Killing Bronfio did not make sense. It was essentially an act of war against the occupation forces in Rona. Brexan was determined to discover this traitor’s nefarious purpose and bring him to justice – but her goal was easier said than done. If she went back and forth through Estrad Village too frequently, someone would mark her uniform and ask why she was away from her unit. Disguise was the answer – or at least some form of misdirection. While she waited, she stripped off her Malakasian tabards and markings. The result was not perfect: a black vest over a black tunic, each with regularly-shaped patches of a different colour where the badges had been, but it would give her time to find a change of clothes without interference from her colleagues.
Looking down at the array of torn patches and epaulettes on the ground at her feet, Brexan felt a wave of nausea pass through her, the unsettling feeling of uncertainty that comes in the wake of any drastic measure. ‘Am I insane to do this?’ Brexan asked herself. She would be hanged without trial simply for stripping her uniform, never mind deserting her unit to pursue an alleged traitor.
Some time after the spy entered the building, Brexan watched a young Ronan man, perhaps one hundred and forty Twinmoons old, go in the same door. She didn’t expect to see him alive again.
When the spy exited a few moments later, she knew the Ronan and whomever he had been visiting were dead, victims of the handsome merchant. No one else had gone in or come out. Brexan checked that her sword was loose in its scabbard as she prepared to investigate. She forced herself to count slowly to two hundred before she left the alley, all the while watching the street to ensure the spy had not returned, and that he hadn’t left others behind to note any activity around the house.
Then Brexan walked across the street and entered the home, trying to act as if she were a regular visitor. The sight that met her eyes made her shudder, not because of any outward signs of brutality, but because of the cold efficiency of the murders. The merchant had killed Lieutenant Bronfio earlier with a dagger between the ribs. His tactics here were equally simple. An elderly couple – maybe the parents? – sat bound and gagged in two chairs near a fireplace where a stewpot still simmered.
Both had been run through the heart; the Malakasian solider cringed when she thought of one being forced to watch, helpless, as the other was murdered. There were no signs of a struggle, but the old man’s fingers appeared to have been broken, Brexan guessed during an impromptu interrogation – maybe about his son’s possible espionage activities? There were no bruises betraying harsh beatings and no other broken or severed limbs. The small puncture wounds – made by a rapier, she thought – and unchecked trickles of blood were the only evidence of death. She almost expected them to call out suddenly and beg her to untie their bonds.
Seeing them sitting so quietly together, in what had probably been their favourite chairs, Brexan imagined the old couple spending thousands of avens chatting together in front of the fireplace, planning their lives, teaching their children, entertaining dear friends. All that was over – and for what?
Then she noticed the young man who had come in while she was watching the doorway. He had obviously been killed without fanfare as welclass="underline" his short sword was still sheathed. There had been no combat, no questions, no broken fingers and no negotiations for life. The spy had waited for the young man to return home and slashed his throat while the boy gaped at his parents’ bodies trussed up like pigs awaiting a butcher. Brexan knew this victim had been taken by surprise, unceremoniously and without a struggle.
She seethed with anger. This was not how an occupation force was supposed to behave, and if this was the method Prince Malagon’s spies employed to gather information, she did not want any part of their cause. Her stomach roiling with revulsion, she climbed a short flight of stairs, located the young man’s bedroom and stole a change of clothes. She was no longer a member of Prince Malagon’s occupation army. Lieutenant Bronfio had believed in their work here in Rona and he was dead, murdered by his own prince’s spy.
Brexan had enlisted in the army to bring order to the nations of Eldarn. Periodically, that meant dealing with a handful of insurrectionists. This elderly couple, tied up and cold-bloodedly murdered in their home, did not represent a threat to Prince Malagon’s throne, and if for some inexplicable reason they had, the spy who uncovered their plot should have brought them to trial.
Her illusions fading like the twilight, Brexan changed into her new clothes, took what food she could find in the pantry and promised the silent corpses that justice would be done.
She would find this spy, track him and observe his behaviour. If he proved loyal to the crown, she would find some way to report his brutality to the prince’s generals in Orindale. If he were not loyal, she would kill him herself.
*
‘So what the hell were those monsters that attacked the horses?’ Mark asked Brynne as they walked towards Estrad Village. She ignored him, staring silently into the distance.
‘C’mon Brynne. I told you we never had any intention of hurting you. We just needed you to get away from the palace.’
Mark reached out for her, but she immediately turned away, ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Leave her alone, Mark,’ Steven suggested in English. ‘She’s not going to help us. Let’s just let her go.’
‘I think we ought to hang onto her. She’s the only one who’s even bothered to try talking to us. Everyone else just starts shooting.’
‘There was that old man,’ Steven said, switching to Ronan. ‘He seemed to know we aren’t spies.’
‘Gilmour,’ Brynne muttered.
‘Gilmour,’ Steven echoed, as if trying out the name. ‘How do you suppose he knew we weren’t from Malakasia?’
Brynne appeared more willing to answer Steven. ‘He knows many things the rest of us don’t understand. We’re lucky to have him with us,’ she said quietly.
‘He’s the leader of your group?’ Mark tried again. ‘He’s organising the Resistance?’
‘There has been little resistance yet,’ she answered, still refusing to look at Mark, ‘but there has been too much oppression and murder. One day, hopefully soon, we will fight to rid our land of Malagon’s army, and perhaps even succeed in freeing all the lands from his occupation forces.’
‘All the lands?’ Steven enquired.
‘Rona, Praga, Falkan and Gorsk, four of the lands of Eldarn. Malakasia has occupied our homeland since Prince Markon died, nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago.’ She pulled at a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. ‘There was a terrible fire at Riverend Palace… you saw the damage it did, even though it was so long ago. And within the space of two Twinmoons, the royal families of Praga, Falkan and Rona had all been wiped out by a strange disease. Even today no one has any idea what caused it.’
‘What about Gorsk?’ Mark asked.
‘Gorsk has never been ruled by a royal family the way the rest of Eldarn is. King Remond controlled all of Eldarn except Gorsk, and his descendants – all taking the title prince or princess – took on the different lands; Markon, King Remond’s great-grandson, ruled here in Rona.’ She cast a sidelong glance at Mark and continued, ‘Gorsk was different: it was ruled by a congress of scholars called the Larion Senate. Legend has it they were all murdered in a grievous massacre a Moon before the fire that took the lives of Prince Markon’s wife, son and closest advisor.’
‘Why govern Gorsk differently?’ Steven pushed down on a sapling branch to clear a path for Brynne. ‘Why no prince or princess of Gorsk?’
‘The Larions had magic.’ Brynne paused, recognising the scepticism in their faces. ‘They used magic to bring scholarship, medicine and education to the known world. They were a community of servants, brilliant servants, who brought advanced knowledge and research to our hospitals and universities. Their genocide was the first in a long series of tragedies that destroyed the political and social structure of Eldarn. Nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons later, here we are, an occupied nation surrounded by occupied nations.’