Heavy practice armor weighed her down, and the broadsword she held two-handed strained every muscle from her neck to her thighs, her shoulders to her fingers. Sweat coated her body making the padding under the armor chafe at every crease. She blinked sweat from her eyes, but her vision was still blurry. Her breath came in great gasps.

But she wasn’t coughing.

The man before her, Colonel Rafael Lambert, had been a member of the Kempenny army when the colors were still blue and gold. He wasn’t old, or at least didn’t seem to be. His hair was all still brown and he didn’t act like his body was worn with age. He held his sword easily, wore his armor like a second skin, and, at General Vahramp’s direction, had spent all morning beating her with the flat of his blade. She had bruises all over her body and she’d twisted her left ankle. Devorah didn’t know how she still stood, why she hadn’t stayed on the ground the last time her sparing partner had sent her sprawling.

“Keep your sword up, scamp.” Colonel Lambert’s voice was calm but commanding.

Devorah lifted her blade. It was better balanced then the one she’d used last night, but she could hardly move in the layers of cloth and leather he’d strapped her into.

Colonel Lambert came at her.

She knew what to do. She knew she was no match for his strength and speed. Years spent sick in bed and wandering the library had left her weak. But her mind was quick and she could anticipate. The colonel had been swinging that sword at her all morning and she knew, by the cock of his wrist and the placement of his feet, he was going to feint to her right, then attack from her left. She knew if she stepped into the feint, she might be able to avoid the actual attack. But her body couldn’t react the way she wanted it to.

She stepped into the feint and her injured ankle screamed. She tried to keep her eyes open, but all she could see was bright white light burning the inside her head. She tried to put her sword where she thought the colonel’s would be, but her arms were too heavy. When she could see again, she lay face up in the cold muck of the training grounds, a new bruise on her ribs. The practice armor didn’t even keep the slush and mud out.

She hadn’t been able to sleep last night, the image of Ror’s head bouncing off the frozen road had kept her up, but now, staring at a bright blue winter sky, aching from tip to toe, she thought she might be able to. She might be able to close her eyes right there and let exhaustion suck her into black oblivion.

“Right foot forward, Scamp. You must be awfully thick if you haven’t learned the difference between right and left yet.” The colonel’s voice floated on the cold air. Devorah wasn’t sure where it came from.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the light but for the dull red of the backside of her eyelids. She took a moment to slip to the room in her mind. Here she stood without her armor and could breathe without struggle. She wondered if her breathing in this space had anything to do with her body outside. She could still feel the aches and pains of the morning’s practice, but here she moved freely.

She felt Colonel Lambert grab her by the front of her armor and haul her to her feet. She considered staying here in the room in her mind where the colonel couldn’t swing his sword at her.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Devorah blinked at the colonel. She tried to remember what he had been saying.

“Um, right forward?”

The colonel frowned, but Devorah saw some sympathy behind his stern façade. Something about the cast of his face perhaps.

“Go take a break, scamp.” He pushed her in the direction of a hand pump at the practice field’s edge. The pump had once been used for filling a water trough for livestock but was now used to water thirsty soldiers.

Devorah carefully sheathed her sword and saluted the colonel (the first hour had been spent on sheathing, drawing, and saluting) and went as ordered.

With clumsy hands, she lifted the pump handle and brought it down again and again until water gushed from the faucet. Then, her breathing returning to normal, she took up a battered tin cup and thrust it under the stream. Only yesterday, using a communal cup would have made her cringe. Today, she didn’t care. She drank the first cup there at the pump, sloshing half on her face to run down her neck and seep under the armor.

The second cup she drank slowly, spilling hardly any. The third she carried to a nearby bench where she divested herself of the leather and cloth armor, stacked it all neatly, and laid the sheathed sword across her lap as she sat.

Devorah closed her eyes and sipped from her cup.

“Heya, boys. Is that the Governor’s little bitch?

“The one who killed Tum and the guys?

“That’s the one.”

“Careful now, she’s a secret weapon, remember?”

Hearty guffaws met the whispered exclamation. There were four of them. They stood about forty paces behind her where the soldiers’ tents—set in precise rows—started. They were young but confident, thin but tall, untested but proud.

