5: The Premier of the Frontier

The leagues to Folly passed swiftly.

Leiyn had much to keep her mind occupied. The events at the Lodge spun through her head, their implications even more prescient than their horrors. The significance of the Suncoat occupation, the trustworthiness of the plainsriders, the possibility of an alliance with Altan Gaz—questions crowded her head, and she had answers to none of them.

Only that Itzel might have explanations and the prospect of seeing long-absent friends kept her sane. Soon, the mysteries would be cleared away, the mayor’s promotion included.

When she could no longer endure idle speculation, Leiyn set to practicing her mahia. The battle had revealed its deficiencies in stark detail. She could only imagine Mother Xepi’s disgust had she borne witness to them. The shaman had already been reluctant for Leiyn to depart, claiming she still had too much to learn.

“Attend to it each day,” Xepi had said before Leiyn left Qasaar. “Semah is not unlike a muscle. Neglect it or use it poorly, and your control and power will fade.”

Leiyn had promised the irascible woman as much and committed to memory techniques designed to improve her control and capacity. Yet, though she had touched upon them each day, she had not pursued the exercises with much enthusiasm.

The battle at the Lodge had changed that. Now, each day as she rode atop Feral, whether the spring rains fell or Omn showed Its blinding face, she committed herself to her training. She stretched her seeking to its limits, then sought to divine as many details about a remote lifefire as she could. Distance became murky when experienced through the magic, but from her estimations when atop a hilltop, she guessed she could sense creatures as far as three dozen leagues away, if only vaguely.

When beasts strayed nearer, she practiced manipulating their lifeforce. Confounding their senses as she had once seen Zuma do to Suncoats, she tested her abilities on deer, birds, and other critters. Once she had squirrels walking drunkenly along branches and deer bumping into trunks they had not seen, she put it to a more practical application, luring and dazzling a rabbit only to take it down with her bow. Though it saved precious time otherwise spent hunting, Leiyn could only bring herself to use it once. The trick made her feel guilty, as if it broke an unspoken vow between predator and prey.

She was still becoming sure of her magic, yet she judged her progress might have won a nod from Xepi. Though the shaman would no doubt have followed it up with a reminder.

Beasts are one thing, she imagined the shaman saying. Humans another. And the sach’aan another realm entirely.

The specter of their enemies haunted both her waking hours and her sleeping ones. Dreams of lyshans came nightly. Sometimes, Man’nah battered her apart, and Clouded Fang was not there to help her mend. Others, she would find herself in the Iritu halls to be ambushed and torn to pieces, no Ata present to rescue her.

Those moments reminded her how frail her body was, even when supplied with mahia. How vulnerable she was alone. She had only come this far through others’ aid.

A sore reminder while she traveled the Titan Wilds with no one but Feral for company.

Sharo figured prominently in her dreams as well. Often, he stood to one side, laughing as she was repeatedly slaughtered. Sometimes, he would taunt her with cryptic warnings. “‘Ware the Wither, Oldsoul. Your weakness is my strength.” The words needled her even upon waking, and though she saw little wisdom in them, she could not seem to shake the omen.

She had some thin reasons for reassurance. Ata had mentioned that lyshans would not dare cross the Silvertusks. Perhaps that remained so. Perhaps some enchanted barrier, like the one that protected Qasaar, prevented them from coming over the mountains.

Yet Sharo was devious. He might have found a way around such protections. After all, he had influenced the Caelrey and Altacura to do his bidding—at least, she assumed he had from all he had claimed. That meant he either had the means to leave the Barren, or his sorcery reached far beyond his body. Not such a far-fetched prospect considering the depths of his Inheritance and the years he’d had to expand its capacity.

Still, that she had made it this far suggested that Sharo did not wish to hunt her, or that he could not. The lyshans had suffered a grave blow, their scarce numbers decimated. Even beings as ancient as they would require time to lick their wounds. Or perhaps Sharo bided his time, allowing Ilberia and, if they were unfortunate, the other Ancestral Lands to grind down the Tricolonies before he swept in to stamp out any remaining resistance. 

