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“The army.” Nerys coughed. “My husband’s a soldier. We’re newly married.” Cefin was a soldier, yes—who was likely drinking himself senseless while her family rotted. A soldier who was the reason they were dead.

“Are you alright?” Jeral asked, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.” Nerys forced a smile. “I just miss him so much.” Her stomach churned at the lie.

“Well,” the wife said, “you won’t have to go much further—the army’s only a few miles away. Living Gods be with you.”

“And may the sacrifice of the Consumed shine upon you,” Nerys said out of habit. An ironic farewell, since the god’s sacrifice benefitted fewer people with each passing generation and had never benefitted Nerys at all.

Nerys thanked the farmers and took her leave.

She had to get away before they asked too many questions—and she had to get better at acting lovesick.

She was supposed to be a new bride, not one passing a bladder stone.

Not that she needed the farmers’ help with directions, for by this point, the army was hard to miss.

For one, the roads went from being deserted to teeming with soldiers, army suppliers, and commanders.

In addition, sigils and banners of the Ca’mail the Consumed were placed wherever there was fabric.

16 For another, the roads were littered with ruts and dips and were surrounded by flattened muddy grass.

But the additional chaos and people were her protection—she embraced them.

The crowd made it easier for her to ignore the croons of street women who invited her to join them, or the men who offered to buy her.

They may solicit and tease, but they wouldn’t attack. 17

When the army finally entered her sight 18 —and quickly overwhelmed her—Nerys took a few hasty steps forward and then pulled back to a steady walk to match the crowd’s pace.

She couldn’t stand out. No matter that the end of the journey was almost over.

Though it was an end that couldn’t come soon enough, like yearning for a barber to pull an infected tooth.

During her travels, she perfected her plan for finding Cefin amongst the throngs.

Ca’mail’s army banned prostitutes—they led to disorganization and distraction.

19 That meant she needed a plan for finding Cefin, other than pretending to be some strumpet.

Probably for the best, as it was too easy for that option to go sour.

So, she either needed a job that justified her being there, or a husband in the army.

She chose the husband. The farce of being married was the better plan, since it was less likely she’d get dragged into doing camp laundry. There were plenty of Jolans, Merths, and Clavs in the army she could use to make up a spouse.

Merth Redblade of Finnis was her imaginary husband’s name, a common surname and town completing the package.

If pressed, her Merth had dark hair, was of middling height with a hook shaped scar on his right cheek, and a birthmark the shape of a stunted carrot on his upper back.

Twenty-four years of age, with two younger brothers, Bilnie and Rollan, he was now the sole provider of the family—his father had died from a horse kick.

Awful tragedy, really. And his mother had succumbed to a wasting sickness the following year.

Nerys had lots of time to make up details.

By the time she saw the army, she was regretful that Master Merth Redblade of Finnis was no more real than pixies. 20

Out of habit, she fingered the hilt of her father’s hunting knife, which was tucked against her side in its sheath. Would her story of the beloved Master Merth hold up long enough for her to find Cefin? It had to.

Then Nerys beheld the army, and her courage fizzled like a candle dunked in water.

Though they were well within Ca’mail’s borders, the camp was surrounded with fortifications and trenches.

The smell of human waste wafted on a strong breeze, mixed with campfire smoke and roasted meat.

It was too bad the soldiers couldn’t have bothered to dig deeper latrines.

Stoic guards stood at evenly staggered points along the wall, their hands on their crossbows, their heads perpetually turning.

It was comical, in a way, like little puppets being turned from one side to another in sync—if one ignored the steel.

And then, just past the guards, was the army proper—an endless city of tents, campfires, and canons, complete with soldier denizens milling about like maggots on a corpse.

Nerys swallowed. The contingent stationed at Raven’s Crest was nothing compared to this . How was she going to find Cefin in this mess? How was she going to convince them to let her in? She had to try. It couldn’t hurt to try.

And then Nerys’s eyes took in the corpses on the side of the road, the ones she initially overlooked in the army’s teeming chaos.

These weren’t the first corpses she had seen since leaving Raven’s Crest—victims of vigilante justice hung on tree branches far too often for comfort.

But these bodies had something else that caught her attention.

The corpses of hanging men—and women?—dangled from nooses, and horrifically, their bodies were burned, their flesh bearing thick black marks like a grilled piece of meat.

She mindlessly grabbed her throat, gently fingering where the noose would sit on her own neck while she breathed through her mouth.

“Not a pleasant sight, is it?”

Nerys turned to find a young soldier, who watched her with an amused expression. “I…I didn’t know the army did this,” Nerys said, willing her stomach to calm. “Were they soldiers?”

“Yes, but not ours. Spies.”

“Oh.”

The man stepped closer, though he didn’t take his eyes off the corpses. “Though now that I think of it, one or two might’ve been civilians who got on the army’s bad side.”

Huh. Apparently, it could hurt to try to infiltrate the army.

