Date: 2013-12-30 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; High Fantasy; Magic; Ghosts; Epic Fantasy
Description: CAINA AMALAS is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, one of the elite agents of the Emperor of Nighmar. She has defeated powerful sorcerers and corrupt lords, freed slaves and overthrown great evils. But now someone has begun slaughtering the Ghosts of the Imperial capital, and the killer is wearing her face. And this time, saving the Empire might cost her everything… ARK is a man of many roles – father and husband, Ghost and veteran, blacksmith and Champion of Marsis. But when the circlemasters of the Ghosts order him to hunt down the renegade Caina Amalas, Ark must make a choice between his family

GHOST IN THE SURGE

Jonathan Moeller

Description

CAINA AMALAS is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, one of the elite agents of the Emperor of Nighmar. She has defeated powerful sorcerers and corrupt lords, freed slaves and overthrown great evils.

But now someone has begun slaughtering the Ghosts of the Imperial capital, and the killer is wearing her face.

And this time, saving the Empire might cost her everything…

ARK is a man of many roles – father and husband, Ghost and veteran, blacksmith and Champion of Marsis.

But when the circlemasters of the Ghosts order him to hunt down the renegade Caina Amalas, Ark must make a choice between his family and the woman who saved his life and children…

THE MOROAICA is the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, and after two thousand years of toil, she is ready. She shall destroy the world and remake it in a better image, ending suffering and pain forever. She will rip open a gate to the heavens, cast down the gods from their thrones, and make them pay for all the suffering of mankind.

Or so she thinks…

Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Moeller.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published January 2014.

Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

Chapter 1 - The Lord Governor’s Ball

Caina had to admit that Nisias Druzen, Lord Governor of Varia Province, knew how to throw a splendid ball.

A pity that she might have to kill him before the night was out.

The ballroom’s marble floor gleamed beneath her boots, reflecting the light from the chandelier overhead. Tall, wide windows framed in bronze offered a splendid view of the town of Mornu and the western sea, the moonlight rippling across the waves. Statues of long-dead Emperors stood in niches between the windows, gazing at the ball with solemn dignity. Musicians played in the corners, and liveried servants circulated among the guests, bearing trays of food and wine. The guests themselves were the chief merchants and magistrates of Mornu, and nobles from the hinterlands of Varia Province. They were powerful and influential men in the province, but not throughout the Empire.

The ball was indeed splendid. Caina would have expected such a display in the Imperial capital, not in a rural province on the Empire’s northwest edge.

She wondered how Lord Nisias had paid for it all.

“Pleasant, isn’t it?” murmured the man standing at Caina’s side.

She looked at him.

Corvalis Aberon stood at her right, clad in the black coat, trousers, boots, and crisp white shirt of a prosperous Nighmarian merchant. Unlike most merchants, he was hard and lean, and the fine clothes did not make him look any less dangerous. He had close-cropped blond hair and eyes like green jade, a sword and a dagger riding in sheaths at his belt. The scabbards were black and adorned with silver, and the weapons themselves looked ornamental.

Yet Caina wondered how many of the guests would see the faint stains of sweat on the leather-wrapped hilts of Corvalis’s weapons, the signs of hard practice and fighting.

“A very nice ball,” said Caina, making sure to keep her Szaldic accent in place. Like Corvalis, she wore a disguise, a rich blue gown with black trim that left more of her chest exposed than she would have preferred. But that was all part of the disguise. Corvalis masqueraded as Anton Kularus, the only coffee merchant of the Imperial capital, and Caina had disguised herself as Sonya Tornesti, Anton’s mistress. Sonya was the sort of woman who would wear inappropriately revealing gowns, too much makeup, and too much jewelry.

The fact that Caina actually did share a bed with Corvalis, of course, only added verisimilitude to the disguise.

Corvalis took a sip from a glass of wine. “It’s very good wine.”

“It is,” said Caina. “All the way from Caer Marist in Caeria Superior. The wine glasses came from Malarae. I think the musicians were hired from Marsis. Those wall hangings are silk, which means they came from Anshan.”

“Which,” said Corvalis, who knew how her mind worked, “makes you wonder how he paid for all of it.”

Caina nodded, watching the guests. Lord Nisias stood on the far side of the ballroom, speaking with some merchants and laughing. He was a short, plump man of Cyrican birth, middle-aged with a fringe of gray hair encircling his brown head. He looked like an amiable man, but Caina had known men who could smile and wink as they killed a foe.

Corvalis was such a man.

“Aye,” said Caina. “House Druzen is not wealthy, and Lord Nisias did not have much money before the Imperial Curia voted him this province.”

“Then he is taking bribes,” said Corvalis, “or he is embezzling from the taxes.”

Caina shook her head. “Varia Province is mostly farmers, fishermen, and miners. Mornu has only ten thousand people, and it is the largest town in the province. Nisias could not embezzle enough to pay for these balls, this new mansion.”

“And that means,” said Corvalis, “he has another source of revenue.”

Caina looked at the Lord Governor as he chatted with the merchants and the magistrates. He looked like a kindly uncle, a trustworthy and diligent man.

“Such as,” said Caina, “trading slaves.”

“Master Basil was right, then,” said Corvalis.

Caina nodded. Gangs of slavers had tormented the Empire’s western coast for years, kidnapping farmers and fishermen and shipping them in chains to the great slave markets of Istarinmul and Anshan. When Naelon Icaraeus had perished below Black Angel Tower, the slavers had been broken, and the Ghosts hoped the menace had ended.

And a few weeks later, Andromache of New Kyre and Rezir Shahan of Istarinmul had attacked Marsis. A year after that, Kylon of House Kardamnos had completely destroyed the Empire’s western fleet. Now predators of all sorts prowled the western sea, corsairs and pirates attacking every merchant ship they could catch.

Gangs of slavers preyed anew upon the people of the western coasts.

And it seemed that Lord Nisias was in league with them.

Caina’s left hand curled into a fist, twitching towards the daggers hidden beneath her skirt. She loathed slave traders, and if Nisias was in league with them, Caina would kill him. Halfdan had sent them to investigate the situation, to find out of if Lord Nisias or any of Varia Province’s magistrates were cooperating with the slavers. If Caina found proof, she would kill Nisias Druzen without hesitation.

She regretted some of the men she had killed in the past…but she had never regretted killing a slave trader, and was not about to start now.

Nisias smiled, laughed, and started across the ballroom, greeting his other guests.

“I think it is time,” said Caina, “that we paid our respects to the Lord Governor.”

“Of course,” said Corvalis, offering her his left arm. Caina threaded her right arm through it, and they walked across the ballroom floor. Corvalis exchanged greetings with a few of the other guests. Anton Kularus was well known in Malarae, and rumor of his name had spread to the outer provinces. Caina kept an expression of polite boredom on her face, but she paid close attention to the guests. Perhaps the slave traders had other associates among the nobles and magistrates of Mornu. And it was possible that Nisias himself was innocent, while one of his underlings had conspired with the slave traders.

At last they stood before Lord Nisias, and Corvalis disengaged his arm from Caina’s and made a deep bow, while Caina gripped her skirts and performed a curtsy.

“Ah, there you are,” said Nisias in High Nighmarian. “You must be Master Anton Kularus of Malarae.”

“I am, my lord,” said Corvalis. “It is an honor to meet you. This is my companion,” the polite word for mistress, “Sonya Tornesti.”

“An honor, my lord,” said Caina. “Anton, he meets many fine people, but he has never introduced me to a Lord Governor before.”

Nisias chuckled. “Well, do not let it go to your head, my dear.” He gave her the sort of indulgent smile older men reserved for pretty young women. “I fear the Lord Governor of Varia Province is about equal in honor to serving as the Lord Aedile of sewage in the Imperial capital.”

“My lord, you are unkind to yourself,” said Caina. “Mornu is very orderly. No sewage in the streets at all.”

“You sound and look rather Szaldic, if I may say so,” said Nisias. “Are you from Varia Province?”

“When I was a little girl,” said Caina. “But my father and mother went to Malarae to find work.” She smiled at Corvalis. “And there I met Anton.”

“I must say, Master Anton,” said Nisias, “I am quite pleased to meet you. I had dismissed coffee as a drink for the Istarish and the Anshani. But then a merchant happened to sell a barrel of beans when he stopped in Mornu,” he spread his hands, “and I find that I have developed quite a taste for it. Especially when spiced with cinnamon.”

Corvalis laughed. “An expensive taste, I fear. Shipping coffee to Malarae is expensive, and I can only image what that merchant charged. And cinnamon has grown most costly.”

“Indeed,” said Nisias with a scowl. “This endless war with New Kyre has had dire consequences for commerce.”

“Actually,” said Corvalis, “that is why I came to Mornu.”

Nisias raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? You have piqued my curiosity, sir.”

“The war has driven up the cost of shipping,” said Corvalis. “My coffee is grown mostly upon plantations in Anshan and Istarinmul, and shipped north over the Starfall Straits. The Istarish, as you can imagine, make for most rapacious customs collectors.”

Nisias grunted. “Indeed. The greed of the Istarish emirs is legendary.” He scowled. “Had Rezir Shahan not been so greedy, this miserable war would not have started.”

Caina, who had killed Rezir in a burning warehouse in Marsis, could not disagree. But Nisias Druzen had no need to know that.

“Perhaps the war has created new opportunities,” said Corvalis. “I am considering having my coffee shipped through the Cyrican sea and then delivered to Mornu.”

“The long way around, surely,” said Nisias. A servant passed with a tray of wine, and the Lord Governor took a glass. “Cheaper and quicker to take it to Marsis and have it shipped up the River Marentine.”

“But the Lord Governor of Marsis charges a steep customs rate,” said Corvalis. “If the coffee is shipped to Mornu and carted along the Imperial Highway to Marsis, I can have it loaded upon barges there and then shipped up the River Marentine. The western sea ought to be safe enough, with most of the Kyracian fleet pulled back to defend New Kyre.”

Nisias grunted and gazed at the ceiling for a moment, swirling his wine.

“A bold plan,” said the Lord Governor, “but I cannot recommend it.”

“Oh?” said Corvalis. “Why not? It seems the port of Mornu could use the extra traffic.”

“It could,” said Nisias, “but only if your traffic actually reaches us. The Kyracian fleet has withdrawn to defend New Kyre, yes, but that devil Kylon Shipbreaker destroyed the Emperor’s fleet. Now there is no one to keep order upon the western seas, and pirates and raiders infest the waves. Worse, gangs of slave traders are raiding Varia Province and taking captives to sell in the markets of Istarinmul.”

Caina frowned. “We heard the rumors on our journey here. Dreadful tales.”

“Aye,” said Nisias. “It is just as well you did not take ship to Mornu. You might have found yourself heading to a very different destination.”

“There were slave traders in Varia Province, when I was a girl,” said Caina, “which is why my father wanted to find work in Malarae. But I thought they had been wiped out.”

“They were,” said Nisias, “briefly, before the war. Naelon Icaraeus, son of the traitor Haeron Icaraeus, controlled them. It seemed he had some fool idea of building a mercenary army to overthrow the Emperor, aided by some sorceress out of Szaldic myth. But then the Legions killed him.” He snorted. “Aided by the Balarigar, if you believe the tales.”

“A fanciful tale,” said Corvalis.

“It is,” said Nisias, “but the Szalds believe it. And not a few people in the Imperial capital, for that matter. But I wander from the matter at hand. The Legions wiped out Lord Naelon and his followers, but the war transformed the western seas into a battlefield…and I fear battlefields always draw jackals.”

“Perhaps you could write to the Lord Governor in Marsis,” said Corvalis, “and ask him to send one of his Legions to sweep the slavers from the province.”

“I have,” said Nisias, “and he refused me.” He sighed and took a drink of wine. “The honorable Lord Aiodan Maraeus believes that his father Lord Corbould and his brother Lord Conn shall soon starve the Kyracians and force them to submit. So he holds his Legions back, lest the Kyracians grow desperate and launch an attack upon Marsis.”

“That seems unlikely,” said Corvalis. “The Kyracians could not even take Marsis with the aid of the Istarish. Surely they could not do so on their own.”

“No,” said Nisias, “they could not. But I cannot convince Lord Aiodan Maraeus of that fact.” He sighed. “But perhaps Lord Corbould’s plan will work, and the Kyracians shall soon submit. Then Lord Aiodan would have the men to spare.”

Caina knew better. If Lord Corbould convinced the Anshani to stop selling grain to New Kyre, the Kyracian stormsingers would respond by using their sorcery to alter the weather over the Empire to produce a famine. The resultant war would drown the world in blood, and she could only imagine how the Magisterium would use the chaos.

Or, worse, the Moroaica…

She pushed aside the thought.

“So I fear you have wasted your trip, Master Anton,” said Nisias. “I cannot recommend that you send your cargoes to Mornu. Perhaps after the war, once the governors of the coast can turn their attention to dealing with the pirates and the slavers. But by then, alas, my term will be over. Ah, well.” He grinned. “I would have looked forward to sampling your fine coffees as they passed through my port. Merely to maintain my goodwill, you understand.”

Corvalis laughed. “I understand quite well. Thank you for your candor, my lord.”

Nisias shook his head. “Alas, my fate is to be the bearer of bad news. Enjoy the feast, Master Anton.”

Corvalis bowed, and the Lord Governor went to speak with another group of guests.

“What do you think?” said Caina.

“He seems an unlikely slave trader,” said Corvalis. “Most magistrates would leap at the chance to have more cargoes coming through their ports. More opportunities for graft. Though shipping coffee to Malarae through Varia Province is a stupid idea. Perhaps he saw through it.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “If you bankrupt my coffee house, I shall be most cross.”

Corvalis grinned. “It is your business, my dear. I am merely the public face.” He shrugged. “Perhaps Nisias Druzen has nothing to do with the slavers.”

“Or maybe he’s merely a very good liar,” said Caina. “We know someone has been kidnapping slaves from the coast and shipping them through Mornu. Perhaps he’s not involved directly, and is merely taking a cut of the profits.”

“And if it’s just that,” said Corvalis, glancing across the ballroom, “then he’s still going to have an unfortunate accident, I assume?”

Caina nodded and followed Corvalis’s gaze.

She just managed to keep her expression calm.

A master magus of the Imperial Magisterium walked across the room, the hem of his black robes rustling against the marble floor. He was lean and gaunt, with a shock of graying black hair and a prominent nose. Caina had never seen him before in her life.

Yet he seemed familiar, somehow.

“Do you know him?” said Caina.

“No,” said Corvalis. “I have seen most of the high magi and the master magi, but I’ve never seen him. He must be the Lord Governor’s advisor. If he was banished out here, he must not have been terribly competent.”

“Or he got on the wrong side of your father,” said Caina. Decius Aberon, First Magus of the Magisterium, was the sort of man who kept grudges.

“My father doesn’t have anything but wrong sides,” said Corvalis. “We…”

He fell silent as the master magus headed towards them.

Toward Caina, specifically. His black eyes locked upon her, and a faint sneer of contempt went over his lip. Her first thought was that he wanted to seduce her. That vanished as she got a better look at his face, at the hatred there.

She wondered what she had done to offend him.

He stopped a few paces away from them, scowling.

“Good evening, master magus,” said Corvalis. “It is an honor to meet you. I am…”

“I know who you are,” said the magus, his voice curt. “Do you know who I am, I wonder?”

“I fear not,” said Corvalis. “I…”

“There’s no need for you to do the talking,” said the magus, still staring at Caina. “I know that you are merely the arm that carries out her designs.”

Caina felt a prickle of alarm. When people looked at her, she wanted them to see the shallow, flighty mistress of a coffee merchant. She did not want them to see the nightfighter of the Ghosts, the eyes and ears of the Emperor of Nighmar.

“Who are you?” said Caina.

“You don’t remember?” said the master magus. “Well, we have never met. My name is Oberon Ryther.”

For a moment Caina could not recall the name, but then her alarm increased.

A few months past, she and Corvalis had gone to town of Calvarium to stop the Moroaica and her ancient enemy Rhames from claiming the Ascendant Bloodcrystal in the cursed ruins of Caer Magia. Rhames had been destroyed, and the Moroaica’s body killed again. But Martin Dorius, the Lord Governor of Calvarium, had aided Caina, and knew that she was a Ghost.

And the master magus assigned to the Lord Governor of Calvarium had been named Oberon Ryther.

“When I last heard your name,” said Caina, “you were in Calvarium, in Caeria Ulterior. A long way from here.”

“When I last saw you,” said Ryther, “you were calling yourself Rania Scorneus, and claiming to be a sister of the Imperial Magisterium.” He smiled. “Impersonating a magus carries the penalty of death, Sonya Tornesti. Knowledge of your crime might be of interest to certain men within the Magisterium.”

“Interesting,” said Caina.

“Oh?” said Ryther, tilting his head to the side.

“You didn’t attempt to arrest me,” said Caina, “and you didn’t denounce me before Lord Nisias. Which means…”

“Which means that Lord Nisias is a pompous fool,” said Ryther.

“Or,” said Caina, “that you intend to bargain.”

Ryther send nothing, a twitch going through his face.

“Come with me,” he said at last. “I would prefer that neither the Lord Governor nor his fools overhear us.”

Corvalis glanced at Caina, and she nodded. They followed Ryther toward the high windows that overlooked the bay, away from the other guests.

“Let us dispense with the games,” said Ryther. “I know who you are. I know you are both Ghosts. No one else would dare to impersonate a sister of the Magisterium. And I know why you’re here. It’s about the slave trading, isn’t it? All the abductions from the countryside?”

Caina said nothing.

“Do not,” said Ryther, “play games with me. It will end badly for us both, Ghost. I am in just as much peril as you, if not more.”

Caina hadn’t expected that.

“Why?” she said. “Are you fearful your illegal slave trading will come to light?”

“Hardly,” said Ryther with a grimace. “I care nothing for the slaves, nor for this miserable backwater of a province. But the First Magus, as you can imagine, is not terribly pleased with me. It would be politically convenient for him if I happened to disappear, and Decius Aberon has strong ties with the Kindred assassin families.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Caina. “So what do you propose?”

“A pact,” said Ryther.

“You’re mad,” said Caina, “if you think I would trust a magus.”

“And you are just as crazed if you think I would trust a Ghost,” said Ryther. “But trust is not required, merely mutual necessity.” He gestured in the direction of Nisias. “Your suspicions are correct. The Lord Governor is indeed heading up a ring of slave traders. He has been kidnapping both citizens from the town and Szalds from the countryside and selling them to his Istarish associates.”

The rage stirred within Caina. If Nisias Druzen was indeed aiding the slave traders, he was not long for this world.

“So,” said Corvalis. “If you know that Nisias is selling people into slavery, why have you not acted? You could report him to the Lord Governor in Marsis, or to the preceptor of the Magisterium’s chapterhouse in the city.”

“No, he’s not going to do that,” said Caina, pushing aside her dark thoughts. “The First Magus doesn’t like him. And if he causes the Lord Governor’s downfall, it will look like the Magisterium had a hand in it. That would annoy the First Magus. And if the First Magus is annoyed, Master Oberon Ryther is unlikely to live much longer.”

“I’ve heard,” said Corvalis, “that the First Magus has a temper.”

“Indeed,” said Ryther with a scowl. “But there is another option. Sooner or later that idiot Nisias is going to make a mistake and meet his downfall. But if the Ghosts were to remove him first, why…no one would suspect the Magisterium of his ruin.”

“So you want us,” said Caina, “to kill Nisias Druzen for you.”

Ryther smiled. He looked far too pleased with himself. “It is crude to speak so bluntly about such a delicate matter. But who am I to disagree with your conclusions?”

“No,” said Caina.

Ryther scowled. “Why not? You are not the first Ghost I’ve had the misfortune of meeting. Your order never stops yammering about corrupt nobles and the grievous injustice of slavery. I thought you would leap at the chance to rid the Empire of a corrupt governor who deals with slavers.”

“We would,” said Caina, “but we don’t have proof that he is involved. We only suspect it. We know that slaves have been taken from Mornu, but we don’t know for certain that Nisias is behind it.”

“He is,” said Ryther, “and I can prove it. Break into his study, on the third floor of the mansion. The second drawer of his desk is locked and trapped, and it contains his ledger. His secret ledger, not the province’s official financial records. Get your hands on that, Ghosts, and you shall have all the proof you need to deal with Nisias.”

“That’s very helpful,” said Caina. “Too helpful, even.”

Ryther sighed. “What does it take to satisfy you? If I withheld information, you would accuse me of obfuscation. I tell you everything you need to know, and you are still suspicious.” He gave an irritated shake of his head. “Do with the information as you please.”

He stalked away, his boots clicking against the marble floor.

Caina stood in silence with Corvalis for a moment.

“Well,” said Corvalis after a moment. “That was interesting.”

“It was,” said Caina.

“You’re going to break into Lord Nisias’s study tonight, aren’t you?” said Corvalis.

Caina nodded.

“Ah,” said Corvalis. “Just as well that I had only one glass of wine.”

Chapter 2 - Disciple of the Moroaica

Caina feigned illness to leave the ball early, and returned with Corvalis to the Rusalka’s Kiss, Mornu’s finest inn. Tanya had told Caina about the legendary Rusalkae, the beautiful river spirits who drew unsuspecting men to their watery doom. It was a grisly name for an inn, but many sailors lived in Mornu, and Caina had found that seamen often had a black sense of humor.

Rather, she supposed, like Ghost nightfighters.

In their rooms at the Rusalka’s Kiss, Caina prepared.

She put aside her finery and donned black trousers, black boots, and a black jacket lined with thin steel plates to deflect knife blades. She secured daggers in hidden sheaths in each of her boots, and around her waist went a leather belt holding throwing knives, lockpicks, a coiled rope and grapnel, and a number of other useful tools. The strap of a leather satchel went across her chest, to carry any documents she found in Nisias’s desk. Her curved ghostsilver dagger went into a sheath on her right hip. Black gloves covered her hands, and a black mask concealed her entire head, save for her eyes.

Around her neck went a leather cord holding a man’s worn golden signet ring. Everything else she carried had a practical purpose, but the ring did not. Her father had once worn it, and it was all she had left of him.

She paused for a moment, looking at the ring. Eleven years he had been dead, for half her life. His death and her mother’s betrayal had led her to the Ghosts. That pain would never leave her…but it had been part of her for so long that sometimes she forgot it was there.

And if she had not joined the Ghosts, so many people would have died. Maglarion would have destroyed Malarae, and Kalastus would have turned Rasadda to ashes. Ranarius would have thrown Cyrioch into the sea, Mihaela would have unleashed an army of enslaved souls bound into living armor, and Rhames would have claimed the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and rebuilt the dark empire of ancient Maat.

Caina could take not credit for any of those victories. She would not. Luck and good fortune had been with her.

But if her father had not been murdered, if she had not joined the Ghosts, than all those people would have perished.

Yet Caina still wished her father was here.

“Something wrong?” said Corvalis, donning his own nightfighter grab. He wore black chain mail beneath a leather jerkin, his sword and dagger at his belt.

“Nothing,” said Caina. “Though we are about to break into the mansion of a Lord Governor of the Empire.”

Corvalis snorted. “Compared to some of the other things we’ve done, this is a pleasant afternoon stroll.”

He had a point.

Caina tucked the ring beneath her jacket and donned her shadow-cloak.

It was a wondrous thing, black as night and lighter than the finest silk. The Ghost nightkeepers created them using a secret method, fusing shadows with the silk of spiders. The cloak weighed nothing at all, and it blurred and merged with the shadows, allowing her to move through the darkness with great stealth. Additionally, so long as she pulled up the cowl, the cloak shielded her from both spells of divination and mind-controlling sorcery.

The cloak had saved her life more than once.

Corvalis donned his own shadow-cloak. It transformed him into a hulking, silent shadow. He moved with just as much stealth as she did, but he had learned stealth in far grimmer circumstances. His father had sold him to the Kindred assassins as a child, and they had brutalized him into an efficient, skilled killer. Yet he had left the Kindred to rescue his sister and had joined the Ghosts.

“Corvalis,” said Caina.

She stepped closer, lifted their masks, and kissed him long upon the lips.

“That was,” said Corvalis when they broke apart, “unexpected.”

“I love you,” said Caina.

“I love you, too,” said Corvalis. He grinned. “Let’s go break into a Lord Governor’s study.”

