The Art of Stealing Time

FOUR

“Left. Go left!”

“If I go left, we’ll end up in the bay,” I said through gritted teeth, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight it hurt. I spun the wheel and we took a corner on what felt like only two wheels, a municipal sign pointing out the location of the Cardiff mall.

“Your other left!”

“That would be right, Mom.”

“Of course I’m right, I’m looking at Mrs. Vanilla’s drawing. She has it all mapped out.”

The wail of sirens behind us grew louder as another police car shot out of a side road, fishtailed wildly for about five seconds, then did a three-point turn and fell into place behind us. About five blocks back, two other cars raced toward us. They were closing fast. I figured we had a matter of seconds to make the mall and get into Anwyn before the mortal police got too close to avoid.

“A slowing spell! That’s what we need,” Mom Two said, and rolled down her window.

“Mom Two!” I yelled as she thrust her torso out the window, facing backward so she could cast her spell. “Get back in the car. The mall’s straight ahead!”

The words of her spell were whipped away on the wind, or drowned out by the siren as the nearest police car, with a burst of speed, zoomed up almost to our bumper, but I had no doubt that she was fully intent on buying us a little time. I grabbed her belt with one hand while slamming my foot down on the accelerator, forcing my mothers’ car to its limits as it shot across the last intersection, tires squealing when I swerved to avoid traffic, and into the mostly empty parking area outside the mall.

“Get back inside the car!” I bellowed, my eyes scanning the front of the mall. My mother had sworn that the Krispy Kreme—and I had a moment of mentally shaking my head again over the fact that someplace as mythical and renowned as the Welsh afterlife had an entrance in a doughnut shop—was open twenty-four hours.

Sure enough, at the far end of the mall there were a few cars outside a lit storefront.

“Done! I think that should help us,” Mom Two said as she pulled herself back into the car. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The police car had stopped, the driver banging his hands on the wheel in frustration.

“You could have been killed,” I chastised Mom Two as I spun around a barrier and headed for the lights. We rocketed past a security patrol, who instantly flipped on his lights and started to follow. Luckily, there wasn’t much traffic, since most everyone was still at the park or at home, so I blatantly disregarded proper driving lanes as we hurtled toward the entrance of the doughnut shop. “OK, as soon as I stop, I want everyone out and into the store. I’ll decoy the police away—”

“No!” Mom shouted, clutching the back of the seat. “You must come with us.”

“It’ll be safer for you if I lead them away from Anwyn.”

“No!” she repeated, and tugged on the headrest in an annoying way. “You have to come to Anwyn, too.”

“The police aren’t after me. I’m sure they don’t know who’s driving this car.”

“It’s not the police you need protecting from, Gwen,” Mom Two added. “It’s the woman in the red suit.”

“That’s right! She’s looking for you. And you know what that means!” Mom said, tugging on the headrest.

“No, I don’t, because neither of you would give me a good explanation of just who this mysterious woman is, or why she is after me.”

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Mom Two said with a knowing look.

“You don’t know who she is, do you?” I asked with sudden insight.

“I don’t know her name, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sense danger when it’s near. There.” She pointed, and for a second I was confused as to whether she was pointing out something dangerous. “That’s the entrance to the Krispy Kreme.”

I glanced behind me. The security car was close, but not so close that the occupant could physically grab us. Two police cars were heading straight for us, however. I didn’t have the time to argue, so I simply yelled, “Hold on, everyone!” and slammed on the brakes.

The tires squealed in a satisfyingly dramatic fashion as we slid to a stop right in front of the doors. I flung myself out of the car and yanked open the door behind me, running around the car to help Mom Two get old Mrs. Vanilla out.

The security guard hit his horn and slammed on his brakes, but he was too late. Mom Two and I more or less carried Mrs. Vanilla into the doughnut shop at a full run, my mother holding the door open for us.

“Where is it?” I asked as soon as we were inside, frantically scanning the interior. A couple of people sat in brightly colored booths, while behind a long glass counter an employee stood frozen in surprise, a pot of coffee in his hand.

“I’m not sure exactly,” my mother started to say, but Mrs. Vanilla began squeaking loudly and kicking her legs. We set her down and she bolted, moving amazingly fast for an old lady. Around the counter filled with doughnuts she dashed, and into the back area.

We didn’t wait. We ran after her, the electronic ping of the door chime letting us know that the security guard was hot on our heels.

Mrs. Vanilla scurried past the doughnut-making equipment, heading straight for a door to what must be a storage room. I prayed to every deity I could think of that it was, because if it wasn’t, we were going to be in a serious world of hurt.

Mom Two threw open the door and without a look back, dashed inside, followed by Mrs. Vanilla and my mother. I hesitated for a second. The security guard appeared behind me.

“I so hope I don’t see you in a few seconds,” I told him, then turned on my heel and leaped through the open doorway into the storage room.

Only it wasn’t a storage room.

I fell with a loud thwump onto soft, daisy-spotted green grass, getting a good mouthful of it before I managed to roll over onto my back.

The stars sparkled overhead, like so many glittering diamonds scattered on an indigo cloth. They looked so close, I wanted to reach up and touch them, to let their cold, brilliant light cleanse me of all impurities.