The one who’d called her ‘bitch’ hitched up his belt and said “You boys want to have a bit of fun?” But he said it quietly so as not to alert her, and that, Devorah thought, is why she heard him. It made a peculiar sort of sense. Three of them struck out boldly, the fourth hesitantly.

Devorah kept her eyes closed and sipped at her water. It was as though she could see better with her eyes closed.

The boys packed snowballs from the muddy, churned up snow.

Childish, Devorah thought. She’d expected hazing from soldiers to be more intense than muddy snowballs.

As the boys approached, Devorah set aside her water cup and gripped her sheathed sword. The sword felt good in her hands, and with no armor to weigh her down, despite her aching body, exhausting morning, and uncertain situation, she felt confident. She felt better now than she ever had at home, even in the library.

The first projectile flew wide; she knew it wouldn’t hit her, so she ignored it, stayed still. The second and third flew true.

In a quick, fluid movement, Devorah stood and stepped to the left, letting one of the projectiles fly just inches to her right. The third she batted at with the broad side of her sheathed sword. The snow and mud concoction splattered on the sheathed blade but did not touch her. In that moment her body did not ache. Then she opened her eyes and blinked against the snow-bright sunlight. There were spectators Devorah hadn’t been able to see with her eyes closed. One of them was Colonel Lambert.

“Right foot forward, scamp. You’re holding the blade in the wrong hand.”

Devorah switched hands. Though using her left felt more natural, she found the balance of the blade in her right hand to be equal to her left.

At the voice of Colonel Lambert, the four mischief-makers started and came to stiff attention. The fourth, the one who had hesitated, dropped his projectile, unthrown. His hair was darker than the others, Devorah noted.

“And what the Hells is this?” the colonel demanded, his voice rising in intensity but not volume. The quieter he spoke, the more intense. He waited, the silence growing with the small audience, for one of the young soldiers to answer.

“Just a bit of harmless fun, sir.” It was the one who had encouraged the volley.

Colonel Lambert gave a non-committal grunt. He didn’t like what had happened, but neither could he be seen to be giving her special treatment. “You know what I think of scraps between soldiers. And you know what I think of… pranks.” He fell silent and let the silence stretch. Finally he said, “You have duties to attend. Dismissed.”

The boys scattered, and the crowd dispersed.

The colonel looked at Devorah and crooked a finger.

“Break’s over, scamp. Collect your armor.”

Devorah swallowed her sigh. “Colonel, I was hoping we could continue without the armor.” The thought of redonning the layers of cloth and leather was stifling. Without it, she had been able to move quickly, precisely—she had been able to act on her anticipation.

The colonel regarded her impassively. “Without the armor, you will collect wounds that won’t have time to become scars.”

“Couldn’t I just…” Devorah shrugged, “move out of the way?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

Pivoting to the side, he kicked at her while drawing his sword. The attack was a surprise, Devorah hadn’t detected anything so as to anticipate, and her mind went blank. She reacted without thinking, stepping to the side, and when he then swung his sword at her, she stepped back again and leaned just enough to let the blade pass her by.

The sudden attack left her wide-eyed and short breathed.

Colonel Lambert nodded. “All right. You may continue without the armor.”

Without the armor, she was lighter, faster, more alert. Her ability to anticipate served her well, but the colonel would sometimes strike unexpectedly, as though the movement were spontaneous rather than a practiced movement. And despite her speed, the colonel was still faster, stronger, and more experienced.

And he spoke to her as they sparred—

“Keep your guard up when you retreat.”

“Stay loose, you’re too stiff.”

“Be mindful of the terrain, scamp.”

He feinted to the left. Devorah read the feint and stepped into it to take advantage of his soon to be unguarded side. In so doing, she put her heel on a patch of snow and mud much deeper than it appeared, and she sank to halfway up her shin. Thus mired, she tripped and fell to her knees. She lost all focus and put her hands out to stop her fall. Her wrists protested the impact. A heavy blow to her backside sent her sprawling face first, covering her in the slime.

Exhausted, Devorah lay in the mud and didn’t move. She didn’t care if Colonel Lambert continued to beat her; she was, for the moment, too tired to move.

It was strange, she reflected, that during the sparing she didn’t feel the aches or exhaustion. She only felt them now the fight was over.

