The stage where Lieutenant Birkett had been executed had been re-erected. Devorah was escorted to the steps of the stage by Privates Sheldon and Healy. Private Sheldon bore bruises on his face and walked with a suppressed limp. Private Healy bore an aura of smugness and walked with strict precision. Private Sheldon preceded her up the steps and Private Healy followed. They walked on either side of her to the post in the center of the stage.

Devorah kept her eyes on the post as she walked across the stage, her body numbed, her vision blurred, her hearing dimmed. She did not look at the Governor on her makeshift throne or at General Vahramp holding a thick, leather strap. Her world narrowed to putting one foot before the other, walking to that post. She would not falter, hesitate, or fall. She would not let General Vahramp win.

Devorah blinked and when she opened her eyes, the post loomed before her. She looked up and saw the hook secured to the post an arm’s reach above her head. Given her short stature, a new hook had been installed especially for her. Before either of her escorts could take hold of her, Devorah reached up, standing on her tiptoes, and hooked the rough rope binding her wrists over the hook. Should she lose her footing, she would hang from her wrists rather than fall.

Private Sheldon put a hand briefly on her shoulder before working at the knot of the robe at the back of her neck. And then he whispered while General Vahramp addressed the assembled soldiers in a booming voice. For Devorah, it was easier to hear the whisper.

“Many of us are with you, Major. The General is crazy, unstable. Stay strong. We’re with you.”

Then Private Sheldon’s thick fingers on her neck fell away as he undid the knot, letting the robe fall open in back, baring her to the gathered. There were some catcalls and chuckles from the crowd.

She could see nothing but the post. She didn’t know anything about lumber, but it seemed to her that a small tree had been felled for the purpose. Odd, she thought, that a tree should die for this.

General Vahramp stopped talking. She could not see him, the day was too bright, but she knew he was turning his attention to her now. She tried to remain calm, not to panic, to stay relaxed, not to tense, to say strong and not crumple under physical torment. Her mind was strong, stronger than anything the General could do to her.

The first blow caught her off guard. It took her from her right hip to her left shoulder. All breath was expelled from her chest so she couldn’t cry out, and for that she was grateful. She realized that this public contest between General Vahramp and herself provided a great opportunity. If she could manage to weather the blows with quiet strength, she would garner respect and make General Vahramp look like an impotent fool. So, she breathed heavily through her mouth and made no noise.

At the second, she could not help a gasp. The pain made her whole body tense and stole her vision as well as her breath. When she could see again, she was looking into the cloudless spring morning. It was a beautiful day. She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t work and she was afraid she might vomit. She closed her eyes and controlled her stomach.

The third blow landed. Devorah bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out. She squeezed her eyes tighter, and lights danced in her vision. She wasn’t going to be able to do it. She could not stand against this torment silently. Choking back her screams would only mean that when they were eventually torn from her, they would be that much worse. General Vahramp was going to win, to break her in front of everybody.

But the lights in her vision coalesced and she could see the room in her mind, a mental sanctuary from the physical. It was, of course, the obvious solution, and Devorah chided herself for not thinking of it sooner. With great relief, she went to the room in her mind and the physical world, the pain of the lash, became distant. It did not retreat entirely, Devorah felt the next blow, but it did not consume her, and she was able to keep her physical body stoic under the abuse.

As she always did, Devorah looked at the chessboard first. It was the start of a new game, only three moves in. Devorah moved a pawn with a small smile. Distantly, her body was struck again. She scanned the bookcase for any new books that might have appeared, but found none. She was prepared to select a novel and curl up in the well-cushioned chair to wait out the ordeal when she realized that the wall opposite the bookcase was missing and beyond was a purple-tinged, star-spangled cosmos. It was like a window had opened at the crown of her head. Intrigued, she stepped to the edge of the room, where the floor became nothing, and stared into it.

And she stood on the edge of never and forever and teetered there.

God’s Wounds, the girl is tougher’n old leather.

Not even the tyrant can break her.

I’ve never seen anyone hold up so long.

The voices of the soldiers in their strict blocks drifted from the cosmos to her, and she leaned forward, though carefully, not wanting to fall into that starry nothingness. Though she had come to associate with darkness and shadow, this was different somehow, not the same as shadow. It did not feel the same as the velvet comfort she knew.