Driven by her fears, Leiyn remained dogged in advancing her martial magic as well. She practiced drawing on her esse to fuel her body’s strength and speed. She grew accustomed to fighting while augmented, honing her skills to deadly efficiency. When she sustained minor injuries from wayward branches or bumping into obscured roots, she practiced healing. Her fight with Man’nah had demonstrated the swift strain from which her mahia suffered in battle. Clouded Fang could not help her if she lost the willpower to wield his font of lifeforce.

Of equal importance was her study of the scavenged Iritu artifacts. She delved into the enchantments imbued in her clothes, swords, and arrows, seeking to understand them. Even her bowstring drew her attention, having replaced the worn one on her longbow with one supplied by Qasaar’s hidden barracks.

Slowly, she identified the weaves in the lifeforce. They were remarkably similar to the knotted nature of infected wounds, though constructed in a rigid and orderly fashion. Some weaves appeared to be for toughness; these she could tell by the thickness and tightness of the pattern. Others, like in the arrowheads and sword edges, possessed killing intent. They resembled barbs in the arrowhead, the frayed tips of the weave sharp to dig in and tear. The swords were less chaotic, but still looser and more flexible than those in the clothes. Waving the blades around, they seemed to have the amplifying effect of a whip with each slash, making each strike deadlier still.

Other weaves, such as those in the talismans, defied her comprehension. Though she studied them in the darkness when dreams had denied her sleep, she could not understand how each motif created its effect. They remained as mysterious as magic was to those devoid of its touch.

Her most vital artifacts were the amber beads Xepi had gifted her. Filled with esse, they provided a source of lifeforce when all others failed. Despite their small size, Leiyn had been surprised by how much esse they held, the ten together containing as much as an entire tree.

Even with all these tools, she feared it would not be enough. Soon, she would have to confirm she could draw upon Clouded Fang—or other titans—as she ought to be able. For the moment, she was spared the necessity, and her journey proceeded swiftly.

Following the old ranger paths, she noticed how already they were becoming overgrown. Grass sprouted where hooves and feet had once trampled the ground to dirt. Leiyn paused at parts, taking in the slow decay. Yet another reminder that, even after the wars were through, life here would never be the same.

Nor would she.

* * *

After a week of travel, Folly’s walls came into view. The guard admitted her on sight with a gap-toothed grin. Leiyn returned it hesitantly as she led Feral inside.

She braced herself for the press of lifeforce, but after her time at Qasaar, Folly’s population was easy to bear. Perhaps, in time, even Southport could become endurable. Not that she ever wished to spend enough time in the capital to find out.

She went straight for the town hall, where a groom took Feral to the stables. A servant ushered Leiyn to the parlor and poured her a glass of brandy before departing.

Barely had she had time to fidget before Itzel walked in. Leiyn turned and raised her glass toward her.

“I hear you deserve a toast, Premier.”

The former mayor paused, eyes flickering from the cup to Leiyn’s face. “I would accept one. Though I’m surprised you’ve already heard the news.”

Leiyn took another swig of brandy. The alcohol burned pleasantly as it went down. After months of Gast liquor, it was a delight to indulge in Baltesian brandy once more.

“Rangers hear everything,” she said with false cheer. “I thought you of all people would remember that.”

A smile flitted across Itzel’s lips. She moved to Leiyn to press her arm, firm but friendly. “I do. And I’m sure you have questions for me. First, let me say how glad I am you survived your trip north. From Isla’s report, it sounded a… laborious task.”

All she had suffered at the hands of lyshans flashed through Leiyn’s mind. Though her broken bones and torn flesh had healed, each injury remained in her memory. Wounds of the mind were ever slower to heal.

She drained her glass and set it down hard, then began pouring another.

“You could say that,” she said finally. Setting down the decanter, she straightened with her cup in hand and met Itzel’s gaze. “So Isla and Batu made it this far, at least?”

“You need not fear for them—I’ve report they arrived at Southport. But please, sit. There’s much to tell you, and I would hear what you have to say.”

Leiyn glanced at Itzel sidelong. “A report for my premier?”

“For a friend first, I hope.”

Smiling, Leiyn sauntered over to the adjacent chair and slouched down in it, watching the amber liquid as she swirled it around the glass. “I’m glad the position hasn’t gone to your head yet. Care to explain how you were promoted?”