They donned their masks and departed the Rusalka’s Kiss.

###

It was a cold, damp night, a thick mist rolling off Mornu’s harbor. In the gloom Caina could just make out the glow of the lighthouse, but saw little else. That was good - the weather would make it all the easier to enter the mansion unseen.

The Lord Governor’s residence sat on a hill overlooking the town, fortified by its own low wall of gleaming white stone. It resembled a townhouse in the Imperial capital, complete with a colonnaded arcade and a peaked roof of red clay tiles. A watchman stood guard at the gates, but it was a simple matter to avoid him, jump the wall, and make their way to the mansion proper.

Lord Nisias did not seem the sort to bother himself unduly about security. Which was odd, if he was kidnapping people and selling them to slavers. Perhaps Varia Province’s distance from Malarae had made him complacent.

If so, he would pay for it tonight.

Caina slipped the rope from her belt, unhooked the grapnel, and threw it. The rope uncoiled, and she felt the grapnel catch upon the clay tiles of the roof. She tugged it a few times, making sure the rope would support her weight.

Then she nodded to Corvalis. He vanished into the shadows behind a bush. Caina took a deep breath, gripped the rope with her gloved hands, and scaled the wall.

The plan was simple enough, and they had used it before to good effect. Caina would break into the Lord Governor’s study and retrieve his records from the trapped drawer, while Corvalis kept watch from the mansion’s grounds. If he saw any signs of alarm, he would create a disturbance, and Caina would escape in the chaos.

But she did not think that would be necessary. The mansion of even a minor lord in Malarae had a dozen guards, locked and barred windows, even sorcerous wards shielding the entrances. Lord Nicias’s residence had none of those things.

Again she wondered at his complacency. A man breaking the Emperor’s laws and consorting with the enemies of the Empire usually took greater care. Perhaps Nisias was simply a fool. Or perhaps Ryther had set them upon the Lord Governor’s trail for reasons of his own.

Caina intended to find the truth.

After a moment she reached the third floor and braced her boots against the wall, her arms tight with strain. Caina was grateful for all the long hours she had spent practicing the forms of unarmed combat. The climb had been difficult, but nonetheless well within her strength.

She hung motionless for a moment, considering the Lord Governor’s study. It occupied a solar with tall, high, shuttered windows built in the Imperial style. The shutters could be opened, but given the chill and damp weather of Varia province, Caina wondered if Nisias ever bothered.

She drew a dagger and slipped the blade into the gap between the shutters. A simple tug of the blade popped the latch, and the shutters swung out. Caina went over the sill and into the solar, her boots making no sound against the floor. The windows had not been locked, and she saw no signs of mechanical or sorcerous traps.

Very strange.

Either Nisias was one of the dumbest slave traders Caina had encountered, or he simply wasn’t involved.

Or Ryther had sent her here for another reason.

Caina kept the dagger in her left hand and went to the desk.

It was a massive slab of polished Ulkaari oak. The drawers were large enough that Caina could have hidden herself within them, if she squeezed. Had Nisias felt like it, he could have concealed corpses within them.

Caina felt a twinge of unease at the thought, and then went to work on the drawer Ryther had indicated. As the magus had warned, it was trapped with a fiendish mechanical device, one that would unleash a spray of poisoned needles on anyone who attempted to force the lock. Fortunately Halfdan had taught her to pick locks long ago, and Caina’s time as a Ghost had given her a great deal of practice. She pried aside a wooden panel on the side of the drawer and jammed the intricate gears and springs that powered the trap. Then she slid a pick into the lock, probing for the tumblers. After a few moments, the lock clicked, and Caina slid the drawer open.

A single massive, leather-bound ledger rested within the drawer. Caina lifted it toward the dim light leaking through the window and turned the pages. Nisias Druzen kept careful, detailed records. He listed every slave his hired thugs had kidnapped from the province, their age, their health, and how much money he had obtained from their sale to the Istarish slavers.

It was even in his own handwriting.

Caina shook her head in disgust and closed the ledger. Nisias had condemned himself with his own hand. She would return to Corvalis, and together they would plan a fatal accident for the corrupt Lord Governor.

She tucked the ledger under one arm, turned, and stopped.

Something smelled…wrong.

Caina tugged her mask down far enough to uncover her nose and sniffed the air.

She smelled blood.

Her eyes swept the solar. Had she cut herself on the trap, perhaps on a blade smeared with numbing poison so she would not feel the wound? No, if she had lost enough blood to smell it, she would have become light-headed by now.

Which meant the smell was coming from somewhere else.

There were two other doors in the solar. One opened in the corridor, leading to the other rooms on the mansion’s top floor. The other was on Caina’s left, and if the mansion had been built in the Imperial style, it led to the Lord Governor’s private rooms.

She saw a dark puddle spreading from beneath that door.

Blood. Freshly spilled.

Caina hesitated. One part of her mind argued for retreating back down the rope and enlisting Corvalis’s aid. Another part urged her forward at once.

She glided forward, careful not to step in the spreading blood, and put her ear to the door.

Nothing. Utter silence.

Caina tucked the ledger into her satchel and opened the door, dagger ready.

Beyond she saw a well-furnished sitting room, dotted with overstuffed chairs and gleaming tables. Wooden shelves held books that looked as if they had never been read, and busts of long-dead Emperors and nobles. The intricate Anshani carpet was thick and soft.

A dead woman lay by the door, her blood soaking into the carpet.

Caina stepped over the blood and examined the woman. She looked like a Szaldic townswoman of middle years, her face lined and her hands callused from years of work. Blood soaked her neck and the front of her dress, her glassy eyes gazing at the ceiling, her face slack.

Her right hand clenched a bloody dagger, and a disturbing thought worked its way into Caina’s mind.

The dead woman had cut her own throat.

She had cut her own throat so violently that she had almost decapitated herself. That meant she had stood there, sawing away with the dagger, until she finally collapsed from blood loss.

It was a terrible way to commit suicide.

Unless she had been forced to do it.

Caina touched the dead woman’s forehead. It was still warm, and the blood had not even begun to dry. Most likely she had killed herself while Caina had still been climbing the rope up the wall.

But why?

She heard a muffled groan, and raised her dagger.

A half-open door stood on the far side of the sitting room. Caina crossed the room and pushed the door open the rest of the way. Beyond she saw a bedroom dominated by an enormous four-poster bed. Two more corpses, a man and a woman, lay upon the floor, daggers clutched in their hands, their throats cut.

Lord Governor Nisias Druzen lay upon the bed, still wearing his finery, his eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling. For a moment Caina thought that he was dead, that he had also slashed his own throat. But his chest rose and fell, and the skin of his neck was unbroken.

He was alive…and stared at the ceiling while two corpses bled out around his bed.

Disturbed, Caina moved closer. Nisias made no reaction, and Caina bent over him. The appearance of a hooded shadow holding a dagger would get a reaction out of most people, but Nisias only blinked. He did not move, did not try to defend himself.

He only blinked.

Caina frowned, and gave his hand a gentle jab with the point of her dagger.

Again he only blinked.

Caina sniffed his breath. Had he been drugged? She knew of a few drugs that could induce a peculiar, trance-like state, though she could not imagine why the Lord Governor might have taken them. Perhaps the dead people on the floor had taken some sort of drug and gone berserk, killing themselves in their mania…

Caina smelled nothing but wine and expensive cheese upon his breath, but she felt a sharp, crawling tingle. She put one hand upon his forehead, and the tingle sharpened.

Sorcery.

As a child she had been scarred by a necromancer, and ever since then she had been able to sense the presence of active sorcery. The ability had become only more acute as she grew older, and now she could often distinguish between the degree and intensity of spells.

Someone had put a spell upon Nisias. A mind-controlling spell, unless she missed her guess.

Suddenly the corpses upon the floor made a great deal more sense. Certain forms of sorcery controlled the minds of its victims, forcing them to fight in defense of the sorcerer.

Or to cut their own throats.

Nisias flinched as Caina straightened up, and she felt the sharp tingle of the spell intensify.

“The door,” rasped Nisias, and he pointed at the wall.

Then he went limp, his arm falling to the bed.

Caina turned and saw a faint glimmer of light in the wooden paneling of the bedroom wall.

A secret door.

Caina examined the wall and found the trigger. The hidden door swung open without a sound, revealing a set of stairs spiraling into the depths of the mansion. It was not unusual for a noble’s mansion to have at least one or two hidden passages. The stairs might lead to an escape tunnel, or it might lead to a hidden vault beneath the mansion, where Nisias kept his treasures…or where he could carry out activities unobserved.

Given the corpses upon the carpet, Caina suspected the latter.

But since Nisias lay trapped within a spell, perhaps someone else was carrying out secret activities in the vault.

She returned her dagger to its boot sheath and drew a throwing knife with her left hand. With her right she pulled her curved ghostsilver dagger from its scabbard. Ghostsilver was proof against sorcery, and had the power to penetrate defensive spells.

Caina thought she might need the dagger sooner rather than later.

She went down the stairs, moving without sound against the rough stone steps. Enspelled globes had been embedded into the curved wall at regular intervals, throwing their harsh glow over the stone. The walls grew cold and clammy as Caina descended beneath the earth.

Then the stairs ended in a large stone vault, and Caina stepped into an abattoir.

And a dark scene from her memories.

Six steel tables stood throughout the vault, and upon each rested a corpse in various stages of dissection. Shelves held books, scrolls, organs floating in jars of brine, and knives and scalpels caked in dried blood. A wooden worktable stood at the far end of the vault, laden down with more books and scrolls and papers covered with arcane diagrams.

Oberon Ryther stood before the worktable, smiling at her.

“Ah,” said Ryther. “I see my trap has caught a fly. A nasty, buzzing little fly.”

“Then it was you,” said Caina, using the rasping, disguised voice Theodosia had taught her. “It was you all along. The slavers, Nisias, everything. You…”

“Oh, don’t bother with the stage voice,” said Ryther with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know exactly who you are, Caina Amalas. A Ghost nightfighter and a woman of many disguises…and the whore of the First Magus’s miserable bastard son.”

Caina’s alarm sharpened. Only a few people outside of the Ghosts knew who she really was, and even fewer knew that Corvalis was Decius Aberon’s son. And there was no way that Ryther could know that, no way at all.

Unless…

“I see you met the Moroaica,” said Caina, using her normal voice, cold and hard.

“Getting closer,” said Ryther. “Yes, I’ve known the creature called the Moroaica for some time. Probably longer than you have been alive. A cruel mistress, to be sure, but she has taught me many useful things.”

“She will destroy you,” said Caina. “Her disciples are tools. She keeps them so long as they are useful, and then casts them aside in the end.”

Ryther’s smile was chill. “I know this, Caina of the Ghosts. Far better than you. But you should know this by now. For we know each other very well, do we not?”

“I have never seen you before coming to Mornu,” said Caina, but a suspicion started to form in the back of her mind.

“Come, come,” said Ryther. “The mistress thinks you are so very clever. I have my doubts. I think you are merely a whore who has gotten lucky too often. First in Cyrioch, and then in Calvarium and Caer Magia, and…”

“Ranarius,” hissed Caina.

Oberon Ryther – or, rather, the creature that had stolen Oberon Ryther’s body – smiled at her.

“So you do understand,” he said.

Caina had faced him twice before. The first time in Cyrioch, when he had almost awakened a greater earth elemental and destroyed the city. The second time had been in Caer Magia a few months past. The Moroaica had put his spirit into the body of Maena Tulvius, a beautiful young woman, and wearing that body Ranarius had almost taken the Ascendant Bloodcrystal.

At least until Corvalis had buried his sword blade between Maena’s shoulders.

And now it seemed the Moroaica had put Ranarius’s spirit into yet another new body.

“I am surprised,” said Caina, “that Jadriga did not put you into the body of another woman.”

Ryther smirked. “I served the mistress well in Caer Magia, and she rewards loyalty.”

“But not success, apparently,” said Caina, “since we destroyed the Ascendant Bloodcrystal.”

Ryther laughed. “Think what you like, Ghost.”

“I think,” said Caina, “that this is pathetic.”

“Oh?” said Ryther, and Caina saw the flicker of rage go across his face. In his original body, Ranarius had been indifferent to mockery, but Maena Tulvius had flown into a rage at the slightest provocation. One death had not been good for Ranarius’s sanity, and Caina suspected that a second had not improved it.

If she could goad him into a mistake, she might get out of this alive.

Or, even better, learn why he had come here.

“Because,” said Caina, gesturing at the bloody vault. “When I met you the first time, you were trying to raise a greater earth elemental and enslave its power. A fool’s plan, but at least it had some vision. The second time, when you were Maena Tulvius, you tried to claim the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and become a god. If you had been able to run a little faster, it might have worked.”

His smirk widened. “Do you really think so?”

“But this?” said Caina, sweeping her ghostsilver dagger over the carnage. “Butchering peasants in a rural province?” She kept her voice cold, keeping the fury out of her words. Ryther would pay for their blood, if Caina could find a way. “Utterly pathetic. The plan of an expelled fourth-year initiate of the Magisterium, trying to murder enough peasants to harvest a few feeble scraps of necromantic power from their blood.”

“You think that is what I was doing?” said Ryther. “Pitiful child. My mastery of the necromantic sciences ensures my immortality. And my skill with summoning and binding elementals is without equal. I have no need to drain the blood of Szaldic vermin to augment my power.”

“Then why are you doing this?” said Caina. “To amuse yourself? To fulfill the Moroaica’s bidding?”

Ryther smiled. “Because of you.”

“Me?” said Caina.

“You want to know why I killed those commoners?” said Ryther. “Why I enspelled Lord Nisias and forced him to do everything I commanded?” His smirk widened. “Why I ordered those slaves to cut their own throats, to give you a proper welcome? I didn’t need to do any of it. But I knew it would draw you here. Caina of the Ghosts, so righteous, so eager to mete out righteous justice to slavers and sorcerers.”

“Is that what this is about?” said Caina, not bothering to hide her disdain. “Revenge? You murdered all those people to get at me?”

“Yes,” said Ryther. “I admit revenge was most of it. But the mistress wants you dead. She’s about to undertake her great work of vengeance against the gods, and she doesn’t want you interfering. So she has commanded us to kill you.” He sighed with pleasure. “I even wagered Sicarion that I would find and kill you before he did. It appears I have won.”

“You haven’t,” said Caina. “Not yet.”

“I disagree,” said Ryther, and he made a chopping gesture.

She felt power blaze through the air.

Symbols of warding and entrapment burned upon the wall, and Caina felt unseen force closing around her like iron hands. Caina took a running step forward and flung the throwing knife in her left hand. Her aim was true, and the blade slammed into Ryther’s face.

Or it would have, had it not bounced away in a spray of sparks.

Ryther had warded himself against weapons of steel.

Her ghostsilver dagger was not balanced for throwing, and Caina started to sprint forward. But Ryther beckoned again, and the invisible force lifted Caina into the air. She jerked and twisted, trying to rip away from the spell, but Ryther’s power held her fast.

She cursed herself. Ryther had set a trap for her, a blatant and obvious trap, and she had blundered into it like a blind fool.

“Ah,” said Ryther with a long sigh of pleasure. “I am going to enjoy this.” He gestured, and Caina floated through the air towards him. “Once I get that shadow-cloak off you, I’ll be able to reach into your mind and twist your thoughts into whatever shape I want. Perhaps I’ll have you cut off your fingers one by one while I watch.” His eyes glittered with malicious pleasure. “Or I’ll keep them and give them to Sicarion, to show the little rodent that I killed you before he did. Perhaps instead I’ll force you to march to the dockside taverns and offer yourself to every sailor you see.”

Caina wrenched against the invisible force, but it was like fighting the air. Ryther’s psychokinetic spell was insubstantial, but it held her like iron bands.

Yet she could still move her arms and legs.

“I cannot believe the mistress thinks that you are so very clever,” said Ryther, walking closer. He examined a row of scalpels on one of the steel tables, nodded, and picked up a blade. “You ought to start screaming now.”

Caina floated past the rows of shelves, the glow from the enspelled globes glinting off the jars of brine-preserved organs.

They were just out of reach.

She doubted Ryther had bothered to ward himself against weapons other than steel. The man who had been both Ranarius of Cyrioch and Maena Tulvius had fought her twice now, and knew what kind of weapons she preferred to use.

He had no reason to ward himself against weapons other than steel.

Caina pulled off her belt, looped it around her hand.

Ryther laughed. “You think to fight me with a belt? A belt?” He laughed again. “Perhaps that’s all I’ll permit you to wear when I send you to the docks. I…”

Caina lashed her belt around a glass jar and pulled. The jar fell from the shelf, and she just managed to catch it, the glass squealing against her leather gloves. She lifted the jar over her head, arms taut with the effort.

“Oh, please, continue,” said Ryther, gesturing with his scalpel. “This is intensely amusing. You ought…”

Caina flung the jar with all her strength, and it slammed into Ryther’s face with a hideous crack. Ryther shrieked as his head snapped back, brine soaking his robes and pickled organs rolling down his chest. He fell upon his back, his mouth a bloody ruin.

And as his concentration wavered, the invisible force holding Caina weakened.

She twisted and broke free of the spell. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her ghostsilver dagger, and she took a running leap across the vault.

The weapon’s handle grew hot beneath her gloved fingers, and the blade sheared through Ryther’s warding spells and plunged into his chest. The reincarnated magus screamed in shock, and Caina ripped the blade free and buried it between his ribs once more.

Ryther shuddered, eyes filled with hate, and slumped against the stone floor. For a moment Caina remembered Ranarius screaming within the Palace of Splendors as one of his enslaved earth elementals turned upon him, remembered Maena’s final groan of pain as Corvalis’s sword found her heart.

“You aren’t,” said Caina, twisting the dagger, “very good at this kind of thing.”

Ryther hissed in pain, flecks of blood flying from his lips.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The Moroaica has given me the power to claim whatever body I wish. I will find you, Caina Amalas of the Ghosts. Strike me down again and again, and I shall be reincarnated. I will find you. I will kill the First Magus’s bastard in front of you. I will…I shall…”

Caina yanked the dagger free and cut his throat, the weapon growing hot as it pierced his protective spells. Ryther shuddered, the hate and the fury fading from his eyes as the breath fled from his lips.

She straightened up with a grunt, wiped her ghostsilver dagger clean upon his robe, and looked at Ryther.

He was dead.

For the third time.

Yet his words remained heavy in her thoughts. He would never stop hunting her. He would never forgive her for his deaths at her hands, and she had just added another to the tally.

And if the Moroaica had ordered her death, that would give Ranarius all the more impetus to kill her.

But that did not alarm Caina nearly as much as the other things he had said.

The Moroaica’s great work, her mad quest to wage a sorcerous war against the gods in revenge for the sufferings of mankind. Ryther had said Jadriga was almost ready to unleash it. Caina had seen the devastation Jadriga had wrought in Marsis, the chaos and bloodshed her disciples had worked, the sheer destructive might of Rhames and the Ascendant Bloodcrystal.

And all that had been in preparation for Jadriga’s great work.

What horrors would the Moroaica create when she began the great work in earnest?

Caina had to bring news of this to Halfdan at once.

She retrieved her belt, returned her weapons to their sheaths, and hastened from the vault.

###

Nisias Druzen had recovered himself by the time Caina returned to his bedroom.

“No!” he said, backing away, hands raised to shield off any blows. “You are…you are a specter conjured by that vile sorcerer Ryther! Stay away. Stay away! I will not…”

“Ryther is dead,” said Caina in her disguised voice. “You’ll find his corpse in the vault. There is enough evidence there to prove that he was practicing illegal arcane sciences, that he took control of your magistrates and forced them to sell slaves to the Istarish. Go at once and rouse the town’s militia.”

Lord Nisias frowned. “But you…who are…”

“No one,” said Caina. “I am no one, and you shall forget that I was ever here. Tell me what I have commanded you to do. Now!”

“I will summon the militia,” said Nisias, shuddering. Caina felt a pang of pity for him, but if he did not act at once, he might find himself arrested for the murders. “Ryther’s corpse is in the vault, along with proof that he forced us to…that he forced us to do these terrible things.”

“Good,” said Caina.

She started for the solar.

“But…you killed Ryther?” said Nisias.

“Aye,” said Caina.

“Thank you!” said Nisias with a sob. “Oh, thank you, Ghost. He reached into our minds, forced us to lie and smile and do the most horrible things. Thank you, Ghost, thank you…”

“Remember!” said Caina. “There are no such people as the Ghosts. They are only a tale told by fools and singers. And you will do as I say.”

Nisias Druzen nodded, weeping as he babbled his thanks, and Caina slipped into the solar.

###

A few moments later she joined Corvalis in the gardens.

“That took longer than I expected,” said Corvalis. “I thought I would have to set something on fire.” He paused. “What’s amiss?”

He knew her well enough that he could tell when something troubled her, even through the mask and cloak.

“Over the wall,” said Caina. “There’s about to be an uproar in the Lord Governor’s mansion. The sooner we’re back at the Rusalka’s Kiss, the better.”

They went over the wall and slipped through the misty streets back to the inn. Caina saw the lights appear the mansion’s windows, heard the clatter and the cry as militiamen began running. Caina and Corvalis went up the rope they had left in place behind the inn, and soon were secure in their rooms.

“Good thing the innkeeper saw us retire for the night,” said Corvalis. “If anyone becomes suspicious, we can claim we were here during whatever uproar you just started.” He pushed back the cowl of his shadow-cloak and his mask. “What happened?”

“Ranarius,” said Caina, her voice tight.

“Ranarius?” said Corvalis, his hands dropping to his weapons. “We killed him at Caer Magia. Again.”

Caina shook her head. “His spirit possessed Oberon Ryther. It must have happened right after we killed Maena Tulvius. He was controlling Nisias and using him to kidnap slaves and kill them.”

“Why?” said Corvalis. “Some necromantic spell?”

“No,” said Caina. “Me.”

“You?” said Corvalis.

“Ryther didn’t care about the slaves, and he wasn’t trying to work a necromantic spell,” said Caina. “It wasn’t some grand plan to conquer the Empire or make himself into a god. It was about me. He did it all to draw me here so he could kill me.”

It upset her more than she had expected. She had fought powerful sorcerers and cruel lords. She had seen more people die than she cared to recall. Yet it had never been about her. Caina had been an obstacle to her foes, nothing more.

But Ryther had butchered all those people merely to lure her here. No other reason.

“He’s dead again, then?” said Corvalis. “He must be, if you are standing here.”

“Aye, I killed him,” said Caina. She tugged off her mask and rubbed her face. “Again. But it doesn’t matter. He’s going to take another body and come for me.”

“Then we’ll just have to kill him over and over,” said Corvalis, voice hard.

“It gets worse,” said Caina. “Apparently the Moroaica commanded both Ranarius and Sicarion to hunt me down and kill me. She’s ready to begin her great work, to launch her war upon the gods, and she doesn’t want me to interfere. So she has sent Sicarion and Ranarius to kill me.”

“I see,” said Corvalis. “This is just the beginning, isn’t it?”

Caina nodded. “And all those people Ryther murdered died because of…”

“No,” said Corvalis, pointing at her. “Don’t blame yourself for those deaths. The blood is upon Ranarius’s hands, not yours. And if you hadn’t killed him twice, then far more people would have died. Myself and Claudia among them.”

Caina nodded. “Thank you. I know you’re right…but I still needed to hear that, I think.”

“How do you want to proceed?” said Corvalis.

Caina wanted to return to Malarae, to run the House of Kularus and sell coffee to the city’s nobles and merchants. She wanted to masquerade as Anton Kularus’s pretty mistress, to sleep in the same bed with Corvalis every night. She was tired of killing, of fighting, of seeing people die.

“We’ll go back to Marsis,” said Caina instead. “Halfdan is waiting for us there. He’ll need to know what happened. And we have to warn him about the Moroaica and her disciples. If they are coming for me, if Jadriga is really beginning her great work…then there are far more lives at stake than my own. We have to be ready.”

Corvalis nodded. “We’ll leave at dawn.”

Caina said nothing, unable to shake the icy dread in her heart. She had killed Ryther at the mansion, but Ranarius’s spirit would take another body soon. And, worse, she had seen no sign of Sicarion, and the scarred assassin was far more dangerous than Ranarius.

She hoped she could stop him before he killed anyone.