Heavy-fisted bastard…

Disgusting how he stares at her…

How did I ever look up to him…

We’d be better off if the Gov’ put the girl in his place.

She’s got the skills…

…And is a fair bit more pleasant.

Devorah knelt on the floor to keep her center low, then reached tentatively into the cosmos. And she felt there a serenity she did not like. She knew instinctively she could tip into the cosmos and be lost there, that it would allow her to forget the strife of life. She would no longer need concern herself with military campaigns or magical books or physical torment.

It was too easy a solution.

It was giving up.

But there was something else there too, for the thoughts of the soldiers had come to her from the cosmos. And reaching into it now, she felt them all, standing silently, their hidden thoughts coming to her easily, and she was able to take them all in. The deluge of thoughts filled her and she knew who in the army despised General Vahramp, who was loyal to Governor Kempenny, and everything in between. And Devorah grabbed onto that information and held it tight.

The beating stopped.

She waited, poised on the edge of the cosmos, for several moments. When no more blows fell, she braced herself mentally and slipped back to her body.

Devorah grunted as the pain hit her full force. All she knew was the pain. For a moment of forever, she could not see or hear or think for the pain. It consumed her. It was all she was. And then Private Sheldon was there, his hands upon her wrists, and he unhooked her. She nearly crumpled, but Private Sheldon held her upright until she could stand on her own.

She looked at him, her thoughts a haze, and blinked. He held more admiration for her now, and more hatred for General Vahramp. Private Sheldon drew his knife and cut her bonds. Her wrists were raw from where the rope had held her as she hung.

“Thank you, Private,” she felt herself say. “May I borrow your knife?”

He handed it to her wordlessly. Immediately, she felt better.

Without a glance for General Vahramp or Governor Kempenny, she stepped to the edge of the stage.

“In three days, we march north. There are supplies to be packed, wagons to ready, and some of you have weapons practice. With me. You are dismissed.”

Private Sheldon stayed at her side as she made her way to the practice yards. And though she had reminded them of the coming march north, not a few others followed. She could feel their admiration through the haze of pain. She held to it.

She stopped at the water pump at the edge of the practice yard. Private Sheldon moved to help her, but Devorah held tight to the knife he’d given her and shook her head. Her pulse pounded across her back, burned in her breath, intruded upon her thoughts, but she was determined to fetch her own water.

She knew she was watched, but she ignored them. She let her mind focus on the water pump, the rough handle under her hand, and the cup on the ground to catch the water. She moved the handle deliberately despite the ache, breathing in the pain as she did the afternoon breeze. Soon she heard the gurgle and felt the pressure of water rising from the ground and she released the handle while water spilled from the faucet into her cup, splashing gently.

And she knew when Private Timothy Vahramp separated himself from the crowd, flanked by his usual hangers on. They were all grinning like little boys who’d not only gotten away with mischief, but been praised for it. Devorah knelt to pick up her cup of water, and when she stood, the three boys were surrounding her.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Devorah did not respond. She shook her head at Private Sheldon and anyone else who might want to intervene. Private Vahramp was here to gloat, and Devorah was content to let him for the moment.

“Do you see that, boys? Finally the bitch has been put in her place.”

On the other hand, she was still being watched, and to do nothing would make her seem weak. Devorah let her gaze rest on Private Vahramp.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Private Vahramp, his voice saturated with sarcasm. “Am I not supposed to talk to a superior that way?”

Devorah smiled. “Is that a challenge, private?”

“A challenge?”

Devorah stepped past him toward the gathered crowd, then turned to face him. “Yes, private. Everyone here heard what you said. Which puts us in a bit of a bind. If I don’t demand an apology, I’m admitting that my rank is meaningless. And I cannot have that. I’d demand you apologize, but after all our other confrontations, I think it’s a bit late for that. So, a challenge it is. Unless you think you can’t defeat an injured little girl?”

Devorah put the cup of water to her lips and drank deeply. She didn’t need to watch Private Vahramp over the rim of the cup to know his indecision. All eyes were on him now, it was his move.

Private Vahramp gave a hearty laugh. “What are you going to do, fight me with a little knife?”

Devorah smiled over her water cup. “It’s what you want, Timothy. I can see it in you. It’s what you’ve wanted since I first came to camp.”

