“I’ll take the right flank,” Dr. Gerand said.
“That is very brave of you, sir,” Emery told him, “but I’ll ask Adam the wheeler to take that responsibility. He has fighting experience.”
“And he’s not an old man,” the doctor said bitterly.
Arista knew the helplessness that he was feeling. “Doctor, your services will be required to tend to the injured. Once the armory is taken, you and I will do what we can for those that are wounded.”
They went over the plan once more from beginning to end. Arista and Polish came up with several potential problems: What if too few people came? What if they could not secure the armory? What if the garrison did not attack? They made contingency plans until they were certain everything was accounted for.
As they concluded, Dr. Gerand drew forth a bottle of rum and called for glasses from Mrs. Dunlap. “Tomorrow morning we go into battle,” he said. “Some of us at this table will not survive to see the sunset again.” He lifted his glass. “To those who will fall and to our victory.”
“And to the good lady who made it possible,” Emery added as they all raised their glasses and drank.
Arista drank with the rest but found the liquor to have a bitter taste.
The princess lay awake in the tiny room across the hall from Mrs. Dunlap’s bedroom. Smaller than her maid’s quarters in Medford, it had just a small window and a tiny shelf to hold a candle. There was so little room between the walls and the bed that she was forced to crawl over the mattress to enter. She could not sleep. The battle to take the city would start in just a few hours and she was consumed by nervous energy. Her mind raced through precautions, running a checklist over and over again.
Have I done all I can to prepare?
Everything was about to change, for good or ill.
Will Alric forgive me if I die? She gave a bitter laugh. Will he forgive me if I live?
She stared at the ceiling, wondering if there was a spell to help her sleep.
Magic.
She considered using it in the coming battle. She toyed with the idea while tapping her feet together, anxiously listening to the rain patter the roof.
If I can make it rain, what else can I do? Could I conjure a phantom army? Rain fire? Open the earth to swallow the garrison?
She was certain of only one thing—she could boil blood. The thought sobered her.
What if I lose control? What if I boiled the blood of our men … or Emery?
When she had boiled the water at Sheridan, the nearby clothing had sizzled and hissed. Magic was not easy. Perhaps with time she could master it, but already she sensed her limitations. Now it was clear why Esrahaddon had given her the task of making it rain. Previously she had thought it an absurd challenge to attempt such an immense feat. Now she realized that making it rain was easy. The target was as broad as the sky and the action was natural—it was the equivalent of a marksman throwing a rock and trying to hit the ground. The process would be the same, she guessed, for any spell—the drawing of power, the focus, and the execution through synchronized movement and sound—but the idea of pinpointing such an unruly force to a specific target was daunting. She realized with a shudder that if Royce and Hadrian had been on the hill that night, they would have died along with the seret. There was no doubt she could defeat the garrison, but she might kill everyone in Ratibor in the process. She could possibly use the Art to draw down lightning or summon fire to consume the soldiers, but it would be like a first-year music student trying to compose and orchestrate a full symphony.
No, I can’t take such a risk.
She turned her mind to more practical issues. Did they have enough bandages prepared? She had to remember to get a fire going to have hot coals for sealing wounds.
Is there anything else I can do?
She heard a soft rapping and pulled the covers up, as she wore only a thin nightgown borrowed from Mrs. Dunlap. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” Emery said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Come in, please,” she told him.
Emery opened the door and stood at the foot of the bed, wearing only his britches and an oversized shirt. “I couldn’t sleep and I thought maybe you couldn’t either.”
“Who would have guessed that waiting to see if you’ll live or die would make it so hard to sleep?” She shrugged and smiled.
Emery smiled back and looked for a means to enter the room.
She sat up and propped two pillows behind her. “Just crawl on the bed,” she told him, folding her legs and slapping the covers. He looked awkward but took her offer and sat at the foot of the mattress, which sank with his weight.
“Are you scared?” she inquired, and realized too late that it was not the kind of question a woman should ask a man.
“Are you?” he parried, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He was barefoot and his toes shone pale in the moonlight.