Caina and Corvalis left Mornu the next morning and headed south to Marsis.

Chapter 3 - The Champion and the Gladiator

“What do you think?” said Muravin.

Ark of Caer Marist opened his mouth, closed it again.

He had borne many responsibilities in his life. He had been a soldier, a man of the Eighteenth Legion. He had become the first spear centurion of the Eighteenth. He had joined the Ghosts out of desperation, hoping to find his lost wife and son. Now he was the Champion of Marsis, an ally of Lord Corbould Maraeus, and a wealthy foundry owner, a man with responsibilities to his wife and children, his workers, the Ghosts, and the Emperor.

Odd that he had once been the penniless son of a drunken tavern keeper of Caer Marist, a boy who ran away to join the Legion.

Life was strange.

“What do you think?” said Muravin again.

And now, it seemed, one of his responsibilities was to help a former Istarish gladiator find a husband for his daughter.

Life was indeed strange.

“I think,” said Ark, “you should let the girl make up her own mind.”

They walked along Malarae’s Via Triumphalis, the noon sun shining overhead. Traffic filled the street, men and women going about their business for the day. Horsemen in the colors of various lords rode back and forth, carrying messages. Here and there the coach of a wealthy merchant rattled past. In the distance Ark saw the gray shapes of the mountains, the white towers and walls of the Imperial Citadel occupying an outthrust spur.

He remembered the first time he had come to Malarae, marching with the Eighteenth as it headed north to the Imperial Pale. The size and scale of the city had awed him, and it still did. Malarae was the largest city in the world, and men from every nation came here to buy and sell.

Muravin made a grumbling noise. “She may make a poor choice.” He was about ten years older than Ark, with iron gray hair and weathered bronze skin. He wore chain mail beneath a jerkin of black leather, an Istarish scimitar riding at his belt, a trident slung over his shoulder.

“She may,” said Ark, “but that seems unlikely. Mahdriva has a solid head on her shoulders. Suffering teaches wisdom.”

“Aye,” said Muravin with a sigh, “and my poor girl has known more suffering that I would wish.”

They left the Via Triumphalis and made their way to the blacksmith’s district, where massive foundries turned out an endless supply of arms and armor for the Emperor’s Legions, and pots and pans and knives to sell across the provinces. The air here smelled of smoke and coke and hot metal. The foundries were quiet now. Most of the smiths preferred to work in the evenings, after the heat of the day had faded.

“True,” said Ark. Caina had told him about Mahdriva, how Ibrahmus Sinan had hunted her, hoping to use the blood of her unborn son to make himself immortal. That had not ended well for Sinan.

Caina had seen to that.

“I am an old man,” said Muravin, “and I do not know when death shall come for me. I want to make sure Mahdriva and my grandson are provided for when I am dead.”

“Quintus is the best choice, I think,” said Ark. “He’s a Legion veteran, and he’s a solid worker at my foundry. He’ll be able to provide for Mahdriva, and he’ll look after Sonyar. He had a wife and child when he was still in the Legion, but a fever took them.”

Muravin grumbled. “I would prefer a younger man for her. And perhaps one of Istarish birth.”

Ark laughed. “Then you should have stayed in Istarinmul. And Quintus is older, steadier, and wealthier. He can provide for her and any other children they have.”

“True,” said Muravin.

“And from what Tanya tells me,” said Ark, “Mahdriva is fond of him. Every time he visits, she asks him to come back as soon as he can manage.”

Muravin grunted. “Did not your wife introduce Quintus to Mahdriva?”

“Aye,” said Ark.

The former gladiator laughed. “Then it is out of our hands, Master Arcion. Mahdriva shall wed Quintus. Likely your wife has arranged the entire thing from the beginning, and we are all merely puppets dancing upon her flings.”

“Strings,” said Ark. Muravin’s Caerish was improving, but he was still prone to the occasional malapropism. “And you are likely right.” Tanya was good at that kind of thing.

“Yes, strings,” said Muravin. He snorted. “If I wed again, perhaps I shall find one of these blue-eyed Szaldic women. They seem to make good wives.”

“I agree,” said Ark.

They arrived at his foundry, a massive, fortress-like structure with thick walls to contain any fires. Fortunately, in the two years since Ark had purchased it, there had been no major disasters. A wide courtyard surrounded the building, partly to serve as a fire break, and partly to provide storage for ore awaiting processing. The double doors stood closed, and a man slumped against them, his blood pooling around him on the hard-packed earth…

Ark cursed and came to a stop, drawing his sword.

For years he had carried a Legion broadsword. This sword was lighter, thinner, and longer than the sword of the Legions, but it was far stronger. It was storm-forged steel, created by the stormsingers of New Kyre and carried into battle by a stormdancer.

At least, the sword had been carried by a stormdancer, until Ark had killed him.

Muravin drew his own weapons, and Ark hurried to the corpse. The dead man was Tarzain, a Saddai-born veteran of the Legion and one of Ark’s workers. Tarzain had been a robust and boisterous fellow, able to make even the grimmest veteran crack a smile at his jokes.

Yet someone had opened his throat with a single vicious slash.

“He died painfully,” said Murvain, scimitar in his right hand and trident in his left.

“Aye,” said Ark, gazing at the wound. He had seen quite a few cut throats in his time, but this one looked different. It was ragged, frayed, as if had been made with a serrated blade.

A serrated blade. Why did that tug at his memory?

“Go find an officer of the civic militia,” said Ark. “We must report this.” And Ark would need to speak with the Ghost circlemasters of Malarae. Tarzain had been a Ghost, as were most of Ark’s workers, and his death might have been an attack upon the Emperor’s eyes and ears. Theodosia and Shaizid would have to warn the others. “I will check to see if the murderer is lurking within.”

He felt a surge of fear. Tanya and his children might be in their apartment at the foundry. Still, the apartment had only one entrance with a secure lock, and at this time of day Tanya would likely be at the market with Nicolai and Natasha.

“Do not be foolish,” said Muravin. “I will go with you. Then we shall go to the civic militia together. Wandering alone around the foundry would be unwise.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Ark, rebuking himself. He had not been in a serious fight since Marsis, but that was no excuse for making foolish decisions. “This way. We’ll cross the foundry and depart through the back doors. Then we’ll check my rooms in the outer wall, and go to one of the militia towers to report the murder.”

Muravin nodded. “Lead on.”

Ark pushed open the doors and stepped into the foundry. Wide windows high overhead admitted sunlight. Massive furnaces lined the walls, glowing sullenly with their banked fires. Brick trenches lined the floor, and chains and steel buckets hung from the ceilings. Workbenches stood near the doors, holding completed pieces of arms and armor – broadswords, helmets, throwing javelins.

Five dead men lay motionless upon the floor, blood trickling into the trenches.

Ark moved forward, raising his sword in guard. All five of the men were his workers, and all five had been Ghosts. Their throats had been cut in the same grisly manner as Tarzain, though many of the men bore sword wounds.

“This was a fight,” said Ark. “They still have weapons. And their other wounds are in the front.” He looked at the splatters of blood. “They tried to fight as a group, but something overwhelmed them.”

“If five Legion veterans could not overcome a foe,” said Murvain, “we surely cannot. I suggest we seek the aid of the militia at once.”

Ark nodded. “After we check on Tanya and the children. We…”

A boot clicked against the brick floor.

Ark whirled, bringing up his sword, and Murvain raised his trident to throw. A figure moved through the gloom between two of the furnaces, throwing a dark shadow over the bloody corpses.

“Name yourself,” said Ark.

A woman’s laugh answered him. “Why, Master Arcion, don’t you remember me?”

The figure stepped into the harsh glow from the furnaces, and Ark blinked in surprise.

Caina Amalas stood before him.

She wore a rich gown of blue that clung to her hips and torso, her black hair bound in an intricate crown. Jewels glittered on her fingers and ears, and she wore heeled boots that clicked against the floor with every step. Her makeup emphasized her cold blue eyes and the sharp lines of her cheekbones. In her right hand she carried a sword, and in her left an ugly serrated dagger.

For an instant Ark felt overwhelming relief. She would know what to do.

Then his relief vanished into growing alarm.

There was something wrong.

Caina’s hair was black, not blond. She had dyed it blond a year past, as part of her disguise as Sonya Tornesti. She never fought with a sword, only daggers or knives.

And she had left with Corvalis two weeks ago to attend to Halfdan’s business in the western Empire.

“After everything we’ve been through,” said Caina with a sneer, gesturing with the serrated dagger. “You don’t know who I am, Arcion? Tragic, tragic.”

“Mistress Sonya?” said Muravin. “What is this?”

“The blacksmith and the gladiator,” said Caina with a laugh. “Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. I cannot believe I have allied myself with such useless fools. Little wonder the Empire is locked in war with New Kyre, if I have such wretched outcasts to serve me.”

The words stung.

Ark knew he had failed, so many times. Naelon Icaraeus’s slavers had taken Tanya and Nicolai, and Caina had rescued them from the Moroaica. Nicolai had fallen into the hands of the Istarish slavers at Marsis, an ordeal that still gave the boy nightmares, and Caina had rescued him, not Ark.

But she had taught Ark well, and his mind tried to make sense of the puzzle. Caina had left two weeks ago, and she could not have returned to the capital by now. Certainly she would not don a dress and jewels and makeup to wander about the city with a sword and a dagger.

That serrated dagger…

Ark saw drops of blood clinging to its razor edges.

That weapon had killed his workers.

She had killed his workers.

And all at once his doubt and fear vanished, replaced by cold certainty.

“You are not the Countess,” said Ark.

She raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Then just who am I?”

“I don’t know,” said Ark. “One of her enemies. One of the enemies of the Ghosts. You’re using a spell to mask your appearance, make yourself appear like her.”

“Oh, very clever,” said Caina. “But it doesn’t matter. No one will believe you, mighty Champion of Marsis. I left too many witnesses.” She smirked, her eyes full of cruel glee. “And can you prove that I’m not really Caina Amalas?”

“When we were in Rasadda,” said Ark, “when you left the Magisterium’s chapterhouse after dining with the preceptor, what did we talk about?”

“We discussed,” said Caina, “how you should lie down and die.”

“No,” said Ark, his certainty hardening further. “We didn’t.”

He glanced to the side, caught Muravin’s eye, and the former gladiator gave a tiny nod.

“We didn’t?” said Caina. “Perhaps your conversation is so tedious it simply slipped my mind.”

“No,” said Ark. “I don’t know who you are or why you murdered my men, but I will not let it pass. Surrender, now.”

Her grin was more feral than any he had ever seen from her. “Or?”

“Or I’ll kill you where you stand,” said Ark, “and I’ll see who is really behind that spell of illusion.”

Caina threw back her head and roared with laughter.

“This is amusing,” she said. “You little children, so brave, so bold. Do you know what the greatest pleasure is? It isn’t power, or money, or women, or wine. It’s killing. And I shall delight in killing you both. I…”

“Now!” said Ark, and Muravin flung his trident.

But Caina moved in a blur, her sword and serrated dagger crossing as they deflected the trident. The weapon fell to the floor with a clang, and Caina jumped over one of the trenches, her skirts billowing around her.

She came at Ark in a storm of razor-edged steel.

He had not been in a serious fight for two years, not since the Kyracians and the Istarish had been defeated in Marsis. But he had not let himself grow lax. He might have become the Champion of Marsis and a man of standing, but he was still a Ghost, and the enemies of the Emperor might come for him at any moment. He trained with the sword several times a week, every day when he could manage the time, sparring with the veterans among his workers.

The training was the only thing that saved his life.

Caina stabbed with the sword in her right hand, slashing at his throat with the serrated dagger. Ark saw the thrust coming, sidestepped, and got his sword up in time to deflect the slash. Steel rang on steel, and Ark swung for Caina’s chest. She jumped back, somehow maintaining her balance in those heeled boots, her eyes alive with a gleeful lust for blood.

Muravin bellowed and brought his scimitar down with both hands, aiming for her head. Caina whirled and caught the blow in a cross-parry, dagger and sword raised. Muravin stood a foot taller and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, yet Caina held the parry with ease, that insane grin still upon her face. Her boot caught Muravin in the left knee, and the Istarish man stumbled back with a grunt. Caina lunged after him with the speed of a serpent, blades reaching for his neck.

Ark lunged, stabbing for Caina, and she danced to the side, abandoning her attack on Muravin. The former gladiator recovered his balance and snatched up his trident, and Ark and Muravin advanced on Caina. She backed away, weapons held out before her, the crazed grin never wavering.

“Is that all?” she said. “The great Champion of Marsis and a pit slave from Istarinmul, and that is all you can do?” She cackled. “I am one woman with a sword. Surely you can defeat me!”

“I don’t know what you are,” said Ark, “but you are no more Caina Amalas than I am.”

Caina cackled again, spittle flying from her lips. “Such a bold tongue you have, sir. Perhaps I shall cut it from your jaws and keep it as a trophy!”

She jumped over another trench and came at them.

Ark and Muravin battled against her. Steel rang on steel, both Ark’s hands locked around the hilt of the storm-forged Kyracian sword. He desperately wished he had a shield with him. He had trained to fight with a broadsword and shield since he had been sixteen, fighting in formation with the other men of the Legion. The Legionaries flung volleys of javelins, and then advanced in good order to overwhelm their foes with discipline and order.

All Ark had was a Kyracian sword.

Yet he held his own. He had been in more fights than he could remember, both battles against the barbarian nations of the north and desperate fights in back alleys during his time with the Ghosts. Caina fought with the skill and grace of a master swordsman, but he and Muravin matched her.

And that only hardened his certainty that the woman before him was not Caina. He had seen Caina fight and knew the limits of her strength and speed. The woman with the sword and serrated dagger, whoever she was, moved faster and struck harder than Caina ever could.

They broke apart again. Ark and Muravin were both breathing hard, sweat dripping down their faces. Caina was also breathing hard, but she was not sweating. Not a hair had fallen out of place in her elaborate hairstyle, and her makeup had not even been smudged.

Was her appearance an illusion? That would explain how she could fight in heeled boots and a long skirt without losing her balance.

“You are better than I expected,” said Caina. She glanced at the corpses. “These others, they all died like cattle led to the butcher’s block.” She laughed. “At least you are making a fight of it. I…”

The doors to the courtyard swung open, and Ark spotted a woman standing there, gazing down at Tarzain’s corpse with shock. She was tall, with long black hair and blue eyes, her hand lifted to her mouth in surprise.

Tanya.

Caina looked at her, at Ark, and then grinned.

“Arcion?” said Tanya. “What…”

“Run!” shouted Ark. “Run, now!”

Caina sprinted at Tanya, sword and dagger held low. Ark cursed and raced after her. Tanya did not run. She had no reason to run. Caina had saved her life in Marsis, had rescued her from the Moroaica. Why should Tanya fear her liberator?

So she made no move to defend herself as Caina seized her hair and wrenched her around, her serrated dagger coming to rest at Tanya’s throat.

“Balarigar!” said Tanya. “What is this? Why…”

“That’s not her,” said Ark, striding toward them. “That’s some creature wearing her guise.”

“Oh, very good,” said Caina. “Ah! No further, Champion. No further at all. Another step and I’ll cut her throat.”

Ark froze, as did Muravin. He was not far from one of the workbenches. Perhaps they had a crossbow he could use. But Ark saw only shields and javelins within reach.

“I thought I had made a misstep,” said Caina. “Can’t use sorcery in front of witnesses. It will spoil the game. And I don’t think I could kill you without using a spell.” Her cruel smile widened, and she pressed the dagger tighter against Tanya’s throat. “But this…this will be more fun by far. You’re going to do exactly what I say, or you’re going to watch your wife bleed to death in front of you.”

“Arcion,” said Tanya, “don’t listen to her, go…”

“Shut up,” said Caina, tapping her throat with the dagger. “Let’s play a game, shall we? You, Champion of Marsis. Kill the gladiator, now. Or else I’ll kill your wife.”

“No,” said Ark. “You’ll kill us all, anyway.”

Caina laughed. “Perhaps I’ll change my mind. Perhaps I’ll discover the wonders of mercy.” She shrugged her right shoulder, her left arm holding the dagger rocky-steady against Tanya’s windpipe. “Decide. Now.”

For a moment Ark remembered the final confrontation with Naelon Icaraeus below Black Angel Tower as the renegade lord held a sword to Tanya’s throat. Ark had killed Naelon then, after another Ghost had distracted the renegade with a crossbow bolt.

But there was no one here with a bow. Only Ark and Muravin.

And Tanya, caught in the grasp of the false Caina.

A distraction, Ark needed a distraction.

And as the thought crossed his mind, Muravin bellowed and charged at Caina.

Her eyes jerked toward Muravin, and for just a moment, her attention was turned from Ark.

Ark had one chance to act. He snatched a javelin from the table, the wooden haft smooth and hard against his grip. He had thrown such a weapon hundreds, thousands of times, both training with the Legion and in battle against the foes of the Empire.

But he had never thrown a javelin at a foe holding his wife.

There was no time to hesitate. Ark drew back his arm and flung the javelin with all his strength in a short, tight arc. Caina started to turn from Muravin, but it was too late. The javelin slammed into her right shoulder and burst from her lower back in a crimson spray.

The blood did not mar the cloth of her gown.

Caina screamed, and Tanya kicked backwards with all her strength. Her boot hammered into Caina’s knee, and the smaller woman stumbled, the javelin still jutting from her torso. Tanya wrenched free of Caina’s grip and ran for Ark.

Caina grabbed at the door for balance, lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. She took a step forward, and Muravin flung his trident. This time the weapon slammed into Caina’s stomach, and she fell backward through the doors.

Her scream sounded more furious than pained.

“Arcion!” said Tanya. “What…”

“The children,” said Ark, “where are the children?”

“They are with the maids at the House of Kularus, I left them there when I went to the market,” said Tanya.

“Wait here,” said Ark, striding forward.

Caina lay sprawled in the courtyard just beyond the doors, blood pooling on the ground beneath her. Still the blood did not stain her gown, and her makeup and hair remained perfect.

An illusion.

Muravin joined Ark, his scimitar in hand.

“Good throw,” said Muravin.

“You, too,” said Ark. “Kill her. We can search the corpse and…”

Caina snarled and flung out her hands, green flame blazing around her fingertips.

A spell.

A wall of invisible force slammed into Ark and flung him to the floor of the foundry. The sword bounced from his hand and clattered away. He tried to stand, but the room kept spinning around him.

A moment later Tanya shouted his name and grabbed his shoulder.

He sat up with a groan, shaking his head. “My sword…damn it! Where is Caina?” A surge of fear went through him. She would kill Tanya, would find Nicolai and Natasha and kill them both…

“She’s gone,” said Tanya. “Caina…no, I will not say that creature was Caina, whatever she was. She got up and ran off, even with that javelin in her back. Arcion, that was…that was an amazing throw.”

He squeezed her hand. “I had motivation.”

A tremulous smile went over her face, and Ark felt a wave of crushing guilt. Again and again she had been exposed to danger because of him. The Moroaica had taken her captive for five years, and the Istarish had almost killed her in Marsis.

And now that creature wearing Caina’s face had nearly slain her simply to spite Ark.

No, not because of Ark. Because of Caina.

But why? The attacker had used Caina’s appearance. But why attack Ark’s family and workers to get at Caina?

Muravin sat up with a groan. “Damned sorcerers.”

“Are you injured?” said Ark.

“No,” said Muravin, “though my head hurts. Damned sorcerers!”

Ark climbed to his feet, retrieved his sword, and went into the courtyard. A pool of blood marked the ground, but there was no trace of the false Caina.

“What is this about, husband?” said Tanya. “What is happening?”

“I do not know,” said Ark. “Muravin, go summon the civic militia. After I have spoken with them, I will need to speak with the other Ghosts at once.”

###

The next morning Ark went to the Grand Imperial Opera.

He had spent the rest of the last day speaking with Tomard, a tribune of the civic militia. He was a friend of the Ghosts, and had accepted Ark’s account of what had happened without question. Ark had gone himself to bear the grim news to the wives of the dead men. He would look after the widows, he vowed, make sure they were fed and that their children would not grow up on the street.

The Ghosts looked after their own.

The Grand Imperial Opera was a magnificent domed edifice, built of gleaming marble and fronted with rows of ornate columns. Ark passed the main entrance and went to the side door. The watchman knew him on sight, and he made his way through the workshops beneath the stage to a dressing room.

A tall woman in her middle forties stood in the dressing room, her long blond hair pulled back, her face grim as she read letters spread across her table. The table held hundreds upon hundreds of vials of cosmetics and powders, but the woman’s attention was upon the letters.

“Theodosia,” said Ark.

She looked up from the letters and smiled. She was the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera, a singer renowned for the power and range of her voice, and she had sung before half the high lords of the Empire, even the Emperor himself.

And she was also one of the Ghost circlemasters of Malarae, and had arranged the downfall of many of the Emperor’s enemies.

“Arcion,” she said. “Thank the gods you are alive.” Her smile faded. “The news is…not pleasant.”

“You heard about the attack upon the foundry?” said Ark.

“Aye, and all the others,” said Theodosia.

“Others?” said Ark. “There were others?”

“I fear so,” said Theodosia. She hesitated. “Nineteen Ghosts were killed yesterday.”

“Nineteen?” said Ark, stunned. “By who?”

“By a woman,” said Theodosia, “in the guise of Caina Amalas.”

“Then you do not believe it was her?” said Ark.

Theodosia sniffed and drew herself up. “Champion of Marsis, I would sooner believe that the sun rose in the west and set in the east, that rivers flowed uphill and that men could live by drinking saltwater. Caina Amalas would never betray the Ghosts.”

For a moment Ark saw a faint hint of Caina in Theodosia’s movements, in the theatricality of her pose, and he realized where Caina had learned her great skill at disguise.

“Though,” said Theodosia, “a magus might have twisted her mind…”

“No,” said Ark. “The woman who attacked my workers cast a spell. And you know as well as I do that Caina hates sorcery more than anything.”

“I agree,” said Theodosia. “But nineteen Ghosts are dead, slain by a woman who looks like Caina. I fear…I fear there will be consequences.”

“What do you mean?” said Ark.

“Do you know Lord Aeolus?” said Theodosia.

“Only in passing,” said Ark. “A minor functionary in the Emperor’s court.”

“That is the public face he presents to the world,” said Theodosia. “In truth he is one of the high circlemasters of the Ghosts.” She held up the letter. “And he has summoned us to meet with him.”

“Why?” said Ark.

“To discuss how best to defend the Emperor from the traitor Caina Amalas,” said Theodosia, “and how to track her down and kill her before she murders any more Ghosts.”

Chapter 4 - To End The War

Two weeks after leaving Mornu, Caina and Corvalis returned to Marsis.

Corvalis drove their cart through the city’s northern gate, Caina sitting next to him. They had taken the cart and a team of horses south from Mornu, disguised as fur traders from Varia Province. Caina sat wrapped in a heavy cloak, fake stubble shading her jaw, her dyed blond hair hanging greasy and ragged around her face. They had passed burned villages along the Imperial Highway, attacked by either Kyracian or Istarish raiders, but had encountered no enemies.

And they had seen no trace of either Ranarius or Sicarion.

Now the grim, gray walls of Marsis rose over them, scarred and weathered from countless sieges. Ballistae and catapults waited atop the walls, and Caina saw the glint of armor as Legionaries patrolled the ramparts. A long line of carts waited at the gate, and Legionaries searched the carts and questioned their drivers. Marsis had almost fallen to the Istarish and the Kyracians once, and it seemed that Aiodan Maraeus, the new Lord Governor, was not taking any chances. Beyond the walls, Caina saw the grim bulk of the Citadel standing on its crag in the heart of the city, the slender dark shape of Black Angel Tower rising six hundred feet over the Citadel’s highest towers.

She shuddered

Below, in the vaults below Black Angel Tower, she had fought and killed the Moroaica for the first time. In the Tomb of Scorikhon below the Citadel, Caina had seen Andromache of House Kardamnos possessed by Scorikhon’s spirit. In the Great Market of Marsis Caina had seen the Istarish attack, had lost Nicolai in the swirling chaos of the battle…

She shuddered again, and forced herself to remain still, a bored expression on her face. She did not want to draw the attention of the guards.

“Are you all right?” said Corvalis in a low voice.

