Devorah no longer slept. The lack didn’t bother her as it had in the High Cleric’s halls, it did not make her feel shaky or fuzzy. Instead, it gave her a lot of extra time.

She spent some of that time watching the Fieldsmans once shadows had fallen on the pains of Jaywin. She watched them at dinner, she watched them gather around the hearth in the front room, as summer slipped into autumn, slipping into bed to arise refreshed before the sun rose the next morning.

On her third night of this silent observation, Devorah sought out Nathanial in particular as he readied for bed. He shared a small bedroom with both farm hands. Three beds, one a set stacked one atop the other, filled the small room, leaving precious little space for personal items. The room was on the second floor of the house, and Devorah had to shadowalk to a precarious perch outside the small window, opened a crack to let the cool night air in.

To her surprise, as the lamp was blown out and the boys settled in, one of the hands spoke up, and she was the topic of conversation.

“How long are you gonna pine over that odd girl?”

“You saw those strange scars,” said the other. “Who knows where she comes from or what witchcraft she gets up to. You know they say there are witches in the south.”

“Yeah, she definitely looks southern to me. That’s where the war comes from you know.”

Apparently the conversation was nothing new. Nathanial let the farmhands speak their minds as he had before, ignoring their barbs, stewing in silence. But tonight, for no reason he could have explained, was different. Tonight, he was sick of putting up with it. He let them say their piece before he slipped out of bed and stood with his back to the bedroom door, the challenge obvious.

“I’ll not hear another rude word about the lady, or I’ll split both your lips.”

The farmhands were eager for a fight. The violence was surprisingly quick and quiet. Nathanial’s large fists found soft targets, eliciting grunts and groans. He came off with a black eye, but the hands each suffered bruised ribs, one had a bloody nose, the other a split lip. They were all silent as they got back into bed, and it went undisputed who had one the scuffle.

Devorah wanted to go to him, to tell him she’d not forgotten him, she’d not abandoned him, but she remembered her silent promise to Beatrice Fieldsman.

It wouldn’t be until two weeks later she broke it.

He hadn’t given up on her, he still thought she’d come walking from the shadows some evening, her brown skin pale in the moonlight, her strangely beautiful scars shining in the light like some mysterious Saint out of Scripture. And then he berated himself, because she was obviously destined for much greater things than life as a farmwife. He couldn’t imagine her standing at the sink washing dishes or at the oven baking bread or in the garden pulling weeds, not for the rest of her life.

He’d taken to spending time in the field well into sunset, waiting until he absolutely couldn’t see to do the work before coming in to dinner, usually after the rest of the family had begun to eat. He insisted they not wait on him. They knew where his thoughts were, but none said anything, especially not the farmhands who still bore the marks of his anger.

Devorah stood in the shadow of the barn, watching him come in from the field, holding the shadows close so he would not see her. She watched him walk quietly, sedately to the farmhouse where he would wash his hands in the barrel outside the front door, his mind running round and round wanting to see her but knowing she wouldn’t come.

She let the shadows slip so she stood only in the natural shadow, watching him, willing him to look at her so she didn’t have to reveal herself. She watched him walk to the door, strip off his shirt and splash water over his body. She watched him turn from the door and shake the water off before taking up a towel and drying. She watched him look up, right at her, and pause. He closed his eyes and looked again, thinking for sure that his mind was playing tricks, but she remained.

He smiled at her and she smiled back. He came to her in the shadow of the barn. He smelled of earth and sweat under the water meant to wash it all off.

“What are you doing here?”

Devorah was caught off guard. “Didn’t you want me to come back?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking on that. You…” He laughed quietly, taking in her sword, officer’s jacket, and expensive clothes. “You don’t belong here, no matter how I might want you to. But you’re right, I did want you to come back.”

Devorah shook her head. “Wait, I’m confused.”

He laughed again. “So am I.”

Devorah put her hands on his damp chest. It was hard under her callused touch. The touch sent a shiver through them both. It made little sense to her. He was a simple farm boy. Why should he attract her? He put his hands around her wrists and stepped closer. He put his head down so it touched hers. It was strange; Devorah didn’t think of herself as shorter than others. She viewed enemies in terms of size only insofar as it mattered tactically, otherwise she considered herself no smaller than anyone else, but here was a tangible example that she was shorter and smaller than this man.

“Thing is, I don’t think you’d like it here,” Nathanial said.

“You’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“And I’d be lost without a field to tend. The earth is in my bones. I will not leave it.”