Private Vahramp’s façade fell, revealing the hatred behind, but tempered with smugness.

“I…”

“You’ve made the challenge, Timothy. Are you really going to back down now, in front of everyone watching, in front of your friends? Are you really going to back down to me?”

Private Vharamp put a hand to his sword hilt. “No.”

And that was enough for Devorah.

She tossed her cup at Private Vahramp’s face—a distraction. As expected, he staggered back, but he still managed to draw his sword. Devorah was unconcerned. While he was still staggering, she darted forth and put the point of the knife in his chest, right at the sternum. She knew the strike wouldn’t penetrate, but it would hurt. She pushed hard so he would stagger further.

Then she waited, knife blade low and upturned. In the several moments it took Private Vahramp to recover, Devorah realized the robe she’d worn to her beating was still unclasped in back and hung awkwardly on her shoulders. The detail had escaped her in the haze of pain. Rather than try to secure it, leaving herself vulnerable, she shrugged and let it slide off. This left her bare to the assembled, but she chose not to care.

Private Vahramp didn’t take time to leer. He swung wildly, counting on the superior length of his sword to provide the advantage. Devorah danced back from three heavy swings, her footing sure on the hard-packed ground. Private Vahramp lumbered and stumbled by comparison. As he recovered from his third swing, Devorah pushed forward and brought her knife up. She made sure to scratch it along his ribs rather than drive it under, rather than kill him.

He shouted, but it was of rage, not pain. He was beyond pain, taken by battle frenzy.

It would be easy to kill him, she thought. And, indeed, the thoughts of her supporters suggested she should. It would be practical, it would remove him as a threat. But she held back. He was a boy, a child. Killing him would be wrong.

“You can’t beat me, private,” she said. “I can do this all day, and you’re bleeding.”

“Then why am I still standing?” Private Vahramp replied. “Kill me, if I’m so weak.”

He swung again, and again she danced back, enjoying herself. She smiled. Her focus narrowed to the blade in her hand and the blade in his. She evaded his attacks with ease and struck him painful stings that would bleed, exhausting him.

She realized a moment too late that she’d been played, that her fight with Private Vahramp was a feint. She remembered Colonel Lambert cautioning her to be aware of her surroundings. Now she cursed herself for letting her focus narrow. In the next moment, she was struck hard upon the back of her head.

• • •

In the room in her mind, she opened her eyes on the chess game, curled comfortably in the large, cushy chair. For several moments, the game wouldn’t come into focus. She blinked, and when she could discern pawn from castle, knight from cleric, consort from royal, she remembered what had happened. Through the buffer of the mindspace, her head ached.

“Open your eyes,” she ordered herself. “Open your eyes. Right now.”

Distantly, she felt the thudding bounce of a horse’s gait. Muffled shouts drifted through the distance between her body and her mindspace, but she couldn’t make out the words.

“Open your eyes, damnit.”

The distant awareness was like a candle hidden in a library: she could see hints of its glow, flickers caught the corners of her awareness, and she knew if left unattended, it could burn the whole place down.

“Open your eyes!”

She snapped to with a jerk and a gasp. She found herself slung over the back of a horse in front of the rider, the saddle horn digging into her side.

The long shadows of afternoon had deepened to darkness in the woods surrounding the Kempenny fortress, so she could see she was on one of three horses. She could see her captors in the dark, Private Vahramp and his cronies.

“She’s awake,” Private Vahramp shouted, fear in his voice.

Devorah liked that.

She’d restrained herself, she’d been so careful not to do him any lasting harm. She no longer felt inclined to restrain herself. Reflexively, she pulled the shadows tight and felt better. Private Vahramp and his cronies shouted in alarm. He grabbed for her. His hand on her skin reminded her she was nude and she knew a moment of terrifying vulnerability—without clothes, allies, or weapons.

But Private Vahramp was armed. He had a sword at his hip, a quiver on his back, and a bow tucked in his saddlebags. Devorah was most interested in the dagger in his boot, near her hand. The handle of the small weapon stuck up over the boot top, a smooth steel pommel. It was a simple matter to snatch it to hand.

