The Autumn Republic

Nila felt the corner of her cheek lift at the joke.

“No,” Bo went on. “I don’t want you to become that. I want you to learn to wield your power and to follow your conscience. But sometimes, your conscience will require you to kill. That is the life of a Privileged. The burden of such power is to protect your friends and countrymen.”

Nila felt herself nodding. She couldn’t find any words.

“It’ll get easier,” Bo said. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t become callous, though. Don’t become like me. You must do your best to prevent that.”

She felt his hand move down her side. “Was any of that true?”

“Pardon?”

“Or are you just trying to get in my skirts?”

Bo flinched, and Nila saw immediately she’d said the wrong thing. It had been true. Every word. And she’d just thrown it back in his face-even if it had been in jest.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean…”

He smiled crookedly at her. “Nah. That’s fair enough. I should go find my tent.”

“Don’t leave.”

He frowned at her, then squeezed her one more time.

Nila fell asleep with her head on his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. As she drifted off, the screams echoing in her memory seemed quieter.

Something told her there would be more in the future.

CHAPTER 20

Tamas sifted through mountains of reports on the battle that he had been given credit for winning.

The men had taken to calling it the Battle of Ned’s Creek, after the stream that ran down the middle of the battlefield. It seemed, based on camp gossip that excluded any mention of Tamas’s four-day disappearance, that Abrax had decided to keep quiet about his absence, despite her anger, and that Olem had managed to keep his Riflejacks silent. For now. Several hundred people knew he had gone to rescue Taniel. Word would get out. But the more time that elapsed until it happened, the better.

Tamas had read Vlora’s report three times. He’d also read reports from three generals, five colonels, two captains, and a sergeant. Vlora’s was by far the most comprehensive, but the others had filled him in on details that Vlora had either missed or chosen to omit.

He rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh. What he’d give for a bowl of Mihali’s squash soup. Or even just a few minutes to chat with him. Mihali, for all his faults, had a way of relaxing Tamas that he hadn’t even realized until he’d been told that the god was dead.

Perhaps it was just sentiment.

“Olem!” he shouted. “Olem!”

The tent flap opened and a guard stuck his head inside. Shadows played on his face from Tamas’s lantern. “Sorry, sir, it’s Olem’s off-hours. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Ah, no. Never mind. I can… Wait, what time is it?”

“I think it’s around eleven o’clock, sir.”

“Thank you. Find Inspector Adamat for me. If he’s still awake, have him meet me here in half an hour. Otherwise, let him sleep.”

Tamas had read the inspector’s report as well. The man deserved his rest.

He climbed to his feet and stretched, only to wince as the pain shot through his gut. Pressing a palm against his wound, Tamas crossed to his desk and rummaged around until he found a plate with the night’s dinner. The biscuits were hard, the cheese moldy, and the beef stringy. He choked down half of it before he gave up completely and gathered up a pair of gold bars from his desk, pocketed them, and stepped out into the night.

Somewhere nearby, a soldier was playing her fiddle, singing softly with the tune, her voice carrying over the otherwise quiet camp. Tamas’s guards snapped to attention. “At ease,” he said. “I’m going for a walk. You can tag along, but give me some quiet.”

The guards followed at a respectful distance as he wandered through the camp. He waved away soldiers who tried to stand and salute, and soon the sound of the singing infantrywoman had faded, leaving the night to be punctuated by distant cries and moans that came from the north, where the surgeons had set up hospitals. Fourteen hundred men had lost limbs since the battle, and hundreds more had taken fatal wounds. For the latter, doctors could only give them mala and wait for the inevitable.

After the adrenaline had worn off and medals had been awarded and the glory meted out, only the suffering remained after a battle.

“I should have been here for them. Led them into battle,” Tamas muttered.

“Sir?” one of his guards asked.

“Nothing. Have either of you any idea where Captain Vlora has bunked down?”

“No sir,” they both answered.

Tamas found Olem’s tent not far from his own. Several of the Riflejacks still sat around the fire. One was reading by lamplight, while another whittled at a piece of wood. They all stood when Tamas approached.

“At ease,” he said with a sigh. He gestured to Olem’s tent. “Just here to see the colonel.”

Two of the Riflejacks exchanged looks. A third, a woman of about thirty with blond hair cropped short, cleared her throat. “I think he’s asleep,” she said.

Tamas squinted at her. “He’s a Knacked. He doesn’t need sleep.” Everyone knew about Olem’s Knack. What was she going on about?