“No,” said Caina. “I’m not. Too many things happened here. Too many bad memories.” She took a deep breath. “But I’ll handle it.”

Corvalis gave her hand a quick squeeze, and their cart rolled up to the gate. The Legionary guards questioned them, and Corvalis answered their questions with ease. The guards laughed and waved him through the gate. Caina listened with half an ear as the cart rattled into the North Gate Plaza. Here, she knew, Ark and the men of the Legion had stood against the attack of the Istarish foot soldiers and the Kyracian ashtairoi. Here Ark had slain the stormdancer Kleistheon in single combat. Caina remembered the awful chaos of that night, fighting Rezir Shahan in the ruined warehouse, the screams of joy and terror as she flung Rezir’s severed head into the shocked mass of his soldiers…

She realized Corvalis was looking at her.

“Sorry,” said Caina. She rubbed her face, feeling the fake stubble of her disguise rasp against her palms. “Sorry. It’s just…every time I’ve visited Marsis, something unpleasant has happened.”

Corvalis nodded. “I understand. If we ever visit Artifel, I’ll spend half my time scowling and staring at nothing.” He snapped the reins, steering the cart through the traffic on the Avenue of Champions. “Where to?”

“Zorgi’s Inn, a few blocks from the Plaza of the Tower,” said Caina. “He’ll be waiting for us there.”

Caina’s eyes scanned the crowds going about their business. She had not visited Marsis in two years, not since Rezir Shahan’s defeat, and the city had recovered from the ravages of the attack. The barricades had been cleared away, the burned houses rebuilt. Yet Caina still saw the shadows of the battle, the women and children screaming, Andromache’s lightning falling from the sky.

If not for her duties, she would never have returned here.

A short time later Corvalis drove the cart through the Plaza of the Tower, past the wealthy shops and prosperous merchant houses, and stopped before Zorgi’s Inn. Flourishing gardens surrounded the inn, and the building itself was a handsome mixture of white stone and polished timbers. Wealthy merchants from across the Empire stayed at Zorgi’s Inn when they came to Marsis for business.

Caina pushed open the inn’s door, Corvalis following, and stepped into the common room. Long tables ran its length, fires crackling in hearths on either wall. Stairs climbed up to balconies and the guest suites.

A stout Szaldic man in his late forties hurried over, smiling beneath his gray mustache. He had aged considerably in the two years since Caina had met him, but he looked much happier now.

“Welcome, welcome!” said Zorgi in Caerish with a thick Szaldic accent. “Welcome to my inn! Fur traders down from the north, yes? Good, you will find a fine price for your wares. All the raiding has disrupted trade, and…”

“I’m looking for Basil Callenius, master innkeeper,” said Caina.

“Yes, of course,” said Zorgi, lowering his voice. “He is by the fire. And friends of Master Basil are always welcome at my inn.”

Caina thanked him and led the way across the common room. A man in his middle fifties sat by the fire, reading a letter. He wore the furred robe and cap of a master merchant, and as he lifted the letter Caina saw his scarred, muscled arm.

“Master Basil Callenius,” said Caina.

Halfdan, high circlemaster of the Ghosts, the man who used Basil Callenius and a dozen false names, looked up at her and smiled.

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” he said, his face giving no hint of his thoughts. “I am glad you made it on time. I’ve heard rumors of dire happenings in Varia Province, and I feared you could not arrive with my delivery of furs.” He rose. “Master Zorgi has a dining room where we can discuss our business without unwelcome eavesdroppers.”

He led them from the common room to a small dining room on the second floor and shut the door. A table filled most of the room, chairs waiting in a circle around it, and a window overlooked the gardens below. Food and drink waited upon the table.

“You’ve wine, thank the gods,” said Corvalis, pouring himself a cup. “I think I swallowed enough dust to make my own damned island.” He offered the cup to Caina, and she shook her head.

“Master Zorgi strives to be a good host,” said Halfdan. “Though I’m surprised you didn’t ask for coffee.”

“Why ask for it when there’s none to be had?” said Corvalis. “We haven’t sold any coffee in Marsis yet. Though I suppose we shall bring the benefits of civilization to these benighted westerners sooner or later.” He laughed and took a drink from the wine.

“That’s not good,” said Halfdan.

“Why’s that?” said Corvalis. “The wine is really quite good.”

“You’re making jokes,” said Halfdan, “and you only do that when the news is bad.”

Corvalis sighed. “Aye.”

He looked at Caina.

She told Halfdan what had happened in Varia Province, sparing none of the details. Halfdan started to pace as she described it to him, nodding in places.

Then he sat down and poured himself a cup of wine.

“You’re sure of this?” said Halfdan.

“I am,” said Caina. “Ranarius died in Cyrioch, and Maena Tulvius in Caer Magia. But his spirit took another host, just as the Moroaica’s does. She must have taught him the ability.”

Halfdan shook his head. “Some men make mortal enemies. You, my dear, seem to have a knack for finding enemies that pursue you from beyond the grave.” He sighed. “At least there wasn’t truly a slaver gang operating out of Mornu. Though that is small consolation.”

“Very small,” said Caina, “given that I have a centuries-old assassin and a body-changing necromancer coming to kill me. And that the Moroaica is about to complete her great work.”

“Do you think Ryther was telling the truth?” said Halfdan.

“I don’t see why not,” said Caina. “He thought I was going to die. And I would have, too, if he had been a little smarter and kept me out of reach of the shelves.”

“This is a serious threat,” said Halfdan, “if the Moroaica is truly preparing her great work, and it’s damned inconvenient timing.”

“Why?” said Caina.

“Because,” said Halfdan, “in a few days the Emperor is leaving Malarae to visit New Kyre and make peace with the Assembly.”

Corvalis blinked in surprise, and silence hung over the dining room for a moment.

“How?” said Caina at last. “I thought Lord Corbould was determined to destroy New Kyre, and he had persuaded the Emperor.”

“I am very persuasive,” said Halfdan, “and I had a better argument on my side. Specifically, the conversation you had with Lord Kylon of House Kardamnos in Calvarium. Lord Corbould could convince the Anshani to stop selling grain to the Kyracians, aye. But if he did…”

“If he did,” said Caina, remembering the warning Kylon had given her. “If he did, the Kyracian stormsingers would use their sorcery to alter the weather over the Empire, to stop the rain and cause a famine.”

She wondered if Kylon had been able to cure his betrothed with the blue bloodcrystal from the ruins of Caer Magia.

“And if we drove the stormsingers to that,” said Halfdan, “then it would be war without end. The Emperor would have no choice but to destroy New Kyre. To do that, the Legions would need to cross Anshan, which would mean war with the Shahenshah. The Istarish would join the war, as would the city-states near Catekharon, and the barbarians north of the Imperial Pale and the horse nomads south of Anshan would surely take part in the chaos. Uncounted thousands would die in the famines, and thousands more in the fighting.”

“I can see how you persuaded the Emperor to your view,” said Caina.

“It helped that Lord Titus Iconias agreed with me,” said Halfdan. “Kylon of House Kardamnos helped save his life in Catekharon, you will recall, and he therefore has a somewhat higher opinion of the Kyracians than Lord Corbould.” He rubbed his face, and for a moment he looked more tired than Caina had ever seen him. “We persuaded the Emperor to seek peace with New Kyre. Lord Titus agreed to serve as his emissary, and Kylon and the Lord Speaker Tiraedes negotiated on behalf of the Assembly of New Kyre. They exchanged letters back and forth using smugglers.”

“Did they reach an agreement?” said Corvalis.

“They did,” said Halfdan. “The Assembly will admit the attack upon Marsis was unprovoked, and pay a small indemnity to the Emperor for the next five years. In exchange, the Emperor will persuade the Padishah to open the Starfall Straits to Kyracian trade once more, and travel to New Kyre to formally sign the pact.”

Caina frowned. “Does not the defeated party traditionally visit the victor’s capital?”

“He does,” said Halfdan, “but the journey is a concession on the Emperor’s part. The Kyracians are paying an indemnity and admitting fault. The Emperor’s visit to New Kyre is a concession that allows the Assembly to save face. Perhaps that is for the best. This war benefits no one. New Kyre might have destroyed the Emperor’s western fleet, but the Assembly cannot possibly conquer the Empire. They could not even conquer Marsis. It is within the Empire’s strength to destroy New Kyre, but the cost would beggar the Empire and bring famine to two-thirds of the provinces.”

“The war has been a waste,” said Caina. “Andromache started it under false pretenses, for her own power and aggrandizement. And even that was a lie. The Moroaica and Sicarion deceived her and led her to destruction. Many men have died for nothing.”

“If all goes well,” said Halfdan, “we can put an end to it before the month is out.” He sat up straighter. “I feared the reports of slavers in Varia Province meant the Istarish were reentering the war, or that a faction in the Assembly was conspiring against the peace. But it was Ranarius’s vendetta against you, not a plot from the Assembly or the Padishah.”

“Then that means,” said Caina, “our task is to ensure the Emperor reaches New Kyre safely, concludes the peace, and returns to Malarae.”

“You understand,” said Halfdan. “Tomorrow we will board one of Lord Titus’s smuggler ships and sail to New Kyre. We should arrive before the Emperor and his escort. We must make certain the Emperor completes the treaty with the Assembly and returns to Malarae, and we must ensure the Assembly and the Archons are safe as well. If the Emperor is assassinated, or one of the Archons, war is inevitable.”

“Who wants to kill the Emperor?” said Corvalis.

Halfdan shrugged. “It would be easier to recite the people who do not wish him dead. Factions among the Imperial nobility wish to continue the war. The Magisterium wants to continue the war for reasons of its own, and your father has tried to have the Emperor assassinated for years, though he’s always been clever enough to keep his hands clean.”

Corvalis scowled. “He always did like to recruit others to do his dirty work.”

“And among the Kyracians, I am sure there are fools who want to unleash a famine across the Empire, who think that New Kyre could survive the resultant war,” said Halfdan. “They would have everything to gain from killing the Emperor. Or one of their own Archons, for that matter. The Ghost circle in New Kyre will aid us, but you see the magnitude of the task.”

Corvalis nodded. “Well, you never summon us for easy work.”

“I can’t come,” said Caina.

Both men looked at her.

“Why not?” said Halfdan.

“You heard what I said,” said Caina. “Sicarion and Ranarius are hunting for me. They are coming to kill me…and they will kill anyone who gets in their way. Ranarius butchered all those people in Mornu just to draw me there. He won’t hesitate to kill the Emperor to get at me, and neither will Sicarion. If I go with you, I will endanger the Emperor and anyone near him.”

“The Emperor is in danger simply from the fact that he is the Emperor,” said Halfdan. “And I need your help, Caina. I have nightfighters that are better with blades and bows, but none as clever and observant as you.”

“I think you overstate my abilities,” said Caina. “And Ranarius and Sicarion will not scruple at any crime to get at me. The best thing I can do, I think, is go alone and lure them into a trap in an isolated place. Away from anyone else they could hurt.”

Corvalis frowned. “Certainly you will not do it alone.”

“It’s for the best,” said Caina. “Sicarion and Ranarius both want you dead. If you…”

Corvalis started to argue, but Halfdan’s quiet voice cut him off.

“Actually,” said Halfdan, “you could cut your throat right now, and the Emperor would be in just as much danger from the Moroaica’s servants.”

“Why?” said Caina.

“Because,” said Halfdan, “I suspect the Moroaica will cast her great work in New Kyre.”

“Why New Kyre?” said Caina. “Why not Marsis or Malarae?”

“I don’t know,” said Halfdan. “We don’t even know what this ‘great work’ of hers is, properly speaking, a spell or a ritual or something else, only that she means to remake the world and wage war upon the gods.”

“But how do you know it is going to be in New Kyre?” said Caina.

“You met the Order of the Venatorii in Calvarium?” said Halfdan.

“I did.” Caina felt herself scowl. “They thought I was the Moroaica and tried to kill me. But I do not think we could have overcome Rhames and Maena without their help.”

“The high circlemasters of the Ghosts have dealt with the Venatorii in the past,” said Halfdan. “But until you met Talekhris, we never knew that he had founded them to oppose the Moroaica. And it is well you did. I have received a message from Talekhris and the Order.”

“You have?” said Caina, surprised. The Ghosts were the eyes and ears of the Emperor, but the Order of the Venatorii hunted sorcerous predators and corrupt sorcerers. The Venatorii cared little for politics, and nothing at all for the war between the Empire and New Kyre. “What did he say?”

“That he believed the Moroaica will cast her great work in New Kyre within weeks,” said Halfdan, “and that he has found a way to kill the Moroaica.”

Caina blinked, unsure that she had heard correctly.

“Truly?” she said. “To kill her permanently? She will not be able to take another body?”

The creature known as the Moroaica had once been a timid, frightened girl named Malifae. The dark necromancy of ancient Maat had twisted her, transforming her into one of the Undying, to serve as the concubine of an undead pharaoh for all time. But the pharaoh had also been buried with a complete library of the sorcery of the Great Necromancers of Maat, and Malifae had been studious. She had destroyed the pharaoh and freed herself from the tomb, and then razed the Kingdom of the Rising Sun in vengeance for what had happened to her murdered father. But that was not enough. She was undead, her free will gone and her heart frozen, and she had continued her quest for vengeance across the millennia, finally deciding to make the gods pay for the sufferings of mankind.

So the spirit of Horemb, the Moroaica’s long-dead father, had told Caina.

“Yes,” said Halfdan. “Talekhris claims to have found a way to destroy her at last, a way that will keep her from ever taking a new body.”

Corvalis snorted. “I don’t suppose the letter happened to say how to do it?”

“No,” said Halfdan. “But apparently the Moroaica becomes vulnerable during the casting of her great work. Talekhris claimed he would tell me more when he met with us in person. He will arrive tonight and meet us here, accompanied by Harkus of the Venatorii. And then,” he spread his hands, “and then we shall see.”

Caina said nothing.

“When Ranarius and Sicarion find you,” said Halfdan, “you will have a better chance with aid at your side. Talekhris’s sorcery is mighty.”

“It hasn’t stopped Sicarion from killing him twice,” said Caina.

“No,” said Halfdan, “but consider. The Moroaica did not send her servants after you out of spite. She sent them to stop you.”

“She fears you,” said Corvalis. “She was inside your head for nearly a year. She knows you…and she knows that you can stop her.”

“I could command you, but I won’t,” said Halfdan. “I trust your judgment. But the end is coming, Caina. We can stop the war with New Kyre. And if Talekhris is right, we can finally stop the Moroaica, put an end to all the evil she has worked over the millennia.”

Caina bowed her head. She had seen Jadriga’s rage firsthand, the bottomless fury of the creature that had once been Malifae. Jadriga would stop at nothing to destroy those she blamed for the suffering of mankind. She would declare war upon the gods themselves, and her failure might burn the world to ash.

But Caina thought of the butchered slaves in Nisias Druzen’s mansion, the men and women and children killed to get at her.

Yet if Caina did nothing, the war would continue and kill far more men and women and children.

And if the Moroaica finished her great work, the entire world would burn.

“Very well,” said Caina. “You’re right, both of you. I will come with you to New Kyre.”

“Good,” said Halfdan with a smile. He got to his feet. “I will need to meet with the captain of our ship, a smuggler named Maltaer…”

“Maltaer?” said Caina.

“You know him?”

“Aye, I met him in Rasadda, years ago,” said Caina. “Though he shouldn’t recognize me. I was wearing my mask and shadow-cloak at the time.”

Halfdan nodded. “Both Lord Titus and the Speaker of the Assembly trusted him enough to keep his mouth shut. Though he was paid enough to do it.” He glanced out the window. “It is earlier than I thought. Let us have some of Zorgi’s fine fare, and then I will find Maltaer and tell him to prepare for our departure. I would prefer to take Corvalis with me, if you don’t mind. The alleys of Marsis’s dockside district are a dangerous place.”

Corvalis snorted. “Have I no say in the matter?”

Halfdan laughed. “Since your heart plainly belongs to her, no.”

“It’s fine,” said Caina to Corvalis. “Go with him. I will stay here and keep watch for Talekhris and Harkus. I know them both on sight.”

“And if Sicarion and Ranarius come for you while we’re gone?” said Corvalis.

“Then I will run very fast,” said Caina. “And far enough that no one else dies on my account…”

“Those deaths in Mornu,” said Halfdan, “were not your fault.”

Caina scowled. “They died because of me. Ranarius killed them to get at me.”

“He did,” said Halfdan, “but their blood is on his hands, not yours. You’ve seen deaths before.”

“I know,” said Caina. “But…not like this. Never people killed simply to get at me. To turn them into bait for me.” She raked a hand through her hair. “This has never been about me.”

“If you make enough enemies,” said Halfdan, “sooner or later they make the fight about you. And you, my dear, have saved so many lives and defeated so many foes that you have acquired some powerful enemies.”

Caina nodded.

“And the best way to avenge those deaths,” said Halfdan, “is to make sure Sicarion and Ranarius pay for what they have done.”

“You’re right,” said Caina. She paced to the window. “But those people, Halfdan…they weren’t enemies of the Empire, or slaves, or soldiers. They just got in the way. And Ranarius killed them for it.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re right. The Moroaica and the others. They have to be stopped. The war has to be stopped.”

Again she wanted desperately to go to Malarae, to go home. Last year she had wondered if she had been a Ghost nightfighter for too long, if it wasn’t time to step back. Now she knew it in her bones. She wanted to return to Malarae, to run the House of Kularus, and leave death and fighting behind.

But not before the war ended.

And not before the Moroaica was stopped.

“I regret many things in my life,” said Halfdan, “but there is one decision I have never regretted.”

He picked up wrapped bundle from beneath the table, a cloth-wrapped pole about eight feet long.

“When we found you eleven years ago,” said Halfdan, “I almost gave you to the temple of Minaerys, or to one of the noble families friendly to the Ghosts.” He started to unwrap the bundle. “I only made up my mind to have you become a nightfighter at the last minute. But I have never regretted it. You stopped Maglarion, you defeated Kalastus, and you have saved more lives than I could count.”

He pulled away the cloth, and Caina saw that he held a spear.

A spear with a ghostsilver head, its wooden haft scorched. With a shock of memory Caina remembered driving that spear into Maglarion’s great bloodcrystal, remembered the ancient necromancer’s screams of rage and fear.

“The ghostsilver spear,” said Caina.

“Aye,” said Halfdan. “If we are to face the Moroaica, a weapon resistant to sorcery will be useful.”

“Better let Corvalis wield it,” said Caina. “I’m not skilled with a spear.”

Halfdan nodded and passed the spear to Corvalis, who took it, tested its balance, and grunted in approval.

“And, Halfdan?” said Caina. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You are welcome. Now let us eat. There is no sense facing mortal peril on an empty stomach.”

Chapter 5 - Death Warrant

Ark and Muravin walked into the House of Kularus.

Five levels of balconies rose from the central floor, filled with merchants and nobles drinking coffee and conversing in low voices. The scent of roasting coffee and baking cakes filled the air, and the soft murmur of conversation reached Ark’s ears.

“I do not see the others,” said Muravin.

“They won’t be on the main floor,” said Ark. “Too public.”

Most of Malarae knew the House of Kularus as Malarae’s only coffee house, owned by Anton Kularus, a Szaldic mercenary formerly in Lord Titus’s employ. Kularus had helped save the Sages of Catekharon and Lord Titus’s embassy from Mihaela’s mad plot, and in exchange, the Sages had rewarded Kularus with a supply of coffee beans. Kularus had used the beans to found Malarae’s only coffee house, and had quickly become a wealthy and respected man.

Ark knew the real story.

“Anton Kularus” was only the alias used by Corvalis Aberon, the former Kindred assassin Caina had taken as a lover. Caina had defeated Mihaela in Catekharon, and had asked for the coffee beans and the freedom of one slave as a reward. With those beans, she had started the House of Kularus, using Corvalis as a public face…and the nobility and merchants of Malarae gathered in the coffee house to drink and scheme, as they did in Anshan and Istarinmul.

And as they did, the Ghosts were there to listen.

The slave Caina had freed in Catekharon hurried over. He was of Anshani birth, short with dusky skin and thick black hair. He wore a black jacket over a black shirt and pants, and despite his timid posture, Ark had heard the little man barking orders to his cooks and maids like a Lord Commander leading his Legion in the field.

“Master Arcion, Master Muravin, welcome,” said Shaizid. The manager looked anxious. “Is there…is there any news of Mistress Sonya?”

“None,” said Ark.

“These things I have heard, they cannot be true,” said Shaizid. “Mistress Sonya would never do such things. If not for her, I would still be a slave in Catekharon.”

“I don’t think she did, and I mean to prove it,” said Ark. “Where are the others?”

“In the cellar, awaiting you,” said Shaizid. “This way, please. The others just arrived from Caeria Ulterior.”

Muravin grunted. He had gone with Caina and Corvalis to Caeria Ulterior, and knew the Ghosts of Calvarium.

Shaizid led them across the floor, through the kitchen, and to the cellar. Two men and two women awaited them there. Ark recognized Theodosia at once. Next to her stood a nervous-looking young woman in a simple gown, wearing a belt with many pouches. To judge from her blond hair and bright green eyes, Ark suspected she was Corvalis’s younger sister Claudia Aberon, a magus who had left the Magisterium and joined the Ghosts. A man with the look of a Nighmarian lord stood next to her, his black hair dusted with gray, and to judge from his posture, he knew how to use the sword at his belt. Likely that man was Martin Dorius, Lord Governor of Caeria Ulterior, whom Caina had more or less coerced into joining the Ghosts.

Ark had never met the man standing in the center of the cellar. He was in his middle forties, tall and lean and gaunt, with eyes like pools of blue ice. His hair was so blond that Ark mistook it for white at first, and his black coat had been trimmed with red. A sword and dagger waited in sheaths at his belt.

This had to be Lord Aeolus, one of the high circlemasters.

“Ah,” said Aeolus in his cold voice. “The Champion of Marsis has come. Good. Now we can discuss how to defend our Emperor…and to deal with the traitor in our midst.”

###

Claudia Aberon had seen frightening things.

Her father’s fury. The golden light of the earth elemental washing over her, turning her living flesh to cold stone. Caina and Mihaela battling each other using suits of glypharmor, and the sorcerous fury of Rhames in the ruined heart of Caer Magia.

Lord Aeolus unsettled her at least as much of any of them. Halfdan was a high circlemaster, but he cloaked his ruthlessness and intelligence with rough charm. Aeolus made no such efforts.

She shied a little closer to her betrothed, Lord Martin Dorius. The Lord Governor of Caeria Ulterior was a reassuring presence, a man who would not quail before anyone, whether an ancient Maatish necromancer or the chief circlemaster of the Ghosts. That thought made Claudia feel better. She had faced a Maatish Great Necromancer wielding an artifact of tremendous power and survived.

Yet Aeolus still unsettled her.

“I refuse to believe,” said Ark, “that Caina Amalas had anything to do with these murders.”

Aeolus lifted a pale eyebrow. “Do you doubt the evidence of your own eyes, Champion?” His voice was as cold and emotionless as his eyes. “She murdered nineteen of our brothers and sisters across Malarae in a space of a day, and then killed seven of your workers, all of them Ghosts. From what I have heard, you identified the attacker as Caina Amalas, as did your wife, and both of you know her well. Were you mistaken?”

Claudia saw a vein pulse in Ark’s temple. He was a big man, bigger than Martin, with arms like tree trunks and the stance of a Legion veteran. She had heard bits and pieces about his time with Caina, how Caina had rescued his wife and son from slavers.

“No,” said Ark, “I’m not blind. It looked like her. But it only looked like her. It wasn’t really her.”

“Why not?” said Aeolus.

“Because,” said Theodosia with a disdainful sniff. “She would not betray us like that.”

“And she hates sorcery,” said Ark. Claudia knew that well. “The creature I fought cast a spell. Caina has no ability at sorcery.”

“Perhaps she learned,” said Aeolus.

“In the two weeks since I saw her last?” said Theodosia. “Forgive me, Lord Aeolus, but while Caina is clever, no one is that clever.”

“She may have been practicing the arcane sciences in secret for some time,” said Aeolus.

“That is unlikely,” said Ark.

“Is it?” said Aeolus. “According to Halfdan’s letters, she was possessed by the spirit of the Moroaica for nearly year. He claims that the spirit could not control her, but I have my doubts. What if the spirit never left, and controls her still? Or what if it corrupted her mind and bestowed some of its powers upon her?”

