Page 5 of Winter's Fate

Hawk clearly felt that Moore was better than the alternative. And the alternative was Callum. It was too much to bear.

Worse, Moore knew it. “But I’ve said too much, Cap—Callum, I mean. Too high-level a mission for you to know about, if the king didn’t tell you already.”

Callum inhaled a long breath, the thrum of his boozy blood urging him to overcome his few remaining logical instincts and throttle Landon Moore until he cried. He was already reaching for Moore’s wrist, imagining the crunch of sinew and bone between his fingers, when the scent of burning incense stopped him. No mere marketplace trinket this incense, no sandalwood or cinnamon. This was the distinctive burn of heart-tithed magic. Acrid and smoky, it followed the user throughout their pathetic days, creating a trail that he’d learned to track through any terrain, be it forest or city. Or ale-drenched pub.

In Aglye, heart-tithing was a crime, which meant thatmagicwas a crime. Second only to murder, and often accused along with it.

Regular citizens might not recognize the smell, but Callum had spent much of his career breaking down doors to roomschoked with the stuff. He’d spent endless hours trying to scrub that scent from his own skin. From his own memory.

A fool’s errand. Should he go a century without crossing paths with a heart-tither, he’d still never forget it. And Landon Moore should damn well recognize it, too.

Shoving Moore out of the way, Callum slid off his stool, barely managing to stay on his feet as the extent of the night’s indulgences pulsed into his head. He shoved the dizzy sensation aside, scanning the room and ignoring whatever driveling protests were coming out Moore’s mouth.

In the back corner of the room, partially obscured by one of the pub’s wooden columns, a group of men sat hunched over a game of dice.

Callum crossed the pub quickly, pushing chairs out of his way without caring whether or not they were occupied. When he reached the table, three of the men squinted up at him, confused. If they recognized him, they didn’t show it.

The fourth man took one look at Callum, then scrambled out of his chair and skirted toward the wall, tripping over the table leg. That didn’t stop him, though; he flailed, scrambling along the floor like the rat that he was, intent only on escape. Callum almost admired his perseverance.

Not that it would do him any good. Callum stalked toward him, easily grabbing hold of his shirt and hauling him up in the air, legs kicking. “I wasn’t cheating,” he said. “I swear.”

Callum gave the man a shake.

“Farrow.” Moore’s tone was a warning, but Callum could hardly hear. Nor would he have cared, in any case.

He slammed the man back into the wall, the acrid smell of the heart-tithe churning the ale in his stomach. It was like burning hair and sulfur, always mixed with that hint of sweetness. As if the next time, the magic would be kinder. A promise. A lie.

“He was only cheating at dice,” Moore said from behind Callum’s shoulder. “It’s hardly a capital offense.”

“We prosecute heart-tithers because of how they got the magic, not because of what they do with it.” Callum could barely force the words out. He slammed the tither against the wall again, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, to experience the full effect of the heart-tither. “Who bled for your power?”

The man whimpered as Callum raised a hand, ready to strike.

Moore caught his fist before it could fly and dragged Callum back a step, forcing him to release the tither, who crumpled to the floor with a sob. Callum dragged Moore forward, but though the general did not share his muscle mass, he had one thing tonight that Callum did not: sobriety.

Moore twisted his arm, whipping him around and landing a solid blow to his face. Callum felt like he was watching from outside his body as his head slammed against the bar and his body dropped to the floor. Hard.

Moore bent over him, flicking a lock of hair out of Callum’s face. “Youdon’t prosecute anyone. Not anymore. You got yourself demoted, Farrow. You’re lucky the king didn’t exile your disgraceful ass.” Moore straightened, gesturing to his friends. “Arrest the tither. No need for force.”

Callum was aware, dimly, that he ought to be experiencing pain. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual. Hell, probably all three. But the only thing he could feel, as the soldiers formerly under his command ushered the magic user into the streets, was the absolute certainty that every word Landon Moore had spoken was the truth.

The first slicesof dawn were beginning to lighten the sky by the time Callum picked himself up off the floor and made his way through the streets of Vunmore and back to the palace. Shopkeepers swept dust from their front steps while apprentices scurried around with buckets of water and window-washing rags. The smells of baking bread and freshly stoked fires set his stomach turning uneasily, foretelling the coming unpleasantness of an after-drink morning.

For now, though, he was still just soshed enough to face the king.

He’d much rather face his own bed and nurse the tender bruise that Moore’s punch had left splashed across his cheekbone. But the new general had no doubt gone straight to Hawk after last night’s altercation, and the king would be wanting to see him.

If Hawk didn’t understand Callum’s reaction, then there wasn’t much Callum could say to explain. But he’d damn well have to try. Landon Moore was Aglye’s general now. He couldn’t allow magic to fester and seethe in their midst, inviting the mages of old to taunt them, pushing the door to their lands ever wider with every cursed trade.

Except that Moorehadarrested the heart-tither. He hadn’t let the man go. He’d acted, Callum thought bitterly, with the sort of professionalism the old king would have praised. There were times for knives in the dark, Hawk’s father would have said, and times for restraint. The thought made Callum want to take it all back.

The palace courtyard was already bustling with activity when Callum arrived. Stablehands urged horses into the walled-off plaza while servants and enlisted men ran about with supplies, following orders barked at them by the officers who were clustered in groups and clutching mugs of steaming coffee as they oversaw the preparations.

Callum nearly asked what the excitement was about, but then he remembered what Moore had said about the Etran mission. The delegation was readying to set out. And its general had spent the previous evening pissing away the hours, chasing after Callum just for the sake of gloating. How many pubshadhe peered into before landing on Callum’s? Vunmore was a large city. If Moore knew his favorite haunts, he might well have been watching for some time. A fact that Callum should have noticed.

Callum might have proved he couldn’t be trusted with a command, but Moore was no better. The eve of such a trip required focus and planning, discussions with officers. And a good night’s sleep.

Not that Callum had always been decent at fulfilling those tasks himself. But he was better than Moore. And he would never have let his officers stand idle while their soldiers did all the loading. In fact, the mere sight of him made a few jump into action, abandoning their coffee mugs to join the rest of the soldiers in preparing the horses.

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