Colonel Lambert grabbed her by the back of her shirt and hauled her to her feet. She wobbled for several moments before retrieving her sword, wiping the muck from the handle, and raising the weapon to begin again. Immediately she felt better, energized, aware.

Colonel Lambert shook his head. “No, that’s enough for today, scamp. Get cleaned up and have some dinner. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“Dinner?” Blinking, Devorah looked around their small practice field and realized it was lit with lanterns. The sun had set and twilight was upon them. They’d been sparing all day without stopping, even for lunch. Suddenly, she was overcome with hunger, exhaustion and all-encompassing ache. She managed to salute and sheath her sword before she fell to her knees. The Colonel helped her to her feet again. He raised his voice, calling to someone, but the words were garbled to her ears.

The colonel shook her a bit. “Scamp, are you listening?”

Devorah nodded and blinked.

“This is Lieutenant Birkett. She’ll show you around this evening.”

The lieutenant was a tall woman with short brown hair and skin darkened from time spent outdoors. She frowned down at Devorah then grunted, conveying a wealth of meaning: you’re skinny, you’re weak, and you’re not worth the trouble. She turned and walked away, so Devorah followed.

The washing area was a tented bit of field housing a second pump. There were soldiers there stripped to their shorts filling buckets and splashing themselves with the cold water hurriedly then toweling dry and redressing before the chill of winter could set in, a stark contrast to the heated water from copper pipes Devorah was used to. There was a brick stove nearby where clothes hung to dry. Once washed, the soldiers found their way to the mess tent nearby, a pavilion stretched over posts as wide around as the widest trees Devorah had ever seen.

Lieutenant Birkett pointed. “Wash there.” She shifted to point at the pavilion. “Eat there.”

Devorah stood in indecision.

Lieutenant Birkett grumbled and grabbed her by a shoulder to propel her to the pump and the half-naked soldiers.

“Colonel Lambert insists on camp cleanliness and order.”

Devorah sensed approval in the lieutenant’s tone, but got the feeling the lieutenant was defensive, like there were some in camp who ignored the colonel’s insistence. The lieutenant stalked to the washing area, and Devorah followed. She continued to speak over her shoulder.

“You should bring a pack with a change of clothes. Unless you like redressing in the clothes you’ve been sweating in all day.” She looked Devorah up and down. “Not to mention rolling about in the mud.”

Devorah blinked, only now noticing the pack Lieutenant Birkett carried.

The area was paved in smooth gravel so it didn’t turn into a morass of frozen mud, but there was no concession made for privacy. Most of the soldiers were men but the few women seemed to have no concern for their modesty and were stripped down to shorts and a short shift.

She blinked, at once horrified but longing to rid herself of the mud and sweat.

“Well?” the Lieutenant demanded.

Devorah nodded and approached, but her fingers fumbled at the hem of her shirt. She was so achingly exhausted she couldn’t even get her own shirt off.

“Damnit,” muttered the Lieutenant.

Devorah clenched her jaw to forestall the tears of frustration. She ordered her body to work properly, to disrobe, to pump the water, to sluice it over herself, but she just couldn’t make it happen.

The icy water made her gasp, shudder, and draw in on herself. She hadn’t noticed Lieutenant Birkett approaching with a bucket of water.

“Quit your crying,” Lieutenant Birkett muttered. She went back to the pump and filled the bucket again. Devorah cringed when Lieutenant Birkett approached with the second helping of water.

“Hold still.”

The second was worse than the first, and Devorah yelped.

Lieutenant Birkett went back for a third, and Devorah could no longer hold back the tears. The Lieutenant said nothing as she dumped the water over Devorah’s head. Devorah just closed her eyes and shivered.

“I suppose that’ll do. If you want clean clothes, you’ll have to do your own laundry. There’ll be no attendants here.” The Lieutenant steered Devorah to the mess tent.

“Stand here.”

Lieutenant Birkett deposited her next to the brick stove. Devorah sighed in relief and leaned back into the brick wall, letting the radiant warmth sap the chill, the ache, the fatigue. It was as though her body had turned to water and she would puddle on the straw and gravel strewn floor.