I sat up and spat out the bit of grass, half a daisy, and a very surprised potato bug. I looked around. Although the moon was high in the sky, a quarter moon that was as bright as a full moon, closer to earth a reddish haze hung over the land, like smoke from an odd sort of fire.

Directly in front of me were the three shapes of my two mothers and Mrs. Vanilla, the last of whom was being supported by the former.

“You guys are OK?” I asked, getting up. “I guess I owe Mrs. Vanilla an apol—”

The words dried up on my tongue as Mom Two shifted, allowing me to see beyond her.

A semicircle of men in plate-and-mail armor stood looking at us, each of them holding a drawn sword.

“Oh, hell,” I said on an exhale of breath.

“Anwyn, not hell, I think,” Mom Two corrected.

As she spoke, the ranks of men swept aside like a human parting of the Red Sea. Through the opening strode a woman, tall, pale, and slender. She was clad in a black leather bodysuit and had daggers strapped to either hip. Her eyes were a dark shade of green, and she had long black hair with green extensions that matched her eyes.

She looked like she belonged on the set of a martial arts movie. “Who are you?” she demanded as she approached, making an impatient gesture toward us.

I pushed my way in front of my mothers. I wasn’t abnormally courageous, but I had no intention of letting someone who looked like she could kick Jackie Chan’s ass get pushy with my moms.

“My name is Gwen. These are my mothers. The old woman is Mrs. Vanilla. Who are you?”

“Holly,” she snapped, her gaze raking us all over for the count of three. She turned, and with an imperious wave of her hand at the nearest guy in armor, added, “Arrest them. They’re spies.”

“What?” I shrieked as the men moved in. “Wait, we’re not spies! This is Anwyn, right? The afterlife? The happy bunnies and sheep and lovely rolling green hills place?”

Two men grabbed each of my arms and more or less frog-marched me toward an array of sharp black silhouettes. I looked over my shoulder to see my mothers being escorted as well, but they didn’t appear to be in distress.

“You all right?” I asked my mother, who was immediately behind me.

“Of course. You were the only one who fell coming through the entrance.”

“No talking,” the man on my left arm said, his voice gruff, if muffled, behind his steel helmet.

I bit back the words I wanted to say to him, instead focusing my attention on where we were being led. The black shapes resolved themselves into tents, of all things. Small fires dotted what could only be called an encampment, with at least a hundred (and probably more) tents of differing sizes arranged in orderly concentric rings, with larger tents in the center and the smallest on the outer ring. There were a number of dogs roaming around, all of which appeared to be of the same breed: that of a medium-sized hound that looked like a cross between a beagle and a greyhound.

A few men and women were present as we moved through the camp, some of them wearing armor like the guards, others in what I thought of as Renaissance Faire clothing—lots of leather jerkins, cotton tunics, and leggings that were bound by thin leather cords. It had the feel of a medieval military camp, which just confused the dickens out of me.

“What is a military camp, a medieval military camp, doing in the middle of Anwyn?” I asked loudly so my mothers could hear.

“Anwyn is the place of legends. Why shouldn’t there be a medieval army here?” I heard Mom Two say before she was told to be quiet. My own guards squeezed my arms in warning as we continued to trek through the tents. A small army of dogs fell into place at our heels.

In the center of the camp was a massive tent, at least three times the size of the next-largest one and flying a couple of fancy banners. I couldn’t make out what was on the banners when we were marched past the big tent, but it definitely looked like the prime accommodation.

It was not, needless to say, our destination. The guards—they couldn’t be anything but soldiers, given the armor and the way they obeyed the woman named Holly—stopped in front of a silver tent.

My hopes of a structure from which we could make an easy escape were dashed when the tent flap was pulled aside to reveal two tall iron-barred cages. They weren’t small—the two of them filled the entire tent—but they were very much a prison.

“Right. I am not going in that,” I said as one of my guards released my arm in order to open the door to one of the cages. It was about seven feet tall, and probably a good twenty feet wide, containing what looked like a couple of camping beds, two wooden chairs, and a small table. “I am not a spy, no matter what stabby girl says. I refuse to be caged like an animal.”

“Enter,” the guard said, flipping up his visor to give me a good glare.

“Like hell I will.”

He made like he was going to pull me into the cage, but I didn’t go through three years of self-defense classes to put up with being stuffed into a box. I dug my feet in, shifted my weight, and flipped him over my hip, heavy armor and all. He hit the ground with a loud crash and a grinding of metal, the dog nearest him managing to scramble out of the way just in time, but before the other man could so much as shout, I was on my nearest mother’s guard, trying to find a point of vulnerability that I could exploit.

Here’s the thing about armor—face on, there’s not a lot there to exploit. With little choice, I did what I could to disable him before intending to move on to the next mother-guarding man.

“This is intolerable!” I yelled as the door-holding guard ran over to pluck me off Mom’s guard, whom I was beating on the head with his own helm. A couple of dogs leaped about excitedly while I was hauled off the man, who now had a cut over one eye that ran in gruesome glory down his face. I tripped over another dog, apologizing as I did so. “Sorry, doggy, but this mean guard jerked me and made me step on you. Look, buster, I don’t hold with people abusing animals, so stop dragging me over the top of these dogs. Boy, there are a lot of them, aren’t there?”