Itzel pursed her lips. “There isn’t much to say. Lord Mauricio heard of our efforts here on the frontier and wished to express his appreciation. My elevation to premier formally places me in charge of all the land beyond the Gorge de Omn within our borders.”

“Quite the responsibility.” Leiyn looked at the premier over her glass. “That’s more land than lies to the south of the canyon. How far does your ambition extend, Premier?”

“Please, Leiyn.” The older woman’s face grew drawn. “I know you enjoy needling figures of authority. But, for this night, I’d appreciate if we pretended like these were old times. If we were like before all this began.”

Sometimes, Leiyn forgot Itzel’s age. For a woman in her late forties, she seemed to possess every bit as much vitality as Leiyn. Her esse certainly burned strongly enough. Yet her years showed in her furrowed brow, in the gray along her forehead and temples, the pinch around her mouth. The realization softened Leiyn’s suspicion—if only slightly.

“Sorry. I heard about you becoming a premier from the last people I wanted to come across.” She watched the premier, gauging her reaction. “From plainsriders.” 

Itzel did not flinch or show other signs Leiyn would take for duplicity. Instead, she sighed. 

“I wondered if that was it. Explains your attitude, at least.”

Leiyn bit back a retort, refusing to act as combative as the premier made her out to be. “It’s true, then? That they’re fighting on our behalf, at your request?”

“Yes. I know, Leiyn,” Itzel rushed to say as Leiyn stirred. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what they did to you. But Baltesia needs allies. We need Altan Gaz. I’m sure our Lord Governor is keenly aware of that fact. The Greathouse moorwarden is in Southport even now, negotiating for acceptable terms of agreement. Last I heard, the prospect of an alliance across the Tricolonies looked promising.”

Leiyn forced her jaw to relax. “I understand that. But an ally you cannot trust isn’t worth much. I’m guessing this ‘moorwarden’ is named Taban? Taban Khyan?”

“Yes.” The premier seemed to read the emotions flitting across Leiyn’s face. “People come into power in many different ways, some right and some wrong. But when we need their cooperation, it won’t do to dredge up the past. We must look to the future.”

“If you say so.” Bitterness laced her every word. “And what of their previous agreement with Armando Pótecil? Or has that, too, been swept under the rug?”

“No. We have not forgotten, nor will we. But with the conqueror’s fall, it seems Master Taban has reconsidered his options and been swayed by our offer.”

An edge gathered in Itzel’s voice. Better than the weariness, to Leiyn’s mind. Even if it threatened to cut.

“And what exactly is that?” Leiyn pressed.

“Concessions of land. Gifts of coin. Special trade agreements.” The premier waved a hand like banishing an unpleasant odor. “I’ll spare you the details. From what I understand, the governor strives to give as little as he can. But for Altan Gaz to defy the Ancestral Lands, some sacrifices must be expected. As Tadeo used to say, ‘The least given for the most gained.’”

Thinking of Tadeo—killed and burned on the orders of the same conqueror with whom Taban had briefly allied—soured Leiyn’s mood further. She downed the rest of her second glass and stood to fetch a third, striving to leash her temper.

Itzel spoke into the silence. “Of the plainsriders’ task—do you know if they succeeded?”

“If you mean clearing out the Suncoats from the Lodge’s grounds, then yes.” She cast a rueful smile in Itzel’s direction. “In fact, I helped them.”

“Did you?” The premier narrowed her eyes. “Without killing Gazians, I trust?”

“None this time. The Suncoats were the more obvious enemy.” Her glass full, Leiyn moved back to her chair and perched on the edge. Though she had traveled all that day, she was already beginning to twitch with restlessness. All this talk of war had her itching to return to the road. The only way she could ensure her friends were safe was if she was back in Southport herself.

Itzel took another sip of brandy. “Very well. You have my thanks for lending your aid. With those Ilberian soldiers gone, the borderlands are clear of their presence.”

Her chest loosened. “That’s welcome news,” she admitted.

“If only the war proceeded as well on other fronts.”

“The coast doesn’t fare well?”

