The Pretender's Crown

BELINDA WALTER

23 June 1588 † Brittany; the front lines

An absurdity held her in place, nothing more. For two days Belinda had pushed forward and Javier had pushed back, power flexing with the mindlessness of a river wearing at its bed. Without her witch-power in play, she was one of thousands trying to push through the wall of Javier's magic and being rebuffed; with it in play, she became a focal point, a place where his power solidified and became stronger. She thought it was instinctive, as no deliberate destruction rained down when she brought witchlight to bear. Either ignorance or sentiment stopped him, and Belinda doubted it was the latter.

She had come onto the battlefield at night, not expecting Javier's shielding to still be alight when he must surely lie unconscious with exhaustion himself. But she met resistance as she walked the front, and felt as though shackles closed around her when she tried pushing through witchpower shielding. It was cold and sharp, that magic, sharper than she thought of his power as being, but perhaps a sleeping mind shaped it differently. Unable to press through and unwilling to retreat to the hills, when morning came she took a blade from a dead man and went to war, golden sparks sheering off her when her bladework was overpowered and magic became her primary defence.

That night Javier's witchpower shield had been even harder, an iron maiden made to surround her and her alone. Only after trying to break through left her white and cold with sweat did she fall back, curling in a huddle under a tent flap where she could steal a bit of warmth and finally some sleep.

The second day she was a soldier the field changed. She felt Javier's power rearranging the troops around her, but without the vantage of height her sense of what he did was muted. Pushing against his power to explore his intentions hardened his shields and made the men who fought around her all but useless. Frustration and admiration tore at her in equal parts: she'd believed herself unstoppable, and yet with little more than casual pressure, the Gallic king stymied her.

She didn't know how, precisely, the tide had changed. Its flow had altered, that she knew, but toward early evening something fundamental shifted, and the direction of battle went from two fronts to one. Cordula's armies let go a united roar, and Belinda scrambled away from the chaos of fighting to find a hillock, so buried in bodies that it made a spot of higher ground. Teeth set against disgust, she clawed her way over dead men whose flesh gave and squished with her weight, then turned her eye to the battlefield.

Yes, the splintered Cordulan armies, in their greens and blues and yellows, had become a single mass that stood against the allied red and black of Aulun and Khazar. They were still outnumbered, but the success of their unification attempt gave them heart, and Belinda wasn't surprised to hear horns call the Aulunian retreat. Cordulan troops chased her army, but not far: the day had gone on too long, and they had cause to retire and rejoice. Tomorrow's battle would come soon enough, and their triumph deserved a night's celebration and sleep.

Without clear thought, she slipped and clambered down the hill of flesh and began walking forward through troops returning to their camp. Stillness came to her slowly, making her feel as though she faded away, insubstantial as a ghost, and none of the tired, bloody faces around her seemed to notice. Javier's witchlight shield still shimmered across the field, so faint with weariness she was surprised it stood at all, and yet when she reached it, iron clamps seized her and held her still.

Aloud, unconsciously, she said, “I'm trying to make a kind of peace, you foolish bastard,” and then coughed a laugh at the unintentionally accurate description of her brother's parentage. Her brother. The thought came more easily now, though it still sent revulsion itching through her. Even that grew so familiar as to be edging on tiresome in its reminder. It was a thing done to them, she told herself again, and with that truth in hand all desire was dead.

Most desire. She still carried a wish in her heart, a very strong one, to end one vendetta so another might begin, and that, she whispered to the iron-clad power that held her in place, that was why she must be allowed to pass. There were no soldiers to keep safe now, not with the retreat sounded and sunset creeping up on them. She and she alone had a need to cross, and not for the sake of war.

She felt a mote under an alchemist's glass, cold iron witchpower examining her, searching for truths she had no need to hide. He hadn't been so cold, before; war, Belinda thought, was not good for Javier, if this was what it made of his witchpower. It was good for none of them, perhaps, except Robert and his dreams of conquest, and that was an idea that pulled another rough laugh from Belinda's chest. She, in all meaningful ways, had begun this war by poisoning Sandalia's cup, and had thought it the best and wisest course to keep Lorraine's crown safe. Irony tasted as bitter as the cold power that held her in place, and she wondered if everyone who set wars in motion later wondered at the rightness of what had driven them to do so.

Witchpower relented, and Belinda stumbled onto enemy territory feeling very alone.