Year 1

When she awoke, she did not cough, she did not feel weak, her head did not hurt. For several minutes she laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, taking slow, careful breaths, ready to reach for the handkerchief upon her bedside table. But the expected cough did not come. Carefully, she sat up, setting aside the book she’d been reading the night before, and still she did not cough.

The room was warm, but not too warm.

Slowly, taking the ease of her breathing with appropriate wonder, Devorah slipped from bed, bare feet sinking into the thick rug. She climbed onto the window seat and put her hand on the window latch, the metal chill to the touch.

She took a deep breath, her deepest breath in six years, and opened the window. Cold winter air flooded the room, raising the hair on her arms and filling her with an excited tingle. Still she did not cough.

She was better.

Not bothering to change out of her night dress, Devorah left her room, walking briskly. She broke in to a jog and then a sprint. She bounded down the stairs to the great hall. She spun in circles and skipped and cavorted as she made her way through the empty hallways to the kitchen.

Emma stood at the stove, absently stirring a large pot, a scrap of paper in her other hand. She looked like she’d been crying.

Devorah entered the kitchen on silent feet. “Emma, what’s wrong?”

Emma squeaked and jumped and dropped the paper. It drifted to Devorah’s feet so she picked it up and looked at it. It was a letter from the Governor, stamped with the unicorn rampant in dark blue wax.

Devorah Kempenny, niece,

Your presence is required at Shepherd Fort. A carriage will be sent to fetch you tomorrow morning.

Governor and Guardian of the Province,

Erin Kempenny

“I’ve been summoned. Where’s Shepherd Fort?”

Emma burst into tears.

Devorah was nonplussed, but she put a hand on Emma’s back and did her best to comfort her. Emma grabbed Devorah in an embrace that threatened to squeeze her eyes from their sockets.

“The letter came yesterday, after you went to bed,” Emma said through her tears. “They’re coming for you this morning.”

The news should have worried her, but instead she was excited. She never cared much for what lay beyond the manorhouse grounds, but this sudden summons felt like a call to adventure.

“It’ll be fine,” Devorah said.

“But, but you’re so sick, so weak, how can they take you away?”

“I got better,” Devorah said.

Emma released her and gave her an odd look. “Are you quoting at me?”

Devorah smiled. She hadn’t meant to quote The Holy Quest of Holyness, a favorite of them both, but a smile threatened to thwart Emma’s tears, so Devorah shrugged and grinned.

“’Only a flesh wound,’” she quoted

Emma crossed her arms and frowned determinedly. “No it’s not, you’ve had a serious illness. And it’s no use trying to make me laugh. I’m terribly upset about this.”

“I suppose it could be worse. I could have been turned into a newt.”

Emma laughed and threw her hands in the air. “Fine then. We’ll just laugh about it. But they’re coming for you today. This morning. You’re not even dressed.”

Devorah had no reply, but her stomach growled and Emma laughed again.

“You go get dressed, I’ll make you breakfast. You’re really feeling better?”

Devorah nodded.

“Something more than porridge then.”

Devorah’s clothing choices were limited. Her wardrobe had three formal dresses in the colors of House Kempenny, blue and gold, and three dresses for every day use in drab, dark, greyish brown. Devorah didn’t know why she’d been summoned or for how long she’d be gone or how long it would take to get to Shepherd Fort, so she donned a plain dress and packed one of each. She donned her slippers and packed her boots. She packed extra stockings and underwear and slung a heavy wool cloak over her shoulders.

Finally, from the very back of the wardrobe under a small pile of outgrown stockings, she retrieved a small dagger in its sheath. She had found it in an abandoned bedroom a few years ago. Keeping her discovery secret from Emma, she had played with it in the woods for a time before deciding to secret it in her wardrobe. She slid the sheath onto a belt and secured the belt around her waist. Thus readied, she went down to breakfast, keeping the cloak over the dagger.