“Not even for me?” It wasn’t a fair question and Devorah bit her tongue. She took it back immediately. “I’m sorry, don’t—” But he spoke over her.

“You belong walking the halls with princesses and dignitaries. What would I do as the lover of the Governor of Kempenny? Tend her garden?”

Shocked, and still surprised he could do that to her, Devorah jerked back, away from him, pulling her hands from his grip and putting her back hard to the barn wall.

“How…”

He laughed, this time loud and amused. He gestured at her. “We know the crest of Kempenny the Traitor even so far north, even in the middle of nowhere. Your jacket bears knots of rank, I’ve read books; I know what that means.”

Devorah blushed and looked away, but her power to see whatever the shadows touched put his face in her mind. She couldn’t not look at him.

“’There are no happy endings,’” He quoted. “’Endings are the saddest part, so just give me happy middle and a very happy start.’”

“You’re quoting poetry at me now?” Devorah approved. It’d been a long time since she’d had anyone to quote literature with.

“It’s Silverstein. I was trying—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the second greatest philosopher poet of all time, thank you.”

“Second greatest? Who’s first?”

“Geissel, of course.”

He grinned at her. “Oh, I beg to differ.”

“No. I’m not debating philosophers with you.”

“Then kiss me. That’ll shut me up. If you want to, that is. It’s okay if you don’t…”

The idea had merit. “If it’s just going to end badly—“

“Then I want our middle to be as happy as can be.”

He held his hands to her and she took them. He stepped closer and there was nowhere for her to step back to, but she did not feel panic, no aura of white light edged her vision, no scent of blood filled her nose.

“I may have been a bit… abrupt last time,” Nathanial said. “Would it be all right if I…”

Devorah kissed him.

• • •

She felt the weapon from a distance. When she first entered the Pinefort forge, it was not the heat, the dryness, the ruddy glow that struck her, it was the feeling that beyond the forge, in the back room, was the weapon she’d designed. It pulled at her in a way no weapon ever had.

Smith led her to the back room where a workbench had been cleared but for the new weapon laid out on a simple, black cloth. It was a miniaturized form of the fire-arms. It was smaller even than the hand-held fire-arms she’d commissioned. The barrel was about as big around as the circle made by her thumb and forefinger and as long as her forearm. The revolving chamber was bulkier than she had wanted, but she knew the action would be smooth. The handle was textured metal, like the handle of her rapier.

Devorah picked it up and held it aloft, examining it in the dim light with the benefit of shadow. Along the barrel was etched the image of a unicorn, Smith’s artistic touch. With the barrel pointed at the sky, it was a unicorn rampant, pointed at an enemy, it was a unicorn charging.

“Shall I show you how it works, Governor?” He asked because it was polite and his duty, but he knew her answer.

“I’d prefer to work it out for myself.”

It was a simple matter to unsecure and remove the revolving cylinder. The cylinder had three chambers, room for three shots, three shots before needing to be reloaded. She replaced the cylinder and secured it. Just as she’d known it would, when she spun the cylinder it spun smoothly.

“That cylinder was a tricky bit of business,” said the smith, “But it was nothing compared to little bullet-cartridges you designed.” He indicated the small wooden box filled with iron and lead cylinders, each holding a bullet, powder, and primer in a single compact package.

“How did you do it?” Devorah asked. “Tiny hammers?”

The smith laughed. “Molds and presses. I designed a mold to make the little cylinders small enough, smaller than any plumbing pipes we’ve got, but doable. Then…”

Devorah stopped listening. The manufacturing of the weapons wasn’t of interest to her. The feel of the weapon in her hand was. She closed her eyes. She sensed the weapon in the same way she could sense through shadows. She removed the cylinder and replaced it again, familiarizing herself with the movements. She removed it a third time and put a bullet-cartridge in each of the three chambers, each cartridge sliding home with the snugness of a book on a shelf.

Devorah opened her eyes and looked at the smith. He’d stopped talking.

“Have you tested it yet?”

The smith shrugged nervously. “After what happened the first time, I thought it safer if you got your hands on it first.”

In the courtyard, Colonel Lambert and a contingent of his senior officers awaited her. Smith trailed, carrying a simple wooden box containing the revolving fire-arm and bullet-cartridges. A set of targets had been erected on the far side of the yard, old crates, breastplates, and crockery. Smith opened the box and held it for Devorah as she withdrew the revolving fire-arm. She closed her eyes.