I didn’t have time to continue, since my two guards threw me bodily into one of the cages, slamming the door behind me. I heard a key turn in the lock as I picked myself up and ran to the steel-barred door in an attempt to wrench it open.

Two dogs sat outside the door, panting and clearly hoping I would continue the fun romping game.

“Gwenny, dear, are you hurt?” my mother asked as she, Mom Two, and Mrs. Vanilla were placed in the matching cage. The guards didn’t manhandle them, I was relieved to note. Although there was a space of about six feet between our cages, I was comforted by the fact that they were nearby, and as safe as an unjustly incarcerated person finding herself in the Welsh afterlife could be.

“No. Just very, very pissed. Hey, you, plate boy. My mothers are old, and Mrs. Vanilla is really elderly. Give them some food and water and blankets and stuff.”

The guard said nothing, just lit a torch inside the entrance, and left, letting the tent flap drop as he went.

“Bastard,” I muttered, and began to prowl the cage to look for weakness. The dogs accompanied me. “Sorry, guys. I’m not going to play right now. Maybe later, OK?”

Oddly enough, the dogs seemed to understand, because they both turned and wandered out of the tent, leaving us alone. A few minutes later, another guard appeared, this one minus his helmet but with his arms full of blankets, with two carefully balanced jugs on top. A second guard carried a couple of long flat metal platters bearing bread, cheese, and what looked to be some sort of smoked meat.

I wasn’t surprised to find a fresh company of hounds on his heels, evidently very interested in the food.

The guards passed the food through the bars to us, ignoring my pleas to be taken to whoever was in charge so that we could clear up the situation. Thankfully, they shooed the dogs out before them when they left. So it was that a half hour later, fed, hydrated by ice-cold water that was actually very good, and with the warmth of a thick woolen blanket around us, we all settled down to get a little sleep.

“Things will look brighter in the morning,” my always optimistic mother said as she curled up with Mom Two on one of the camp beds in her cage, Mrs. Vanilla having been settled on the other. “They always do.”

I said nothing, but as I watched the torch sputter and finally die, my thoughts were as dark as the night outside the prison tent.

• • •

“See? I told you things would look brighter,” my mother said some seven hours later. I shot her a brief glare, and she had the grace to look abashed.

“I wouldn’t call a bloodred sky brighter.” My attention was momentarily distracted by the fact that the sky was, in fact, deep, dark red and striped with dirty gray wisps of what I assumed were clouds. Smoke, thick and dark, wafted upward in long, lazy curls from some unknown—but nearby—source. Every now and then, a little rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and twice my peripheral vision caught the sudden flash of lightning.

There were no clouds in the sky.

I took a deep breath, one of several that I had taken during the last ten minutes since we had been released from our prisons. We’d been given more water (which again was fresh and cold and almost sweet, it was so good), thick slabs of bread, a little pottery bowl of butter, and rough-cut slices of the best cheese I’d ever had. Three young-looking dogs who could have been siblings snuck in after breakfast was delivered and waited patiently outside my cell until I couldn’t stand their hopeful eyes any longer and handed over bites of bread and cheese. Two apples completed my food allotment, both of which I stuck in my hoodie pockets for later.

Luckily, I’d just finished using what could only be described as a camping toilet, discreetly located in the corner and hidden behind a long blue curtain that was hung from the bars across the ceiling of the cell.

“Say what you will about the accommodations,” Mom Two said as they settled in to their breakfast. I noticed somewhat jealously that they had also been given plump, juicy-looking grapes. “The food is delicious. Gwenny, don’t give those hounds any more cheese. It will give them wind. Is there more butter, Alice?”

Mrs. Vanilla made happy little noises as she ate grapes.

It was a good thing that we were all hungry, because we were given only a few minutes to eat before a new contingent of guards appeared and herded us out of our prisons.

“Who exactly are we being taken to see?” I asked my guards. I noticed with irritation that I had two of them, while my mothers and Mrs. Vanilla had only one each. The morning sun glinted off the armor they wore, which appeared to be made of pale golden-plated pieces, bound together with mail of the same color. Men and women alike wore the armor, I was somewhat gratified to notice. At least wherever we’d ended up, women weren’t treated like inferior beings. “Hey, I asked you guys a question, and I expect an answer!”

“Gwen, I don’t believe an antagonistic attitude is going to benefit us,” Mom Two cautioned from behind me.

I could have told her that I was fully aware it wasn’t the way to make friends and influence people, but that, at the moment at least, wasn’t my goal. I wanted information, and if being obnoxious was the only way to get it, then I could be VERY obnoxious.

“Dude,” I said, dragging my heels and jerking the guards on each of my arms to a halt. “I am not taking another step until someone tells me what’s going on!”

The guards picked me up with a hand under each of my armpits and simply carried me forward.

“Dammit!” I yelled, kicking my legs and trying to be as dead a weight as possible. “Put me down! Why the hell won’t you speak?”

“They are not allowed to speak to spies,” a man answered. The guards stopped and set me down in front of him, which was at the opening of a purple-and-white-striped tent. The man was also in armor, although his had fancier bits of embossing and little round medallion plates on it. Obviously, he wasn’t just an ordinary soldier. Next to him, on the ground, lay an elderly version of the dogs who had hit me up for part of my breakfast. She lifted her head when the man spoke, her tail thumping on a dark purple rug.