She startled from her drowse by Lieutenant Birkett’s rough hand on her shoulder. Devorah blinked and, for a moment, stood in the room in her mind. First she looked at the chessboard. This game was almost over. The white player had the unfortunate habit of trying to protect all her pieces. Then she looked at the bookshelf, but there was nothing new. Her gaze was caught by the spine of The Kempenny Offensive, the story of a failed military venture conducted by Swords of the Church. She hoped it was more story than history.

When she opened her eyes, she sat at the end of a bench, a bowl of stew and heel of bread before her.

It smelled nice even through the stink of half-washed bodies and stale beer. It was a far more substantial meal than she’d had in years, but she ate it all, wiping the bottom of the bowl clean with the heel of bread.

She couldn’t remember how she got to her tent, Ror’s tent, but even remembering his cold execution wasn’t enough to give her pause in pulling the blankets over her head and sinking into sleep.

And into dreams.

• • •

Colonel Lambert and General Vahramp fought. They were fighting about her. They stood in a large tent festooned with maps and ledgers and scrawled reports. They argued quietly, like they didn’t want to be heard, making it easier for her to hear them.

“She’s thin and weak,” said Lambert.

“Are you questioning my orders?” There was a sly sneer to Vahramp’s voice making Devorah shudder, even in her dreams.

“No sir. I’m questioning her ability to withstand this sort of training. She’s so skinny, I’m afraid I’ll break her. I cannot believe she’s some kind of weapon.”

“She is a weapon, of that I’m sure. And I don’t want her Governorship interfering in the brat’s training. I want her so exhausted that she’s too tired to visit her aunt.”

“I’ll not ground her to dust.”

“You’re not going soft on me, are you colonel?”

She blinked.

She stood, barefoot, on the icy road to Governor Kempenny’s fortress and Ror knelt in the snow before her, blubbering for mercy. She held a sword too heavy for her.

“Kill him,” demanded the Governor. To either side stood General Vahramp and Colonel Lambert.

She raised the sword but paused. “Why?”

“You are a weapon,” replied the Governor. “Do as you’re told.”

Ror’s head bounced off the icy road and rolled to the Governor’s feet, who picked it up by the hair, laughing.

Behind her a heavy door slammed shut, and she spun to face it. It was a thick, iron-banded door with a small, barred window set near the top. Devorah was familiar with this kind of door from stories—she was imprisoned. Desperately she felt around in the dark and discovered her cell was no more than an arms’ reach in any direction. The walls were rough cut stone covered in odiferous slime. She swallowed hard to stave off the panic, but it came creeping up her spine.

A bass laugh drew her attention to the door’s window. A face now blocked the light from that small portal and though it was shadow-shrouded, she recognized General Vahramp. Her throat closed, choking on fear.

“You’re mine, brat, and you’ll never get away.”

The small window closed with a click that echoed off the slimy stone walls. Devorah huddled in the dark, the foul smell her only companion.

• • •

The smell woke her: stinking excrement, old blood, stomach bile. She came awake from the dream with a small scream, gasping for breath, and a throat-full of the stink roiled her stomach. She wretched, eyes stinging, and crawled to the tent entrance before emptying her stomach.

When she had a hold of herself, shakingly weak, she realized the smell came from her; she was coated in a crusty, slimy layer of muck. With certainty, she threw back the blankets to find the source of the muck she’d been too tired to notice when she crawled into the tent: viscera from some beast, likely discarded by the camp’s cooks.

Fighting down the bile, Devorah dragged herself and her blankets to the washing pump half way across camp, making her way despite the dark. In the cold air, the stench was mitigated so Devorah could ignore it.

The tent housing the washing pump was still and quiet. Devorah thrust her blankets under the faucet and pumped the handle until clean, cold water streamed onto the be-mucked cloth. She pumped so that her hands ached, washing the blankets until they were sopping but clean. Desperate to have the stink off her, she stripped off her clothes to do the same then poured the freezing water over her head until no trace of the mess remained.

Shivering, and wet, laden with sopping cloth freezing in the winter night, clad in clothes she’d tried to wring dry, Devorah picked her way back to her tent, focusing on putting one foot before the other.

“Well, if it isn’t the Governor’s little bitch.”