In the rush that followed, she pushed herself up, slipped behind her captor, and put the dagger neatly through his throat. In the closeness of the shadows, she leapt nimbly from the back of the horse to the back of the one closest. The horse shied at her sudden weight, and the rider shouted, terrified. She cut off his shout with the dagger. And before the third could call out, she tossed the dagger at him so it sank to its hilt in his heart.

With their riders dead and fallen from the saddles, the horses slowed, stopped, then milled and stamped nervously. Devorah released the shadows, bathing them all in moonlight. One of the horses started at the sudden light and trotted back to camp, prompting the others to follow.

Devorah closed her eyes and took three deep breaths. The tickle of a cough threatened her throat. Without a weapon in hand, she weakly. There were weapons nearby, and she fully intended to arm herself before heading back to camp, but she took a moment first, a moment to wonder if she really had recovered from years of illness in the past few months, or if her power with weapons only made it seem so.

And in the next moment she felt the presence of pursuers. With deft efficiency, she armed herself: short sword, short bow and quiver, and a bandoleer of daggers. The leather belts chafed against her bare skin, but she ignored the discomfort.

She sprinted into the forest, pulling the shadows close and using them to see the whole of the darkened forest at once. To look ahead and guide her steps, and to look behind to find pursuit. She knew a moment of relief when the shadows revealed a single man. That relief drained to fear when she realized she could not read him, that the man who pursued her was Vahramp.

This was it. She was armed, it was dark, she had the advantage. After the events in camp, she could kill him and no one could raise a sensible objection. She could be rid of him and reclaim the loyalty of the soldiers for Kempenny. She could creep up behind him, using the shadows to hide her approach, to muffle her footfalls, and put an arrow through his throat.

But there was the book.

Devorah shuddered. The peculiar symbols and grotesque diagrams flashed through her mind without her willing it. The magic from the book could do more than a sharp bit of metal. The process would be painful, torturous, and that appealed to Devorah though admitting so made her shudder again.

All she needed was to be close enough to touch him, and that shouldn’t be too hard. Once she touched him, she could push death upon him with willpower and a little blood, hers and his.

The song of the book soared in her mind, a skittering, pounding, disconcordant rhythm that beat in time with her pulse. She slowed to a sprint to a walk before finding a large tree casting a deep shadow. There she crouched to wait.

• • •

Vahramp stood from examining her footprints. He took a deep breath through his nose, as though tasting the air for her. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you? I can see it in your trail. I can smell your fear. Come out, brat, and I’ll make it quick.

He was right, she was afraid. She could kill with ease, but this man still provoked fear in her. She could still see the way he’d held the Governor against her will, still feel the way he’d held her, pressing close.

Even so, she smiled. She thought about the black book and let its song soar in her mind as she ran an arrowhead across her right forearm, drawing a line of blood.

General Vahramp jerked upright, taking another deep breath. He turned to face her though surely he couldn’t see her through the shadows she held tight. She drew the bow, bloodied arrow nocked, and released, even as General Vahramp sprinted for her.

General Vahramp dropped and rolled to his feet, the arrow sailing harmlessly over him. Devorah cursed. There wasn’t time to bloody and draw another arrow, so she tossed aside the bow and drew the short sword. He was upon her then, drawing his own blade, unhampered by shadows.

Devorah stood ready, left foot forward, letting the song of the book and the shadows of the night clothe her. And though she could not read him as she read others, she parried his first volley of attacks. The sound of their blades stunned all other sounds to silence. In the moment after, Devorah moved to go on the offensive, but General Vahramp stepped into her, shunting aside her attack. In the next moment, he had her by the throat and the wrist, pressed against the bole of the tree whose shadow she’d sheltered in.

For a moment, she forgot the sword in her hand, the shadows at her call, the song in her mind. For a moment all she knew was General Vahramp’s body, so much larger than her own, pressing her into the tree. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from screaming, bit so hard she tasted blood.

…a bit of the necromancer’s blood and a bit of the victim’s…

The fragment of the black book floated through her mind and the song reclaimed its place and Devorah leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his and biting as hard as she could. She tasted his blood, felt it mingle in her mouth, and opened herself to the power that rested in the bowl on the desk in the mindspace.

The smell of old dusty graves, the whisper of ancient cloth on stone, the taste of stale air drifted through the night-dark forest.