“That is ludicrous,” said Ark.

“I agree with the Champion,” said Muravin in his rumbling voice. He had changed little since Claudia had seen him in Calvarium a few months past. “She is a woman of valor, and saved my daughter from death. No evil sorceress would do such a thing.”

“Your loyalty to the woman is commendable,” said Aeolus, “but misplaced. Treachery can occur in the most unlikely of settings, and no heart is above corruption.” His blue eyes moved over each of them. “And I fear you underestimate the warping power sorcery can have upon the mind. A skilled practitioner of the arcane sciences can reshape a victim’s mind to his liking.”

“Such spells,” said Martin, “often have deleterious effects upon the victim’s sanity.”

“They do,” said Aeolus. “Such as inducing murderous rampages.”

“Perhaps it was not Caina at all,” said Ark, “but someone using a spell or an enspelled device to assume her appearance.”

“I think that is the most likely explanation,” said Theodosia.

“The necromancer Rhames had a golden mask that let him masquerade as the occultist Anashir of Anshan,” said Martin. “Perhaps our foe has a similar relic.”

“What do you think, Claudia?” said Aeolus, his eyes shifting to her. “You are the expert on sorcery.”

She made himself meet his unsettling eyes. “It is entirely possible, my lord. The sorcery of illusion is subtle, but it can be mastered. Certainly Rhames did it, but I suspect sorcerers lacking his arcane power could achieve similar effects.”

Aeolus nodded. “Very well.”

But she wanted to know what had happened to Corvalis. If some renegade sorcerer was wearing Caina’s face, had the renegade killed Corvalis? Or if Caina had gone mad, if the Moroaica’s power or some other force had warped her mind, had she killed Corvalis?

The thought left Claudia cold. Her brother had saved her at great risk to himself, had helped her escape from their father. If he had perished…

“If this false Caina attacks again,” said Ark, “we can overpower her and take her captive. We will find some answers that way.”

“We can,” said Aeolus, “and if you wish to risk your lives in this endeavor, I will not stop you. But for the rest of the Ghosts, and for the Imperial Guard, my instructions are clear. Kill Caina Amalas, and any of her aliases – Countess Marianna Nereide, Sonya Tornesti, Anna Callenius, and all the others – on sight.”

A chorus of outrage answered him, but Aeolus did not even as blink.

“There are far greater matters at stake,” said Aeolus, “than the life of one woman.” He frowned and brushed a speck of dust from the sleeve of his coat. “A renegade nightfighter cannot be allowed to threaten the life of the Emperor.”

“Why would Caina harm the Emperor?” said Theodosia.

“Because,” said Aeolus, “it is not yet commonly known, but the Emperor and the Assembly of New Kyre have agreed to peace.”

Silence answered him.

“How?” said Ark. “I thought the Emperor was determined to follow Lord Corbould’s plan to starve New Kyre into submission.”

“He was,” said Aeolus. For the first time he looked annoyed. “As well he should. New Kyre has ever been a thorn in the side of our Empire, and the sooner it is plucked, the better. But Halfdan and Lord Titus persuaded him otherwise. A folly, I say.”

“Why?” said Theodosia. “Surely it would be better than shedding more blood. Andromache’s folly started the war, and it has been folly to continue it.”

“Because if we can crush New Kyre now, then we might save future generations more bloodshed,” said Aeolus. “And Lord Corbould will likely become Emperor after Alexius Naerius dies. Or if not him, then his son Lord Conn, the victor of the Argamaz. Best to heed their wisdom now.” He shook his head. “But the Emperor has made his decision, and we shall abide it. Even if we disagree with it.”

“When shall the Imperial Curia announce the news?” said Ark.

“In a few days,” said Aeolus, “when the Emperor departs for New Kyre.”

Claudia felt her eyebrows rise, and Martin and the others murmured in surprise.

“The Emperor is going to New Kyre?” said Martin. “Is the Empire surrendering to the Kyracian Assembly, then?”

“Not at all,” said Aeolus. “The Kyracians will admit the fault of the war is theirs, pay an indemnity, and agree to leave Imperial ships untroubled in their waters. In exchange, the Emperor has persuaded the Padishah of Istarinmul to open the Starfall Straits to Kyracian ships once more. The Emperor shall pay a visit of state to New Kyre to affirm the new concord between our two nations.”

“And let everyone save face,” said Ark.

“In essence, yes,” said Aeolus. “Additionally, a guard of honor, headed by Kylon Shipbreaker himself, is sailing to Malarae as we speak. The honor guard and the remains of the western Imperial fleet shall jointly escort the Emperor to New Kyre.” He looked at each of them with cold eyes. “Our task shall be to keep the Emperor alive.”

Theodosia frowned. “Who wants to kill the Emperor? Beyond the usual foes, I mean.”

“Far too many people, I fear,” said Aeolus. “The Magisterium, for one, wishes the war to continue.” Claudia knew her father would not hesitate to use assassins to reach his goals. “Both factions within the Empire and the Assembly wish to continue the fight.” He shrugged. “And how better to assassinate the Emperor than to twist the mind of one of his Ghosts?”

“That is what you think happened?” said Ark. “That the false Caina was an attempt to assassinate the Emperor?”

“No,” said Aeolus. “I think the Magisterium kidnapped Caina Amalas on her way to Marsis and twisted her mind. But as you observed, the sorcery of the mind can have unpredictable and dangerous effects. Instead of killing the Emperor, she went berserk and attacked the Ghosts. It is the most logical explanation.”

Ark scowled. “More logical than some sorcerer taking her place with a spell of illusion?”

“I am inclined to agree with the Champion,” said Martin. “The woman I met in Calvarium…she was most strong-willed.” That was an understatement if Claudia had ever heard one. “I do not believe the magi or a renegade sorcerer could have twisted her mind. She would have died first.”

“Caina Amalas would not betray the Ghosts,” said Theodosia. “I am certain of only a few things in this sorry world, but that is one of them.”

“Your affection for the nightfighter clouds your logic, Champion, Lord Governor, circlemaster,” said Aeolus. “And I fear it clouded Halfdan’s judgment as well. He put far too much trust in one woman.”

“She saved his life,” said Ark. “She saved all our lives, my lord.”

“Indeed,” said Aeolus, “but we are Ghosts, and we must be objective if we are to serve the Emperor. Which is why we are going to accompany the Emperor to New Kyre.”

“All of us?” said Claudia, surprised. When the summons had come calling Lord Martin to the Imperial capital, she thought it had been about the business of the Empire.

“Most of us. Muravin, I wish you to remain behind and keep watch over the Ghosts of the House of Kularus, lest Caina return to attack them,” said Aeolus.  “I will travel as the Emperor’s advisor and to command the Ghosts accompanying the embassy.” His eyes shifted to Theodosia. “The Grand Imperial Opera will also travel with the ships, to sing before the Assembly as part of the ceremonies.”

Theodosia sniffed. “I simply hope the Kyracians can appreciate Nighmarian opera when they hear it.”

“You, Champion, shall come as well. Since the war began in Marsis, it seems only meet that the Champion of Marsis should be there for its conclusion,” said Aeolus. “You, Lord Martin, since you took part in the fighting in the Argamaz. And you, Claudia Aberon, since sorcery may come into play, and we will have need of your knowledge. If Caina Amalas attacks, we will need your skills.”

“I do not believe it is her,” said Ark.

“Believe what you wish,” said Aeolus. “You may attempt to save her life, if you like, so long as it does not interfere with your duties. But I have placed the warrant of death upon her head. If we find her, she shall die.”

Chapter 6 - Puppets

Caina lay down on the bed and closed her eyes.

She ought to take off her gown and dress for bed, she knew. She had discarded the fur trader’s disguise, and after an hour of bathing and new clothes, she had become Anna Callenius once more, the spoiled, selfish daughter of Basil Callenius, master merchant of the Imperial collegium of jewelers. They would travel under that guise to New Kyre, with Corvalis disguised as Cormark, Basil’s loyal bodyguard and enforcer.

And there they would try to protect the Emperor and bring an end to the war Andromache and Rezir Shahan had started.

Caina sighed and stood. If she fell asleep in her gown she would wrinkle it, and Anna Callenius was not the sort of woman who would go out in public disheveled. With the Emperor’s life in danger and the Moroaica preparing to finish her great work, it seemed like a trivial, petty concern. But Caina needed disguises and aliases to function as a Ghost, which meant keeping the dress unwrinkled.

But with Sicarion and Ranarius hunting her, how much longer could she hide behind disguises?

She paced to the window. It faced towards the harbor, and she saw the sun disappearing behind the mass of docked ships. Likely Halfdan and Corvalis were at the docks now, making the final arrangements with Maltaer for passage to New Kyre. That made her think of Rasadda, of Kalastus and the pyromancy that had almost burned the city to ashes.

She had been a Ghost nightfighter for years, had faced and defeated many foes in that time. Yet a Ghost nightfighter had to function in secret, and if Ranarius and Sicarion were coming for her, she was no longer a secret. Perhaps it was time to leave the role of a Ghost nightfighter behind, to become a circlemaster and use the House of Kularus to gather secrets for the Emperor. Caina had thought she was just weary, that she merely wanted to settle down with Corvalis, but if she could no longer function as a nightfighter, then perhaps it was truly time to move on.

She shook her head and laughed at herself. It seemed futile to worry about the future, given that the Moroaica’s disciples might kill her. Or that the Moroaica herself might kill millions with her great work.

But if they survived this, if the Emperor concluded peace with New Kyre and Talekhris had found a way to kill the Moroaica, then Caina would consider her future. She could…

An angry shout reach her ears.

Caina turned with a frown, hand straying to the ghostsilver dagger at her belt. The sound of angry voices rose from the common room. Had Halfdan and Corvalis returned? Or had something else happened?

Caina checked the throwing knives hidden up her sleeves and left her room.

She stepped onto the balcony overlooking the common room. Merchants and minor nobles sat at the long tables, taking their ease and enjoying Zorgi’s fine food and drink. Or, at least, they would have, had they not been staring at the spectacle by the doors.

Four men in the gray plate-and-chain armor of the Imperial Legion stood at the door, crimson cloaks hanging from their shoulders, drawn swords in their hands. Zorgi stood before them, red-faced with fury and fear.

Between the innkeeper and the Legionaries stood a lean man in his early forties, tall and strong and fit. He had gray-streaked black hair and hard gray eyes, and wore fine clothing with a sheathed sword at his belt. He looked a younger version Lord Corbould Maraeus, one of the most powerful lords in the Empire.

Which meant that this man was Aiodan Maraeus, Corbould’s second son and the newly-appointed Lord Governor of Marsis.

“I do not know the meaning of this!” thundered Zorgi, trying and failing to mask his fear with bluster. “I have always been a loyal subject of the Emperor, and my inn is a respectable establishment.”

“Is it, master innkeeper?” said Aiodan. “I doubt that very much. I think your inn is a nest of Kyracian spies. I think you helped turn Marsis over to the Kyracians and Istarish two years past. You had best cooperate with me, or I shall burn your inn to the ground, hand your wife over my soldiers, and have you crucified.” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll hand her over to them in front of your cross, so you can listen to her scream as your own fat chokes the life from you.”

Caina blinked in astonishment. Corbould Maraeus was a hard man, but a man obsessed with law and order. He would not resort to such brutal threats, especially against a common innkeeper, and Caina doubted that any of his sons would.

Apparently Aiodan had fallen far from the family tree.

Or something else was going on.

“I have nothing to hide!” said Zorgi. “Question my guests, if you will. None of them are Kyracian spies!”

“We shall see about that,” said Aiodan, looking over the common room. “I will…”

He saw Caina, and his eyes widened, a delighted smile appearing on his face.

“There she is!” he shouted, striding forward. “Never mind, innkeeper. Here is the arch-traitor, the spy who handed the city over to the Kyracians! Anna Callenius, the daughter of the traitor Basil Callenius!”

“Me?” said Caina, astonished. How did Aiodan even know who she was? She had met Lord Corbould, but under the guise of one of Theodosia’s maids. Aiodan had never seen her before.

“Traitor!” bellowed Aiodan, striding up the stairs to the balcony. His Legionaries started to follow him, but he gestured for them to stand back. “I know who you are, Anna Callenius! All the Empire’s misfortunes in the last two years are your work! You handed over the city to the Kyracians! You urged Lord Khosrau’s son to rebel against the Emperor. You tried to kill Tanzir Shahan.” He reached the balcony and stopped before her, his gray eyes glittering with hatred and madness. “And you scheme to kill our noble Emperor as he travels to end this dreadful war.”

“My lord Governor,” said Caina, keeping her expression and voice calm, “I have done none of those things. Take me into custody if you must, but speak to my father. He will…”

“You deceitful harlot,” said Aiodan with a sneer. “I haven’t come here to arrest you. I’ve come here to kill you.”

Before she could react, he backhanded her. The speed of the blow caught her off guard, and Caina stumbled backward, her head bouncing off the wall.

The guests and Legionaries stared up at them, aghast.

“Die!” roared Aiodan. “In the name of the Emperor, die!”

His hand locked around her throat and he slammed her against the wall, his fingers digging into her neck.

Caina met his eyes, and she saw the enraged glee there.

And in a single horrified instant, she knew.

“And in the name of the Moroaica,” murmured Aiodan in a low voice, “for my deaths at Cyrioch, Caer Magia, and Mornu, die screaming.”

Ranarius.

His spirit had possessed Aiodan Maraeus.

His other hand clamped around Caina’s throat, and her vision started to fade. She punched him in the stomach once, twice, three times, but he only grunted, and her vision darkened further. Desperate, Caina yanked the ghostsilver dagger from her belt and plunged it into his belly. Aiodan staggered, and Caina ripped the dagger free and drove it into his chest. The Lord Governor released Caina’s throat and stumbled back, the bloody dagger still clutched in Caina’s hand. He leaned against the railing, blood soaking his fine shirt.

Then he grinned and winked at Caina.

“She killed me!” he screamed. “Anna Callenius killed me! Avenge me! Avenge me!”

And with that, he topped over the railing and landed hard upon one of the tables. It shattered beneath his weight, food and drink spraying over the guests.

Silence fell over the common room of Zorgi’s Inn.

A hundred pairs of horrified eyes stared up at her. Dozens of witnesses had just seen her murder Aiodan Maraeus, Lord Governor of Marsis and son of the most powerful lord in the Empire.

This was bad.

This was astonishingly bad.

“Arrest her!” said one of the Legionaries. “She murdered the Lord Governor!”

The Legionaries ran up the stairs.

Caina whirled, ran into her room, and barred the door behind her. An instant later she heard the Legionaries hammering at the door. Caina raced across the room, grateful that her boots had flat heels. She reached into her trunk, seized her shadow-cloak, a coil of rope, and a few other useful items, stuffing them into a satchel. The door splintered beneath the Legionaries’ armored fists, and Caina ran to the window. She jabbed the grapnel into the jamb, threw the rope into the gardens below, and scrambled down the side of the inn.

She raced through the twilight, jumping over the low wall surrounding the inn’s gardens and into the streets of Marsis. Already she heard the shouts rising from the inn, the panicked guests spilling into the gardens. Soon the Legion would descend upon the inn, and she hoped no blame would attach to Zorgi.

A chill gripped Caina as the depths of Ranarius’s plan became clear. He could die as many times as he wanted, take as many bodies as he needed. Death no longer meant anything to him. He would die as many times as necessary to turn the Ghosts against her and to hunt her across the Empire.

He was playing with her because he could.

She had to find a way to kill him permanently.

But first, she needed to stay alive and free long enough to do it.

Caina ducked into an alley between two shops and concealed herself in a doorway. She ripped off her dress and quickly donned the clothes she had taken from the inn, the garb of a common, ragged mercenary guard. She wiped off her makeup with a few swipes of her cloak, grateful that she had not bothered to put on perfume. A caravan guard that smelled of perfume would draw attention.

Already she heard the shouts of alarm from the streets, and Caina hurried down the alley. Soon the Legions would be called out, and men would go from street to street hunting for Anna Callenius.

Caina had to find Halfdan and Corvalis before the Legions found her.

Night fell, and she hurried towards the dockside district.

###

Caina ducked into a doorway and slung her shadow-cloak over her shoulders. It settled around her like a living shadow, and she pulled up the cowl and waited.

Hopefully it would be enough.

A moment later a squad of ten Legionaries marched past, torches and swords in hand. She felt their eyes sweep over her hiding place, but the darkness and the shadow-cloak concealed her. The Legionaries kept marching, and soon disappeared down the narrow street.

Caina took a deep breath and kept going.

The response had come far quicker than she had expected. Squads of Legionaries fanned out through Marsis, seeking Anna and Basil Callenius. Anyone who knew Basil Callenius had been placed under arrest, along with anyone who could not adequately explain their reasons for visiting Marsis. A lone caravan guard running through the streets at night would be detained. Caina had to find refuge as soon as possible.

Fortunately, the Ghosts had a safe house in the warehouses lining the docks.

Or a new one, rather. Caina had burned down the old one during the battle of Marsis. The new safe house, like the old one, occupied a squat, ugly brick warehouse. Caina hesitated, but saw no one watching the warehouse door.

She hurried to the entrance, unlocked the door, and let herself inside.

The interior of the warehouse looked like a barracks, lit only by the dim light of a single lantern on a table. A row of cots stretched the length of the room, and tables and shelves held weapons, clothing, tools, food, and other supplies. Halfdan stood at the table as, his cap gone, a bandage on his forehead. He looked up as she entered, and he blinked in surprise.

“There you are,” he said. “Why did you come back so quickly?”

“Come back?” said Caina. “I just got here.”

“What happened?” said Halfdan.

“Ranarius’s spirit possessed Aiodan Maraeus and attacked me,” said Caina. “I wound up killing him, and everyone in Zorgi’s common room saw it.”

“Yes, you already told me that,” said Halfdan. “You went to get Corvalis.”

“What?” said Caina. “No, I just got here, I…”

Why did Halfdan think that she had already been here? She hadn’t, unless…

Unless someone had been impersonating her.

Unless the death of Aiodan Maraeus had only been part of Ranarius’s plan.

“Halfdan,” said Caina, “something’s wrong, something…”

A figure moved in the shadows behind him, and Caina felt the buzzing tingle of sorcery against her skin.

“Halfdan!” shouted Caina, reaching for her ghostsilver dagger. “Behind you! It…”

Halfdan started to turn, and then a sword blade erupted from his chest. Blood spread across his furred robe, and he seized the edge of the table to keep his balance. His eyes met hers, full of pain and stunned confusion.

Caina heard herself scream.

“Caina,” croaked Halfdan. “Why? I…”

The sword blade ripped free of his chest, and Halfdan fell lifeless to the ground.

And Caina found herself looking at an exact duplicate of herself.

The duplicate wore a rich blue gown, her hair arranged in an intricate crown, jewels glittering on her fingers and ears. Makeup reddened her lips and lined her eyes, and a mocking smirk twisted her mouth. A sword rested in her right hand, smeared with Halfdan’s blood, and a serrated dagger in her left.

Caina had seen that dagger before, and she felt the sorcery radiating from her duplicate.

“You,” she hissed.

“Ah,” said the duplicate with a wide grin. “So you do remember me? Clever, clever. I might have fooled all your friends, but I can’t fool you.”

The duplicate rubbed her left hand over her face. A golden mask appeared over her features, its expression calm and serene. She pulled away the mask, and her body flowed and melted, becoming a short man in dark leather armor, a hooded black cloak hanging from his shoulders. His face was a hideous patchwork of scars, as if his head had been sown together from pieces of old leather, his left eye a ghostly blue, his right a venomous yellow-orange.

Sicarion.

“Rhames’ mask,” said Sicarion, tucking the mask into a pouch at his belt, though his mismatched eyes never left her face. “Such a useful little tool for disguise, isn’t it? Why, the old fool though that I was you, right up to the last instant of his life. He thought you were the impostor.”

Caina said nothing, her arms trembling.

“You’re not going to live through this,” said Sicarion, “but if you did, and you returned to Malarae…I think you would find that the Ghosts view you somewhat differently now.” He clucked his tongue. “Someone wearing your face carved quite a bloody path through the Ghosts of the capital. So tragic, so sad, that someone so respected as you could fall so far.” He grinned, his yellowed teeth like a row of old bones in his jaw. “It will please me to kill you at last. Partly for the pleasure it will bring, true, but mostly because it will discomfort Ranarius that I got…”

Caina screamed in fury and threw herself at him, ghostsilver blade in her right hand, another dagger in her left.

Her attack caught him off guard, and Sicarion stumbled back with a hissed curse, blades raised in guard. Caina jumped over Halfdan’s corpse and slashed, her ghostsilver dagger opening a gash in the scarred leather of Sicarion’s face. Her left dagger bit into his hip, and he stumbled. Sicarion retreated, and Caina landed hit after minor hit. She heard someone screaming in rage, and realized it was her. Fury unlike anything she had ever known drove her, and her world narrowed to Sicarion.

She was going to kill him for what he had done.

For killing…

She drove her left dagger to its hilt in Sicarion’s right shoulder. The scarred assassin jumped back with a bellow of fury and pain, and Caina charged after him, ghostsilver dagger raised for the kill.

Sicarion flung out a hand, green fire pulsing from his fingers, and invisible force erupted from him. The psychokinetic burst flung her across the room and into the shelves next to the table. The wood snapped and cracked beneath the impact, weapons falling and clattering against the floor. The table shuddered as her boots slammed into it, and the ghostsilver dagger tumbled from her grasp.

“That’s enough,” said Sicarion with a growl. He hobbled towards her, rubbing his wounded hip. “You have escaped me too many times. And you’ve cut me up.” He laughed, his rusty voice full of amusement. “You’re young and strong. Maybe I’ll cut some replacement parts from you.”

Caina seized a clay bottle from the shelf and flung it at him. Sicarion’s blade flicked up in a lazy parry, and the bottle shattered, the fluid within spraying over him.

“Perhaps that is how I will tell the mistress you are dead at last,” said Sicarion. “When I report to her with pieces of your face grafted to mine. I…”

Caina seized the lantern and threw it at him. Again he raised his sword in parry, and the lantern shattered against the weapon.

And Sicarion burst into flames as the lamp oil soaking his clothes ignited, his gloating ending in an enraged scream of pain. The spell holding Caina wavered and vanished as his concentration broke, and she charged at him, snatching up the ghostsilver dagger.

But the burning assassin flung out his hand, and another blast of force knocked Caina to the floor. She scrambled back to her feet, but Sicarion had already fled out the back door. Yet she knew that he would be back. He would murder some more innocent victims, use their stolen body parts to repair himself, and come back to kill Caina.

Just as he had killed Halfdan.

She looked at the corpse of her circlemaster, and the anger drained from her, replaced by horrible, crushing grief.

A moment later she was on her knees next to Halfdan, weeping. She had known he could die in the course of his duties to the Ghosts. Any one of them could. But she had never thought he would die like this, stabbed in the back by Sicarion.

Killed because Sicarion had been trying to get at her.

He should have listened. She should have gone off by herself, drawing Sicarion and Ranarius away. This was her fault…

A sob went through her, her shoulders shuddering.

Enough. Enough! The best way to honor Halfdan’s memory was to keep going, to stop his killers from destroying the Empire.

Caina took a deep breath, rubbed the tears from her eyes, and got to work.

###

She stepped into the street as the warehouse went up in flames behind her.

A dark man in a shadow-cloak moved toward her, and Caina spun, ghostsilver dagger in her right hand, a throwing knife in her left. The man approaching her carried a sword and dagger at his belt, the wrapped shape of a spear strapped to his back.

“Caina?” The man drew back his cowl and mask, revealing Corvalis’s face. Relief flooded through Caina, and she wanted to run to him, bury her face in his shoulder, and weep. Instead she remained motionless. “What happened? Where…”

“The first night you kissed me,” said Caina. “Where was it?” No one else had been there. No one else could know.

Corvalis frowned. “What…”

“Tell me!” said Caina.

“The Inn of the Defender, in Cyrioch, after we killed Ranarius,” said Corvalis.

She lowered her weapons and ran to him.

“What the hell happened?” said Corvalis. “Halfdan sent me to talk to Maltaer, and half the city was in an uproar by the time I left the ship.”