Late afternoon sun made for deep, angular shadows in the practice yard, not that shadows bothered Devorah. The days were shortening and the coming evening felt cool. Devorah idly felt that the passage of time since her capture and subsequent escape had gone by unaccountably quickly. The Intersect drew close and she had no plan to stop Vahramp, no plan to stop the High Cleric. She should have counted herself satisfied that over the last months there had been no conflict within Kempenny’s borders. But her allies roved northern Khulanty causing trouble, so she couldn’t enjoy even that small victory.

She opened her eyes and in three quick explosions destroyed two clay pots, and punched a hole through a breastplate, her thumb pulling back the hammer, her finger squeezing the trigger all in the space of one smooth breath. She released the cylinder, holding both it and the body of the fire-arm in one hand while grabbing for bullet-cartridges with the other and loading three in graceful succession. With a well-placed flick of her wrist she put the cylinder in place, secured it, and fired three more shots. The reload took loner that she’d have liked, but that would improve with practice.

Then she did it again.

She knew her power with weapons gave her an advantage. For most, reloading would be not so easy nor so quick, but it would be easier and quicker than reloading the normal fire-arms and the hand-held fire-arms. She had the rapt attention of her audience, she knew they were contemplating the use of such a weapon, the advantage it would give Kempenny. Devorah was determined not to pursue the war beyond the bounds of the province, but she was certain that the power she held in her hand shouldn’t be reserved for her alone.

Devorah turned to the gathered. “The Saints got it wrong. God didn’t make people equal. They are strong and weak, rich and poor, cruel and kind. But this,” she held up the revolving fire-arm, “this will make them equal.”

• • •

She sat in the room, her legs hanging over edge of the cosmos. She stared into the infinite, her legs swinging idly, thinking on nothing in particular. She pulled at the power and felt it swell her body as though the top of her head were a funnel. When she was full, she pulled away from the cosmos. It held on to her, sticky, and she had to concentrate on removing herself before she came away with a faint pop, felt rather than heard, and backed into the chair, stumbling over it so she was sprawled, undignified.

She couldn’t help but chuckle at herself.

She ran her necromantic power though her body, taking comfort in the cool, dusty power, and felt out her balance. It had continued to shift: less Body, less Soul, a peculiar snag holding her to this Realm, a snag she could undo with a thought.

Devorah opened her eyes to see the chess board and decided, lest it come upon her suddenly, she needed to answer her little sister. On a scrap of paper, she wrote a single word.

Yes.

The admission made her feel at once better and worse. Now her sister knew who her chess partner was. Now her sister might force a deadly confrontation.

• • •

A warband, headed by Battlechief Uther Trollsbridge himself, clad in black tunics bearing the blue unicorn rampant of Kempenny Province jogged through the night toward the small town of Wheatridge. They bore their traditional weapons: hammers, axes, two-handed swords. They bore, also, the hand-held fire-arms. Not the revolving fire-arms, only the smaller versions of those weapons dubbed demons, but it would be enough. They were upon Wheatridge in a matter of moments. Much of the band was occupied with destroying and looting the small town, but a few groups split off, taking one of the well-worn tracks to the outlying farms.

Devorah’s heart stopped for a moment and she had to focus to restart it; it hammered painfully, vibrating her whole body. She focused desperately on her body, reaching for her power to force her body to regulate properly: breath in, breath out; pump blood through veins and arteries, release fluids in moderate doses. She didn’t understand it, she simply let the power guide her body instinctively.

By the time she had her body under control, Uther Trollsbridge was within moments of the Fieldsman’s barn. One of the irascible barn cats had come to the door to see what had woken it. The warriors themselves were surprisingly quiet, despite their mail shirts and stout boots. The old cat understood trouble when he saw it and scurried to the safety of the barn.

Devorah snapped herself through the shadows. Though the pressure pressed the breath from her chest, she forced it back in the moment air was available. It cost her barely a thought.

There were nine of them, Trollsbridge at their head. Devorah drew her sword and knew it wouldn’t be enough to prevent all the damage they could do.

Already, she could hear the Fieldsman household stirring. The fiery ruckus in Wheatridge, had woken the family. Nathanial was first at the door. He’d be first to meet the warriors of the Mountain Kingdom armored in nothing but his shorts, armed with nothing but his fists.

She went to Trollsbridge first, shadowalking to a spot between him and the farm but far enough that she’d give him time to change his mind.

“This is Warchief Kempenny. Do not attack this household. Ignore my orders and I will kill you.” She shouted over the night for she knew they would not strain to hear her.

