The godsons triumph, p.1
The Godson's Triumph, page 1
The Godson's Triumph
THE GODKINDRED SAGA
BOOK TWO
M.C.A. HOGARTH
THE GODSON’S TRIUMPH
1st serial edition, Copyright 2003 © M.C.A. Hogarth
1st retail edition, Copyright 2012 © M.C.A. Hogarth
2nd “Author’s Special” retail edition, Copyright 2022 © M.C.A. Hogarth. All rights reserved.
Studio MCAH
PMB 109
4522 West Village Dr.
Tampa, FL 33624
mcahogarth.org
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the brief use of quotations in book reviews or educational materials.
Cover art by M.C.A. Hogarth.
Contents
Prologue
I. Outlaw, Mother, Mistress, Queen
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
II. The Griffin at the Gates
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
III. Crowned
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Afterword
Art and Sketches
About the Author
Prologue
When last we left our fearless griffin, creaky, grumpy, too-old-for-this Mistress Commander Angharad Godkin—that’s me—I was hip-deep in a foreign province surrounded by natives not convinced of my kingdom’s having conquered them, and outnumbered by soldiers from my own country turned rogue at the behest of the Godson’s former governor, Chordwain. Soldiers, I might add, whose instructions do not include “accept Angharad Godkin as our new governor” despite those instructions having been issued by the Godson himself, probably because they have appended “also, she is probably a traitor, having taken up with seditious natives and foreign gods.”
I might add that the king of my own country, my master the Godson, seems to care very little for the state of near-rebellion fomenting in Shraeven, nor about the outrageous behavior of the governor he’s sending me to replace. No, he’s fine as long as I don’t overspend my budget and send him some ridiculous number of maidens for him to use in our country’s quest to re-create the godhead. While I am deeply committed to seeing the godhead on earth, I find myself a little busy attempting to prevent the destruction of my own company–by men and women I have served alongside in battle. We’re supposed to be on the same side.
That’s the thing I keep returning to. We’re supposed to be on the same side.
What’s gone wrong here?
When I first heard that there were soldiers of the Godkingdom’s army in the mountains of Shraeven, raiding the people of Shraeven on the orders of the governor, I formulated two plans with my captains. One involved a military solution: an attack on their camp. The other involved subterfuge: I would ride into their camp, present myself as the new governor, and take command. And then attack their camp, once I’d maneuvered them into a position more likely to afford success. Gavan had suggested using my new position to tell them to disband, but I know better: their orders come from the Godson and the only thing I’ll accomplish by ordering them to cease operations is to warn them that I’m going to obstruct the plans of the sovereign we’ve both sworn fealty to. Honestly, the first solution feels much easier to me, but I loathe the idea of fighting my own countrymen. The second solution is far more palatable, except for the slight drawback that it will get me killed if the Master-general there decides submitting to me is more of a risk than remaining loyal to the current governor…who after all authorized their current mission on the Godson’s behalf. Since what they’re doing is technically turning brigand, I can’t help but distrust their sense of honor.
And if they are honorable? Then the pressure being brought to bear on them must be tremendous, more than enough to justify killing one lone woman on a mount.
But we have done the scouting, and we are outnumbered almost four to one. The military solution is not an option. There is nothing for it, but that this old griffin turn actress.
Part One
Outlaw, Mother, Mistress, Queen
Chapter
One
From Rei, who risked so much to bring me the news of his compatriots-turned-highwaymen, I need information and courage—great courage. To that he says, “To end our shame, anything, Mistress.”
From Silfie I need the fastest five riders we have. She of course complies.
From Negrat, his promise that he’ll look over me from afar as he does as he makes his journey. He says, “It will not be long before I return.”
From Tam Vintner, his knowledge of the people of Crossroads. “Oh,” he exclaims. “I know just who to ask. Don’t worry, it’ll be done.”
From the corvid messenger, all his cunning and his speed besides. He cocks his head at me and laughs with his eyes.
From Ragna, forgiveness for what I will probably require of her. She just goes back to folding my clothing with that great calm of hers.
From my baby, a promise not to make trouble. I get no answer on that one.
From the gods, non-interference. I still don’t trust them.
From myself, everything. As usual.
I watch all the arrows of my plan speed from my bow and I draw in a long breath. This province is mine. Gods help anyone who gets in my way.
The armor doesn’t fit.
I mean, really doesn’t. Before it was just uncomfortable, something I could ignore. Now? Now my stomach is swollen, just below my ribs. I’m distended.