“Ranarius possessed Aiodan Maraeus and came to kill me,” said Caina, “and I killed him instead. In front of a hundred witnesses.”

“Oh,” said Corvalis. “That’s very bad.”

Caina nodded.

“Where’s Halfdan?” said Corvalis, looking at the burning warehouse. “He needs to know this.”

“He’s…” The words stuck in her throat. “He’s…”

The sentence turned into a sob, and she hated herself for it. She was a Ghost nightfighter, not the crying child she had once been. But the pain ripped through her like a blade.

“Oh,” said Corvalis. His hands closed around her shoulders. “I’m sorry. Ranarius?”

“No. Sicarion,” whispered Caina. “He has Rhames’ mask, the one that let him appear as anyone he chose. He used it to appear as me. Halfdan trusted him, and then he stabbed him in the back.”

“Gods,” said Corvalis. “That miserable little rat. Gods, but I wish I could have killed him in Artifel. Or Cyrioch. Or Caer Magia.”

“They’re both here,” said Caina. “Sicarion and Ranarius. They’re having a little competition to see who can kill me first.”

“If we go to the Ghosts of Marsis,” said Corvalis, “then they…”

“No,” said Caina. “They will try to kill me on sight. They’ll assume I betrayed the Ghosts. Or that the magi twisted my mind. At the very least they’ll take me prisoner, and Ranarius and Sicarion will have no trouble finding me.”

“Then what do we do now?” said Corvalis.

Caina didn’t know.

“We need to get out of the city,” said Corvalis. “The Legions and the Ghosts won’t stop hunting Anna Callenius, not when the Emperor is about to make peace with New Kyre. They will assume it is connected to Aiodan’s death. We can find another ship and make our way to…”

“No,” whispered Caina.

An idea came to her.

Ranarius and Sicarion hated each other, and were competing to kill her first.

Which meant they would not aid each other.

“No,” she said. “We’re going to find Sicarion and Ranarius and kill them both.”

“How?” said Corvalis. “We’ve already killed Ranarius several times. We don’t know how to make him stay dead.”

“No,” said Caina, “but I think I know somehow who does.”

Chapter 7 - The Renegade

The street ahead stank of chemicals.

Marsis’s dockside district carried a reputation as a den of thieves, but this street looked exceptionally sinister. The open windows of the abandoned houses gaped like empty eyes. The docks stank of salt and fish, but here a heavy chemical reek hung over everything, along with the faint hint of rotting meat. The house at the end of the alley had a noticeable lean, like a corpse sagging against a wall.

And Caina felt the tingle of sorcerous power in the air.

“Pleasant place,” muttered Corvalis.

“It’s really not,” said Caina.

“You trust this Nicorus?” said Corvalis.

“Not in the least,” said Caina. “He used to be one of the high magi. Then he got on the wrong side of your father.”

“My father has many wrong sides,” said Corvalis,

“Specifically, he slept with one of your father’s favorite mistresses. In retribution, the First Magus had him castrated, expelled from the Magisterium, and banished to Marsis,” said Caina.

“Not a reliable source for help,” said Corvalis.

“He isn’t” said Caina. “He’s a coward and a fool, but he’s not stupid. The Red Circle of necromancers used to rule Marsis until the Kyracians wiped them out, but Nicorus has studied their secrets. If anyone in Marsis knows how to permanently kill Ranarius, it will be Nicorus.”

“I should come with you,” said Corvalis.

“No,” said Caina. “I can sense his wards. You can’t. And you might not know him, but he will probably know you. I doubt he would react well to Decius Aberon’s bastard son strolling into his parlor.”

“Likely not,” said Corvalis. “But if you take too long, I will get you out.”

“I know,” said Caina. “Thank you.”

She took a deep breath and turned to face Nicorus’s sagging house.

The alley was silent, though she heard the distant clatter of armored men hastening through the streets, the flare of torchlight glimmering in the distance. Caina took three steps and stopped as the tingle of sorcery washed over her.

One of Nicorus’s wards.

He kept spells of alarm and detection wrapped around his residence, but this ward would trigger a blast of psychokinetic force capable of shattering bone and cracking skulls. The outcast magus must have activated his defensive spells in response to the chaos gripping the city.

Caina jumped, grabbing the rough brick, and dragged herself along until she had passed the warding spell. Four more warding spells marked off the alley, and she passed them one by one. Nicorus lived in terror of the First Magus’s wrath, though Caina suspected that Decius Aberon had forgotten about him long ago.

On the other hand, Caina had seen the First Magus’s cruelty firsthand. Perhaps Nicorus was right to live in terror.

At last Caina climbed up the stairs to Nicorus’s front door. No warding spells rested upon the door, its only adornment an iron plate at eye level. Caina raised her hand and pounded on the door. Nicorus had to be inside. He would not have activated his wards unless he was at home…

The iron plate rattled aside with a rasp, and Caina saw the gleam of bloodshot eyes.

“Be off!” said a quavering, rusty voice. “I am not accepting clients, and I have no wish for visitors. Go!”

“Don’t you want to know,” said Caina, “how I got through your wards?”

She drew back the cowl of her shadow-cloak.

An alarmed hiss came from the other side of the door. “You!”

“Nicorus,” said Caina. “It has been a long time. Let me inside. I have some questions for you. Answer them, and I shall be on my way.”

“No,” said Nicorus. “No, you bring only trouble with you. I’ll have nothing to do it with it. Go at once!”

“You activated your wards, I see,” said Caina. “You know the city is in an uproar. Do you know why?”

Nicorus said nothing, his eyes gleaming in the gloom.

“The new Lord Governor was assassinated through sorcery,” said Caina, which was mostly true.

“You lie,” said Nicorus.

“Not about this,” said Caina. “The Legions have sealed off the city and are searching for the killer. You have a bit of a reputation, Nicorus, and the Legions are out for blood. If they can’t find the killer, they’ll need a scapegoat…and who better to blame than the renegade magus hiding in his hovel?”

“And you intend to help me?” said Nicorus, his thick voice full of scorn.

“I do,” said Caina, “by finding and killing the Lord Governor’s murderer. If I do, there will be no reason for the Legions to hunt you, and you can remain in peace.”

For a moment Nicorus said nothing.

“Damn you,” he rasped at last. “Damn you, Ghost. You may enter. But be quick about it.”

Bolts thumped and locks clicked, and the thick door swung open.

Caina stepped into Nicorus’s workshop. The room was cavernous, the walls lined with wooden shelves of jars, bottles, books, scrolls, and bones. Various organs and dead animals floated in jars of brine. The only light came from a pair of corroded bronze braziers at either end of the room. Nicorus himself was a squat, hairless man in a greasy brown robe, his skin the color of kneaded dough. Caina had not seen him for two years, not since the Istarish attack upon Marsis, and he had aged considerably. Deep wrinkles cut into the slack skin of his face, and he leaned upon a thick cane in his right hand.

The man was a snake, and Caina trusted him about as far as she could throw him. But he was a snake who knew useful things, both about the Magisterium and various forms of illegal sorcery, and sometimes he assisted the Ghosts out of sheer terror. Halfdan had used him from time to time, and…

A flash of burning pain shot through Caina’s mind, and she pushed aside the thought of Halfdan.

She dared not show any weakness in front of a man like Nicorus.

“I should not be surprised,” said Nicorus with a sneer. His cane rasped against the warped floorboards. “Wherever you go, chaos follows. And there has been so much chaos since I saw you last. The great elementals stir in their sleep, and I felt a dark power awaken in Caer Magia. And now you are here.”

“I’m not here to talk about recent history,” said Caina. “What do you know about possession?”

Nicorus tilted his head to the side, his jowls quivering. “As I understand, it is a legal term referring to the current holder of a piece of property, regardless of his actual title to…”

“Do not be glib,” said Caina. “I know you have far more knowledge about illegal sorcery than you pretend. I know that you have spent years studying the old lore of the Red Circle of Marsis. Tell me what you know about a sorcerer using a spell to possess the body of another.”

Nicorus rubbed his bald head, watching her.

“It is,” he said at last, “exceedingly difficult, and would require sorcery of considerable subtlety. The bonds that join the spirit to the flesh are many, complex, and not easily severed.”

“Are they?” said Caina. “A knife to the heart severs them easily enough.”

“Perhaps I misspoke,” said Nicorus. Some of his cringing, unctuous manner disappeared as he began to lecture. “Let us say they are not easily reknit if cut, which is required if a spirit is to take possession of a new body. You see, upon death, the spirit is forced into the netherworld, where after a few moments it moves…beyond, to whatever awaits the soul beyond death. Heaven, hell, oblivion, reincarnation, I know not. There we move from arcane science to theology, and there are as many theories as there are faiths.”

“But obviously it is possible,” said Caina, “for a sorcerer’s spirit to take possession of a new body.” Ranarius had done it. Jadriga had done it for over twenty centuries.

“Indeed,” said Nicorus, “else we would not be enjoying this discussion. For a spirit to take possession of a new body, two things are required. First, considerable sorcerous skill. Second, a physical anchor in the material world, something to pull the spirit back when death sends it to the netherworld. Else the spirit has no means to return.”

“An anchor,” said Caina. “You mean something like a canopic jar?” The Great Necromancers of Maat had preserved their mummified internal organs in stone jars, allowing their spirits to possess corpses and remain active in the mortal world.

“I see you are already familiar with the concept,” said Nicorus. “Yes, the canopic jars of old Maat are precisely the sort of anchor that is necessary. Of course, the Great Necromancers regarded a spirit possessing living flesh as an abomination, and considered the undead state superior to life in any matter.”

Caina nodded. Talekhris claimed to have found a way to kill Jadriga permanently. Did that mean he had found Jadriga’s canopic jars? The Moroaica must have been given canopic jars, long ago, when Rhames had turned her into one of the Undying.

But there were more immediate problems. Ranarius said that Jadriga had given him the ability to claim new bodies at will. Did that mean she had given him a canopic jar, anchoring his spirit to the material world? If she had, that meant Caina could find the jar and kill Ranarius permanently.

She could avenge Halfdan.

“You seem to have more than an abstract interest in this topic,” said Nicorus.

“The assassin who killed the Lord Governor has the ability to move his spirit from body to body,” said Caina.

“Fascinating,” said Nicorus. “Where did he acquire this ability?”

“The Moroaica taught it to him,” said Caina.

Nicorus scoffed. “The Moroaica is a myth, a legend of frightened Szaldic peasants.”

“Believe what you like,” said Caina. “Is there any way to detect the presence of a canopic jar?”

If she could find the jar, she could kill Ranarius. Of course, a quarter of a million people lived in Marsis. Ranarius could have hidden it anywhere.

“Actually, there is,” said Nicorus. “The Great Necromancers of Maat never warred with each other, but the lesser necromancers of the Red Circle often fought amongst themselves. And they devised a method of tracking the presence of canopic jars.” He beckoned with his free hand. “Come, and I shall show you.”

Caina hesitated, but nodded and followed Nicorus to the far end of the workshop. He reached onto the wooden shelves and drew down a metallic disk the size of a child’s fist, blowing the dust from it. Caina saw that it was a corroded bronze compass, its sides carved with Maatish hieroglyphs, a needle of bone sitting in its center.

Even as she looked, she felt a pulse of sorcery from the device.

“This,” said Nicorus, “was constructed to detect the location of the nearest canopic jar. You see, they throw a…shadow, a resonance, for want of a better word, into the netherworld. The appropriate spells can detect that shadow.” He frowned. “And…the compass is working.”

The needle settled, pointing northeast.

Towards the Citadel of Marsis and Black Angel Tower. Had Ranarius concealed his canopic jar there? It made sense. Both Black Angel Tower and the Tomb of Scorikhon below the Citadel were places of necromantic power.

“You were telling the truth,” said Nicorus. He sounded astonished. “There truly is an assassin with the power to claim new bodies in Marsis.”

“Aye,” said Caina. Before he could react, she plucked the compass from his grasp. “Thank you for your assistance. If I live through the night, I will return this to you, along with a reward.”

She expected a protest, but Nicorus only gave a distracted nod, a faint frown on his features.

Caina turned to go, and was halfway to the door when he called out.

“Ghost.”

She turned. “Yes?”

He grinned. “You killed the Lord Governor, didn’t you? Your foe possessed the Lord Governor and forced you to kill him.”

Caina said nothing.

“And that means,” said Nicorus, “the other Ghosts and the Legions will turn against you.” He cackled. “They are hunting you, not the true assassin! And your foe,” he rubbed his head again, “your foe has immense sorcerous power. Perhaps the Moroaica truly exists.”

“Yes,” said Caina. “I would keep my head down for a few days, if I were you.”

Nicorus smiled. “I think not.”

He flicked a finger, and Caina felt a surge of sorcerous power.

An instant later a massive fist of invisible force slammed into her. The compass tumbled from her fingers and bounced across the floor, and the spell threw Caina against the shelves on the far side of the room. They shattered beneath her, bones and books falling around her, and pain blasted through her back and arms.

“I shall turn you over to the Legions and claim the reward for your capture,” said Nicorus, hobbling closer, his free hand pointing at her.

“Nicorus!” gasped Caina, fighting to breathe through the force pinning her. He was stronger than she had thought. “This is…”

“An unexpected pleasure,” said Nicorus. “I shall be a hero of the Empire!” He cackled his phlegmy laugh. “Think of the reward. And then I shall contact your sorcerous opponent and tell him of your death. Perhaps he too will reward me, will give me the knowledge I need to claim a new body, not this bloated husk.” He laughed again. “And then perhaps I can finally take my vengeance upon the First Magus, make him crawl through the mud like the wretched worm that he is.”

“Nicorus,” croaked Caina, “this is folly, the Moroaica will not…”

“Do be quiet,” said Nicorus. “I simply need to make you a little more tractable until the Legion comes to arrest you.”

He hobbled to another shelf.

The psychokinetic force held Caina’s legs and torso pinned against the broken shelves, but her arms were still free. She snatched a throwing knife from her belt and flung it. Her aim was true, but the blade rebounded from Nicorus’s wards.

“Disappointing,” said Nicorus, pulling a bottle from a shelf. “Did you really think I would let someone as dangerous as you into my home without protecting myself?

He poured some of the clear fluid from the bottle into a cloth pad. Undoubtedly he planned to clamp it over her mouth and nose and force her to breathe it.

And if he did, she was going to die.

Remembering her fight with Ryther below Lord Nisias’s mansion, Caina seized a jar of chemicals from the broken shelf and threw it. Again it struck Nicorus in the head, and again it bounced away with a flash of light.

“Many of my brothers and sisters of the Magisterium,” said Nicorus, “neglect to ward themselves against weapons fashioned of materials other than steel. I will not make such an elementary mistake.”

He hobbled closer, the cloth pad in his free hand, the light from the nearby brazier throwing harsh shadows over his drooping face.

“Elementary mistakes?” said Caina, hoping to distract him. Her mind raced for a weapon, any weapon. “Such as bedding the First Magus’s favorite mistress?”

Nicorus stopped next to the bronze brazier, smirking. “Perhaps the Moroaica shall give me the power to repay Decius Aberon for every last insult and humiliation he heaped upon me…”

Caina grabbed a jar of preserved eyes from the shelf and flung it. Nicorus laughed with derision as the jar missed.

But Caina hadn’t been aiming for him.

The jar slammed into the brazier’s bowl. It wobbled with a clang, and then toppled over.

Spilling hot coals onto the skirts of Nicorus’s greasy robe.

The outcast magus shrieked in pain as his robes erupted in flame, his scream rising into a howl of agony. Nicorus beat at himself, but the flames only blazed brighter. The pool of chemicals from the broken jars touched the flames and began to burn, filling the chamber with noxious smoke.

And the force holding Caina sputtered and vanished.

She hit the floor with a groan, broken pieces of shelf raining around her. Nicorus ran back and forth, screaming, beating at himself with his burning arms. For an instant Caina remembered Kalastus atop the Great Pyramid of Corazain, howling as the pyromancy he had unleashed devoured his flesh.

She darted forward, seized the compass, and turned for the door.

Nicorus reached for her, wailing, and tripped over the skirt of his robe. He fell into the wall, breaking one of the shelves, glass jars full of chemicals shattering around him.

And catching flame.

There was a flare of white light, and a wall of hot air threw Caina to the floor. The flames spread over the walls of the workshop, and Nicorus collapsed, overcome by the heat at last. The fire jumped from shelf to shelf, wrapping around dozens of glass jars holding preserved organs.

And flammable chemicals.

Caina cursed, hauled herself her feet, and threw open the door.

Corvalis waited at the end of the alley, sword and dagger in hand, as Caina pulled herself over Nicorus’s wards.

“What happened?” said Corvalis.

“Nicorus tried to kill me, and I set him on fire,” said Caina, clutching the compass. “We had better run.”

They had just gotten around the corner when Caina heard a loud thump. A blast of hot air shot out of the alley, knocking both her and Corvalis to the ground, and the roof of Nicorus’s house dissolved in a pillar of flame. Corvalis helped her up, and they ducked into another alley, watching the glow of the inferno.

“That’s the second building you’ve burned down today,” said Corvalis, breathing hard.

“I couldn’t think of anything better,” said Caina, trembling from shock and fatigue. Her mind spun and reeled. Both Halfdan and Nicorus, dead in the same day, burned to ashes in pyres that she had lit.

Halfdan…

She closed her eyes and forced aside the grief. She could mourn later.

“Did you learn anything useful?” said Corvalis.

“I did,” said Caina, opening her eyes and holding up the compass. “I know how to find Ranarius. Let’s go before the Legionaries come to investigate the fire.”

They hurried away from the maze of Marsis’s docks, leaving the pyres of Halfdan and Nicorus behind them.

Chapter 8 - A Dead Heart

“Not again,” muttered Caina, looking at the cliff face.

“What is it?” said Corvalis, hands on the hilts of his weapons.

Caina shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just…I’ve been here before.”

The compass had led them from the dockside district, up the Avenue of Champions, and to one of the wealthy districts overlooking the River Marentine. Caina had been here before, pursing Naelon Icaraeus as he fled from the Legion.

And she had pursued him into the dark vaults below the Citadel.

The street ended at the base of the Citadel’s towering crag, a solid wall of rough rock. The Citadel rose overhead, its ramparts and towers high and proud, the dark shape of Black Angel Tower soaring overhead. Caina swept the compass back and forth before her.

The needle pointed at the cliff, no matter how she moved it.

Or, more specifically, at a particular patch of the cliff.

“Damn it,” muttered Caina.

“His canopic jar is in the Citadel?” said Corvalis.

“No,” said Caina, pointing. “Under it.”

The faint metal of a keyhole gleamed in the rock.

“A hidden door, then,” said Corvalis.

“Unfortunately,” said Caina. “It leads into the vaults below the hill and the understructure of Black Angel Tower. The Red Circle must have built the vaults, and they were forgotten when the Kyracians took the city. Naelon Icaraeus used the vaults for his lair, when Jadriga was trying to free the demons imprisoned below the tower.”

“Do you think Ranarius is trying to free the demons himself?” said Corvalis.

“Gods, I hope not,” said Caina. “But this is a perfect place to hide his canopic jar. It was supposed to have been sealed off after Naelon’s death, so no one should be down there.” She thought for a moment. “If we’re lucky, he’ll be looking for me in the city. We can find his canopic jar, destroy it, and he’ll never know what hit him.”

“Why should we start having good luck now?” said Corvalis.

That was a good point.

“Light some torches,” said Caina. “I’ll pick the lock.”

Corvalis nodded, and Caina went to work on the lock. It wasn’t nearly as complex as the one upon the drawer in Nisias Druzen’s study. Most likely the door had been warded, a ward destroyed when the Kyracians had defeated the Red Circle and taken Marsis all those centuries ago.

For a moment the thought of all those years and all those deaths overwhelmed Caina. The Kyracians had taken Marsis from the Red Circle. The Empire had taken the city from the Kyracians, and the Istarish and New Kyre had almost retaken the city from the Emperor. All those deaths over all those centuries. Halfdan was just the latest in a long line of death. And all for what? Was life simply an endless circle of futile killing?

She growled and shook her head. This was not the time to give in to despair. She would not do Ranarius’s work for him.

Once Ranarius and Sicarion were dead, once the Moroaica had been stopped and the war ended, then Caina would grieve.

Or her enemies would kill her first, and then she would have no more cause to worry about anything.

The lock clicked, and the hidden door swung open, revealing a stone staircase sinking into the earth.

“Any light down there?” said Corvalis as Caina straightened up, returning her lockpicks to her belt.

“I don’t know,” said Caina, taking one of the torches. “Jadriga did have some lights, enspelled crystals on iron stands. I don’t know if the Lord Governor cleared them out.”

She checked the enspelled compass. The bone needle pointed into the dark passageway.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, took a deep breath, and descended into the stairs. She shifted her torch to her left hand, pulled her cowl over her head with her right, and drew her ghostsilver dagger. Corvalis followed, torch and sword in hand, the firelight throwing wild shadows over the walls and ceiling. Down the stairs went, the air growing cold and clammy as they descended into the depths of the earth. Ahead Caina saw a faint glimmer of pale blue light. The enspelled crystals were still in place.

The stairs ended in a massive vault, its ceiling supported by enormous thick pillars of rough-cut stone. A half-dozen iron stands stood scattered around the chamber, supporting crystals that glowed with blue light. Caina raised her torch, another flood of memories pouring through her. She had crept through this place, pursuing Naelon Icaraeus to his meeting with Jadriga. The Legions had attacked Naelon’s mercenaries here, and Caina and Ark had struck down Agria Palaegus, one of Jadriga’s disciples.

Gods, but Caina hated Marsis.

But not all the memories were bad. Beyond the vault, below Black Angel Tower, Ark had been reunited with his wife and son for the first time in years.

And Caina had confronted and killed Jadriga for the first time. But the Moroaica’s spirit had possessed her, and Sicarion had come for her, and Andromache had invaded Marsis to seize the power in the Tomb of Scorikhon…

It had started here, all of it.

“If we live through this,” muttered Caina, “I am never coming back to Marsis.”

“What was that?” said Corvalis.

“Nothing,” said Caina.

It was utterly silent. Caina lifted the compass and took two steps to the right, and then two steps to the left. The needle wavered, but still pointed to the center of the vault.

Ranarius’s canopic jar was almost certainly down here.

“This way,” said Caina.

She started across the vault, and then something moved in the shadows.

A man in his middle twenties stepped from behind a pillar, wearing the armor of a Legionary, a broadsword at his belt. He pulled off his helmet and threw it aside with a clatter of metal. Caina had never seen him before, but his features were contorted with an arrogant sneer.

A familiar sneer.

“Ranarius,” said Caina.

“You’re getting smarter,” said Ranarius. “You didn’t recognize me in poor Aiodan Maraeus’s body until it was too late. Still, of all the bodies I’ve had since you killed me in Cyrioch,” his lips thinned, “I like this one the best. Young and strong and fit.”

“I thought you rather enjoyed Maena Tulvius’s body,” said Caina, “given all the mercenaries you went through.”

Ranarius laughed. There was no hint of sanity in the sound. “I have transcended the flesh, Ghost. Bodies are merely vessels to carry out my will. And my will is to kill you both.”

“You haven’t been able to do it yet,” said Corvalis. He tossed his torch to the ground and drew his dagger with his left hand. “You’ve died…what, four times now when fighting us? That is hardly an inspiring record of success.”

“Death no longer has any hold over me,” said Ranarius. “Though I fear that is not true for you.” He smiled, his stolen face eerie and crazed in the blue glow. “What do you think, Aberon? Should I kill your whore first, and make you watch? Or should I kill you first, and let her watch as I cut pieces from you?”

“Or,” said Caina, “you could let us kill you quickly.”

“What?” said Ranarius with a wild laugh. “No offers to let me surrender? No mercy from the ever-merciful Ghosts?”

“No,” said Caina. “You already died, Ranarius, and you should stay dead. I know your canopic jar is down here.” His mad smile vanished. “We’re going to find it, destroy it, and make you pay for all the people you’ve killed.”

For a moment fury filled his face, and then he roared with laughter.

“Do you not realize?” said Ranarius.

“Realize what?” said Caina.

“That is exactly what I wanted you to do,” said Ranarius. “Clever little Caina Amalas. I knew you would find your way down here, so I prepared.”