The General gasped. His face contorted in fear and rage. He opened his mouth to speak but a thick, black liquid spilled over his lower lip and down his chin.

Devorah smiled. She had him. The black book put him within her power and his death was at her leisure. She felt his heart beating as though she held it in her hands, tasted his life as though it flowed across her tongue, smelled his fear like a vintage wine.

“What…” croaked the General.

“You treated my aunt poorly, spreading rumors, countering her commands, making her look the fool. You handled her roughly when she let you touch her. You treated her soldiers like pawns, sending them on unauthorized raids, undermining her goals.”

Devorah took a breath. “And aside from all that, you give me the creeps.”

She pushed at him, and he staggered back. Devorah brought her sword up, but he didn’t move to attack. He clutched at his chest, struggling to breathe. The blackness leaked from his eyes, nose, and ears.

“General Frederick Vahramp, for the crime of being a horrible human being, I sentence you to a slow, painful death.”

He collapsed to his knees. His forehead touched the ground He went still. She felt the flutter of his heart against her fingertips, the hint of life upon her tongue, and she knew he suffered.

She would have stood there until that weak flutter gave out but she felt, at the edge of the darkened wood, allies. She had a responsibility to them, and she could tell from their panicked thoughts that since her capture the camp had been thrown into chaos. Much as she would have relished watching General Vahramp slowly rot to death, she needed to bring order to the chaos of her army.

So she left him.

At the edge of the forest, Devorah saw the lights of camp, brighter than usual, people in a frenzy. She stopped in the shadows to catch her breath and assess the situation. Governor Kempenny stood with Colonel Lambert at the edge of the forest. The Colonel addressed a group of soldiers, fully armed and armored, preparing to enter the forest.

The Colonel turned to face the Governor and said in a low voice. “These men are dedicated to your niece. Among them are some fine trackers. They’ll find her.”

“And if Freddy has found her first? He’s no mean tracker himself.”

“Then they will avenge her.”

“I’ll have the sympathy of the soldiers at least.”

The Colonel grunted.

Pulling the shadows close like a cloak, Devorah made her way to Governor Kempenny, Colonel Lambert, and the readying soldiers.

It was a grizzled old tracker who noticed her first. He was a veteran of Kempenny’s forces, at least as long as Colonel Lambert, who had been impressed by her fortitude during the beating. The tracker nudged the man next to him, a recruit she’d worked with in weapons’ training she recognized for his lack of girth and his past as a pickpocket. He’d been offered a place in the army as an alternative to prison. And the pickpocket nudged Rory who let out a whoop of excitement.

“Devorah!”

The young soldier broke into a sprint, stumbling in the dark. He stopped several feet from Devorah, and saluted sharply, squinting at her. “Is he… Did you…”

“Dead,” said Devorah, answering the half-formed question.

“Are you still… I can’t quite see…”

“Your cloak if you please, Mr. Vickers.”

Rory unclasped his cloak and handed it to her as they were joined by the rest of the rescue force, followed closely by Governor Kempenny and Colonel Lambert.

Devorah secured the cloak about her shoulders but kept the shadows close. When she raised her hands, she was immediately afforded silence and attention.

“I have an announcement. Colonel, if you’d gather the soldiers at the stage? I’d rather only have to say this once.”

The Colonel nodded, and saluted before returning to camp to call the soldiers to order. Devorah made her way to the Governor and held a hand out to her. Smiling, the Governor took her hand.

“I’m so glad you’re unhurt, Devorah,” the Governor said in a voice that carried.

And Devorah knew she was, but she also knew if Vahramp had killed her, the Governor would have used that to her advantage as well. The Governor could not hide it from her, that she feared Devorah would steal this army from her, steal her glory and her revenge. And Devorah had to admit she was tempted. The Governor had proven herself irresponsible. But perhaps, Devorah thought, she might be able to do so while allowing the Governor to save face. After all, she was still her aunt.

“Me too, Aunt Erin.”

Not half an hour later, she stood on the stage where Lieutenant Birkett had been executed, where she had been bound and beaten, and she faced the soldiers, clad in a black dress with the blue Kempenny unicorn prancing upon her left breast, knots of rank on her collar, rapier at her hip. She stood with her hands behind her back and surveyed the army, such as it was.

