CH715 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 715: The Feelings of Combat Witches

The sky had closed over completely, a low ceiling of grey pressing down on the harbor. Snow came sideways on the wind in thin white streams, not enough to obscure the shape of the Charming Beauty as she eased toward Shallow Beach — only enough to make standing on the pier feel like a small decision rather than an inevitable one.

Roland had been waiting.

When Tilly stepped onto the pier, he opened his arms and she walked into them without any ceremony, as if it were simply the next thing to do. The grey of her hair had lightened slightly, or perhaps that was the snow. She had gotten thin.

“Welcome back, sister.”

“The Months of Demons came earlier than I expected.” She pulled back and studied his face. “I hope I’m not too late.”

“You’re here now.”

The pier came alive around them. Crates and trunks being handed down, witches calling across each other over the sound of the wind. Andrea Quinn was already moving toward him with the particular expression of someone who has identified a priority.

“Your Majesty — there’s a welcome dinner tonight, isn’t there? Could you arrange hotpot again?”

“Mind your manners,” Ashes said, from behind her.

Andrea appeared not to hear this. Her eyes were bright with expectation in a way that her noble bearing hadn’t quite managed to extinguish. Nightingale’s influence, Roland had come to suspect — the same casual dissolution of formality, the same cheerful prioritization of things that mattered.

“Of course,” he said. “Winter’s the best season for it, actually.”

Yes.” Andrea’s expression resolved into pure satisfaction. “You’re absolutely what Nightingale says you are—”

Her voice cut off. Invisible fingers had found her mouth.

Ashes put her hand over her eyes and turned deliberately toward Wendy, beginning a conversation about something else entirely.

Tilly glanced at Roland, then at the empty air where Nightingale wasn’t visible. Her expression was thoughtful and slightly amused.

Roland felt the color rise in his face. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside.”


The witches who had come from Sleeping Island were familiar with the castle by now — the Wolfheart four had made the crossing before, and Iffy and her companions had developed their own preferences for which rooms and which routes. The settling-in required less management than it once had. When everyone had shed their coats and found their seats, Roland told them what had happened since they last met.

He left nothing out. Taquila’s survivors, the cave beneath the Kingdom of Dawn, the maze of coffins, the Five-Colors Stone ring and what it measured. Phyllis’s journey to Neverwinter. What the beam had illuminated when Agatha brought the ring to the castle.

When he finished, the room was quiet for a moment.

Ashes asked the question first, in the direct way she had. “So you’re the witch Taquila was looking for. The Chosen One.”

“Or the first wizard in history,” Tilly said. The amusement in her voice was fond rather than mocking. “My brother has always been uniquely positioned.”

“I don’t have magic,” Roland said. “The title belongs to Taquila’s framework, not mine. What the Instrument of Divine Retribution actually is — we don’t know yet. That requires more conversation with the survivors than I’ve had time for.” He spread his hands. “In the meantime, I’m planning an artillery exercise outside the western wall. Partly for Phyllis’s benefit — she needs to see what Neverwinter’s weapons can do. The exercise is also open to the public, which serves its own purpose.”

“Deterrence,” Ashes said. Not a question.

“I prefer to call it clarity. If people understand what they’re part of, they act differently.”

“Sounds like the same thing.”

He didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong.

“Since it’s an exercise—” Andrea had been tracking the conversation with the particular attention she gave to things that might involve her, and her moment had arrived. “We don’t have live targets yet, do we?”

“Wooden frames and painted shells, originally. Soraya was going to—”

“Use real ones,” Andrea said. Her chin lifted slightly. “Use demonic beasts.”

He paused.

“Nothing’s more convincing than what’s actually destroyed,” she said. “If you want the audience to believe in the artillery, show them what it does to something real. Something they’ve been afraid of.”

He had to admit she was right. The theatrical precision of it — the actual creature dissolving under a weapon the crowd now understood belonged to them — was something painted wood couldn’t replicate. He’d planned for the practical and she’d spotted the difference between practical and effective.

“We’d need to catch them first,” he said.

“Yes.” Andrea looked satisfied. “Leave that to us.”

Us?” Shavi’s expression was the expression of someone working out how a vacation had been restructured. “Why can’t we stay inside playing cards?”

“I’m in,” said Iffy immediately. Anything involving a fight, and Iffy was already moving toward it.

“Will it be dangerous?” Wendy asked.

“If we work within Leaf’s range, there shouldn’t be a problem.” Nightingale had materialized somewhere behind Roland’s shoulder. “She can track everything in the forest and keep the worst of the hybrids away. We’d have the Sigil as a failsafe.”

Tilly’s eyes were bright. “Then make it a competition. Three teams — Sleeping Island, the Witch Union, Taquila. Whoever captures the most demonic beasts wins.” She looked at Roland. “The prize can be a month’s supply of Chaos Drinks. I’ve been told it surpasses ice cream bread.”

“You’ve been told correctly.”

“Will Phyllis join?”

“She can choose.” Roland considered. “But there’s something to what you’re saying — if she sees common people controlling weapons that can do what the First Army’s artillery does, it matters more than any description I can give her.”

He looked around the room at the faces turned toward him — Ashes patient, Andrea already calculating, Iffy alert, the Wolfheart witches uncertain, Wendy quietly thoughtful. The Sleeping Island contingent had come to help Neverwinter survive a Months of Demons that the First Army was already handling. They were combat witches sitting through a siege that didn’t need them, waiting in rooms that were too warm, playing cards.

He had, he realized, given almost no thought to that.

“All right,” he said. “Competition it is.”

Discussion

Suggest a change