“We are not spies,” I said, straightening my clothing with exaggerated gestures. “I am an alchemist. My mothers are Wiccans. The old lady is just an old lady. She doesn’t talk much. Who are you?”

“Your name?” the man asked, his long, mobile face not at all what I would have pictured as someone in charge of soldiers. He looked goofy, like a young Hugh Laurie pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

“Gwen Owens.”

“I’m Gwenny’s mother, Magdalena,” my mom said as she came forward. She gestured to the right. “This is my partner, Alice Hill. Mrs. Vanilla is our client.”

The man bowed with a metallic rustle. “Colorado Jones.”

I stared at him for a minute. “You mean like ‘Indiana Jones’ but with ‘Colorado’ instead?”

He blinked somewhat vacant blue eyes at me. “I’m not acquainted with Sir Indiana, my lady. Is he with Lord Aaron’s army?”

“OK,” I said after a moment’s pause, “I think for sanity’s sake we’re just going to let that go and move forward. Who do I speak to about this patently ridiculous claim that we’re spies? I don’t even know who we’re supposed to be spying against, or for, and why, but I can tell you that it’s all wrong. We just got to Anwyn about ten seconds before we were captured.”

“You’re not spies?” the man asked (I made an effort to think of him by the name he’d given, but it was difficult). Relief flooded his face. He gestured toward the guards, dismissing them. “It’s all been a terrible mistake. I will inform Lady Holly that these damselles are here to help us, not harm us.”

I started to protest, but my mother grabbed my arm and gave me a look that had me biting off the words. It was better to be thought a friend than a foe.

“Witches are most welcome to Lord Ethan,” Colorado was telling my moms. “Most welcome. As for your compatriot—” He eyed Mrs. Vanilla. She weaved a little, making a creaking noise as she did so. “Yes, I’m sure we’ll find something for her to do. Everyone must have a use, that’s what the Lady Dawn says. She isn’t in Anwyn at the present, but we must still abide by her rules. You ladies may have Mistress Eve’s tent. She has returned to her home, and needs it no longer. My squire will take you there, and then to the apothecary so that you might procure whatever you need to weave your magic.”

“Oooh, an apothecary,” Mom said, looking pleased.

“Now, hold on here a minute,” I said, jumping a little when Colorado bellowed, “Branwyn! Front and center! And see that you’re suitably garbed—ladies are present.”

“We’re not going to go anywhere until we find out exactly where we are and what’s going on.”

He looked surprised. “Why, you are in Lord Ethan’s encampment.”

“Who’s Lord Ethan when he’s at home?”

“Gwen!” Mom Two scolded me, then said apologetically to Colorado, “You have to forgive our girl. She spends most of her time in the States.”

“Lord Ethan is Lord Ethan,” Colorado said, his hands flapping helplessly. “He is our lord and master.”

“I got the relationship basics, but who is he, exactly? And why does he have an army in Anwyn? Wait, we are in Anwyn, aren’t we?”

“Yes, this is Anwyn.” He gave me a look filled with pity, as if I was the one who was a sparerib short of a barbecue. “This is the battleground, my lady.”

“Why do you keep calling me—no, never mind. I refuse to be distracted by minutiae. Who is Lord Ethan battling?”

“Lord Aaron, of course. Ah, here comes Branwyn.”

A stout young man of about sixteen burst out from a nearby tent, bright freckles dotted across a face that was almost as red as his hair. “You bellowed, Sir Colorado?”

“Aye. Take Lady Alice and Lady Magdalena and . . . er . . . Mistress Vanilla to Mistress Eve’s former tent, and then hence to the apothecary’s. And do not dally. They are powerful witches and will bespell you should you waste their time.”

The boy’s eyes widened as he looked from me to my moms.

“Hold your horses there, Hopalong Cassidy,” I said, putting up a hand to stop him. “We’re not going to anyone’s tent until I find out exactly what’s going on.”

“Oh, you are not to go to Mistress Eve’s tent,” Colorado said with a sunny smile. “You are young and comely and mightily built. Lady Holly would have my head if I didn’t bring you to her.”

“We’ve already met Holly.” I bristled a little at the “mightily built” comment, tugging down my hoodie so that it covered the expanse of what my mother referred to as “child-birthing hips.”

“I’m sure we’ll see you shortly, Gwen,” Mom Two said, taking Mrs. Vanilla by the arm. “After we see what stores the apothecary has.”

“I think we should all stay together,” I told both mothers as they urged Branwyn forward.

“Don’t be silly, dear. We’re safe now, and Mrs. Vanilla clearly needs to rest. We’ll get her settled in our new tent so she can replenish her strength.”

“But—”

“You know how your mother and I dearly love a visit to a well-stocked apothecary’s shop,” Mom Two added. “We’ll see you later. You go off and meet with that young woman again. Perhaps she’ll lead you to the people in charge. Give her our best wishes. Young man, do you know if the apothecary has wortsbane in stock? We’ve been out for the last two centuries and unable to find a reliable source for more . . .”

“This way,” Colorado said, gesturing in the opposite direction. The old dog started to get to her feet. “No, Rosemary, you stay there. I won’t be long seeing this lady to her destination.”