Battlechief Trollsbridge grinned. He relished meeting her in combat. Devorah let him see her. He drew his warhammer, holding it high overhead, prepared to smash it upon her head. Devorah drew her newest weapon, the revolving fire-arm. Battlechief Trollsbridge had a moment to register surprise before she fired three bullets at him, each taking him in the chest, shattering the mail beneath the tabard, piercing the leather and cloth underarmor and breaking his sternum. The force of the three bullets knocked him off his feet. Though none had pierced his chest, though the shots had not killed him, he wouldn’t be getting up for quite some time. Devorah shifted her attention.

One of the warriors thought to sneak around to the back door. He was trampling through the garden, the same garden Devorah had dedicated an afternoon to weeding, when she shadowalked behind him. The mail shirt he wore was made of tightly woven links of steel, but because this warrior favored the mobility of raising his arms for an overhand strike, his mail shirt had a gap in the arm pit. As he raised his hand to open the back door, that gap was revealed and Devorah thrust her rapier into the opening with unerring precision, striking his heart. And while her sword tip touched his heart, she used it as a conduit for her power, forcing his body to lurch at her command.

She shadowalked again, this time putting herself and her new zombie directly in the path of a pair of warriors only strides from charging through the yard. Her zombie took a blow to the shoulder that made his right arm useless, but he retaliated with a one-handed blow of the hammer. Devorah thrust her sword through the throat of the man in front of her. As he died, she took him and now two zombies attacked their former fellow. The live warrior struggled mightily, his great battle axe cutting deep rents in the zombies, but the zombies felt no pain and, acting on her mental command, they cut him down in return. In a matter of moments, the three ruined bodies lay in a heap. She could have raised them all, but the bodies were nearly useless.

Behind her, just in the door of the house, Nathanial stared through the darkness. He had pulled the door closed behind him and stood, fists at the ready, prepared to meet the charge of a giant man with a sword. There wasn’t enough time. Devorah could shadowalk to his location and kill him, but she couldn’t get between him and Nathanial in time to prevent his injury. So, desperate, she gathered the shadows around the warrior instead of herself and cast him through the shadows to where she did not know.

Nathanial dodged to the left and struck with his right in a surprisingly efficient movement, but his blow struck only shadow. He was confused, frightened, but relieved he no longer confronted a well-armed and armored warrior.

“Nathanial!” Devorah barked in her best command voice. “Get in the house, bar the door, get everyone upstairs. I’ll deal with the warriors.”

“Hello?” Nathanial came toward her, squinting in the night, though the fire of Wheatridge a distant glow.

“Nathanial, get in the house!” Devorah shouted.

The last four warriors, realizing the house they had chosen to attack was far from defenseless, banded together and were entering the courtyard cautiously. Devorah turned to them. They were far enough away that she sheathed her sword and drew the revolving fire-arm. In a quick series of motions, she disengaged the cylinder, loaded it, and replaced it. She took a breath, aimed, and fired, striking one of the warriors square in the forehead. The bulleted pierced his skull, flattened, struck the back of his skull and ricocheted, liquefying his brain. He dropped like a stone, prompting his fellows to charge.

Devorah fired again, and though her aim was true, the warriors all ducked and weaved at the flash and crack of the weapon, and her bullet took a man in the shoulder rather than the head. She fired her third and last bullet and took an enemy in the chest. The bullet shattered on his chainmail which billowed and held though the force of the bullet took him to his knees. Without enough time to reload, Devorah sheathed the fire-arm and drew her sword. But she hesitated.

These men were pawns of her own casting. It was her fault they were here. Perhaps she could find a way to remove them from this situation without killing them. The answer was obvious, she’d managed it only moments ago. So she drew on the shadows and cast her mind away, to the west, though the direction didn’t matter, and she wrapped the three remaining men in the shadows, sending them away.

“Wait, what, where did they go?” Nathanial said.

“Get in the house, or I’ll slay you myself,” Devorah growled, spinning to face him.

He recognized her then, the scars on her face, the only part of her skin he could see, shining in the moonlight. He held up a hand as though to ward her off, reaching behind him for the door handle. Devorah watched until he stumbled back though the door before she turned her attention to the rest of the Mountain Kingdom warriors marauding through north Khulanty on her order. There were too many of them for her to banish all at once, unless she drew on the power of the cosmos.

Devorah closed her eyes.

The wall was gone and she stood at the edge of her mind and forever. The cosmos had proven a tricky part of her mindspace. The power it granted was indisputably useful, but the loss of her self was disquieting.