The fighting that had erupted upon her capture had left several dead and many more than that injured. Supplies had been destroyed. Morale was like mist at midsummer.

“Frederick Vahramp is dead.”

Her pronouncement was met with muttered conversation. The volume of quiet comments and hidden thoughts might have overwhelmed her but she closed them out. She knew what they were anyway: some relieved the tyrant was gone, others frightened they had backed the wrong player, still others worried about the future of their military venture and Loreamer’s reprisal.

“I know that for some, this is happy news, for others a moment of panic. And that, of course, is the problem. For months now, while the Governor of Kempenny, my aunt, has tried to raise a force of competent, just, compassionate armsmen to protect our lands, she had been constantly undermined. This army has been pulled in two directions, a house divided.

“I know many of you admired General Vahramp, and despite my confrontations with him, I understand. He was a man of strength and conviction. But he was also a man of selfish vice. He countermanded the Governor’s orders out of spite. His goals were purely personal, a vendetta.”

“He hated the Church! The Church is corrupt!”

Devorah looked at the man who had shouted, a scruffy man who had the look of a career outlaw. He had thought she wouldn’t know who had shouted situated near the middle of the ranks as he was. He had shouted not because he believed what he said, but to stir up trouble. He quailed under her look.

Devorah knew nothing of Church corruption, but she nodded.

“I know. And I admire each of you who has joined this force in order to affect real and lasting change, not only for Kempenny Province, but for all of Khulanty. The royals hide behind confusing laws while the Church rules with fear and superstition.

“Vahramp’s vendetta against the Church was not ill-conceived, rather it was poorly implemented. He worked at odds with the Governor rather than with. Now, that mistake will be rectified.”

Devorah paused and let the implication sink in. She could feel the realization of what she was saying dawning upon the crowd like a quiet zephyr.

“If you’ll have me, I will lead this army into the north to cast out the interlopers, I will swell our ranks to secure the borders, I will then take our concerns directly to Kinswell, and all of Khulanty will bear witness to the tyranny and corruption of Loreamer and the Church.”

She turned then, drew her sword, and knelt before the Governor who sat upon her makeshift throne with a carefully neutral expression. Devorah held the sword up to the Governor, naked blade horizontal upon her palms.

The Governor could not read Devorah. She did not know if Devorah made this move to eventually take the position of Governorship as well, or if she was only trying to help. And, truth was, Devorah didn’t know either. She didn’t feel any particular drive to take power; she would have been happy to spend her days wandering the library and playing chess. But she could not stand by and watch these loyal soldiers ground to nothing for the sake of nothing. Whether Loreamer and the Church were really corrupt or not, Devorah would have to find out. For now, controlling the land within Kempenny borders, as outlined by Khulanty laws, would be enough.

Slowly, the Governor rose, letting her black dress with blue trim flow like shadow, an impressive effect for those gathered. With her long fingers, the Governor picked up the sword by the handle. She held it up so it caught the light of moon and torch, running one finger carefully along its edge. Devorah was the only one who saw the Governor wince slightly as the blade cut her finger. She looked up and caught the Governor’s gaze.

Her aunt teetered on the brink of decision. She could trust her niece, the girl she had played chess with and quizzed on history, to become her General and advance her goals, or she could slay the upstart officer who had killed her General before she became a true threat and took her power.

For a moment, the Governor’s expression hardened, and Devorah was glad the rapier wasn’t her only weapon, that she could draw the slim daggers sheathed at her forearms and defend herself if the Governor decided to put the sword at her throat. But then the Governor smiled graciously, a carefully crafted smile, and laid the flat of the blade on Devorah’s left shoulder, then her right.

“Rise, General Devorah Kempenny, Knight of the Province, Protector of the Land, Governor’s Champion, and take your place at my side.”

The gathered soldiers, new recruits and old veterans, former criminals and honest farm hands, supporters of Erin Kempenny and supporters of Frederick Vahramp burst into spontaneous applause and shouted her name in disjointed rhythm. She could feel in them a sense of relief, a sense of purpose, a sense of unity. And that feeling swelled as the rhythm of their shouts coalesced into a discernable whole.

“Devorah Kempenny!”

“Devorah Kempenny!”

“Devorah Kempenny!”