I bit my lip, watching my mothers wander off, part of me feeling it really was better for us all to stay together, but the other part of me wanting them out of the way in case the situation turned dicey. I didn’t like the look of that woman Holly, so all in all, it was best that I confront her on my own.

Colorado chatted about nothing in particular as we wound our way through the camp toward the far edge, most of which I didn’t listen to because it was something about trees and plants and how he had an affinity to aspens, or something of that ilk, and I had more important things to chew over. Like whether the Holly woman would throw me back into a cell and how I was going to convince her that we weren’t spies.

I kept my eyes peeled as we walked, not only so I could retrace my path if necessary, but because I wanted to get a better idea of why there was a battle going on in Anwyn and why it wasn’t being fought with modern weapons.

Men and women moved busily through the camp, some people clearly employed as blue-collar workers, hauling buckets of water, trays of food, armor, bedding, and sundry other items. On the outer edge of the camp, visible down one of the aisles, a parade of horses marched past, on their way to or from a stable. And everywhere there were dogs, dogs, dogs.

“—of course, what was I to do but to answer the call of Lord Gideon?”

Startled, I realized that Colorado had been talking to me about something other than his love of trees, and I’d missed it all in my musings. “Um. Sure, why not?”

I glanced around, noticing something. I expected that with so many dogs around, there would be a lot of dog poop. But there was nary a pile to be seen.

He nodded. “That’s what I said. It was my duty to answer the call. I was honored when Lord Ethan chose me to be one of his knights.”

“That’s got to be a big honor,” I said, hoping that was true.

“It is indeed.”

“Who is Lord Gideon again?”

He shot me a startled look. I made a little face. “Sorry. I was thinking of something else and must have missed that bit.”

“Lord Gideon is a magician of much power and breadth. He is responsible for all of this,” Colorado answered, gesturing toward the camp. “He is also Lord Ethan’s younger brother.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” I had a feeling that “magician,” in this case, didn’t mean the guys in Vegas who pulled off the kind of illusions that made tigers and elephants disappear. No doubt it was a reference to the Otherworld version, the kind of mage who performed public feats of magic . . . real magic. “You guys must really like dogs. And have them really well trained, because I don’t see any obvious signs that so many live here.”

“We all must take a rache, yes.”

“Rache?”

“Hunting dog. All that you see here are the spawn of Lord Ethan’s bitch, Ergo. She is long dead, but as you see, her progeny live on.”

“They do indeed.” And I had to admit, all the dogs I saw looked happy and healthy. There wasn’t a single dog that had that air of skulking around hoping for a bite to eat or a friendly pat; they were all glossy-coated, well fed, and apparently well cared for. “You must have someone pooper-scooping on a full-time basis.”

“Naturally, we make prisoners attend to their droppings. It is suitable punishment.”

That surprised me. “You have other prisoners? Other than my mothers and me, that is?”

“A few that we’ve taken over the centuries. Here we are. Lady Holly, I bring to you the lady Gwen.”

We stopped in front of two people, one of whom was the pale-skinned bedaggered woman from the night before, the other of whom was a man in armor who sat on a wooden stool, holding out his arm.

“It’s an RSI,” the man was saying, the words giving my brain a moment of trouble resolving a modern acronym for a repetitive injury with the anachronism of armor. “I can’t even grip the hilt of the sword without my entire arm burning in pain. Lo the healer says the MRI shows I need time off so that the herbs and physical therapy can heal the injury.”

“Injury, schminjury,” Holly said in a disgusted voice. “We don’t have a spare soldier, so you’re just going to have to get out there and do your job.”

“But Master Lo said—”

“Lady Holly!” Colorado said loudly, tapping her on the shoulder.

She spun around, her hair whipping like little blades of black silk. “Do not touch me!”

“My apologies, but I did not think you heard me when I said that I was here with Lady Gwen.”

Her dark green eyes shifted to me, narrowing as they raked me over. “This is the spy from last night, isn’t it?”

“I am not an it, nor am I a spy,” I said, meeting her gaze. I’d never been one to let someone intimidate me, and I certainly wasn’t going to start with this thin, prickly woman.

“Who are you?”

“Gwen Owens. I’m an alchemist. I came to Anwyn last night in the company—”

“Suit her up,” Holly interrupted before striding off. “She can take the place of the injured soldier.”

“Suit—whoa now!”

I stared at her back for a second as she marched off, then ran after her, grabbing her arm to stop her.

She whirled around, a dagger in her hand that was at my throat before I could so much as blink. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? I said not to touch me.”

“You didn’t say that to me, and I’m not deaf, or stupid. Nor do I tolerate being pushed around,” I snarled, shoving her hand (and the dagger) away from me. “Not by you, not by anyone. Got that? Good. Now, I don’t know what you think I am, but I’m not a spy, I’m not one of your soldiers, and I’m not going to allow you to push me around.”

She watched me with glittering green eyes while I spoke, and when I finished, she was silent for a few seconds before saying, “Brave words from a woman who spent the night in a cell.”

“I just told you that I’m not stupid. Fighting ten armed men while in the company of my mothers and an elderly mortal isn’t a bright idea.”