“Not nearly as well. At last report, Ilberians have made landfall at several locations up and down our coastline. Each will be heavily fortified and backed by enough manpower to be impossible for us to rout. Yet, at least.” Itzel took another long drink. “From these, they’ll have access points to march deeper into our territory—or the other colonies, should it suit their strategy.”

“Marvelous,” Leiyn said drily. “And the cities?”

“Southport suffers an embargo. Most of the Armada surrounds Anchor’s Refuge. They say the sea is so dark with them the sun no longer touches the waves.”

Leiyn snorted a laugh. “What poet said that?”

“The governor, actually. He’s always had a floral hand.”

Despite her doubts to its truth, Leiyn could not help picturing the scene. Were they a score? Two score? A hundred? The Ilberian Armada was famed across Unera for its might. The Tricolonies could not hope to match it.

A titan could even the odds. 

Trepidation trilled through her. Though she had located a kraken in Southport’s bay and controlled it enough to kill the treacherous conqueror, that scant victory had ended with Zuma’s death and nearly destroyed every Baltesian ship in the harbor. She had progressed much since then, but even now, could she leash it as she had Clouded Fang? A spark of the shaman might still be with her, but Zuma could not save her if she failed again.

Ignoring a thing does not make it go away.

Tadeo’s old words came to her, as they so often did. Face it head on. Normally, the memory of his advice brought comfort. Now, it only awoke the terror of letting him down.

I’ll try, Tadeo. I’ll try my damnedest.

Itzel heaved a sigh, drawing Leiyn from her thoughts. “And then there’s the trouble between our own people.”

“Between our people? What is it now?”

“A division of loyalties.” The premier eyed her with pursed lips. “You didn’t think everyone would forget our Ilberian roots, did you?”

Leiyn shrugged. The night the Lodge fell was burned into her mind. Where her loyalties laid was never in question.

The premier seemed to glimpse her thoughts, for she shook her head with a small smile. “Why am I not suprised? Since you’ll be riding through the thick of it, allow me to appraise you of it. Here on the frontier, those most loyal to Baltesia have started calling themselves ‘Freefolk.’ They’re no more than a loose coalition spread across the territory, but they’re aligned in their purpose: rooting out and opposing the Unionists, or ‘Goldbloods’ as they call them, those still outspoken in their support for the Ilberian Union.”

Leiyn sipped her brandy. “Doesn’t sound such a bad thing. Can’t have traitors in our midst.”

“Ah, but that is precisely the question: Are they traitors? How should they be punished, if they should? Who should administer the punishment? If the law is in the hands of every man and woman, the tyranny of mobs is not long in following. It is no longer Gasts who suffer hangings without due process and judgment, but anyone deemed disloyal to our cause.” Itzel raised her gaze to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “That is not the freedom I am fighting for, nor the country I wish to create.”

Leiyn followed the premier’s gaze to the mantel to see a wooden carving centered atop it, one of a howling wolf. She would have recognized its carver’s style anywhere.

Tadeo.

Little wonder why Itzel looked to him in this moment. The lodgemaster had possessed an unwavering sense of justice, even in cases where the lines between truth and lie became blurred. He had done his best to instill those same lessons in his rangers, and Leiyn liked to think he had succeeded with her. Even if a few of them had taken a long while to sink in.

Justice must not fall so swiftly it was uncertain. It should be decided by the weight of evidence, not by the noose or knife. The times her arrow had flown in the face of those principles cut at her now. Her bleeding errors only made her more resolved to correct them moving forward.

Leiyn looked back to the premier. “Nor I,” she murmured. “For my part, I will make sure our codes of law are upheld.”

Itzel smiled at her, a fond crinkle to her eyes. “I know you will. But enough about Baltesia. Tell me of your mission beyond the mountains. Isla was vague on the details, though I understand there is some… greater threat?”

“There was.” Is, a part of her pointed out, but Leiyn ignored it. “It’s taken care of. And the Many Tribes are now our allies.”

Itzel stared at her a moment longer before loosing a surprised laugh. “You should have said so from the start! Never thought I’d see the day that Leiyn Firebrand would negotiate an alliance with the Gasts.”

A reluctant smile won free of Leiyn. She wondered what the premier would say at her having an intimate relationship with a Gast. For the moment, she kept it to herself. Perhaps later, she would feel comfortable bringing those personal matters to light.

