Page 9 of Our Lady of War

The two women agreed to change quickly and make it to the castle dining hall before the second course was served. Retta had not been exaggerating. Dressed in a magnificent gown, she was three stages too fancy for a non-celebratory evening in the court.

“I’ll not be shown up by a tall, beautiful woman, mind you.” She winked at Athania, who laughed and pulled out a chair for the older lady.

The food was nothing special, but the conversation was invigorating. Some nights, after the spa had long since been vacated and their bellies were full, Retta and Athania would go to Retta’s chambers and discuss what the matron called alchemy, but Athania knew was magic aligning with the natural.

“That girl the king took as his own kin,” Retta whispered over her wine glass, “she’s full of the dark alchemy, isn’t she?”

Magic had always been a sore subject for most, in all realms and at all times, but there were certain ways to traverse the topic. One of those ways was finding a natural explanation for things and assigning meaning that didn’t frighten. In many realms, alchemy was that way of explanation—natural things being changed by other natural forces.

Retta had an innate knack for common magic, not because she was a witch or any such thing, but because she understood the true, natural element of witchcraft. Lavender soothes the soul if it is consumed or its aroma smelled. Gold can melt if the fire is hot enough. Mugwort can heal minor sickness if ingested or heal if pulverised and applied as a balm. Just because something was spectacular did not mean it was otherworldly.

Athania snorted inwardly. If only the common mortal knew how many other worlds there truly were. They wouldn’t bat an eye at hedgewitchery.

Yet, there has always been danger in teaching others the depths of such powers beyond commonality. With Retta, she’d simply implied that there is always darkness and light, and alchemy is no different. What the woman did with that information was rather up to her. It seemed she had used it to label people good or bad in much too simplistic terms, as per the way of mortals since the dawn of time.

In the current case, she was more right than she could possibly know.

“I would have to agree with you on that one.” There was no sense in explaining that alchemy was a practice , not a state of being as for a witch. They would need to broach that topic soon, though, if she and Retta were to continue their discussions on such matters.

With dinner concluded and the two women largely—thankfully—ignored by other courtiers, Retta retired to her chambers to await Athania, who needed a moment of fresh air before their nightcap.

The castle had many a balcony, and they were all exquisite, but tonight she chose one overlooking the sea. Perhaps because Igor had crossed it to Hawthrin. Perhaps because its depths reminded her of all the realms she would never see again. Still, she was happy with her choices.

Athania nodded and wished a good evening to those she passed before stepping out onto the balcony to be alone with the salty night breeze. The moment she reached the railing and made to lean over, she saw it. The ship from earlier, swaying in the water, illuminated by the full moon, and its hull nearly run aground by the receding tide. It boasted a flag she had never seen before, but the symbol was striking a chord deep within her memory. She’d seen that crest before—but where? And where was the crew…

Her heart hammering in her chest, Athania turned back toward the castle interior. She knew with a sickening realisation where she’d seen that crest—all over Igor’s battle plans. But her legs felt like they were wading through the sea, time slowed to a crawl. She needed to run. Shout. Warn the guards. Why was she suddenly so useless? She was Lady War. These moments were hers.

Not anymore. And her mortal body would not obey.

“Help,” she croaked out, stumbling for the door. “Someone!” She managed to get her voice to obey this time. “Ship! A ship from Hawthirn!”

She’d made it within the corridor, only to find it almost vacant.

“Guards!” she shouted, her body finally catching up to her mind. “Invaders! Hawthrin invaders!”

Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she ran, shouting all the way. The first few people she encountered ignored her, chalking it up to inebriation. But then began the screams. They were in. They’d made it through the spa entrance and up into the castle. How, how had they known about the entrance? There had to be a rat, or they’d tortured the Orfordian soldiers—

Oh, gods.

Athania shoved past the courtiers frozen in place from fear, and ran toward the screaming. The invaders would seek out the king, and they would cut down anyone in their path. She launched herself around a corner, the screams deafening and the scent of blood filling her nostrils. Nearly tripping over her skirts, she found herself at the back of a line of unfamiliar soldiers headed directly for the king’s living quarters. Though, he wouldn’t be on that side of his wing. Not yet. He always had a drink in the solarium before retiring for the evening. If they kept going in the wrong direction, the king might have a chance to escape, but what of everyone else?

There was no way to predict what Hawthrin wanted, be it retaliation, domination, or something in between. And Athania had no goddess quill to turn the tide. It could all be over by the time she reached her chambers to retrieve it, and with no way of knowing the entire situation, she could make things worse even if she did try.

She cursed her ineptitude with her worthless amount of magic as she watched the enemy soldiers round another corner. As a goddess, she could change into a wolf or bat. Her bat form always came when justice ruled her; the wolf when the scales needed to be tipped and war rampant.

But she was nothing now. No bat. No wolf. Not even a dagger to her name.

Fool. She was an utter fool.

Still, she had to stall them somehow.

One of the gigantic Hawrthin men had a young maid by the hair. Tears streamed down her face and he was screaming at her to show him where the king was.

“Stop!” Athania shouted, a mere kernel of Primordial power seeping into the word, just enough to jar them.

The dozen or so men stopped in their tracks and turned as one, fluid as the sea. The maid struggled against her captor, her face twisted in agony as she tried in vain to pull his hand from her hair. She looked up and her pained gaze met Athania’s. The maid’s eyes went wide just before Athania felt a vicious sting across her cheek. It took a foggy moment for her to realise one of the men had slapped her. Rough hands were grasping at her arms, but a sharp whistle cut through the corridor and they all backed away from her.

Darting a look around herself, she took her opportunity. “Unhand the girl!” Athania shouted, wiping a dribble of blood from her chin with the back of her hand. She threw her shoulders back, embodying every bit of who she used to be. “She doesn’t know where the king is. But I do.”