“That is possibly true,” she said, sheathing her dagger. “Regardless, you have two choices: you can be executed as a spy or you can replace the injured soldier and take up his banner on the field of battle.” She glanced at her watch. “His shift started twelve minutes ago. You have thirty seconds to decide.”

“You have got to be out of your mind!” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not going to make that sort of a decision! I’m an alchemist—”

“And now you’re either a spy or a fighter. Fifteen seconds.”

I stared at her openmouthed for the count of five until I realized I was wasting time. I was between a rock and a hard place, and I knew it. I couldn’t fight her, not with all the soldiers around us, and I wasn’t willing to risk my mothers’ lives by attempting an escape. Not at that moment, at least.

“Fine,” I said, glaring at her. “I’ll pretend I’m a soldier if it gives you your jollies. But I’m going to suck at it.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “That matters not.”

She strode off again, leaving me damning my life, damning my decision to bring my mothers here, and most of all, wishing they hadn’t abducted Mrs. Vanilla in the first place.

I turned to go back to where the soldier was, and bumped into Colorado, who was standing right behind me with an anxious look on his face.

“I assume you heard what was said.”

His eyes widened. “Yes, but only because I was worried that Lady Holly might . . . er . . .”

“Stab me?”

He made an apologetic little wave of his hand. “She doesn’t suffer fools well.”

“Uh-huh.” I straightened my shoulders and headed back to where the RSI soldier was being assisted in the removal of his armor. “Neither do I, as a matter of fact. I’m not a soldier, Colorado.”

“Well, so far as that goes, none of us were before Lord Gideon called us up,” he said, lifting the newly discarded breastplate and eyeing it before turning his gaze to my chest. “But you are most sturdily built, and I’m sure you will have no trouble lasting two hours.”

“Two hours?” I crossed my arms over my breasts despite the total absence of sexual interest in his eyes as he considered my torso. He discarded the breastplate and went into the tent, coming out with two others.

“That is the length of each shift. It goes quickly, I promise you.” He held up a chest piece, squinted at my boobs, then dropped it in favor of the other one. “I believe this will offer the best fit. There’s no time to have armor made to your specifications, but once your shift is over, we’ll have the armorer get to work on a set so that you’re equipped for tomorrow. We have a very good armorer. She makes Lord Ethan’s armor and has a wonderful touch with the blacksmith hammer.”

“Back up a sec,” I said, obediently holding up my arms when another teenager, this time a slight girl with a pixie haircut who held an armful of chain mail, instructed me to do so. “What’s this about a shift? You guys fight in shifts?”

“Of course,” he said, assisting the page or squire or whatever she was called to slip the chain mail over my head. A few strands of my hair snagged on it, making me wince. Surprisingly, the mail was very light, and although it hung down to mid-thigh, it didn’t seem to be overly large. “If we fought longer than that, we’d get tired.”

It was hard to dispute that logic. I said nothing more while Colorado and the girl (whose name turned out to be Columbine) slapped a plate chest piece on my front. It was attached to the mail with leather buckles, and although it was significantly heavier than the mail, it wasn’t overwhelming.

“You guys do know that I’ve never lifted a sword in my life,” I said conversationally as they strapped on shin guards, plates that resembled wrist braces but that Columbine referred to as gauntlets, and finally, handed me a small oval shield.

“None of us had when we started,” Colorado answered with a cheerful smile. “You’ll learn quickly. Now, as for a helm . . . I’m not sure what we have to fit you. We’ll try a couple, shall we?”

What followed was a painful five minutes as I tried on, and rejected, a number of closed helms. Most of them were simply too small, which just irritated me since I knew that both Columbine and Colorado were thinking what a fat head I had, but one of the helms that wasn’t too small was far too massive to be worn. In the end, Colorado said, “I believe that for today we’ll do without a helm. Now, what do we have left? I’m not sure what we have in the line of a lady’s sword . . . My lord!”

Colorado bowed low.

I turned, ignoring the little spurt of adrenaline. A dark-haired man with a short goatee strolled up, wearing what can only be described as a maroon velvet smoking jacket, a white silk ascot, and a fez. One of his hands was in his jacket pocket, while the other waved as he spoke. Two young women in harem costumes trotted behind him, one bearing a tablet computer, the other holding a spiral notebook and pen. “—That was the last that was ever seen of those brigands. Naturally, I offered to return the jewels and fine silks that had been stolen, but the fair maiden insisted I keep them as a sign of her gratitude. That and her virginity, but we need not speak of that now. End chapter. What have we here? A new recruit?”

“Yes, my lord,” Colorado said, bowing low again while gesturing awkwardly at me. “It is my honor to present to you the Lady Gwen.”

“Hi,” I said, refusing to be awed or give in to my curiosity about the man’s bizarre outfit. I held out my hand to shake his.

He looked at it for a moment, then pulled a monocle from his breast pocket and eyed it like it was made up of worms. “Greetings,” he said finally, tucking away the monocle. “You are not one of Aaron’s souls?”

“If you mean am I alive, yes. My mothers and I sought sanctuary here from some mortal police,” I said, hoping my exclusion of mentioning the Watch wouldn’t come back to sting me. “We were promptly arrested for spying. We aren’t spies. My mothers are Wiccans, and I am an alchemist.”

“Wiccans. Are they here?” He looked around.

