Free Hope's End: A Powder Mage Short Story by Brian McClellan

C aptain Verundish contemplated killing herself.
    The pistol sat in her lap, the muzzle loaded, the flint cocked and the pan primed.
    It would be a simple thing to put the barrel in her mouth, angle it upward to her brain, and pull the trigger. Some poor infantryman would have to clean the blood and bits of bone off the back of her tent—or maybe they’d just take it down and burn it. Her body would be sent back to Adro, where...
    Well, why concern herself with the details? None of it would matter to her.
    She wrapped her fingers around the butt of the pistol that had belonged to her grandfather, the grip worn and smooth to the touch, and she was glad that she had so little family left behind to mourn her. Would they mourn her after she took the coward’s way out?
    Would Genevie remember her mother?
    A letter lay on the table beside her cot. The sender was a man who legally called himself her husband, but had no further claim to that position beyond the letter of the law. Verundish wanted to burn the letter and erase everything it said.
    A familiar voice called out a greeting to someone else outside her tent. Verundish shoved the pistol beneath her pillow and brushed flecks of gunpowder off her lap just as a man threw the tent flap aside.
    Captain Constaire ducked inside, removing his hat with a flourish. He was a tall man, willow-thin with long brown hair tied back over one shoulder and the playful eyes of a prankster. He wore thick mutton chops that touched the corners of his lips and his uniform hung loosely from his wiry frame.
    He stepped over to her and bent low, kissing her on the mouth, smothering her protestations. She found herself kissing back after a moment, and far too soon Constaire pulled away, a grin on his face. “Love,” he said, “I’m just stopping by on my way to see General Tamas.”
    Verundish raised her eyebrows. “The promotion?”
    “I think so,” Constaire said. He drew up to his full height, his head pushing up the top of her tent, and mimed as if he were throwing a cape over his arm. “The next time we meet, I shall be Major Constaire.”
    Verundish leaned back on her cot and regarded the man. “You’re a fool.”
    “But you love me anyways.”
    “I’m not a smart woman.”
    He paused, as if he sensed something amiss. “Verie?”
    She gave a slight shake of her head to warn him off asking. He ignored her.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Tell me. Was it another letter?” his eyes went to the envelope on the table beside her cot. “That bloody bastard! What does he want this time? Is Genevie all right?”
    “It’s nothing,” Verundish said quietly. Constaire was not making this easy. Better if she had no lover, no one to worry over her death. It would make things simple. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that this was only a soldier’s love. Eventually, the campaign would end and they’d both return home. Constaire would find a younger woman, and Verundish would go back to a cold house with a hateful husband.
    Well. She wouldn’t have to go back if she killed herself.
    Constaire threw himself to one knee. “Divorce him,” he said. “Marry me. I’m about to be made major. We could return to Adopest and take Genevie away from that monster.”
    Oh, this fool. He only twisted the knife. “You’re not serious.”
    “I am. Deadly so.”
    If only it were so easy. But life, as her mother had always told her, was never easy. “He wants a divorce even more than I do,” Verundish said.
    “Perfect! Apply for a divorce and marry me.”
    “You know who my father is?”
    Constaire seemed taken aback. “He’s a priest, I think you said.”
    “Yes. He’s the priest who married us, and he’d have to sign the papers to authorize my divorce.”
    Constaire’s face fell and he rocked back from his knees into a sitting position on the floor of her tent. “And he doesn’t believe in divorce. Is that it?”
    “He thinks it’s a sin against Kresimir. He thinks