It was the boy, the one who had instigated the snowball throwing this morning. He stood in the path, blocking the way with crossed arms and a sneer. His breath frosted on the night air.

Devorah was numb with cold. She did not feel frightened or desperate or even angry. She just wanted to return to her tent for warmth and sleep.

Without a pause in her stride, she moved to walk around him, but he stepped in her way again, putting a hand on her freezing laundry to stop her.

Devorah wished she’d brought a weapon.

“What in all the Hells possessed you to walk about a winter night soaked? Not that I’m complaining.”

Devorah might have blushed if she wasn’t freezing. She hadn’t been thinking; she had been desperate to get the slime off.

The boy laughed. “Well, if you freeze to death, uncle’s problems will be solved, and I won’t have to be a spy-catcher any longer. Good night, little bitch. If you make it to tomorrow night, perhaps you’ll look before you go to sleep.” His nasty laughter faded as he walked away.

Devorah blinked slowly.

Start walking.

Her cold-numbed mind understood he’d admitted the deed. He’d been the one to fill her blankets with refuse. But at the moment she couldn’t summon the appropriate anger.

Start walking.

He had provided interesting information in his gloating. His uncle thought she was a spy, though he hadn’t said for whom. Perhaps she could use this to her advantage. But first she had to survive the night.

Start walking.

When she got to her tent, she tied off the entryflap securely, then lit the tiny camp lantern. It would provide some heat. Finally, she pushed the sopping blankets into a corner. They would do her no good. Instead, she pulled the clothes from the pack she’d brought from home: a simple grey dress, a formal blue and gold dress, extra stockings and underwear, and her heavy wool cloak. Clad in it all, she shivered back to sleep.

• • •

The camp was strictly laid out: soldiers separate from officers, training grounds separate from barrack tents, mess tents separate from latrines. It was tightly structured and efficient, and the more she understood, the more she approved. Laid out in neat squares, it reminded her of chess.

Days melted into weeks, and Devorah lost herself in her training. Most days she sparred with Colonel Lambert and though his experience and unpredictability was enough to keep her wealthy in bruises, she improved. She learned to maintain a variety of weapons and armor, though she wasn’t made to don the armor. She was taken to the archery range where she displayed such felicitous skill that she was issued her own short bow and quiver. She was tutored in the basics of military conduct, command structure, and tactics. All under the shadow of Colonel Lambert. She took quiet comfort in his shadow.

But her quick success and private tutoring with the colonel cost her. More often than not, she would return to her tent at day’s end to find it knocked to the ground, its support ropes cut and poles broken. Her clothes were ground into the mud or ripped or outright stolen. Devorah got to know the camp’s quartermaster, a grizzled man with a stump where his right hand had been. He called himself Lefty and laughed.

“If I ever find out which braggarts are destroying my supplies, I’ll whip ‘em myself!” And though he growled and glared, he always took the broken supplies and provided her with new.

Sometimes she would return to her tent to find something foul left in her bedroll: a mud snowball, a dead fish, entrails discarded by the camp’s butcher. She was never surprised by the disgusting gifts; after that first awful time, she always knew when they were there. She took to keeping extra bed rolls at Lefty’s.

At the end of the day, Colonel Lambert gave her over to Lieutenant Birkett, who ignored her as much as she could. They bathed in the cold next to each other and warmed up at the stove next to each other and ate dinner in silence next to each other, but there was no camaraderie.

Before she knew it, a month passed and she hadn’t so much as coughed much less required bed rest. She was stronger, faster, and more energetic.

She felt good.

The back half of winter proved to be as snowy as the front half, but that didn’t mean any less sparing practice.

“You must be ready to fight in all weather,” Colonel Lambert told her.

This particular morning was a combination of cold fog, light flurries, and shafts of sunlight. On this morning, they were sampling a variety of sword styles from all over the world: the thin blade from Northern Khulanty used for thrusting attacks, the hooked blade from beyond the Western Mountains ideal for trapping limbs and disarming opponents, the curved, single-edge blade from the far side of the Taranaki Empire designed for slashing, thrusting, and blocking, The variety of bladed weapons was enough to make her giddy. She wanted to try them all, dancing through the lighted snowfall, her breath misting on the air.