Just to make this clear, I have always had the body I’ve had. I stabilized at my weight at puberty and stayed there, except for a few uncomfortable times on campaign where I couldn’t feed myself fast enough to keep the flesh on my bones. The closest I’ve been to fat has been the occasional pleasant bulge after too large a meal...
...but this is not about fat. It’s about your body not looking like the body you’re used to. About your body doing an alien thing, a mysterious secret thing that it’s not telling you about except to demand more food right now and can it have this particular flavor please?
And of course, this issue of my armor not fitting. When I need it. Badly. Not just over that swelling in my abdomen, mind you, but over my breasts. And across my hips. Curse it all. It’s like I’m being padded with fleece all over. Water-logged fleece. It might be a thin layer but I feel it and it drives me crazy.
And my armor. Curse it all.
I am grimly contemplating this inconvenience in almost no clothing at all when Silfie steps into my tent. We have not had time for pleasant intimacies, Silfie and I. She hasn’t been introduced to the softer, squishier Angharad. And this wasn’t how I’d planned to do it. I twist away from her when I see her, but it’s a little too late for that. She’s not stupid.
The look on her face…it’s betrayal. Of all the things I expected—anger, sorrow, frustration, surprise—I get betrayal, as if I had personally assaulted her. How can she look at me that way? What could I possibly have done to earn it?
“I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t find the right moment,” I say.
“How could you keep it?” she asks, skating off on a completely unexpected tangent. “Angharad, how could you let them win?”
I stare at her in shock. “Let them win?”
“The rapists. The murderers. The abusers. The men,” she hisses, her eyes hot orange.
My wings mantle, and there is in me an unexpected rising anger. “This is my baby,” I say. “Not the gods’. Not the pards’. Not some stranger’s, not fate’s, not the rapists’, the looters’ or the abusers’. Mine, Silfie.”
She shoves the tent flap aside with her shoulder and is gone. This was not the way I had planned for things to fall out…but I realize again how much I care about the girl—or boy—I am carrying.
I will have to commission new armor, that’s all.
“This is important,” Donal says. “Too important for you to hear from me alone.”
I cock my head at him. It’s been two days since Silfie’s grand exit, two days I’ve spent carefully not thinking about it. We’ve had enough to do with our public works project, anyway. And now this?
“Of course,” I say.
He nods, hard flex of that neck. Horns can’t be comfortable. “Can I bring in two men?”
“Of course,” I say again.
He leaves one foot in my tent; I can see his silhouette as he gestures. Then he opens the flap for two soldiers. One of them I recognize as his—it’s hard not to spot the conscripts, though they’ve meshed well in the weeks since we’ve
“Mistress,” begins the latter, “Permission to speak?”
“Granted,” I say.
They don’t exchange glances but I can tell by the way they twitch, just a little, that they long to. The shinier of the two goes first. “We were outside the perimeter, Mistress.”
I lift a brow. “You were on duty?”
“No,” he says, ears drooping.
His comrade picks up. “We were drinking and telling stories we didn’t want anyone else to hear, is all. But we weren’t the only one with stories that wanted no other ears. We saw his captain, ma’am, plain as day, skulking about with someone who listened to everything he said and then rode fast and hard away. Mighty quietly, but fast.”
I looked at the first. “Captain Colblain?”
“Aye, Mistress,” he said miserably. “We could think of no reason for him to be out there, so Jared reported it to Captain Donal here.”
“This stranger,” I say. “What did you see of him?”
“He wore no colors,” Colblain’s man said. “Gray leather, all blent-together. He looked hard and very mixed, not a species I could pick out. A unique-looking combination, though.”
“His mount had fine legs,” added the other. “Good, strong mount, and very nice tack besides. Not a thing a bandit could afford.”
“Though he dressed as one,” Colblain’s man said.
“You would remember him if you saw him again?” I asked. Two nods. “Very well,” I said. “Return to your duties. You’ll say nothing of this to any others, understood?”
“Aye, Mistress,” they said in crisp unison, and saluted before leaving.
I looked at Donal. “You trust them.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
Colblain, always so painfully upright, so devout in duty and spirit. In the dark, trying to be hidden. Why?
Chapter
Two
Arranging it isn’t difficult, really. Colblain is a wonderful captain, an arrow that when shot from a bow speeds true and hard. He is not a thief, a spy or a cunning man. Subterfuge is not his bailiwick. For the task of trapping him I want Oweir, who has proven himself a master of many faces. He makes an able diplomat, a good soldier and an unremarkable presence when he puts his mind to it. I give him the assignment, and if he is astonished at what I ask he masks t well, proving that my choice is a sound one.
