CHAPTER 12

They rode northeast at a lightning pace, not stopping until the sun had long risen and had reached its apex in the sky. After a brief rest, they remounted and rode hard again for the border.

“I can see it,” called Audie.

Ahead, Maesbury blossomed out like a weed. The border between Camberton and Sandingham ran through the town itself - a relic of the Great War. The town had been the frontline, with Camberton holding the North whilst Sandingham took the South. Entire families had been split up, separated overnight after a years-long siege.

“We should cross through the woods,” the Prince said. “We can’t risk being detained by an overzealous border official.”

“No,” said Yannick. “We’d never make it through the Marches alive. There’s a safe house in the town.”

Yannick was in no mood to try their luck through the Maesbury Marches, as the tall trees of the wood were known. The border might have been porous inside the Marches, true, but they were still thick with the wild, reckless magic cast in the Great War. This wasn’t the ancient, invisible magic of the Old Ones, but rather magic with the telltale touch of man. Yannick could feel the resonations of a hundred lingering spells, each cast to serve a grim fate on an unsuspecting warrior crossing no-man’s land. The frontiers had radiated outwards from the town and cut through the Marches themselves - leaving the forests impenetrable to all but the most suicidal of adventurers.

The Prince looked as if he might argue with Yannick, but he held his tongue. Just as well, thought Yannick. Killing the guardsman had been one solution to their problem, but it was unnecessary. The man didn’t deserve to die for doing his job.

Yannick rode at the back of the group. They rode in exhausted silence to the gates of the town. Having seen a glimpse of the Prince’s brutal nature, Jeran was cowed by his presence. He had mounted the horse reluctantly, and had said little since.

Had the Dusken Knight so much as spoken a word since they left the tower? Virgil wore more than her armour now. The shroud of duty was once again at the forefront of her being as they inched closer to Camberton.

What had happened to the woman he had seen in the tunnel? The one with fears and desires - just like anybody else. In her place rode an empty suit of armour, animated only by the will of the Order. What would become of the woman inside? Would she be pushed down, denied once more to offer her entire existence to the Father and Antonic? A shame, thought Yannick. Audie could do with a wise woman in her life.

The scout had come alive somewhat as she had tracked them across open country to Maesbury, away from the ruined chapel, but she was still restrained, distant somehow. He knew the burden of what had happened in the Tower weighed on her greatly. The guilt hung on him like a second skin.

Maesbury was a sleepy, decrepit place. No one took much notice of them, so long as they stayed away from the enchanted stone wall that seemed to snake randomly through the town. As they stationed their horses, Yannick noticed every single building still bore the scars of warfare - pockmarked from projectiles, marked with crude graffiti or were simply piles of rubble. The Great War had been a hundred years gone, but you could be forgiven for thinking it was just a quiet day on the front out here.

Yannick led them to a small, freestanding house not far from the enchanted wall. After identifying himself, the door opened and they were ushered into a dirty room. Cold ashes lay in the fireplace, whilst a loaf of stale bread sat on the table.

“You’ve got him?” asked the woman who had let them in. She was grey haired, perhaps older than Yannick even, but her eyes were keen and vital.

Prince Rallo stepped forward and removed the rag around his neck, revealing the black tattoos that crept just over his collarbones.

The woman nodded. If she knew the man was the crown prince of Kestria, she didn’t show it.

“The house is yours. I’ll be back in the night. We’ll cross then.”

The woman then changed before them - she became younger before their very eyes. Her face changed too, the skin shifting from a lily-white to a deep tree bark. She said nothing before opening the door and heading back out into the street.

“A skinchanger!” said Audie, amazement in her voice.

The priest and Dusken Knight seemed to flinch at the word.

“No such thing, I’m afraid,” Yannick said. “Just a grey mage. An illusionist, nothing more.” Although a fine one at that - Yannick hadn’t sensed that she was concealing herself, and the change she had cast hardly registered on his senses. A powerful magic, illusion. One could hide in plain sight, disappear into a crowd and impersonate anyone.

It was rare, too. Few mages had an aptitude for it. If any novice at the Academy showed signs of any skill with illusion, they were whisked away into the service of the Guild. He understood why Jeran and Virgil were uncomfortable with the concept. Little was ever known of the greyfaces - even less was knowingly seen, but it was likely one had interacted with dozens of them.

They lived a shadowy, precarious existence as spies. The Order could never quite approve of them - but it was happy to avail of their abilities. It helped, of course, that most greyfaces didn’t live long. If they weren’t discovered and brutally tortured, the magic would kill them. Unlike Yannick’s magic, the impact was almost entirely physical upon a greyface. They would only ever know old age as a disguise. The greyface they’d seen was probably a third of Yannick’s age.

They made themselves comfortable in the sparse house. There was no wood for a fire, and nothing in the larder other than a crock of butter. They ate it with the stale bread and sat down to wait for nightfall.