He gestured, and the floor started to shake. Caina sprang forward, ghostsilver dagger in hand. No matter how powerful Ranarius’s wards, the ghostsilver dagger would penetrate them. Then she could locate his canopic jar and smash it at leisure.

The floor erupted in a geyser of broken stone and dirt. But instead of cascading across the chamber, the pillar of dirt and shattered stone shaped itself, taking the form of a towering human figure. Deep craters formed the figure’s eyes, and golden flames blazed within them.

It was a lesser earth elemental, bound within a body of dirt and broken stone. It was impervious to normal weapons, and could only be destroyed with sorcery, or by killing the sorcerer that summoned the elemental.

Caina had no sorcery, and with the elemental defending Ranarius, she could not get close enough to kill him.

“Do you like it?” said Ranarius, stepping back. The elemental moved between them, the golden light in its eyes painting the pillars. “The same elemental I summoned outside of Calvarium. I think it remembers you. Elementals carry a grudge. And this time you don’t have Claudia Aberon or that fool in a jade mask to rescue you.”

Caina backed away, wondering if she could get past the elemental to strike at Ranarius.

“Kill them both,” said Ranarius, and the elemental surged forward like a living avalanche.

Caina threw herself sideways as the elemental raised its massive stone fists and brought them down. She rolled to the side as the fists struck the ground with tremendous force, splintering the stone and sending a trembling shock through the earth. Caina scrambled backwards, trying to avoid the elemental as it lumbered after her.

“Corvalis!” shouted Caina. “Go for Ranarius!”

Ranarius laughed. “He has no weapon that can kill me.”

“That so?” said Corvalis, returning his sword and dagger to his belt and reaching for the bundle slung over his shoulder. He ripped away the cloth around the staff, revealing the gleam of the ghostsilver spear’s blade. “Care to wager your life on that?”

Corvalis lunged at Ranarius, trying to dart past the elemental, and the magus threw out his hands. Caina felt the surge of sorcerous power, and invisible force hammered into Corvalis. He fell to the ground, the spear tumbling from his hands. Yet Ranarius had not hit nearly as hard as Caina had expected. Most of his arcane strength must have gone into maintaining control over the elemental.

Ranarius might have intended to trap them down here, but he had made a mistake. If he was killed, he could take another body, but not in time to stop Caina from finding the canopic jar and destroying it. All she had to do was kill him.

But as the elemental thundered towards her, Caina could not think of a good way to do it.

She sprinted, the hulking stone giant following her. She glimpsed Corvalis scrambling to his feet with the ghostsilver spear, only for another blast of invisible force to knock him over. A surge of fear went through her. Ranarius could not hit Corvalis hard enough to kill him and control the elemental at the same time. But Corvalis could still crack his head against the ground. Or he could fall unconscious, and Ranarius could simply cut his throat.

Odd that she felt more fear for Corvalis than she did for herself.

But she would not lose both Corvalis and Halfdan on the same day. She would not!

The elemental stomped, its foot striking the ground so hard that Caina lost her balance and fell.

Of course, the elemental might kill her long before Ranarius killed Corvalis.

Caina scrambled to her feet as a boulder-sized fist blurred past her head. The blazing golden eyes followed her as she ran, its head swiveling to track her movements. That wasn’t good. She had hoped her shadow-cloak would shield her from the elemental’s otherworldly vision, but the creature was apparently powerful enough to pierce her cloak.

Or Ranarius had grown more skilled at conjuring elementals.

She saw Corvalis slam into one of the pillars, saw Ranarius stalk towards him, hands extended, face tight with strain. Ranarius had reached the limits of his strength, but it was still more than sufficient to kill both Caina and Corvalis. The elemental lumbered after her, its every step ripping stone tiles from the floor to add to its mass, the stones climbing up its limbs like armor.

Or like a lodestone pulling iron filings to itself.

A lodestone…

An idea came to Caina, and she changed direction and ran at the elemental. Her sudden reversal caught the creature off-guard, and it turned to follow her. She ducked under a swing of a rocky fist, dodged another blow, and ran at one of the massive pillars. The elemental followed, and Caina whirled, putting her back to the pillar.

She saw Ranarius staggering toward Corvalis, grinning as he drew the Legionary’s broadsword.

The elemental punched, and Caina dodged at the last second. The stone fist shot past her and sank into the thick pillar. The ground shook and heaved, sending her sprawling, but Caina regained her feet.

The pillar began to splinter as the elemental tore its arm free.

And, for just a moment, the massive creature was stuck.

A moment was all that Caina needed.

She sprinted across the chamber and threw herself at Ranarius. The renegade magus just had time to shout, and then Caina slammed into him. They went down in a heap together, the power of his warding spells washing over her in a cold tingle, his armor clattering against the ground.

He started to cast a spell, but Caina seized his ear, wrenched his head back, and buried the ghostsilver dagger in his neck. His scream of fury turned to a gurgle, and Caina wrenched the blade free and stabbed again, feeling a pang of regret for the nameless Legionary she had just killed.

Ranarius shuddered once and went still, his blood gushing over Caina’s hand.

She climbed to her feet, breathing hard, and a rumbling groan filled the chamber as the earth elemental collapsed into loose rubble, the spirit banished back to the netherworld with the death of its master. She saw Corvalis still leaning against the pillar, rubbing his throat.

“Are you all right?” said Caina.

“No,” said Corvalis, stepping away from the pillar.

“You’re injured,” she said, though she saw no wounds. “We’ll get out of here. Let’s just find that damned compass and send Ranarius to the final death…”

“It’s your fault,” said Corvalis, walking towards her, the ghostsilver spear in hand.

“What?” said Caina. “What are you talking about?”

“I cannot believe I fell in love with you!” roared Corvalis, his voice echoing off the ceiling. “Look at you! A scheming harlot, a liar and a murderess and a deceiver, and I shared a bed with you? You disgust me!”

The words struck her like physical blows, and Caina stared at him, stunned and more hurt than she knew how to express.

Then she saw him change his grip on the ghostsilver spear, drawing the weapon back to stab.

“Corvalis,” said Caina, her voice a croak, “what…”

And through the pain, the cold part of her mind, the part Halfdan had trained and that had grown colder and harder through experience, realized that he was about to kill her.

She dodged as he stabbed, the blade just missing the space her chest had occupied a moment earlier. Caina stumbled and landed hard, and she was certain, utterly certain, that she would feel the spear plunge into her chest. There was no way a fighter of Corvalis’s skill would miss such an obvious opening.

Yet Corvalis paused, wrapping both hands around the spear’s haft for a two-handed thrust, and that gave Caina the time she needed to regain her feet.

“Corvalis!” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Killing you, of course,” he spat, his green eyes glittering with hatred, “like I should have done years ago.”

She looked into his eyes, and the truth struck her.

Her fear vanished, subsumed by icy dread.

Ranarius.

“No,” she said, “you’re not Corvalis at all. I killed your last body, and so you took the nearest available one.”

Corvalis laughed, his voice high and wild. “I have to admit, I like this one. The First Magus’s bastard is strong, if not particularly bright. Housing my spirit is probably the best purpose Corvalis Aberon could hope to achieve with his miserable life.”

Caina said nothing. If she found and destroyed the canopic jar, would it expel Ranarius’s spirit from Corvalis’s flesh? Destroying Rhames’s last canopic jar had also destroyed the Great Necromancer. But Rhames had been undead, and Corvalis was still alive. Would Ranarius’s spirit inhabit Corvalis’s flesh until Corvalis was killed?

Caina didn’t know.

She remembered her guilt-stricken confession to Corvalis a year past, her realization that she could kill him if her duty to the Ghosts required it, and she felt the darkness of the vault close around her like a cold fist.

“Why didn’t you possess me instead?” said Caina, hoping to buy time so she could think. “I had thought that would appeal to you. Given how much you enjoyed Maena Tulvius’s body.”

“I could not,” said Corvalis. “Your spirit is too scarred, too damaged. I could not take control of you, and I have no desire to become trapped in your head, as happened to the Moroaica.” He grinned. “And this offers more opportunities for enjoyment, as well. Perhaps I’ll cut the fingers from his hands one by one and force you to watch. Or I’ll simply cut this throat, and let you watch him die.”

“No,” said Caina, a plan forming in her mind, “you won’t do any of that.”

“Why not?” said Corvalis.

“Because you’re a coward and you can’t endure pain,” said Caina. Corvalis’s eyes narrowed. “And, more, because you’re an idiot.”

“Oh?” said Corvalis. “Enlighten me.”

“You can’t possess me,” said Caina, “so you possessed Corvalis. But we’re the only living people left down here, and if Corvalis dies, you won’t be able to possess someone else before I destroy your canopic jar. And that means you don’t dare injure Corvalis. If you kill him, I destroy your canopic jar. And if you cut off his fingers or his ears or some other idiocy…you’re still inside his flesh. If he bleeds to death, if he’s in too much pain to function, you can’t function, and you can’t stop me.”

A spasm of rage went through Corvalis, and then he grinned.

“Or,” he said, stepping forward, “I will do whatever I want to you, and you won’t stop me.”

“You’re sure of that?” said Caina, pointing her ghostsilver dagger.

“I am certain,” said Corvalis, spreading his arms. “Go ahead, Ghost. Come here and stab me. Cut my throat. Cut out my heart. I won’t stop you.”

Caina remained motionless.

“Your precious lover,” said Corvalis with a sneer. “I would not have thought an ice-hearted whore like you could love anyone, but I suppose you are just as weak as any other woman. So go ahead, Ghost. Cut down Corvalis Aberon. I won’t stop you.”

Caina hesitated, and took a step back.

“I thought not,” said Corvalis, shifting the spear to his left hand. He raised his right hand and began to cast a spell.

Caina spun and ran for the damaged pillar, her eyes sweeping back and forth. She had dropped the damned compass during the fight with the elemental. Where was it?

Her eyes caught the gleam of metal, and then she felt the spike of arcane power.

Caina turned and caught the force of the psychokinetic blast in her torso, letting it throw her to the ground. It did not hit as hard as the previous spells. Maintaining the summoning spell on the elemental must have drained Ranarius, and Caina could only guess how much arcane force it took to possess a new body.

She came to one knee, and saw the compass. It lay at the edge of the rubble heap from the elemental, its needle pointing into the darkness. Caina seized the compass and sprinted into the gloom of the vault, ducking behind one of the undamaged pillars.

“Do not bother running,” said Corvalis, strolling unconcerned into the gloom. “You might have realized my canopic jar is down here, but you’ll never find it. Not before I kill you. Why don’t you come to me? I can kill you quickly.” He laughed. “Certainly I can give you a quicker death than Sicarion. Really, you ought to be grateful that I found you first. At least I won’t cut off pieces of your corpse and graft them to my own limbs.”

Caina looked at the compass, and realized that she could not see it in the darkness. But she remembered where the needle had been pointing. She had her shadow-cloak, and knew how to move with stealth and silence. Ranarius had Corvalis’s shadow-cloak, but he had not bothered to raise the cowl, and he walked without any hint of stealth.

If Caina could stay away from him long enough, maybe she could locate the canopic jar before he found her.

She moved forward as fast as she dared, her boots making no sound against the stone floor, her eyes adapting to the dim blue glow coming from the enspelled crystals. She risked a glance at the compass, but could not make out the needle in the faint light. Ahead the massive bulk of a pillar yawned out the darkness, ghostly in the blue glow.

“Stop hiding!” shouted Corvalis, his voice tinged with rage and amusement. “You can’t run forever, and you won’t lift a finger to harm your precious pet assassin. Make this easier on yourself, Ghost.” He laughed. “Lie down and die, and I promise that Corvalis Aberon will join you momentarily.”

Caina bit back the insult that came to her lips and kept going.

She reached the pillar and circled around it, keeping her shadow-cloak close. Had Ranarius concealed his canopic jar here? Perhaps instead he had hidden it deeper within the vaults, maybe even in the chambers below Black Angel Tower itself. Caina would have to get close enough to one of the crystals to see the needle, though she risked revealing herself to Corvalis…

There.

A small stone jar stood at the foot of the pillar. Caina knelt and felt the tingle of powerful sorcery from within the jar. She pried off the lid and saw a human heart within, dried and withered. Sorcerous power radiated from the thing, and as she watched, it pulsed and flared with the green fire of a necromantic spell.

Ranarius’s canopic jar.

She raised the ghostsilver dagger to stab.

“No!”

Caina turned her head, saw Corvalis sprinting at her, and too late she realized that the flare of green light from within the jar had revealed her position.

She stabbed down as Corvalis gestured. Invisible force slammed into Caina, and her blade bounced off the jar’s stone lip. The psychokinetic power threw her against the pillar. Her boot struck the canopic jar and sent it rolling away, the green light spilling across the floor.

Corvalis stalked closer, his free hand outthrust, his face tightened into a grimace of strain as sweat poured down his face.

“You troublesome little bitch,” said Corvalis. “How is it that I have not killed you yet, and you have killed me four times?”

“Maybe because you’re an idiot,” said Caina, struggling against the force that held her pinned. She had endured far stronger spells, and with a little more effort perhaps she could break free. “Maybe because you were stupid enough to follow the Moroaica, and then stupid enough to get yourself killed when you rebelled against her.”

Corvalis hissed and drew back the ghostsilver spear with his right hand. “I am a master magus of the Imperial Magisterium…”

“You’re not,” spat Caina, struggling against the spell. The invisible force held her right arm and ghostsilver dagger pinned against the pillar, but her left arm was free. She fumbled at her belt, trying to get her fingers around the handle of a throwing knife. “Not any more. Do you think Decius Aberon gives a damn what happened to you? You’re a failure, Ranarius, a spirit bound to a chunk of rotting meat, a…”

“Shut up!” bellowed Corvalis.

He strode forward, and Caina yanked a throwing knife from her belt, getting her fingers around the handle.

“I wager,” said Caina, “that you don’t have enough strength left to work a warding spell.”

Corvalis sneered. “You wouldn’t use that on your precious assassin.”

“I don’t,” said Caina, “have to kill him to stop you.”

At least she hoped not. She felt the icy calm of her self-control, but terrible dread stirred beneath it like a beast waking from slumber.

Corvalis strode towards her, drawing the spear back to stab, and Caina flung the knife. The look of surprise on Corvalis’s face was absolute when the knife’s handle struck his windpipe. He stumbled, the spear in his right hand plunging for her belly. Caina seized the shaft of the weapon and yanked, and the blade struck the pillar. Corvalis slammed into her, still coughing, and Caina wrapped her legs around his waist.

She drove her forehead forward with all the strength she could muster.

The shock sent a wave of pain down her spine, but Corvalis’s head snapped back, and he overbalanced, her weight driving him to the floor. Caina rolled off him and came to her knees next to the canopic jar, the ghostsilver dagger still clutched in her hand.

She snatched the jar, raised the dagger, and brought the blade hammering down.

“No!” roared Corvalis, surging to his feet as blood streamed from his nose. “Stop, stop, stop…”

The ghostsilver dagger sank into the withered heart, and Corvalis shrieked. The handle grew hot beneath Caina’s fingers, and the heart pulsed with green fire and crumbled into smoking ashes. Caina felt a jolt of chaotic, uncontrolled sorcery as the spells upon the heart unraveled.

Corvalis threw back his head and screamed, green fire erupting from his head and hands. For a dreadful instant Caina remembered the final battle in Caer Magia, remembered Rhames crumbling into dust as his final canopic jar shattered beneath her blade. Would the same thing happen to Corvalis?

The green fire blazed brighter, and for a moment a pale image fashioned of ghostly light seemed to float before Corvalis. Caina glimpsed Ranarius as he had looked in Cyrioch before his first death, a proud and austere master magus. Yet now he looked terrified, his eyes bulging as he raised his hands to ward off unseen foes.

The specter’s mouth opened in a silent scream and vanished. The green fire faded away, and Corvalis fell to the ground, the ghostsilver spear bouncing from his hands.

Caina shoved her dagger into its sheath and ran to him.

“Corvalis,” she said, kneeling next to him. “Corvalis!” He was still breathing, thank all the gods. A bruise marked his throat from the knife’s handle, and his nose and mouth were wet with blood. She grabbed his hand. “Can you hear me?”

His green eyes blinked open, and for a terrible moment Caina thought she would see Ranarius’s hatred and loathing there. Or emptiness, if Ranarius’s destruction had shattered his mind and left him an empty vessel.

Instead she saw only confusion.

“Gods,” he said, “my nose hurts. And my neck.” He sat up, rubbing his throat. “Ranarius! Where…”

“He’s dead,” said Caina. She laughed with relief, a little alarmed at how hysterical she sounded. “Again. But permanently this time.”

Corvalis shook his head. “I don’t…remember anything. Did he hit me with a spell?”

She helped him to stand. “He possessed you.”

“He did?” said Corvalis, alarmed. “I don’t remember any of that. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“You didn’t,” said Caina. “He tried. I found his canopic jar and destroyed it.”

“Good,” said Corvalis, rolling his shoulders. He picked up the ghostsilver spear. “I’m sure Claudia will be delighted when I tell her.” He looked at her. “Caina. Thank you. Gods, that monster’s spirit in my head…”

She gave him a quick kiss, ignoring the taste of blood on his lips. “Let’s go. The sooner we can find a way out of Marsis and set off for New Kyre, the better. It’s what…it’s what Halfdan told us to do.”

But a large part of her mind noted the practical difficulties. She had been seen murdering Aiodan Maraeus. Halfdan could have protected her, but Sicarion had killed him. And the scarred assassin was hunting her.

As the thought crossed her mind, a rusty laugh rang out of the darkness.

Corvalis stepped away from her, drawing his sword with his free hand, and Caina took her ghostsilver dagger in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left.

“You know, I’m jealous,” said the voice. “You gave him the final death, but I’ve wanted to kill him for years. You should have let me kill him at least once before you broke his jar.”

Sicarion stepped out of the darkness, his weapons ready.

Chapter 9 - A Mask of Scars

Caina realized they were likely about to die.

She was exhausted from the night spent running and fighting, and Corvalis was in no better shape.

Sicarion looked calm, even amused. He wore a new dark cloak, and she saw fresh patches of skin grafted to his face and neck, healing the burns she had inflicted upon him at the safe house. His sword waited in his right hand, his ugly serrated dagger in the left.

“Another victim?” said Caina.

“This?” said Sicarion, gesturing at his patchwork face. “Some dutiful Legionary, so zealously hunting for the murderer of the poor Lord Governor. Perhaps I ought to turn the assassin in myself for the reward. The mistress wants you dead, but she did not say how to do it. I think she would be just as pleased if you were beheaded for assassinating the Lord Governor.”

“Ranarius killed him,” said Caina, “and all that is left of Ranarius is some ash in a jar. Perhaps I ought to collect the reward.”

“You could,” said Sicarion, “but you won’t. You and I, we know the truth. Ranarius wore poor Aiodan Maraeus like a coat and threw himself upon your blade. But all those witnesses in the inn know better. They saw the merchant’s daughter murder the Lord Governor, so sad, so tragic. Maybe he spurned her affections. Or she was a Kyracian spy who seduced him.” He clucked his tongue. “Such a scandalous, tragic affair. If anyone remembers you, Ghost, it will be as the woman who murdered the Lord Governor of Marsis.” He grinned. “And quite a few other people.”

She scowled. With Rhames’s enspelled mask, he could have masqueraded as her for months, and killed any number of people while wearing her face. “Like who?”

“Oh, a few people here, a few people there,” said Sicarion. “If you ever get back to Malarae, you’ll find you have rather fewer friends than you remember.” Caina tightened her grip on her weapons, the faces of Ark and Tanya and Theodosia and Shaizid flashing before her eyes. “But I shouldn’t be needlessly cruel. You’re never going back to Malarae.”

Corvalis barked a harsh laugh. “You? Refraining from needless cruelty? I would ask if you were possessed by Ranarius, but he embraced needless cruelty, too.”

“Aye,” said Caina, glaring at Sicarion. “And look how he ended.”

Now it was Sicarion’s turn to laugh. “Quite badly. I do regret that I never had the chance to kill him at least once. When he first approached the mistress all those decades ago, I told her to kill him on the spot. I knew he would betray her. But the mistress, alas, keeps her own counsel, and she required his skill for summoning elementals.”

“Why?” said Caina. She wanted to keep him talking. Sicarion seemed inclined to gloat, certain that they could not escape him. And the longer she kept him talking, the longer she had to think up a way to escape.

“For the great work, of course,” said Sicarion, a mocking edge coming into his tone. “For the mistress’s great plan to remake the world, end death and suffering, and bring vengeance to the gods for all the pain of mankind.”

“You sound as if you don’t believe in the great work,” said Caina.

“It is folly,” said Sicarion, grinning. “The mistress’s plan will fail, horribly. She could see this, were she not so fixated upon vengeance. But she will not stop, and millions upon millions shall die when her spell fails.” His twisted face lit up with glee. “The entire world will die.”

“And you support this?” said Corvalis.

“Because Sicarion only cares about death,” said Caina. “Nothing else matters to him.”

“You understand,” said Sicarion, and he sounded almost grateful. “Killing is pleasure. The only pleasure. The mistress cares about vengeance for the pain of the world, but there is no such thing as justice. There is only power and killing.”

“You sound like a Kindred Elder,” said Corvalis.

“They are fools,” said Sicarion. “They kill for money and power. Killing should be done for its own sake.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” said Corvalis.

“So why does the Moroaica need Ranarius’s skill at summoning elementals to cast her great work?” said Caina.

For a moment Sicarion stared at her, his mismatched eyes unblinking.

“Clever, clever,” he said at last. “Still seeking for secrets, even at the very final moments of your life. But why not? Why should you not understand the depths of your failure? The Moroaica needed his knowledge to design spells she would use with the Staff of the Elements.”

“The Staff?” said Caina. She had seen it in the Tower of Study in Catekharon, a metal staff that blazed with sorcerous fire or crackled with arcane lightning. “It can waken greater elementals from their sleep.”

“Such as the elemental prince sleeping beneath the Stone of Cyrioch,” said Sicarion. “With the Staff, she can awaken them, and with the Ascendant Bloodcrystal, she can bind them.”

“The crystal was destroyed in Caer Magia,” said Caina.

“Only a duplicate,” said Sicarion. “I stole the real one and presented it to the mistress. Meanwhile I had the pleasure of watching you kill Ranarius in Maena Tulvius’s body. A pity, really. That was by far the most attractive body.”

“Then she has the real Ascendant Bloodcrystal?” said Caina, alarmed. With that ancient relic of the Fourth Empire, Rhames could have rebuilt the Kingdom of the Rising Sun.

With that relic, Jadriga could destroy the world.

“Yes,” said Sicarion. “And all the phoenix ashes she needs, thanks to you.”

“Phoenix ashes?” said Caina. “What is she going to do with those?”

“Raise the dead, of course,” said Sicarion, “and heal all their woes. Or so she believes. I think it more likely that she will raise an army of insane undead.” His voice brimmed with delight at the prospect.

“Then Ibrahmus Sinan was one of her disciples,” said Caina. “That is why she helped me in the netherworld when I went to the Sacellum of the Living Flame.”

“Not at all,” said Sicarion. “Sinan made Ranarius look clever. The mistress merely followed Sinan’s plans until they collapsed, and then claimed the remaining ashes for herself. She will feed their power through the chained might of the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and the elemental lords, and use them to raise the dead. Then she shall go to confront the gods.”

“And how shall she do that?” said Caina.

Sicarion shrugged. “I don’t know. Nor do I care. All I know is that she shall fail. Declare war upon the gods? The gods care nothing for the world of men, or perhaps they do not exist at all. Declaring war upon them is like declaring war upon the rain or the sea.”

“A surprisingly sane view,” said Corvalis.

Sicarion laughed. “Her plan will fail…but the failure of her spell will unleash death on a scale unseen in the history of the world.” His smile widened, his mismatched eyes crazed and gleeful. “So much death…and I shall be there to watch it.”

“So much for sane,” said Caina.

“I almost wish you could be there to see it,” said Sicarion, raising his weapons. “But you won’t. I’ve been looking forward to killing you, Aberon. You’ve gotten in my way once too often. A pity I didn’t have the chance to kill your sister in front of you.” His eyes turned to Caina. “And you, Ghost. I…”

“Let me guess,” said Caina. “I’ve heard all your threats before. You’re going to cut off my hands, or my ears, and graft them to your damned scarred hide.”