Sometime between Oweir’s trap springing and my heart settling from my confrontation with Silfie, I am interrupted by the corvid messenger’s arrival, gold and brown feathers, agitation, flapping spring air into my face. In his claws is a message and when I unroll it a chill lifts the fur down my spine and ruffles my feathers.
“So,” I say to the messenger. “They kept Rei back.”
The corvid messenger—does he? Yes. He nods, an awkward jerking of his head.
The answer is fell but not surprising. I say to him, “You know where you go next.”
The messenger gapes his beak and lifts into the air, leaving me on the ground, frustrated, tired…but tingling. I had sent Rei to attempt a negotiation in advance of my arrival…but if they’d been willing to use him as a messenger, he would have returned with the raven. Which could mean they had suspicions, suspicions that would not be allayed without my making a personal appearance. And a personal appearance was the exact thing I had hoped to avoid, given the risks involved.I would have to go.
And now more waiting. Waiting for Colblain. Waiting for the allies I’d sent for in case everything fell appart. Waiting for the pieces to fall together. I return to my tent.
This is the part I hate. But at least it’s a familiar hatred.
From Crossroads Tam has brought me several bags, and their contents are now scattered all over my tent as I try everything on, a piece at a time, sometimes several. This is a far more frustrating experience than waiting is. I’m trying to find nice clothes. Appropriate clothes for what I’m about to do.
“No,” Ragna says to the black shirt and black pants. “Too obvious.”
To the fussily embroidered blouse and breeches, “No one would ever believe that on you. You don’t wear it right.”
The cream pants and white blouse will get too dirty to make the best impression by the time I arrive. The brown breeches and white blouse are too plain. The leathers are too martial. I’d be angry at Ragna if I didn’t agree with her. None of it is right. It doesn’t help that I don’t know how to lie that well. Misdirect, maybe, but lying? I’m barely good enough to lie with my mouth. Lying with my clothing is too alien.
“Maybe you should go naked,” Ragna says at last with a quirk of her whiskers.
I scowl at her from across the tent. She’s folded all of Tam’s offerings after I’ve discarded them (violently). None of them will work.
“We need to choose something,” I say. “Maybe I’ll just dress like myself.”
“Maybe you should,” Ragna says. “But dressing as yourself—”
“What?” I ask.
Unlike other people, Ragna looks at you directly even when she’s not comfortable with something. I don’t know where she picked up that habit of being so open about the things she doesn’t like. And so accepting of them at the same time. It’s a strange thing to see. It somehow makes you more twitchy than if she’d tried to look away or mutter.
“If you dress the way you normally dress, you will be tempted to act the way you normally act,” Ragna says. “You cannot afford it, Mistress. Your plan is dangerous enough without that handicap.”
I sigh.
Someone rings the bell outside my tent and Ragna goes to see who’s visiting. She returns with a package and a puzzled expression, handing me the former and keeping the latter for herself. I open the package and shining silk spills onto my lap.
Teal silk, eye-wateringly bright, embroidered with blazing phoenixes. Phoenixes that look like me.
Oh, Silfie.
“That might work,” Ragna says. “Wear it over something simple but well-made. It will disguise your condition while also making it seem that you love luxury and have good taste. And that you are, perhaps, somewhat egotistical.”
There’s no note with the robe. I run my fingers over it. It’s soft and cool as water running.
“Mistress?” Ragna asks.
I shake my head. “It will do.”
She sends me armor against the task I must do. That must mean she still loves me…mustn’t it?
“You were going to leave tonight,” Ragna says.
I nod. My time-table is more forgiving than my armor, but not by much. Her eyes narrow as I sip from the tea she’s brought me. “It’s going to be cloudy.”
“The gods tell you this?” she asks, one side of her whiskers spreading.
“I tell me this,” I say, ignoring her faint amusement. “I was a creature of wind and weather long before any gods came along and tried to help me.”
She nods. “Tonight, then.”
“There’s a good possibility,” I say. We don’t have to say what for. As trite as it sounds, if you’re going to arrange a clandestine meeting with someone, doing it in the dark with the weather obscuring the stars is still a smart way to go about it.
“Do you think—?”
“I don’t know,” I say firmly. I will not judge him without evidence first. And while I’m anxious to be on my way, I can stay, just a little longer, to see if Colblain has betrayed me or if he’s found a new friend he’d rather meet in private.
