“Happy as they can be,” I lie as smoothly as I can. Thankfully, Tristan doesn’t turn from his watch.
He doesn’t notice the flush I feel creeping up my neck. “We’re feeding good intelligence. Worth our
time for sure.”
“They looking to oath Eastree or Barrow?”
“What makes you say that?”
He shrugs. “Seems like a long time to put into a pair we don’t mean to recruit. Or are you
suggesting them for Stage Two?”
Tristan doesn’t mean to pry. He’s a good lieutenant, the best I’ve ever seen, loyal to his bones. He
doesn’t know what he’s picking at, but it stings all the same.
“Still working that out,” I mumble, doing my best to walk slow as I run from his questions. “I’m
going to do a turn around the property. Grab me if Barrow shows his face.”
“Will do, boss,” echoes from the room.
Keeping my steps even is a battle, and it seems like an eternity before I’m safely into the green
trees. I heave a single collecting breath, forcing myself to calm down. It’s for the best. Lying to them,
disobeying the orders, it’s for the best. It’s not your fault the Colonel doesn’t understand. It’s not
your fault. The old refrain levels me out, as comforting as a stiff drink. Everything I’ve done and
everything I will do is for the cause. No one can say otherwise. No one will ever question my loyalty,
not once I give them Norta on a silver platter.
A smile slowly replaces my usual scowl. My team doesn’t know what’s coming. Not even Tristan.
They don’t know what Command has planned for this kingdom in the coming weeks, or what we’ve
done to put things in motion. Grinning, I remember the whirring video camera. The words I said in
front of it. Soon, the world will hear them.
I don’t like the woods here. They’re too still, too quiet, with the smell of ash still clinging to the
air. Despite the living trees, this is a dead place.
“Nice time for a walk.”
My pistol jams against his temple before I have time to think. Somehow, Barrow doesn’t flinch.
He only raises his palms in mock surrender.
“You’re a special kind of stupid,” I say.
He chuckles. “Must be, since I keep wandering back to your ragtag rebel club.”
“And you’re late.”
“I prefer chronologically challenged. ”
With a humorless scoff, I holster the gun, but keep my hand on it. I narrow my eyes at him. Usually
his uniform is turned inside out for camouflage, but this time he hasn’t bothered. His jacket is red as
blood, dark and worn. He sticks out against the greenery.
“I’ve got two spotters waiting on you.”
“They must not be very good.” Again, that smile. Another would think Shade Barrow was warm,
open, always laughing. But there’s a chill beneath all that. An iron cold. “I came the usual way.”
Sneering, I pat his jacket. “Did you now?”
There. His eyes flash, chips of frozen amber. Shade Barrow has secrets of his own. Just like
everyone else.
“Let me tell my crew you’re here,” I press on, taking a step back from Barrow’s lean form. His
eyes follow my movements, quietly assessing. He’s only nineteen, little more than a year into his
military service, but his training certainly stuck.
“You mean tell your watchdog.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “His name is Tristan.”
“Tristan, right. Ginger hair, permanently glued to his rifle.” Barrow gives me my space, but
follows all the same as I pick back toward the farmhouse. “Funny, I never expected to find a Southie
embedded with you.”
“Southie?” My voice doesn’t quaver, despite Barrow’s not-so-vague probing.
His pace quickens, until he’s almost stepping on my heels. I fight the urge to kick back into his
knee. “He’s from Piedmont. Has to be, with his drawl. Not that it’s much of a secret. Just like the rest
of your bunch. All Lakelanders, yeah?”
I glance over my shoulder. “What gave you that idea?”
“And you’re from the deep north, I suppose. Farther than our maps go,” he presses on. I get the
feeling he enjoys this, like a puzzle. “You’re in for some fun come true summer, when the days run
long and thick with heat. Nothing like a week of storm clouds that never break, and air that threatens
to drown.”
“No wonder you’re not a trench soldier,” I say as we reach the door. “There’s no need for a poet
on the front lines.”
The bastard actually winks at me. “Well, we can’t all be brutes.”
In spite of Tristan’s many warnings, I follow Barrow unarmed. If I’m caught in Corvium, I can plead
as a simple Red Nortan in the wrong place at the wrong time. But not if I’m carrying my Lakelander
pistol or a well-worn hunting knife. Then it’ll be execution on the spot, not only for bearing arms
without permission, but for being a Lakelander to boot. They’d probably slap me in front of a whisper
for good measure, and that is the worst fate of all.
While most cities sprawl, with smaller towns and neighborhoods ringing round their walls and
boundaries, Corvium stands alone. Barrow stops just before the end of the tree line, looking north at
the cleared landscape around a hill. My eyes scan over the fortress city, noting anything of use. I’ve
pored over the stolen maps of Corvium, but seeing it with my own eyes is something else entirely.
Black granite walls, spiked with gleaming iron, as well as other “weapons” to be harnessed by
Silver abilities. Green vines thick as columns coil up the dozen or so watchtowers, a moat of dark
water fed by piping rings the entire city, and strange mirrors dot between the metal prongs fanging the
parapets. For Silver shadows, I assume, to concentrate their ability to harness light. And of course,
there are more traditional weapons to take stock of. The oil-dark watchtowers bristle with grounded
heavy guns, artillery ready to fire on any- and everything in the vicinity. And behind the walls, the
buildings rise high, made tall by the cramped space. They too are black, tipped in gold and silver, a
shadow beneath brightest sunlight. According to the maps, the city itself is organized like a wheel,
with roads like spokes, all branching from the central square used to muster armies and stage
executions.
The Iron Road marches straight through the city, from east to west. The western Road is quiet. No
marching this late in the afternoon. But the eastern Road bustles with transports, most of them Silver-
issue, carrying blue-blushing nobles and officers away from the fortress. The last, the slowest, is a
Red delivery convoy returning to the markets of Rocasta, the nearest supply city. It consists of
servants in wheeled transports, in horse-drawn carts, even on foot, all making the twenty-five-mile
journey only to return again in a few days. I fish the spyglass from my jacket and hold it to my eye,
following the ragged train.