“Enough, Scamp. You need to go eat.”

Sometimes they worked through lunch, but the colonel insisted a girl her age needed to eat regularly. Devorah sighed. “Fine. But after, I want to try that one.”

Colonel Lambert looked where she pointed and shook his head with a chuckle. “That one is as tall as you are and twice as heavy. Besides, I’m meeting with the General this afternoon.”

Devorah bit her lip. “Are we marching north?”

He gave her a flat look that told her the question wouldn’t be answered. Even so, she got the sense she was at least partially right.

“You, Scamp, need to get cleaned up, and dressed smart. The Governor has commanded your presence for dinner.”

Devorah blinked, taken aback. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the news. When the Governor had given her to the General to be trained, she’d felt betrayed. Now, after a month, the Governor commanded her presence. Devorah wanted to tell the Governor to take a long walk through all the Hells.

“The Governor wants to see me?”

“You are her niece, aren’t you? You are the Heir to the Governorship of Kempenny Province and, if all goes well, future Royal of Khulanty, aren’t you?”

Heir to the Governorship. Future Royal of Khulanty. With all her focus on training, Devorah had forgotten about her larger role. She nodded numbly.

“Then yes. The Governor wants to see you.”

To clean up and dress smart, Devorah was directed to the officer’s area of camp which was like a permanent military outpost with brick structures for housing officers and officers’ horses and officers’ stuff, and where a large copper boiler was used for the express purpose of heating water for bathing.

The washing facility was outside, but thick curtains divided one copper tub from another, a measure of privacy she was no longer used to. A woman in thick winter skirts and a coat met her at the washing facilities, drew her bath, and offered to brush her hair.

Devorah felt awkward, having someone attend her. Though it had been only a month, it seemed like years since she’d needed an attendant.

The preparations took hours. After the long hot bath (which Devorah couldn’t deny she enjoyed) the woman insisted on preparing her hair. It was so tangled that, after several fruitless attempts with a brush, the woman cut it short. Devorah ran a hand through her short hair. It felt good, as freeing as taking off armor.

Devorah was then presented with a formal black dress with blue trim and a blue unicorn on the left breast—the new colors of Kempenny Province. Long sleeves with stiff cuffs, heavy skirts, and the snug waist made it impractical for combat, but the high collar was decorated with the pin of an officer: Major. She was a couple ranks above Lieutenant Birkett and just one below Colonel Lambert. The pin made her uncomfortable.

The woman also insisted on makeup, an experience foreign to Devorah. It took a long time and she had to sit perfectly still. By the time she had been made up, Devorah felt like she wore a clay mask that might crack if her expression changed too quickly.

Prepared, feeling scrubbed and cleaned for the first time in a month, except for the makeup, Devorah found the short sword she’d been training with didn’t hang comfortably over her skirts, there was too much skirt.

“I don’t think you’re meant to wear a sword,” said the woman who’d attended her bath, hair, and makeup.

Devorah gave the woman a flat look, fed up with the nonsense she’d endured all afternoon. The woman ducked her head and mumbled an apology.

Devorah redonned her stout boots, ignoring the high-heeled shoes the woman had laid out for her, and strode through camp.

Evening was already falling by the time she stood in the small, rocky place at the edge of camp where she and Colonel Lambert held their sparring matches. The array of swords was where it had been left. For a moment, she considered strapping the giant sword to her back. The surprised expression she imagined for the Governor was enough to make her smile. But practicality asserted itself and she took the thin one, a rapier, instead. The thin blade and elegant hand guard looked as though it belonged with formal dress. It lay among the folds of the skirt, almost hidden.

“You’re a little snake, aren’t you—hiding your sting amongst your skirts.”

Devorah started. General Vahramp stood nearby, arms crossed. His sudden appearance put her on edge and she turned, right foot forward, relaxing her shoulders, ready to draw.

“You should salute your General.” He smiled lazily, like a giant cat.

Devorah brought her feet together, straightened her stance, and saluted. General Vahramp stalked toward her.

“Very good. Lambert has taught you well. I hear you’re his obedient little bitch.”

Devorah felt impudence rise in her throat, and it escaped her lips before she could throttle it. “Well which is it, am I a snake or a bitch?”