In the kitchen, there was eggs and sausage, toast with butter, and hot tea next to the sugarbowl. Devorah took her tea with lots of sugar. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten eggs, or anything more solid than a thoroughly boiled potato. She ate slowly, savoring the thick, creamy, richness contrasted with years of blandness.

She was full before she’d eaten half what Emma had made for her. She considered making herself eat more, but the thought made her queasy. She pushed the plate away.

Emma was crying again. “You really are better, aren’t you?”

“Why are you so upset?”

“What if you go away forever and I never see you again? This big old house would be lonely.”

That caught Devorah off guard. “You’re not coming with me?”

“What? Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Not an hour later, when a man arrived at the kitchen’s side door, Devorah and Emma were clad in their heaviest winter coats, traveling cases at their feet, ready to go.

• • •

It snowed.

Devorah sat in the doorway to the carriage, feet swinging idly in the space between the snow-covered road and the carriage bottom. She had pulled her skirts up above her knees so the feathery snow kissed her bare legs.

“Oh, Baby, you’ll catch cold again. Come sit up here with me.” Emma patted the seat of the small couch.

Devorah waved away the concern. “I’m fine.”

The man driving the carriage, whose name she’d forgotten, made occasional noises, halfway between words and barks. The sounds added a peculiar counterpoint to the muffled hoof beats and jingling harnesses and creaking carriage wheels.

Eventually, she did get cold and drew herself inside the carriage and pulled closed the heavy curtain and sat with Emma. The travel was boring and she wished she’d brought a book. She’d been reading Jareth’s Labyrinth before bed last night. She felt a bit like young Sarah herself, tumbling away from the familiar into some strange new place. She’d have liked the comfort of a familiar book.

When the sun stood in the west, casting long shadows on the new snow and Devorah felt cold in earnest, they crested a rise and Shepherd Fort stood on the next hill.

The fortress was grim and forbidding. A large squat cube comprised the bulk of it. Ramparts created an orderly jagged edge behind which soldiers patrolled. The fortress had no windows, only arrow slits. Rising from the center of the cube was a four-sided tower with a ramparted top. Small windows set high in the tower glowed from within.

As the driver maneuvered the carriage to the wide gate, they passed rows of soldiers aligned in blocks drilling with pike and sword and shield atop snow-churned mud. Further away was an archery range. As they got closer, Devorah could see the soldiers wore black tabards over their chain mail suits rather than pale blue and gold.

A rhythmic sound caught her ear. It wasn’t the sound of shouted orders or metal on metal, but something deeper, something she couldn’t place. As the carriage rounded the corner on the path leading to the fortress gate, the source became evident.

A large-boled tree had been uprooted and stripped of its branches. The resultant post had been planted in the frozen earth. Strapped to the post was a bare-chested man being systematically beaten by another man with a thick, leather strap. A block of soldiers stood at strict attention, mute witness to the beating. The man with the strap swun and the sound of its impact lodged in Devorah’s chest.

Emma gave a small scream. “Oh, Baby, don’t look.”

Devorah did not look away. She’d read about the whipping post, but had never expected to see one. The victim’s back was covered in deep, dark welts, evident even in the deepening shadows, thick against the cold, bright through the chatter.

The carriage slowed and came to a stop at the main gate of the fortress to the accompanying sounds made by the driver.

“What have we got here?” came a gruff voice.

“Don’t be stupid, Tum. We’re here to see the Governor,” said the driver.

Derisive laughter from several sources answered his pronouncement.

“Is that so?” the gruff voice had turned mocking. “What makes you think the Governor wants to see you?”

Devorah was afraid. The driver and the soldiers continued to argue. What if theses soldiers didn’t let them through? Devorah and Emma would be at their mercy. For a moment, Devorah’s thoughts stood upon an edge. She could sit quietly with Emma, shivering in the dark, and wait. Or she could do something. It was rare Devorah chose to do something. But she’d taken a deep breath just that morning and not coughed.

She felt good.