“Nor I,” she voiced aloud.

“When will they march? In what numbers? How many shamans will they bring? Lord Mauricio is eager for these details. I’ll send the postriders ahead of you with a summary so he may know what to expect as soon as possible.”

Leiyn opened her mouth to answer, then was surprised she could not. Only then did she realize how many of the specifics she had overlooked in the final negotiations with the Tetrad. She remembered Acalan mentioning Qasaar housing two thousand warriors and scouts, but she did not know precisely how many would come to Baltesia’s aid.

However many they were, she knew they would come. She trusted Acalan—to make no mention of Teya—too deeply to believe they would not honor their word. It helped that they stood to gain from complying with their agreement.

The mayor watched her, impatiently awaiting her answer. 

“Five hundred,” Leiyn settled upon. Better to promise less than more. “They’ll arrive by autumn.”

Itzel waited a beat before prompting, “And the shamans?”

“Ah… none.”

“None.” The premier’s eyes went flat. “They believe they can claim part of the Titan Wilds for five hundred warriors alone? And you made this promise to them, Ranger Leiyn?”

“Don’t ‘Ranger Leiyn’ me.” Leiyn gripped her cup tightly enough that the glass protested. With an effort, she set it down on the table between them. “The enemy beyond the mountains decimated their shamans, even more than we did during the Titan War. They have none to spare. And the Many Tribes bring more than just warriors. They wield artifacts imbued with ancient magic. Artifacts such as the ones I wear.”

Itzel scanned her Iritu garb with a hard gaze. “Those? They appear ordinary to me, if a touch outlandish.”

“But you don’t possess mahia, do you?” Leiyn exhaled, trying to rein in her temper. “There’s more. I received training while I stayed in their city. I can”—she tried to find the right words—“do as their shamans have done in the past. I can command titans.”

It had been uncomfortable to first reveal she possessed Wilds magic to Itzel. Knowing the news would reach Folly eventually—Leiyn’s role in the revolution had been too prominent to hope otherwise—she had broken the news herself on the journey north. The then-mayor had accepted it calmly, devoid of any astonishment. It made her wonder if Tadeo had known more about her magic than he had let on and confided those suspicions in his beloved.

The skepticism Leiyn had expected then now showed on Itzel’s face. “You have a shaman’s abilities?”

“Yes.” Leiyn did not let her gaze waver. She refused to show the premier her doubts. She could still command titans. She had to.

“Very well.” Though she plainly did not believe it, Itzel waved a hand. “But you are only one, Leiyn, and new to these… abilities. The Union has hundreds of odiosas, and Saints only know how many priestesses possess similar powers.”

Leiyn could tolerate it no longer. Draining her glass, she stood. The brandy had gone to her head, but she made sure to appear steady.

“I know, Itzel. I know the odds are poor. But this is all we have.”

The premier stood with her, leaving her glass on the table. The tension seemed to have left her shoulders as she stepped closer and rested her hands on Leiyn’s forearms.

“I know you did all you could. Never doubt I know that. I have seen you too long through Tadeo’s eyes to believe you would give less than your all.”

Leiyn met her eyes. A mistake—her own began stinging. Looking aside, she blinked rapidly. Part of her longed to pull away. Another part wished Itzel would hold her like the mother she had never known.

The premier did neither. Instead, she ran her hands down to grip Leiyn’s own. “I expect you’ll be leaving soon.”

“Yes. In the morning.”

“Then come and eat with me. We’ll speak of happier things. But before we do, Leiyn, make me a promise.”

The woman’s words drew Leiyn’s gaze back to her.

“For Tadeo’s sake—and mine—don’t fight this war on your own. I know how you can be. How you believe you must bear your burdens alone. But you’re not alone. You have your friends, the governor. You have me. Accept help when it’s offered. Don’t make me fear more for you.”

Though she had longed for motherly comfort only moments before, Leiyn hardened to it now. Squeezing the premier’s hands, she pried hers away.

“Don’t worry about me, Itzel. I’ve stayed alive this long.”

Itzel only gave her a long, studying look before leading the way out of the parlor.

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