“They are housed in Mistress Eve’s tent, my lord,” Colorado said quickly.

“Excellent. I have need of Wiccans. Tell them to start bespelling Aaron’s men immediately. Now, as for you . . . can you make fiery orbs that will rain down from the sky and decimate my enemy?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t make bombs.”

“Pity.” His left arm, the one with the hand in his pocket, twitched and started to move. He grabbed his elbow and jammed his hand back down into the pocket. “You will be fighting on my behalf, I see. Colorado, make sure she wears my colors. All ladies like to wear my colors. And give her one of my signed head shots. The one used in my last book. It’s in profile. Ladies love my profile.”

“I will gladly see that she wears your colors, Lord Ethan, but first I must find a sword suitable for a lady’s use.”

Ethan stroked his chin for a moment, then waved an airy hand. “Give her the Nightingale.”

Colorado’s eyes opened wide. “Are you sure, my lord? That is Lady Dawn’s own sword—”

“She never fights anymore. She’s far too busy trying to find husband number seventy-one. My mother has issues,” Ethan confided. “She will insist on wedding mortals, and they never last. Still, it’s a hobby. Daisy, where were we?”

“End of chapter twenty-eight,” the woman with the notebook said promptly.

“Begin new chapter. By midsummer in the year eleven ninety-two, I had taken control of all the kingdoms of Wales, and was one day considering what act of derring-do I should next accomplish, when a Saracen prince arrived at my castle gates demanding entrance . . .”

Ethan and his entourage wandered off, leaving Colorado and me staring after him.

“So that’s the head of your team. He’s kind of . . . eccentric, isn’t he? What book is he writing?”

“He is engaged in taking down into print the many dashing and thrilling adventures of his life.”

“That explains the artsy outfit. Is something wrong with his hand?”

A pained expression crossed Colorado’s face. “Lord Ethan was smote with a mysterious ailment, no doubt by Lord Aaron.”

“Warts?” I guessed.

“Alien Hand Syndrome,” Colorado answered with a sigh. “It troubles him greatly, but do not mention it. He dislikes people discussing it.”

There was really nothing I could say to that, so I just stood patiently by while Colorado sent Columbine off to fetch the oddly named sword.

“This was Lady Dawn’s,” he said when she returned with it. It was a smaller sword than that which Colorado bore, with a narrow blade and a delicately scribed hilt that flashed blue and green. “She named it the Nightingale because it would sing when she slew her enemies. It was her favorite sword when she ruled the mortal world.”

“It’s very pretty. Are those emeralds?” I examined the hilt, seeing a couple of spells woven into the intricate design.

“And sapphires. You will take the utmost care of it, I have no doubt. Lady Dawn would not care to know her Nightingale was being abused.”

I tried to remember the history of Wales that I had learned a long time before, but I didn’t remember anything about a woman named Dawn.

“Absolutely,” I said, making an experimental slash or two in the air. The sunlight flashed and glittered on the sword, the gems adding brief bursts of color. I’d never so much as picked up a sword before, but this one pleased me on a primal level. It felt good in my hand. It felt right. “I’ll take very good care of it. So, what exactly do I do when I get to the battlefield? Join up with the other people?”

Colorado took me by the arm and steered me toward the far edges of the camp. “Oh, you won’t be fighting with others. Each soldier fights his or her own shift.”

“But—this is a battle, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course.” We broke free of the encampment and walked up a slight incline to a knoll. Overhead, thick oily black and gray clouds blotted out much of the bloodred sky, periodically streaked with blue-white fingers of lightning. A distant rumble of thunder completed the nightmarish scene.

“But you have just one person fighting at a time?”

“Just one.”

“But . . . ,” I repeated, shaking my head. “That doesn’t seem to be a very efficient way to fight.”

“On the contrary, it’s quite very efficient. Lord Ethan found very early on that to have all of our troops fighting at the same time meant that many people were killed.”

“Isn’t that the whole point? I mean, killing your enemy?”

He looked horrified. “I do not know how you do things in your native land, Lady Gwen, but here in Anwyn, we do not condone slaughter.”

I felt like a genocidal fool. “Sorry. Obviously this way makes much more sense.”

“It does. We send out one person for a two-hour shift, after which he—or she—is free to rest until the following day’s shift. Few people are injured, and even fewer are killed. It is, as Lady Dawn says, a win-win situation.”

“Kinda makes you wonder why you bother fighting at all.”

“Oh, we don’t wonder that. We know why we fight. Lord Aaron attacked my lord. He had to answer. It was the only honorable thing to do.”

We crested the top of the knoll as he spoke. He stopped, nodding toward the center of the hilltop, where the grass had been blackened, eventually wearing away to nothing but dirt as red as the sky. Standing with his arms crossed (not as easy to do while wearing armor as you might think), his sword sheathed at his side, was a knight in full armor, including helm, obviously awaiting me. “That is the battlefield.”

I looked around. The area surrounding the knight appeared to be about twenty feet in diameter. “That’s a battlefield? The whole thing?”

“Indeed it is, although if you wish to get a running start, you are permitted an extra fifteen paces.” He clapped me on the shoulder, making me stagger forward a couple of steps. “Good fighting, Lady Gwen! Your replacement will be up in a little less than two hours.”