Devorah closed her eyes and took a moment to stand in the room in her mind. Here, she always felt confident. When she opened her eyes again, she was still afraid, but she felt the familiar tingle of the room in her mind come with her, lending her strength.

Devorah stepped from the carriage to the muddy snow covering the stone road. She shivered at the contact and thought about her slippers, still under the carriage couch. But at the touch of the cold stone underfoot, a tingle sprang up her legs and spread quickly, the same tingle that accompanied the place in her mind. Calm consumed her.

“Baby,” Emma whispered, “Come back!”

Devorah pushed back the hood of her cloak, made certain of the dagger at her belt, and walked forward. Just touching the dagger hilt gave her strength.

The driver had dismounted and faced four black clad soldiers. The soldiers fell silent when they saw her. The one in front, the one called Tum, showed his crooked teeth in a lascivious grin.

“Well, well, well…”

Just hearing the man speak made Devorah feel she needed a bath.

“The niece of the Governor,” proclaimed the driver.

The soldier near the driver swung his heavy hand, catching the driver across the chin. He fell back against the horses, making them prance and snort. The gruff man laughed again. When the driver made to retaliate, two of the soldiers took hold of him, pinning his arms. He cursed and spat at them but couldn’t break free.

The gruff-voiced man turned back to her.

“Pretty little mouse, aren’t you?” he said, stepping closer. “What’s your name?”

Devorah didn’t reply.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. The driver protested and was silenced by his captors. Devorah hoped Emma had the sense to keep quiet, keep hidden.

“When the captain of the guard asks a question, girl, you speak,” he growled.

Devorah met his gaze calmly. She shouldn’t have been calm. She should have been frantic. Instead, dagger at her side, she felt confident. It was a strange feeling, detached almost.

“Release me,” Devorah whispered.

The guard leaned closer. “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.”

“Release me,” she said again, louder this time.

“And I don’t take orders from children.” His grip on her shoulders tightened, and he lifted her off the ground.

“Release me. Now.”

The soldiers, the driver, the horses, and the carriage all fell away into nothing. Devorah saw only this man. She saw his uncombed hair, wild beard, and bad teeth. She could see the individual pores on his face, the streaks in the irises of his brown and black eyes. She saw everything. She saw him hiding behind his natural bulk, making up for lack of skill. She saw his fear: that one day brute force wouldn’t be enough.

And she saw he didn’t consider her a threat.

And then she saw his eyes go wide as she unsheathed her dagger and drew it across his belly, under the hem of a poorly-fit mail shirt, through cloth, skin, and flesh until it caught, at the end of the swipe, in his ribs. The sudden jolt of resistance was too much for her cold-numbed fingers, and Devorah lost her grip on the weapon.

The guard dropped her. One hand went to the tear in his belly, trying to hold the guts in, the other grabbed at the dagger caught in his ribs. But his strength bled from his belly and he couldn’t grip the hilt.

Devorah’s confidence fled and she coughed. The hot edge of sickness clenched her throat and reached for her chest. Panic replaced the cold confidence. Her belly churned. She could hardly believe what she’d done.

Frantically, with both hands, Devorah grasped the hilt of the sword at the hip of the man she’d just slain. As he fell backward, fear replacing shock on his face, the sword slid free. And with the sword in hand, she could banish the illness that threatened to take her and focus on the men before her.

One of the guards let go the driver and stepped forward to examine his fallen companion. He bent his head forward for a better look, and his hand went to his sword hilt.

Devorah didn’t wait for him to understand. She swung her newly won sword back and up and down in a broad, overhand sweep. The sharp blade sliced clean through his neck. The head hit the ground before the body.

The remaining two soldiers released the driver and drew weapons.

Devorah raised the large weapon, her skinny arms shaking with the effort. She tried not to think too hard about the slim chances of an untrained girl against two armed and wary soldiers. The soldiers approached slowly, spreading out to flank her.

Devorah took slow, calm breaths.

She blinked.