She sat on the floor and let her feet dangle into the cosmos. She let herself slip out there a little. The power that kept the change at bay stretched and she seized upon it.

Devorah opened her eyes a moment later. The power suffused her and she drew more. She cast out through the shadows until she could see each Mountain Kingdom warrior and seized them. It was a sizeable company, nearly fifty, and grabbing them with shadow was enough to tax her power. She didn’t know what would happen if she used more power than her body was capable of providing in her current state. But if she was to cast the warriors away and spare Wheatridge and its surrounding establishments any more destruction, she’d have to draw more. So she reached in a little further. And the cosmos drew her in, filling her with power and washing away her attachment to the world.

In the west, a small knot of men huddled in a field. She took the men from Wheatridge and sent them to join their fellows. She put herself on a hill not far from them. They were confused and frightened, though, because they were men of the Mountain Kingdom, they would not show their fear. They grew angry instead.

She reloaded her revolving fire-arm and fired it once to draw their attention. She pushed at the shadows, making certain moonlight struck her skin, glinting off her scars. They recognized the sound of a discharged fire-arm, many of them were armed with the hand-held variety, but they’d never encountered her revolving variety. They would think she’d fired her only shot, so she fired again to show them they were wrong. She waited until the echo of the weapon died off the hills to the west and she knew she had their attention.

“I am Devorah Kempenny, your Warchief. Battlechief Trollsbridge will soon be dead. I have a task for you. There is a city north of here called Olytan Lighthouse. I will gather the rest of the Mountain Kingdom warriors and, once I’ve gathered you all, you will attack the city. This is the last battle I will require of you as warchief, I will then send you home.”

There was some grumbling among the warriors. They’d been promised a night of looting and she’d cut it short. If she wanted them to do as she told them, she’d have to give them something. She cast her mind through the night and found that they weren’t too far form another small town, a town to which she had no ties, for which she cared nothing. A simple sacrifice.

Part of her rebelled. This is not a game. A town is not a pawn.

She gestured at the town. “You will find an easy target to the west. It’s not far. Then make your way north. I’ll find you when I need you.”

She left them to their marauding and shadowalked to the Fieldsman’s yard. There was a loose end yet to tie.

She found Trollsbridge sitting up, still dazed, just on the edge of the Fieldsman’s wheat field. He had a hand to his chest where blood oozed from the wound her three bullets had struck. Unlike rigid plate mail, chain mail, being more flexible, was able to absorb more of the blow. It had still shattered, sending shards of metal into the leather and cloth composite under the mail and into the skin beneath, but, surprisingly, it was moderately effective against fire-arm projectiles.

Devorah drew her sword.

But she hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t think he needed to be killed but rather that she wanted to make sure she was herself when she did so. The cosmos washed away what she thought of as herself, but there was still that part of her that objected, who didn’t like the idea of losing control, who wanted to make sure killing Trollsbridge was her own idea, not the decision of an emotionless calculation.

She slipped to the mindspace where she still sat with her feet dangling over the edge of the cosmos. She pulled hard at the cosmos, trying to separate herself from it. It held tight. She stopped and sat still, staring, contemplating. The cosmos, it seemed, was vast source of energy accessible only by giving up some part of oneself. To regain oneself, one had to give up the power. The power, she realized, she still held. So, the obvious solution was to release the power. She did.

Devorah snapped back to her body and was wracked with pain, all-consuming, light-blinding, scar-fire pain. She wretched and collapsed and curled into a tight ball. Every muscle strained against the pain. Her jaw and fists and toes clenched. In the flashpoint of pain, her thoughts crystalized around one truth. In pulling herself from the cosmos entirely, she cut herself from the power to fend off the change, to feed the bloodlust. She was rapidly changing into a vhamp.

The pain stopped as suddenly as it had started and was replaced with hunger, hunger so strong it drove her every thought. She raised her face to the sky and inhaled. She could smell the mice in the field, the cows in the barn, and the family in the house. But closest was a large man, bleeding but still alive. He was on his feet and stalking her. He did not realize he was bringing his warm, living blood right to her, that she would feast upon him and grow strong. He did not realize she welcomed his arrival though he meant to kill her. He did not realize even when she tore out his throat with her claws and placed her mouth firmly to the wound, making the wound larger with sharp tears of her canines, probing with her elongated tongue, for it all happened far too fast.

When she was done, Devorah stood, unsteady on her feet, heady in her thoughts. She wiped an arm across her mouth, still soaked in blood.