved you. I heard you tell Lucia about that—how she saved you and sent you back to us. She can't help what she does; I understand that.
Please
. You're the only other person here who cares about what happens to her. If you can—”

“I don't know,” I said. “Isabella, I can't make any promises.”

“Please,” she said. “If all the other mages are dead, there will be nothing more she can do. They need the power of many to create the magefire, to do the powerful magery.” Remembering the incinerated guards outside my cell in the Fedeli Citadel, I was dubious, but
kept silent. “Miriamne can be spared,” she said. “She saved your
life
. She told us how to defeat them. She has been fighting for our side as hard as she can—”

“I know,” I said.

“Save her, then!”

“I can't make promises.”

“Promise to try.”

“I will try,” I whispered.

Isabella was silent. “I shouldn't have come to you,” she said. “Not for this.”

“It's all right.”

“No. Go back to your tent. I know you'll do what you can.” Tears glittered in her eyes again, and she gave me a fierce, hard smile. “Good luck tomorrow, whatever happens. I hope you come through alive.”

∗    ∗    ∗