CH171 · Rewrite
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Chapter 171: The Gift of Revenge (Part 2)

“Demon!” Alicia stepped in front of the Priestess, two-handed sword raised.

The woman in the black robe looked at her for a moment.

Demon,” she said. “That is what you call the orphans and abandoned infants the Church takes into its monasteries. The ones from whom you select your witches.”

“The Church shelters them!” Alicia’s voice came out harder than she’d intended. “Without the Church’s mercy, how many would survive to adulthood? The Devil corrupts the weakest among them — a very small number, a very few. When the Church discovers one has fallen, they are treated. You are inverting cause and effect.”

At the word treated, the gold in the woman’s eyes dimmed slightly. She raised the sword with one hand.

“I have no interest in persuading a corpse,” she said. “So be it.”

The owl left her shoulder and the woman moved.

Alicia had watched her move through the Judges. She did not make the same mistake. She threw herself to the lower right — the blind side of a right-handed fighter, the direction that required changing grip before the blade could reach it, the half-breath of delay her instructor had drilled into her. She came in under the beheading stroke, already turning, already swinging.

The extraordinary stepped sideways, adjusted without thought, and the answering sweep caught Alicia mid-air before she landed.

The pain arrived a fraction of a second after the sensation — a deep cutting pain through the calf, blood going into the night air, her body hitting the ground and her teeth clamping shut on whatever sound had started to come out of her.

This is what Abrams was doing, she thought. This. And he held her for ten moves.

She pushed herself upright on her remaining arm, turned in time to see Mira bring a crossbow up from beneath her robe, the aim already calculated, the priestess’s expression showing nothing at all.

This is—

The sword swung.

Something changed in her perspective and she thought: I am flying, and then she saw her own body below her, kneeling on the ground and then falling to the side, and thought nothing more.


“That stone—” Maggie touched her head and glared. “You saw it.”

“I saw it.” Ashes drove her sword into the earth and began to dig. “I wasn’t going to lose to a crossbow bolt at that range. I handled it.”

“You were being careless!”

“I was being efficient.” She set the sword aside and began clearing the pit she’d made. “Help me move them.”

Maggie became an owl. In that form she could do very little with the bodies, which she had apparently decided was acceptable, and perched on a branch with the particular expression of someone who disapproved of the work but had made their peace with not helping.

Ashes searched the robes before burying them. God’s Stone of Retaliation from the priestess — Mira, the letter she found had called her, former peddler turned Church official, experienced and not to be underestimated. Gold royals for passage. And the letter itself: a formal offer to Roland Wimbledon, Lord of the Western Territory, proposing the same arrangement the Church had maintained with Duke Ryan. Minor girls, orphans, the standard market rate paid by weight and age, and if His Highness should require them, pills were available at favorable terms.

She held it over the campfire until it was gone.

“Come on,” she said. “There are more.”


By the time the sky had begun to grey, the camp site showed no bodies and no banner and no messenger pigeons — those Maggie had caught before they could carry anything, and was now carrying herself with audible resentment in her coat pockets.

“They’ll know the group is missing,” Maggie said, still on the branch. “Won’t that be dangerous for Border Town?”

“In two to three months.” Ashes shouldered the last of the soil over the last pit. “When an envoy group goes out to investigate witch activity, the investigation itself takes a month at minimum before they return — assuming cooperation. No cooperation, add more time. Two, three months before Hermes knows something went wrong.”

“His Royal Highness could have handled this himself.”

“He could have. With two options.” She picked up the Ashbringer and wiped it clean with dry grass. “Cooperate with the Church and sell the witches. Or kill the envoys himself and send a message that couldn’t be taken back.” She paused. “Either way, the calculation changes. But if the envoys simply disappear — no body, no blood, no message sent before it happened — then there’s a third reading. Bandits on the western road. Any number of things.” A slight turn of her mouth. “He gets three extra months. That’s the gift.”

She didn’t say the rest. She had made the decision for him, by handling this here — had removed the option of cooperation entirely. When the Church eventually came looking, they would assume Border Town was responsible, which meant Roland Wimbledon would have no path back to neutrality even if he wanted one. She had burned that road on his behalf.

He would figure it out, eventually. He was not a fool.

Maggie had been quiet for a moment. Now she flew down from the branch and settled on the ground and turned human, hair pooling around her in the grey pre-dawn light.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “You said ‘now it’s time to part.’”

“Clearwater Port. Then the Fjords.” Ashes picked up her coat. “You, though—”

Maggie looked at her.

Ashes crouched down to her level. Put a hand on the small woman’s head.

“You want to stay in Border Town.”

“I—” Maggie’s face cycled through something. “I like Lady Tilly. I like you.”

“You can still like us,” Ashes said. “From here.” She held Maggie’s eyes. “Roland Wimbledon is not Tilly. He is an aristocrat, and we cannot be certain which way he will move under enough pressure. Which means I need someone there who can tell us. One report per month — anything that matters. You can carry messages to the witches on the other side of the channel, and bring ours back. And if Border Town is ever in danger that cannot be resolved—” A pause. “You help them reach the Fjords.”

Maggie blinked several times. “You planned this.”

“I planned that you should be happy,” Ashes said. “The rest is useful.”

The sun was climbing when Maggie turned into a pigeon and rose into the lightening sky, growing smaller by degrees until she was gone.

Ashes mounted the horse she’d taken and pointed its head toward Clearwater Port and rode without looking back.

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