I watched him trot down the hillside, and then I turned back to look at the knight and the so-called battlefield. It could have served as a baseball diamond for guinea pigs. I took a few steps forward until I was at the edge of the scorched grass. “Um. Hi. I’m Gwen. I guess I’m supposed to fight you.”

The man inclined his head, a flash of lightning reflecting off the closed metal visor.

“Just so you know, I’m new to all this. I’m an alchemist, not really a soldier. I was kind of . . . er . . . conscripted into this job. Totally against my will, because as I said, I’m not a fighter, but there are times when you just have to take the lesser of two evil choices, and this was it. The lesser, that is. So, what’s your name?”

Yes, I was babbling, but there was a method to my madness. I figured I had at worst an hour and a half to kill before someone else came to fight, and if I could use up some of that time in pleasantries, I was willing to chitchat like I’d never chitchatted before.

The knight didn’t answer for a moment, but then he shifted his visor up so he could look at me unimpeded by metal. “I can’t tell you.”

“Is it against the terms of the fighting or something?” I asked, digging the point of the sword into the ground so I could lean on it.

“Don’t do that.”

I blinked at him. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t bury the tip of your sword in that manner. You’ll damage it. Here, see?” He marched over to me and lifted the tip of the sword in his mailed hand, showing me where the metal was dusty with bits of dirt and dead grass. “A sword is a valuable weapon. You must treat her with respect and honor.”

“Oh.” I blew on the end of the sword, took off my metal gloves, and carefully, so as not to cut myself, brushed off the dust and grass. “It is a pretty sword. It even has a name: Nightingale.”

The man’s eyes widened. Although I couldn’t see a lot of his face, he looked pleasant enough.

“You bear the fabled Nightingale? You must be a very great warrior indeed.”

“See, that’s just the thing. I’m not, not at all. I’m an alchemist. Did I mention that? My moms—I have two—my moms and I just got here in Anwyn, and all of a sudden I found myself with armor on and this pretty sword in my hand. So if you wanted to forgo fighting, I’d be fine with that . . . er . . . what was your name?”

“I told you that I cannot tell you my name,” he said primly, lowering his visor again and pulling out his sword, obviously in preparation for skewering me.

“Why not?” I asked quickly, desperate to distract him from the actual act of fighting.

He lowered his sword and raised his visor again. “I am King Aaron’s man.”

“Yeah, so?”

I could have sworn he rolled his eyes. “A warrior of King Aaron cannot be vanquished unless his name is known to his enemies.”

“Really? So if I guessed your name, I’d win?” I considered him, trying to think of as many male Welsh names as I could.

Up went the sword. Down went the visor. “That is so. Are you ready to begin? We have wasted much time in conversation.”

“Hold on just a second,” I said, lifting a hand. “I’d like to have a few shots at guessing your name.”

“Why?” he asked, his voice muffled behind the visor.

“Because I’m not a fighter. I’m a . . . well, a scholar, I guess. And besides, I can’t fight someone whose name I don’t know.”

“Why?” he asked again, but he lowered his sword once more and lifted the visor so I could see the annoyed look on his face.

“I can’t think of you as ‘the knight dude’ in my mental narrative, now can I? Daffyd?”

This time I saw him clearly roll his eyes. “No, that is not my name.”

“Herbert.”

“No.”

“Owen?” It was my own surname, but there was a chance it was also his first name.

“That is not my name, no. Now, shall we fight?”

“I’m not going to fight you until I have a name that I can think of you by. Darryl?”

His shoulders slumped for a moment before he straightened up and said, “You may pick a name to use for me.”

I really didn’t want to fight him. He looked strong and immovable, and that sword was much larger than mine. “Fine. But if you hurt me, my moms will come after you. They’re very protective.”

He lowered his visor for the umpteenth time. “We shall begin. What name do you choose for me?”

I thought of whatever was the least threatening and the least likely to harm me. “When I was a child, I had a soft, fuzzy purple bunny named Douglas. I guess I can call you that.”

This time he didn’t just lift the visor—he took off the entire helm, pulling with it the soft cotton cap that was worn under it. His hair was close-cropped, and spiky with sweat. “Are you insulting me?” he asked, pointing the helm at me.

“Me? No!”

“You named me after a child’s toy! A rabbit toy! I am a warrior of Aaron! I am feared by all! The very ground itself trembles beneath my feet! I am not a soft, fuzzy Douglas!”

“Sorry. I can try to think of something else if you like.”

“You do that!”

I considered him, trying to formulate a vision of who he looked like. Maybe a Simon? An Alex? A Cadwallader?

“I’m sorry,” I said, slumping just a little. “Now that I’ve thought of Douglas the bunny, that’s what is stuck in my brain.”

He looked like he was about to explode, but he simply slapped the cloth hat and helm back onto his head, hefting his sword and waving it in a menacing manner. “It matters not what you call me, servant of Ethan. Commence the battle.”

“You know, I think I need a little coffee break. How about I go get us a little light refreshment?”

“You’re not going anywhere. Not again.”

The voice that spoke didn’t come from Douglas. He pulled up his visor, his frown being sent over my shoulder. I turned to see who it was that had joined us in our battle.

It was Gregory. And he looked angry as hell.