In a quick movement, he grabbed her chin and forced her face up to look at him. The move came as a surprise. She had grown used to reacting quickly and well in a fight, but the General’s attack had caught her off guard.

He squeezed so that she had to hold still to avoid more pain. His nose almost touched hers.

“You’re prettier than Erin, that’s for sure. Tell me, are you really the child of Royals Sean and Maggie?”

Devorah swallowed hard and tried to pull away, but he held tight.

“Your aunt has big plans for you, brat. But so do I.”

In a quick movement he spun her about and pulled her tight to him. Devorah felt her limbs go numb, her chest clench tight, her vision blur. She remembered, watching from the window seat of her bedroom all those years ago, as this man held the Governor to him, just like this. She remembered hating him for it.

Vahramp put his face at her neck and breathed deeply. “You smell good, little girl.”

But moving loosed his grip on her and, as she had done now a month ago, she acted. She reached over her shoulder with her left hand to scratch at his face. Vahramp reacted with a yell, stumbling back. Before she could worry about the consequences of attacking a superior officer, she had her rapier drawn and pointed at his chest.

He glared at her.

“Snake, bitch, or feral little pussycat, you are dangerous. Your auntie has big plans for you, but I wonder if she’s shared them all. Do you know that she intends to sacrifice you so she can sit on the throne of Khulanty? That you’re to be a tragic, martyred figurehead?”

Devorah could imagine such a plan coming from the Governor.

He smiled. “Was that a hint of fear? Sadness maybe? My dear girl, you must understand that your aunt is a poisonous politician. She will use you just as she’s used me.”

• • •

Emma met her at the gate. “Baby! Oh God, I’ve missed you.”

Devorah blinked at Emma. She had barely given the girl a thought since her training had begun, but the sight of her made Devorah smile.

Emma hugged her without much force. “Is it terrible? Have they hurt you?”

“No.” Though she ached all over from daily sparing bouts with Colonel Lambert, she didn’t feel hurt. She returned Emma’s embrace, holding the other girl tightly.

Emma squeaked and Devorah let her go.

“You’ve gotten strong,” Emma said, rubbing her shoulders gingerly.

“Sorry. Um… the Governor sent for me.”

Emma smiled again. “This way.” She hooked an arm though Devorah’s and led her through the well-lit, stone hallways as she chattered.

“I’ve heard how they train soldiers down there in the camp. They fight all the time and they all have to wash together, and they eat raw meat. It sounds terrible. And you being so weak, I don’t know how you’ve managed it. But I suppose you’re not weak anymore, are you?” Emma sounded wistful.

Devorah didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

“She’s been trying to get you up here since that first night. The Governor, I mean. I think she’s going to make that awful General Vahramp leave you alone. Won’t that be nice?”

Being rid of General Vahramp would be a relief, but she didn’t want to stop weapons practice. She made a noncommittal noise.

Emma prattled on with barely a pause, jumping to house gossip to political rumors to wild stories about Taranaki diplomats with three eyes and forked tongues.

Devorah stopped listening and followed Emma until they stopped before a door guarded by black-clad guardsmen bearing the blue unicorn. The guards came to attention and saluted as she arrived. At first she though they were saluting Emma, then she remembered she bore a pin of office.

“Major Kempenny, the Governor awaits you,” said one of the guards, his expression stony.

Devorah put a hand on the door, but Emma forestalled her with an impulsive hug. “Good luck, Baby.” She released Devorah and looked at her with shining eyes.

Devorah pushed open the doors and entered.

The Governor’s chambers were well furnished but not opulent. A pale blue banner adorned one wall emblazoned with a golden unicorn. A fire warmed the room, and thick rugs were layered between the stone floor and occupant’s feet.

Near the fire was a table set with breads, cheeses, and cured meats. A pitcher of chilled wine and two empty glasses stood nearby. But what caught Devorah’s attention was the chessboard on the table in the center of the room.

“How long has it been since we played?”

Devorah turned to face the Governor. She was dressed similarly to Devorah but without the military rank and without the sword. Devorah saluted.

The Governor sighed and waved a hand. “I see they’ve managed to beat military discipline into you. I hope they haven’t beaten the intelligence out of you.”