And stood again in the room in her mind. She could still feel the icy, snow-covered stone road beneath her feet and the desperation of the situation; she could still see the soldiers, weapons drawn, facing her, as though through a thin fog, but time slowed. She had forever in a moment to consider the situation, to look at all its aspects. She wondered if she should have stayed in the carriage, sitting quietly, afraid. She wondered if she’d pressed too hard, to fast, in drawing her knife across the man’s belly. She wondered how long she could continue the confrontation.

And the shadows caught her attention.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the lengthening shadows broadend. From the room in her mind, the shadows were no longer a simple interruption of light, but rather an interconnected, permeable space she could reach into. So she did.

And blinked again.

She drew the shadows to her, breathed them in like paper soaking up ink, and felt them hide, shelter, and bolster her. She took a moment to feel the weight of the broadsword she held in her two small hands. It was balanced poorly.

“Put it down, little girl, you’re in enough trouble.”

“Ror, did you see how she cut Tum’s head off? She’s some kind of sword master.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Koren. She’s just a little girl.”

Devorah ignored what they said, focusing instead on their uncoordinated movements. Their movements were as easy for her to read as a book in the room in her mind. She didn’t question the unexpected knowledge. Hopefully, there would be time later.

The men closed on her, squinting, as though having trouble seeing. But before they could move within striking range, they were attacked from behind. A sword glanced off the shoulder of the one on Devorah’s left. The driver had gotten to his feet and a sword to his hand and attacked. The attacked soldier spun and slashed at the same time, and the driver fell in a scarlet mist.

Devorah seized the opportunity.

Koren’s back was to her. She brought the borrowed blade to her shoulder, aimed the point at her target’s back, and thrust with all her strength. The sword tip found a weakness in the armor. Chain links snapped, and the blade slid into the man as easily as Tum’s head had come off, as easily as her knife had spilled steaming intestines upon the snow.

Koren spun away and stumbled back, jerking the sword from her hands.

Devorah stumbled and coughed.

The impaled soldier’s stunned expression slowly went blank as he crumpled to the street. The other man, Ror, yelled and swung his sword. Devorah jumped back, but the sword tip caught her just below her right collarbone. If she hadn’t gathered the shadows about her, she was certain she’d have been cut deeply. The pain was cold, colder than the snow on her bare feet, but the blood leaking down her chest was warm, too warm, hot.

Feverish.

Ror yelled again and swung wildly, far off the mark. He couldn’t see her.

Peripherally, Devorah knew others soldiers approached. She could feel them hurrying through the lengthening, late winter shadows. Despite her newfound affinity for swords and shadows, she knew she couldn’t kill them all.

Ror swiped at her again, an attack that went far to her right.

“Halt!”

Ror backed up a step.

Devorah cast about for a weapon. The headless man still had his sword and she scrambled for it, but before she could draw it, her arms were pinned at her sides by a single massive arm wrapped about her, the forearm pressing air from her chest. She coughed several times until her eyes and nose ran.

“What’s going on here, General?” The ringing, commanding voice belonged to the Governor, and Devorah turned her head to see the tall, thin woman striding toward them from the fort. Devorah blinked away tears of relief.

Governor Kempenny looked over the situation efficiently. She settled her gaze on the remaining soldier. “You attacked my niece. She’s bleeding.”

Ror’s eyes went wide. He dropped his sword and knelt in the dirty, bloody snow. “I didn’t know she was really here to see you, Governor.”

The Governor pursed her lips. “She identified herself, and you still attacked her? That sounds like treason to me. What do you think, General Vahramp?” She kept her eyes on the soldier.

The man holding Devorah spoke. “Indeed it does, Governor Kempenny. Shall I execute him for you?”

The soldier let loose a pitiful squeak and put his head to the snow. He mumbled quietly, shoulders shaking.

Governor Kempenny regarded the man for several moments before dismissing him. She looked above Devorah at the man holding her. “I’ll leave that for you to decide, General.”

General Vahramp grunted. “And what of this?” He gave Devorah a shake.