Yannick took up a post in a small armchair lit by a dirty window. Some time later, Virgil approached him. Jeran and Audie were upstairs - resting, most likely.

“The man in the tunnel,” Virgil said. “In the tunnel, with the living moss,” she continued.

“The dakora.”

“You said it takes your worst memories. Who was that man?”

“He is-- was my husband.” Yannick sighed. “He died five years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. The Father comes for us all in the end. We had a good many years together. Decades, even.”

Virgil said nothing.

“The Order would think you a sinner.”

“Politely, the Order can mind their own business. They preach the Father’s love, but they know nothing of it. The Guild supported us when we got married, of course - practical people, warriors. We ignored the Order. It’s not illegal, even if they wish it was. Even the Olds practiced it.”

“You do not think it a sin, master Yannick.”

“Love was never a sin, dear. I think you know that as well as I.”

Virgil looked away, her gazing falling into the cold fire.

“I have no secrets from you now. You have seen… everything that I keep hidden. My great shame.”

Yannick smiled.

“Do I amuse you?”

“No, no,” he said. “Nothing of the sort.”

“What is it then?”

“I did not need the dakora’s vision to know you. I knew when she climbed the Tower - I saw how you watched her.” Yannick stood up and stretched his back. The dull ache was beginning to return now.

“On our marital day, Ricard read a poem. The author talked about the inauthentic life, how a life that is not true to one’s true nature is more than just dishonest - but the heart of sin itself. ‘Who are we to deny what They have made of us?’”

“You believe that?” Virgil said. “What about duty?”

“It’s not a choice of one or the other. Accepting yourself is not the dereliction of duty.”

“The Order says otherwise.”

“The Order is wrong.”

The words were out of Yannick’s mouth before he could stop them. He could feel his heart pumping as he spoke the words, as true today as they had been on the day that he’d declared his love for Ricard - truer, even.

The Dusken Knight looked at him, her expression unreadable even in the face of the baldest heresy.

“You are a good man, Yannick Oswestry.”

“And you are a good woman - no, a great woman.”

She bristled at the compliment.

The door opened and a young woman - the greyface - rushed into the house.

“Quickly,” they said. “We must go now!”

They followed the greyface to the foot of the dusty landing, where Audie and Jeran were waiting. The Prince appeared, eyes wide.

“What’s going on?” asked Audie.

“The Guard knows. They will be here soon,” the greyface said, opening a small door in the wall, revealing a crawl space. They muttered an incantation and the space opened up before them, becoming tall enough for a man to walk crouched. “Quickly, through here. This will take you back to the Cambercian side.”

There was a crack from downstairs, followed by a loud voice calling out.

“They are here. Quickly!”

The Prince didn’t need any further encouragement, and he dashed into the darkness without a word.

“Now you, Audie,” said Yannick. “Go.”

The small scout swallowed and climbed into the darkness. There was a hammering at the door downstairs.

“Jeran, you next.”

“Master--”

“Don’t argue.”

Virgil went next. Before climbing through, Yannick turned to the greyface. Their face rippled as she cycled through disguises, settling on a young man with a sallow face.

“You must come with us,” said Yannick.

The greyface shook their head.

“No. The tunnel must be closed from this side.”

They looked down the stairs, fear evident on their face. The hammering at the front door had ceased, replaced by an eerie quiet. They looked back at Yannick, tears flowing freely now.

“This is my true face,” they said.

Yannick nodded and did his best to commit it to memory. The face rippled and it was a woman’s once more.

“May Antonic bless your steps,” they whispered.

“May the Father have mercy,” said Yannick. “Thank you. I shan’t forget your face.” Then he climbed through the tunnel and all was black.

***

“You have your instructions?” asked Yannick.

The Constable nodded. “We’re to take the Prince directly to Kestria. I think we can do it in five days.”

They were standing on the Northern outskirts of the Maesbury Marches. Yannick watched as the Constables checked their provisions and packed their horses.

The Prince sauntered over to Yannick. After a bath and a change of clothes, the man looked like a royal once again. He’d filled out remarkably quickly. You couldn’t tell the man had been in starved captivity for the last four months.

“You’ve saved my life, and the life of my kingdom.”

Yannick grunted. “Good luck with your brother.”

Prince Rallo chuckled and scratched at the bare chest beneath his open jacket. The tattoos were fully visible, a network of black snakes spiralling around his body. “I imagine word will reach him before I do.” He stretched out a broad hand and Yannick took it. The Prince looked him in the eyes.

“I don’t think you can imagine the lives you’ve saved.”

Yannick said nothing.

“Not one for much of a goodbye, are you?”

“I’m an old man, your highness. I just want to go back to my farm.”

“Not too far from Kestria, I hear.”

“Far enough.”

The Prince laughed again. “Do visit sometime. I could do with better visitors. Perhaps I can educate you further on the atrocities of your people. Should you ever need anything, the Duchy of Kestria is forever in your debt. We do not forget our friends, Yannick Oswestry. So long.”

“So long.”