“How? What did they do? ”

The man shrugged. “Gambling debts? Theft? Assault? Hard to say.” The man turned to Nerys and saw something in her expression that made him say, “Don’t worry. You’d have to do something pretty bad to end up like them.”

Something bad…like kill a captain’s son?

Nerys gave a curt nod. “Good to know. I’m to meet my husband, and he didn’t mention…this.”

At the word “husband” the soldier frowned, though he kept up the conversation politely enough. As she expected, Nerys and the soldier soon said their farewells, and she resumed moving to the encampment’s gates.

Fuck. When she contemplated her execution for killing Cefin, she envisioned hanging, not that .

Should she give up and leave? No, she’d be in no better place than after the massacre—alone, in danger, and with no hope for anything better.

She kept going towards the army. No matter what, she was going to suffer—and she was going to make sure she took the person responsible with her.

A white human-shaped figure caught her attention in the crowd. Without thinking, Nerys followed the figure, which moved through the throng like a wisp of smoke. Why did the figure seem so familiar? Like it heard her thoughts, the figure stopped and turned to face Nerys.

Adilette.

Adilette.

Again.

Adilette’s face was pale and purple, and her body bore the sliced abdomen and trailing viscera from her death. The innards were covered with dirt, which had stuck to her organs as she walked. Blood ran in rivets from her eyes. Her mouth opened, like she was trying to scream, or cry.

Nerys froze. Why was she here ?

Right when Nerys was about to call out her sister’s name, a group of soldiers stepped between them. When they moved out of the way, Adilette was gone, like she had never existed at all.

Nerys blinked hard. She had to keep going.

That would be the last time she saw Adilette’s shade, the last visit.

She couldn’t gain revenge if she was distracted with grief.

After today, Adilette would be satisfied and Nerys could then spend the afterlife with her.

Her sister would be at peace and could pass to the realm that waited for her, where these horrors would be nothing more than a faint memory .

Nerys held her head high as she neared the entrance, holding back tears and burying herself in her illusion, pretending she belonged. Why, she did—she was the Mistress Jenny Redblade! Of Finnis! She had every reason to be here.

One of the gate guards approached Nerys after letting an older hunched woman into the camp. “State your business," he said, his dull tone betraying that this was probably the thousandth time he said that.

Nerys grinned. “Mistress Jenny Redblade. Here to meet my husband, Master Merth Redblade.”

The soldier looked her over. Hopefully, she calculated correctly by offering the name without being asked. Both names.

The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Travel far?”

“Yes. From Finnis.”

“Finnis? Long way to make a wife walk. Alone.”

“It was—and I plan on telling him exactly what I think about it,” Nerys quipped.

The soldier barked out a laugh. “I don’t envy him, that’s for damn sure.

” He stepped aside. “Go on, then. The laundry camp is along the north wall. Closest thing this place has to a ladies’ town.

One of the camp supply masters will take your name and tell your husband that you’re here.

Can’t miss him—he sits in a black tent near the front of the laundry camp.

And don’t dawdle” ?the soldier peered at the afternoon sun? “if you can’t find him tonight you’ll be sleeping in the open.

And that could get your husband a reprimand. ”

Damn. There went her idea of unsupervised wandering.

Though, as a temporary laundress, she’d have access to soldiers’ clothes—clothes that, if worn, would enable her to move around undetected.

No, a disguise, while clever, wouldn’t work.

She’d have to find clothes that fit her tall feminine frame and managed to compress her breasts into a masculine flat bread, and then still find out where Cefin was.

If her body didn’t give her away, her voice would.

There were younger men in the army, but not that young.

Better not to overcomplicate things. So, it was back to being the bride of the elusive Merth Redblade.

Nerys bit back a smile. If there was a Master Merth Redblade of Finnis, he was in for a surprise.

Though by the time he found out she’d be dead.

Roasted.

Crow food.

No, she wasn’t going to be a coward and turn back now .

Nerys followed the soldier's directions, making her way through the unwashed masses of horses, dogs, and men until she found the laundry camp. The tents in the laundry area didn’t match, and in this little section the women outnumbered men ten to one.

21 Now that Nerys had a closer look at the camp facilities, and an even closer encounter with the smell, she understood why no one ever wrote ballads about camp-life romances.

A row dug in the dirt that was basically a river of shit was barely concealed behind a short wooden wall, a swarm of flies feasting on the refuse.

A woman with a ruddy face squatted over it, apparently not caring who she made eye contact with, nor the man relieving himself next to her.

And there, not even forty feet away, were the camp laundry fires.

As for bathing, people probably barely washed their hands, much less the rest of them.

While the army would discover her farce by tomorrow—thanks to Master Redblade—Nerys was dedicated to her facade. Which meant convincing the army women of her love affair. With this in mind, she strode up to the army supply master’s black tent, trying to force her face into that of a lovelorn woman.

Then, once inside the tent, she performed her ruse like her life depended on it. Because it did.