Devorah didn’t wait for her aunt’s response. She disliked being so easily held, being so obviously ineffective. She felt the large man’s grip slackening. She considered the broad arm across her chest. It was bare to the winter air, covered in dark hair and criss-crossed with scars. She bit it, clamping her teeth into the meat of his forearm. General Vahramp shouted and flung his arm wide, dropping her. Devorah scrambled away from him, putting her aunt between them. General Vahramp cursed and glared, but didn’t advance upon her.

Governor Kempenny put a hand on Devorah’s shoulder and squeezed so that Devorah looked up at her. Her aunt’s expression was tight, hiding something: uncertainty, fear, anxiety. In the next moment her expression relaxed, but Devorah could still sense her unease. The Governor laughed, a high, merry sound—further façade.

“Indeed, General. I had no idea my little niece had such fight in her.”

Vahramp growled. “I’ll show her fight.”

The Governor held up a finger. “Be easy, General. You frightened her.”

“She’ll have to get over that. She’s the secret weapon, right? You should expect greatness from her or Loreamer’s armies will crush us before we’ve even gotten started. You best not have pulled me into a fool’s game, Erin.”

“That’s Governor Kempenny, General.” She glared at the General who shrugged.

“We’re still out-numbed, unless you think your negotiations with King Haland will be taking a fortunate turn anytime soon. Give me the girl.”

Devorah’s eyes went wide. She remembered this man, who had held the Governor so effortlessly, so intimately. She remembered how he’d disgusted her, frightened her, and she was glad she’d put the Governor between them.

“She’s not ready. She’s barely fifteen years old.”

Fifteen years old? She hadn’t been fifteen years old a few days ago. She wondered how long ago her birthday passed.

The General spread his arms to take in the bloody scene lit now more by torchlight than sunlight. It was almost full night, and Devorah shivered. The heat of combat had worn off. She coughed again and sniffled.

“She killed three of my men. Dregs to be sure, but a bare-foot little girl should not be able to best three full grown, armed and armored men. A few years ago, I had my doubts, but clearly she is a weapon. You were right. It’s time she was forged.”

The Governor’s hand tightened again on Devorah’s shoulder. “She’s a political asset. I never intended her to be a warrior.”

The General gestured again at the carnage. “And yet…” He pointed at the Governor. “You told me I could have her when the time was right. Now’s the time.”

“I meant you to train her in tactics, not…” The Governor took a breath and looked at the dead bodies. Devorah sensed within her aunt a struggle between protecting her, making use of her, and… something else. Governor Kempenny walked a fine line in her control over this army; Devorah could sense the soldiers’ silent doubts in the Governor’s command, their fear of the General, and an expectation that each confrontation between the two had the potential to see one ousted. Some hoped her aunt would win this test of wills, others preferred the General.

Devorah remembered a fever dream from long ago: the Governor chained and collered, an armored man holding her leash. Devorah blinked hard. It had been a dream. Her aunt, the Governor, wouldn’t let this man tell her what to do. But her aunt’s grip on her shoulder slackened.

“Perhaps you’re right, General. Perhaps she is a weapon. But do not break her. If you do—“

General Vahramp laughed. “I remember the poison of your words, Erin. I shall take care.”

“See that you do, Freddy.”

The Governor put her hand on Devorah’s back and propelled her foreword. Devorah stumbled on frozen feet and slipped on cold blood and fell into the muck. Dread and betrayal made her short of breath and numb all over. She felt the fever take hold, and shivered harder. She looked over her shoulder to the Governor, but the Governor already walked away, headed for the fortress, followed by attendants, guards, and the carriage Devorah had arrived in. She hoped Emma was safe inside.

“Bring her. Put her in Ror’s tent.”

Devorah had forgotten about the fourth soldier, still kneeling on the road.

Ror.

Someone put his hands under her arms, lifted her to her feet, and prodded her into walking, but she looked back to watch General Vahramp bring his sword upon the kneeling man’s neck.