direction as we sneak past them. At the main camp, there are a dozen pitched tents—we are having a warm, early spring, so many of the men sleep out in the open.
The artillery wagon is with the rest of the supply train. While a number of men have laid their bedding around it, there are no additional posted guards. They are either certain of their watchmen or confident that they will meet no opposition. They are wrong on both counts.
Aeva stays back from the supplies, on the far side of the sleeping men, with her bow drawn in case any should wake and want to interfere. Lazare leads Genevieve and me toward the wagon. After peering at the contents for a few moments, he springs lightly up into the wagon bed and begins silently moving around.
He finds seven small wooden barrels and carries them to the back, where Gen and I wait. He removes a knife and pries the cork from the hole, then peers inside. “This is it.” His voice is nearly indistinguishable from the soft night noises around us.
Using my knife, I pry the cork from the barrel closest to me, then lift the wineskin and pour all the water from it into the barrel, moving the stream around so as to soak as much of the powder as possible. Beside me, Gen does the same.
But we have only brought six wineskins, and there are seven barrels. Before I can ask Lazare what we should do for the seventh barrel, I hear a faint trickling sound. Beside me Gen makes a muffled noise. When I look up, Lazare grins over his shoulder as he pisses into the final barrel. From the twinkle in his eye, I cannot help but think he planned to do that, no matter how many barrels there were.
* * *
When we have finished with the powder, we return to the woods where Beast, Yannic, and Poulet are waiting. Aeva glances at the sky. “The wind has died down, and the camp is asleep. Now is the best time to send the message.”
“Do you have a spot picked out?” Beast asks.
Aeva points.
“Very well. Lead us to it.”
She stares at him. “I do not need an armed guard to shoot an arrow.”
Beast shrugs. “Mayhap not, but we are going to provide one, nonetheless.”
It is clear she wishes to argue, but having traveled with him for weeks must have taught her the uselessness of such effort. With a quiet huff, she heads toward her vantage point.
It is an impossible shot. A small wooden door facing our direction in the north tower. But she is an Arduinnite and makes it easily. Or mayhap Arduinna herself guides the arrow with our message wrapped around its shaft. Whatever is behind it, skill or luck, it sinks into the door and stays there.
“Will they find it, do you think?” Gen asks.
Aeva stares at her.
“I mean, we don’t know how often they patrol this tower. It doesn’t face the main conflict they have before them. What if no one wanders up here for two days?”
Aeva purses her mouth, takes another arrow from her quiver, and removes a small clay flask from one of the pouches at her belt. She dips the arrowhead into the pitch—for that is what it is, I can smell it once it is open—then holds the point out to Lazare.
He has already produced a flame from some flint or powder—or mayhap his be-damned fingers—and ignites the arrow.
In one deft movement, she raises the bow, sights down the shaft, then shoots. This one, too, lands in the door, but farther up. The flame is not hot enough to burn through the door—or our message—but it sends a thin stream of smoke into the air. Within a quarter hour, a guard comes to investigate.
Our message has been received. Now all we must do is wait.
Chapter 73
Genevieve
I come awake, my hand at my knife, as something nudges me in the ribs.
“Watch,” Sybella says softly.
The sun has not only barely begun to rise, but the battlements of Châteaugiron have come to life. Men scramble along the ramparts, hurrying to and fro. Before my eyes can sort out what I’m seeing, a loud belch of thunder explodes nearby. I clap my hands to my ears, then shove to my feet and hurry to the ridge overlooking the valley. Just as I reach it, another explosion erupts from the castle cannon.
Rohan’s encamped forces are in complete disarray. Men scurry in all directions—toward their cannon,