“On the contrary, I’ve learned a lot.”

The Governor pursed her lips and made a non-committal sound. She looked at Devorah in a way she never had before, as though sizing up her usefulness. But behind the calm exterior and aloof pretensions, Devorah sensed fear. The Governor feared she was losing control of the troops, that she had become a prisoner in her own fortress, that she had lost the loyalty of her niece.

“Governor, why did you send for me?” Devorah couldn’t help but think of General Vahramp’s warning.

The Governor went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. She held one out to Devorah. Devorah accepted and inhaled the heady fumes. Rarely had she been allowed wine at home. The red liquid fairly glowed.

“You are my niece, my family.”

Then why did you give me to Vahramp?

Devorah went to the small table with the chessboard, sipping her wine as she sat. The makeup on her lips stuck to the glass briefly, reminding her of the mask she wore.

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

Devorah looked up at the Governor. “Isn’t that why it’s here?”

The Governor smiled. “You’ve chosen black. Do you want to give me the advantage of the first move?”

She hadn’t meant to choose black, she had just gotten used to playing black since the player in her mind played white. But she didn’t want to admit that to the Governor, so she said, “I’ve been practicing.”

The Governor sat, studying the board, and took a sip of wine. “Chess is a closed system. Every move in the game is important,” she said. “Everything you do puts the game closer to its end, and you had better make certain each choice is moving you toward victory.”

She moved a pawn.

Devorah nodded. In her earliest games with the Governor, she had seen these initial plays as being of little consequence. Now she knew better. She moved a pawn.

“They think I’m a spy.”

The Governor flicked a glance at her. “Do they now?”

They exchanged a few moves. Devorah lost a pawn.

Devorah nodded. “Some of them. I assume they think I’m spying for you, but what I can’t figure out is why the Governor of Kempenny would need a spy in her own army.”

The Governor waved a hand at the chess board. “It’s the same. I must be able to anticipate my opponent, prepare for the possibility of spies for example, and counter. Otherwise I’ve lost before I’ve begun.”

“Is that why you gave me to General Vahramp?” Devorah kept her gaze on the board. She hadn’t meant to let that frustration past her lips.

The Governor stood and held out her hand. “More wine?”

Devorah gave up her wine glass without looking.

“I’ve only ever wanted the best for you, Devorah.”

The falsehood was palpable.

Devorah didn’t respond; she moved a cleric instead.

“I want you to be able to live free of tyrants. I had hoped to leave you out of this conflict but at the same time I knew it wasn’t possible.”

“So, I am a spy.”

“Well, that’s up to you.” The Governor handed her wine glass back, and Devorah took it.

“Where does General Vahramp fit into this?”

The Governor moved a knight. “Frederick hates the royals even more than I do. And he knows how to lead an army.”

“But you don’t trust him.” Devorah looked at the board, thinking on what piece to move next. She was going to have to sacrifice a castle to draw in the white consort.

Every move in the game is important. I was a sacrifice.

Devorah didn’t let her revelation slip. She closed her eyes and sipped her wine, letting it drown her sudden anger.

The Governor sighed. “Frederick is not a man I trust. He is a weapon to be pointed, guided, and let loose.”

But he’d proven too much for her. General Frederick Vahramp, Devorah knew by her aunt’s secret thoughts, was slowly taking the army from her.

I was sacrificed out of desperation.

Devorah opened her eyes and looked at the board.

Every move, from what kind of wine to serve, to topic of conversation, to the choice of black or white.

And the entire field spread before her. She could see the Governor’s strategy and how to counter it. Devorah’s royal was almost trapped, one board-crossing move from a white castle and the game was over. All Devorah had to do to win was not make the most obvious move—taking the white consort. Winning the game was about capturing the royal, not clearing the entire board.

Devorah swirled her wine, took a sip, and met the Governor’s eyes. She could see frown lines deepening with age covered with makeup. She could see feathers of grey at the Governor’s temples hidden with dye. She could sense her aunt on the edge of victory and defeat, and Devorah knew she could reach out and nudge her—tip the scales in favor of either Governor Kempenny or General Vahramp.

Devorah moved a knight to capture the white consort.

The Governor smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve won again.”

Every move is important.