The Song #3
“Too many,” Esme muttered, then hopped down from her mare. “Can someone take me to the general?” She didn’t feel the need to be particularly authoritative. Instead, she smiled at the clean, fine-looking soldiers and their even cleaner weapons.
“I know where Bal is,” said a young girl at the edge of the dust road that cut the camp in two. Her dress was a homespun hand-me-down, but her hair and face were clean and she was well taken care of. The girl turned on her heel and led Esme and Urias deeper into camp.
Bal. Not General, not even Balthazar. Like he was her favorite uncle.
In what Esme could scrounge before she and Urias quickly left Amaris, “Bal” was an orphan who’d been pushed from house to house before the previous general, the late Darius Ferran, finally put a sword in his hand.
Balthazar sprinted through the ranks until he was named general himself at the extremely young age of twenty-seven after Darius died three years ago.
It was impressive. If Omniel really used Magic to peer into the future, perhaps it made sense for Balthazar to have been one of the shining options for heir. Then again, Balthazar was also an orphan with a foreign name. Never before had Omniel valued merit over blood.
And now, to add to the general’s lore, he also apparently had lots and lots of children. There were babies hidden away in the larger tents, being hushed by soldiers with bottles of milk lest one of the Wraiths hear. All these children, some very fresh, and not a mother in sight.
Before she could ask her guide, the girl stopped. Not twenty feet from Esme was an orange tent thrice the size of the others, the first in a cluster of three. A single soldier guarded the entrance.
Esme knew that a woman named Maranna was Balthazar’s vice-general, and she knew that to have that title and be a woman, Maranna had to be tough.
But Song’s breath, was Maranna Karstain a sight.
She was a head taller than Esme, and even a few inches larger than Urias, too.
Her hair was pulled back from her stern face in a long black braid.
She was a walking armory, wearing a long sword on her back, three sizable daggers on her belt, and at least two knives in her boot just for fun.
The highest-ranking woman in camp was not playing legion mother: Maranna Karstain was tall and strong and scary.
Esme very much wanted to be her friend.
So Balthazar had a gaggle of children, a half-god for a second-in-command, and a happy little village of soldiers. Esme’s chest panged. This was the kind of place she wished they could have brought Gia up in.
The girl pointed. “He’ll be there,” she said, her eyes passing from Esme, to Maranna, and then to Urias, still on his horse. “If you hurt him, Mar will stab you.”
Everyone gasped like Esme may eat the child for her hubris, but Esme chuckled. She’d just been threatened by a toddler (to Esme, anything under thirteen was a toddler). This place was amazing.
Esme crouched to her guide’s height, pulling a silver talon from her pocket. “She definitely could. For your troubles…” She waited for the girl’s name.
“Wend.”
“For your troubles, Wend.” She slid the coin into her hand. The girl marveled at it, then looked at Esme as if asking if she was serious. Esme nodded and Wend’s little mouth dropped open.
“Looks like you’re rich.” At the mouth of the tent, beside Maranna, was Balthazar Joh’el. “Go show your brother.” The girl did as he said as Esme rose.
Balthazar was uniquely handsome for a human.
He had an angular face, a cropped beard, and tightly curled black hair that fell to his clavicle.
Esme didn’t know if it was his blood or the south that had given him the sand-colored skin, but it suited him.
His shoulders were wide, and he was nearly as tall as his giant vice-general.
Well-earned muscle lined his every inch and Esme could only watch how they shifted under that pretty, sunny skin.
“General.” Urias swung from his mount and swaggered to the tent. When he was within range, Maranna whipped out her long sword and set the tip a breath from Urias’s chin. “Hello to you too,” Urias purred at her.
A vulture landed on the tent peak behind them. The rest of its kettle circled high above, their wings blotting out the bright midday sun.
“Come now, Urias.”
“Mar, put that down.”
Esme and Balthazar spoke concurrently. When the tip of Maranna’s blade touched the ground, the vultures soared away.
“I apologize for Maranna,” Balthazar said. “We’ve all been on edge these past days.” His deep voice was pinched, even as the last vulture disappeared into the trees.
“Urias was just messing with the birds,” Esme said as she passed Urias, whacking him on the shoulder. She bowed to Balthazar and nodded at Maranna. “I am—”
“Esmerelda, third Wraith to the King,” Balthazar interrupted her. “And that is Urias, first Wraith.” Smelling like sweat and failing to keep the nervousness out of his voice, Balthazar waved them to his tent. “Now, won’t you come in?”