“No,” said Sicarion. “I’m just going to kill you. No more games. Farewell, Ghost.” He smiled. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Without another word he moved with a speed that belied his scarred appearance, his blades a blur. Caina flung her throwing knife, and the blade slammed into Sicarion’s shoulder, but the assassin did not slow. She ducked under the sweep of his sword and the slash of his dagger, but Sicarion’s boot slammed into her knee and sent her sprawling.

He laughed and raised his weapons for the kill.

Corvalis attacked, thrusting the ghostsilver spear in his left hand. Sicarion twisted aside with the grace of a serpent, and lunged at Corvalis in a furious blur, his sword and dagger thrusting. Corvalis retreated with a curse and tossed aside the spear, taking his sword in both hands. Steel rang on steel as Corvalis fell back, trying to regain his footing beneath Sicarion’s wild attack.

Caina staggered to her feet, trying to ignore the pain in her limbs, and raised another throwing knife. Sicarion made a flipping gesture with his left hand, and Caina felt a spike of arcane force. She cursed and tried to dodge, and the blast of psychokinetic power clipped her left side. The spell spun her around and sent her tumbling across the ground, and she came to a hard stop against the base of a pillar. Pain flooded her, and for a moment Caina could not move.

But she could not yield now, could not surrender. To yield meant death.

And worse, Corvalis would die.

She clawed to her feet, breathing hard, the ghostsilver dagger in hand. Corvalis retreated beneath Sicarion’s attack, the scarred assassin pursuing with gleeful fury. Corvalis stumbled, and Sicarion’s next blow left a line of blood across his jaw. He lunged at Corvalis for the kill, and Caina sprinted at him, her arm pumping as she flung throwing knife after throwing knife. Three of the blades struck home, two in Sicarion’s leg, one in his side. He stumbled, and Corvalis attacked, his dagger sinking into the assassin’s shoulder.

Sicarion snarled and raked his hands before him, green fire and darkness crackling around his fingers.

Caina felt the surge of sorcery, and a sphere of hazy, translucent shadows, perhaps a dozen yards wide, whirled around Sicarion. She charged at him, ghostsilver dagger in hand, and entered the sphere of shadows. A deathly chill shot through her, the dagger heating up as the ghostsilver reacted to the spell. She felt frost forming in her hair as she staggered towards Sicarion, and had no choice but to jump back, out of the shadows.

The spell, the sphere of life-draining shadow, was simply too strong.

Caina backed away and Corvalis retreated out of the sphere.

“Enough games,” said Sicarion with a laugh. “Time to end this.”

He sheathed his weapons and began casting a spell, more green fire and black shadow dancing around his hands. Caina had seen him use that spell before. It would unleash a bar of shadows and green flame, a lance of sorcery that drained the life from anyone it touched.

Unless Caina stopped the spell, it would kill both her and Corvalis.

She felt the malevolent force gathering around Sicarion.

She doubted a throwing knife would stop him, and Caina adjusted her grip on the ghostsilver dagger. The weapon was not balanced for throwing, but she could think of nothing else to do. Corvalis sprinted across the chamber, making for the ghostsilver spear. If he could take the weapon and throw it at Sicarion, perhaps that would stop the spell, maybe even kill him.

Sicarion laughed and lifted his hands, green fire blazing brighter, and Caina knew that they had run out of time.

Suddenly Caina felt the presence of powerful sorcery…but it wasn’t coming from Sicarion.

A white light flared in the darkness.

She and Corvalis and Sicarion all turned their heads at once, and a ribbon of white flame exploded out of the darkness and slammed into Sicarion. The assassin rocked back, his sphere of shadows disintegrating. He lifted his hands, flinging his lance of shadows and green flame into the darkness.

Caina saw the spell strike a limping man clad in the threadbare black finery of a Nighmarian noble, his face concealed behind a serene jade mask. The limping man held a silver rod in his right hand, and he swept it before him. Sicarion’s spell shattered into nothingness, the power draining away.

“You,” said Sicarion, his voice full of loathing and a hint of fear.

“Me,” said the masked man. He pointed the silver rod at Sicarion. “And I remember you this time.”

Sicarion sneered. “Then you remember that I have killed you before.”

“You did,” said the masked man. “When my memory was fractured, my power divided. Now I am whole, or at least as whole as I shall be…and you will not stab me in the back this time, necromancer. Come and face me.”

The masked man’s voice was dry, yet utterly confident. Sicarion backed away, his whole attention upon the lean figure in the black coat.

Then he turned and fled, dark cloak billowing behind him.

Corvalis flung the ghostsilver spear at Sicarion. The assassin yanked his sword from its sheath and spun, deflecting the spear. The weapon clattered to the floor, and the masked man unleashed another ribbon of blazing white flame. Sicarion dodged behind one of the pillars and fled, and Caina heard the slap of his boots against the floor as he sprinted away.

She almost pursued him, but caution held her back. She was exhausted, and Sicarion’s sorcerous ability gave him an edge she could not match. If she ran after him in the darkness, he would kill her without much trouble.

Instead she let out a long breath, lowering her dagger. Corvalis went to retrieve the ghostsilver spear, and Caina faced the masked man.

He walked towards her, his right leg twitching and jerking. She felt the arcane force radiating from his mask and rod, the power of the wards defending him from arcane and physical attack. He removed the mask, revealing a lined face with weary, bloodshot blue eyes and gray-shot brown hair. He looked middle-aged, but Caina knew that he was older.

Far older.

A man in a black cloak and leather armor appeared behind the masked man, cowl drawn back to reveal a middle-aged face and graying black hair. He carried a crossbow in his hands with the ease of a man familiar with the weapon.

“Harkus,” said Caina.

Harkus of the Order of the Venatorii nodded. “Ghost.”

She turned her gaze to the limping man with the mask and the silver rod.

“Talekhris,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

Long ago, the Moroaica had come to Talekhris in disguise, and learned a great deal of his knowledge. Horrified at what he had done, Talekhris had vowed to stop her, using his sorcery to stay alive. Every time he was killed, he was reborn in his damaged body after a few days, keeping him alive to face the Moroaica. But with every death, he lost part of his memories, and sometimes he could not even remember his own name.

“You are Caina Amalas of the Ghosts,” said Talekhris. “You stopped Mihaela in Catekharon, and you aided me against Maena Tulvius and the Moroaica’s schemes in Calvarium.” He scowled. “And both times Sicarion stabbed me in the back.”

“It is a habit of his,” said Caina. “You seem to remember more.”

“With his last death,” said Harkus, “the Sage has recovered much of his memory.”

Talekhris nodded. “And I know how we can finally put an end to the Moroaica. But we must act at once. She has already begun the great work, and if we do not stop her, she shall lay the world waste.”

Chapter 10 - The Lord Ambassador

Kylon, High Seat of House Kardamnos, thalarchon of the seventh fleet of New Kyre and newly-elected Archon of the Assembly, stood on the prow of his ship and gazed at the capital of the Empire.

New Kyre housed half a million people within its walls, and it was, or it had been, the richest trading city in the world. Its merchant vessels visited every port, and men and women from every nation in the world came to New Kyre to buy and sell.

Malarae was twice as large.

Kylon stared at the labyrinth of docks and quays and warehouses lining the harbor and the mouth of the River Megaros. Beyond them rose the vast tenements that housed most of the city’s working population, the gleaming mansions of the nobles and the magi and the rich merchants, the spires of temples to every god worshipped in the world. He saw the vast shining dome of the Grand Imperial Opera, the towering walls of the basilicas where the Empire’s magistrates sat in judgment and invoked public assemblies.

And over it all, standing upon the mountain crag, rose the white walls and towers of the Imperial Citadel itself, a city in its own right, an impregnable fortress that had never fallen to any foe.

Kylon looked upon the capital of the Empire of Nighmar and marveled at the folly of his sister.

Andromache and Rezir Shahan had started the war, planning to seize Marsis and the Empire’s western coast. But they had been defeated, and Kylon had realized that his sister’s plan was folly. Worse, it had been a lie, for she had cared nothing for Marsis or the invading army, intending only to seize the power of the Tomb of Scorikhon for herself. And even that had been another lie, for the Moroaica’s pet assassin Sicarion had poured his deceptions into Andromache’s ears. The Moroaica had never intended to give Andromache anything, had planned instead to let her disciple Scorikhon possess Andromache’s body and live again.

His hand tightened against the hilt of his sword. Lies upon lies, follies upon follies.

If he ever had the chance, he would kill Sicarion for his deception.

Kylon had loved his sister, had been in awe of her sorcerous prowess and her political skill, but as he stood upon the prow of his ship and looked at the Empire’s capital, he realized that Andromache had been a fool.

There was no way New Kyre could ever have conquered the Empire, even if Andromache had become the most powerful sorceress in the world. New Kyre was one city with a fleet. Malarae was but one of the Empire’s great cities. The Empire was too large, too wealthy, too populous. The Kyracians could defeat the Empire at sea, but they could never hope to conquer it.

The best New Kyre could hope was to stand free of the Empire’s might, to use its fleets and wealth to make the city too difficult a target for conquest.

And as Imperial warships came to escort his squadron into the harbor, Kylon hoped he could do that.

His mind started making contingency plans of its own accord. He had been in too many battles to keep it from doing otherwise. If the Empire planned treachery, his ships could cut their way free from the harbor, aided by the sorcery of his stormsingers. The Imperial Citadel had never fallen to enemies, but Kylon wagered he could make the docks of Malarae burn…

The power of water sorcery within him stirred. It gave him the ability to make himself stronger, to sense the emotions of the men around him, for all men were but water, in the end. He sensed the vast emotional tide of Malarae, a million men and women and children buying and selling and working and laughing and weeping. As a child he would have fled to the corner, trying to block out the noises in his head, but after years of practice it bothered him only a little more than the stench rising from Malarae’s harbor.

Kyracian or Nighmarian, Anshani or Istarish, harbors smelled the same the world over.

A feeling of amusement brushed against his emotional sense.

Kylon turned and saw his wife.

Thalastre, formerly of House Ixionos and now the wife of the High Seat of House Kardamnos, was fit and trim. She wore a flowing stola of blue-green Anshani silk, her long, curly black hair bound in a golden diadem. Golden torques encircled each of her arms, and a faint chime came from her elaborate earrings when she walked. She seemed the very image of a high noblewoman of Kyracian birth, the mistress of the seas.

Yet he could not forget how she had looked when she lay dying from the sorcery of a Dustblade, suspended an inch from death until he had found a blue bloodcrystal in the ruins of Caer Magia.

“You are plotting to burn the docks, husband?” said Thalastre. “While I know little of diplomacy, I suspect that shall cause difficulties with the Emperor.”

She was a stormsinger, strong and skilled with water sorcery. Kylon used his sorcery to augment his battle skills, to make himself stronger and faster, and he was good at it. But Thalastre used her sorcery to command wind and wave, to call lightning down from the skies to smite her foes.

Which meant she could read his emotional sense just as easily as he could read hers.

Idly he wondered if other men had such difficulty keeping things from their wives.

“Yes,” he said. “But only if necessary. I have seen too many battles. I expect something to go wrong at every turn.”

She laughed. “I know. You have brooded the entire trip here.”

Doubt and fear had gnawed at him ever since he had argued for peace before the Assembly, ever since the Assembly had elected him as one of the city’s nine Archons to put his plan into motion. Was he doing the right thing? Would Lord Titus and the Emperor keep their word? Or had he led New Kyre to destruction and ruin?

Thalastre threaded her arm through his and squeezed his hand. “You have chosen the course of wisdom, husband, however hard the path. Yes, there are difficulties. But the alternative would bring the greatest disaster to befall the Kyracian people since Old Kyrace burned.”

He smiled at her. She knew how to talk him out of his dark moods, to keep him from brooding. Additionally, they had been married for less than a month, and he had spent the nights of the voyage attempting to secure an heir for House Kardamnos.

Thalastre had responded with enthusiasm.

That, too, had improved his mood.

“We shall dock soon,” said Kylon. “Prepare yourself.”

Thalastre nodded and drew herself up, arranging her face in the proud mask of a Kyracian noblewoman. Kylon strode to the ship’s main desk, where his honor guard of ashtairoi awaited him in their plumed helms, spears in hand and their long ashtair swords at their belts. Two men stood at the head of the guard. One, like Kylon, wore the gray leather armor and blue-green cloak of a stormdancer. Cimon of House Siltarides had been at Kylon’s side in some of the fiercest fighting of the war. The other man was middle-aged but fit, wearing the armor of an ashtairoi and a perpetual scowl. Alcios of House Kallias had thought he ought to have been made thalarchon of the seventh fleet, but had changed his mind about Kylon.

The destruction of the Empire’s western fleet had changed a great many people’s minds about Kylon.

“Lord Archon,” said Cimon. “Your guard of honor is ready.”

“Aye,” said Alcios, “and we shall be ready for any treachery from the nobles of the Empire. Even after we have done them the honor of visiting.”

“Remember,” said Kylon, “they are not surrendering to us. Nor are we surrendering to them. This is an agreement between two sovereign nations, between equals. Not a supplicant begging to surrender, nor a vassal pledging loyalty to an overlord. Merely an agreement between the Emperor and the Assembly.”

“If the dogs of the Empire do not betray us,” said Alcios, “then neither shall we betray them. The honor of the Kyracian people shall be upheld.”

“I expected no less,” said Kylon.

Their ship reached the quay, and Kylon stepped ashore, his wife on his arm, his officers and his guard following him.

The Imperial Guard and some of the highest lords in the Empire awaited him.

Dozens of Imperial Guards in their black armor and purple cloaks lined the quay, motionless as statues, their steel shields polished so brightly that Kylon saw his reflection in their surfaces. Kylon had seen the Guards fight during the battle of Marsis, and he knew not to underestimate their skill and courage. A deputation of nobles, magi, priests, and merchants stood at the base of the ramp. A fat, red-faced noble stood at their head, and Kylon recognized Lord Titus Iconias. He had headed the Emperor’s embassy to Catekharon, and had almost died when Mihaela sprang her trap.

Two nobles stood with Lord Titus. One was tall and thin with a red-trimmed black coat, his blond hair so pale it was almost white, his eyes blue and cold. The other man was in his sixties and wore the stern black coat and trousers of a Nighmarian lord, a black armband of mourning tied around his left arm. Behind him waited a grim-faced bald man with the look of a Legion veteran, a sword at his belt.

Strangely, Kylon sensed no emotion at all from the pale-haired lord. The black-clad lord radiated a grim mixture of rage and offended pride.

“Kylon, Lord Archon of the Kyracian Assembly and High Seat of House Kardamnos,” said Titus, “in the name of Alexius Naerius, Emperor of Nighmar, I bid you and your companions welcome to Malarae, the capital of our Empire.”

“Thank you, Lord Titus,” said Kylon. “This is my wife, Thalastre of House Ixionos.” He introduced the others as the ashtairoi fanned out behind him, faces expressionless behind their plumed helms.

“You are all welcome,” said Titus, once the introductions were finished. Kylon felt the weight of the Legion veteran’s eyes upon him, sensed the man’s mixture of concern and purpose. Did he have a grudge against Kylon?

Perhaps one of his kin had perished with the western fleet of the Empire.

“This is Lord Aeolus, a count of the Emperor’s court,” said Titus, indicating the thin man. Aeolus executed a perfect bow, his cold expression never changing. “And this is Lord Corbould Maraeus.”

Kylon met the black-armored man’s eyes. According to his letters from Titus, Corbould had wanted to continue the war with the Empire, forcing the destruction of New Kyre, even if the stormsingers unleashed a drought and a famine across the western and central Empire.

He saw the game at once. Lord Titus would offer the carrot, and Lord Corbould the stick. In case the Kyracians made too many demands.

This was indeed a delicate dance.

“A pleasure, Lord Archon,” said Corbould in a flat voice. He gestured to the Legion veteran behind him. “This man is Arcion of Caer Marist, who earned the title of Champion of Marsis for his valiant deeds during the battle for the city.”

Kylon nodded. During the battle of Marsis, Caina had tried to find the son of her friend Ark, taken by Kyracian slavers…and that same Ark had killed the stormdancer Kleistheon in single combat. He recognized the sword at Ark’s belt. It was a stormdancer’s lightning-forged blade.

Kleistheon’s sword.

Alcios drew himself up. “You present us with a peasant wearing the blade of a stormdancer? An insult!”

Corbould scowled. “That stormdancer attacked a city of the Empire, and the Champion slew him in fair combat! That is hardly an insult…”

Alcios sneered, and it might have gone further, but Kylon spoke.

“You are in mourning, my lord Corbould,” said Kylon. “Might I ask why? If one of your kin has fallen in battle against the Kyracian people, I grieve for his loss, but many men have fallen upon both sides.”

A ripple of surprise went through Corbould’s emotional sense. “Thank you for your kind words, my lord, but it has nothing to do with you or the Kyracian people. A message came from the Magisterium chapterhouse in Marsis. My son Aiodan was the Lord Governor there, and he was assassinated by a traitor.” His gray eyes narrowed. “She will pay for her crime.”

She?

“I agree, my lord,” said Aeolus. “Forgive us, my lords of Kyrace. War, as I am sure you know, brings out both great heroism and cruel treachery.”

“I am sorry for the loss of your son,” said Kylon. A female assassin had killed Aiodan Maraeus? That in itself was not unusual – the Kindred assassin families recruited from both men and women.

Yet why did Ark look so urgent?

“Thank you,” said Corbould. “Still, this is a matter for Imperial justice, and should not trouble you, my lord Archon. The perpetrator was Anna Callenius, the daughter of the master merchant Basil Callenius. It seems they were dealing with enemies of the Empire.” He looked at Aeolus. “And they, in turn, shall be dealt with.”

Anna Callenius was the alias Caina had used in Catekharon.

Caina had assassinated Aiodan Maraeus?

That made no sense. Aiodan had been Lord Governor of Marsis, and Caina only killed those she thought deserved it. Why would she have killed Corbould Maraeus’s son? Had he turned against the Empire?

Or had there been some other reason?

“Indeed,” said Titus, and Kylon sensed his impatience with the entire matter. “I suggest we proceed to the Imperial Citadel, Lord Archon. The Emperor himself waits to greet you, and the Imperial Curia shall host a banquet in your honor. We hope to sail for New Kyre in three days’ time, and until then, we shall have many festivities to celebrate peace between our two nations.”

Ark met Kylon’s eye. “Perhaps the Lord Archon would like to tour a foundry while he is here. My smiths and workers are without equal.”

Kylon gave a fractional nod.

He sensed Titus’s alarm. “That…would be a needless provocation.”

“Not at all,” said Kylon. “Peace is coming between the Emperor and the Assembly. Perhaps Kyracian merchant vessels shall bear the wares of the Champion’s foundry to the far corners of the earth.”

“Perhaps,” said Aeolus, looking at Ark with narrowed eyes.

“Still,” said Titus, clearing his throat, “the Champion’s foundry produces arms and armor for the Imperial Guard. It would be…gauche, let us say, to show that to an ambassador from another…”

“Husband,” said Thalastre. She must have sensed his urgency. “I would like to see the foundry. I grew up in Kyrant, and there were no such workshops there. I would enjoy seeing it.”

“If you do not mind, Lord Titus,” said Kylon, “I would consider it a personal favor.”

Titus shrugged. “Well…why not? Very well. If the Champion does not object, we can tour it tomorrow, after the banquet.”

“I do not,” said Ark. “I look forward to it.”

“Yes,” said Aeolus. “As do I.”

###

The next morning, Claudia stood with Lord Martin outside the doors of the Champion’s foundry.

“You went too far,” said Aeolus. As ever, he was calm, but he strode back and forth, three steps to the right, three steps to the left.

Ark stood by the doors, arms folded over his chest. “If Caina has gone mad or renegade, if the magi have mind-twisted her, she’s a threat to Kylon and the Emperor…”

Aeolus leveled a finger at Ark. “You think to save her life.”

“Yes,” said Ark. The veteran Legionary did not look the least intimidated by the taller man. “Will you have me killed for it? Or expelled from the Ghosts?”

“Certainly not,” said Aeolus. “The Ghosts require men who think for themselves. This is not the Imperial Legion.” Ark snorted. “If you can prove that Caina Amalas did not kill the other Ghosts and Aiodan Maraeus, then you are welcome to do so. But I still intend to have her executed.”

Claudia shivered, and she felt Martin’s arm tighten against hers. Caina frightened her, but she did not want the woman killed. For one, she could not believe that Caina would turn against the Ghosts, no matter what method of coercion had been used. The woman simply hated sorcery too much.

And Corvalis loved Caina. When Claudia thought about losing Martin, the idea made her want to weep. What would losing Caina do to Corvalis?

Claudia did not want to find out.

The courtyard gate swung open, and a guard of Kyracian ashtairoi marched inside. With them came Kylon of House Kardamnos and a striking Kyracian woman a few years Claudia’s junior.

“Oh,” said Claudia, smiling. “He must have saved her.”

Aeolus looked at her, and she swallowed.

“When we were in Caer Magia,” said Claudia, forcing herself to meet the circlemaster’s strange eyes. “Lord Kylon came there to find a cure for his betrothed Thalastre. Without his help, we would have been defeated, and Rhames would have used the bloodcrystal.”

Aeolus nodded and looked away, unconcerned.

Kylon spoke to the ashtairoi, and they remained as the gate as he and Thalastre walked towards the Ghosts. The ashtairoi did not look pleased to remain behind, to leave their Archon unprotected.

Of course, if he wanted to, Kylon could likely kill every Ghost in the foundry without much difficulty.

The stormdancer stopped a few paces away, as did Thalastre. Claudia made a faint gesture with her left hand, whispering under her breath. Arcane power came at her call, and she focused it into a sensing spell. She detected the presence of sorcery around the Kyracian woman. Thalastre was a stormsinger, likely a powerful and skilled one.

A faint smile passed over Thalastre’s lips. No doubt she had felt the spell.

“Lord Martin, Claudia,” said Kylon. “It is good to see that you are well.”

“And you, Lord Archon,” said Martin. “I am glad to see you succeeded in curing your betrothed.”

“This is Thalastre, once of House Ixionos, now of House Kardamnos, and my wife,” said Kylon.

Thalastre gripped her skirts and performed a passable imitation of an Imperial curtsy. “It is good to meet you all. My husband has spoken most highly of your bravery and boldness. I owe you my life – without your aid, he would not have survived the great darkness within Caer Magia.”

“While we are grateful for your recovery,” said Aeolus, “that is not the reason the Champion has summoned you here, is it?”

“No,” said Kylon. “Might I ask your interest in this matter, Lord Aeolus?”

“You may,” said Aeolus, “since it seems Caina Amalas has already taken you into her confidence on multiple occasion, unwise as it might be to share our secrets with a foreign lord. Suffice it to say that I have a position of authority with the Ghosts, and I have a great interest in seeing peace between our nations…and bringing to heel any renegade members of the Ghosts.”

“Renegade?” said Kylon.

“A little over a fortnight past,” said Aeolus, “Caina Amalas murdered nearly two dozen Ghosts in Malarae, and then…”

“Or an impostor using a spell to assume her identity,” said Ark.

“And then she reappeared in Marsis,” said Aeolus. “The magi in Marsis sent a message to the chapterhouse here in Malarae, who reported the grim news to Lord Corbould and the Emperor. A woman named Anna Callenius murdered Lord Governor Aiodan at Zorgi’s Inn, and Anna Callenius is one of the aliases Caina used while traveling with the circlemaster Halfdan…”

“I know this,” said Kylon. “She used that identity while in Catekharon. I am surprised, Lord Aeolus, that you suspect her so readily. If not for her, Mihaela would have launched a war with the glypharmor, and Rhames would have claimed the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and laid waste to the world.”

Aeolus shrugged. “In truth, Lord Archon, I have had suspicions of her for some time.”

“Why?” said Ark, scowling.

Aeolus began to tick off points upon his fingers. “Her hatred of the magi unbalances her judgment. She has taken a former Kindred assassin as a lover…”

“Corvalis turned his back upon the Kindred and the Magisterium at great cost!” said Claudia.

“I long thought that Halfdan placed far too much trust in her, allowed his paternal affection for her to cloud his judgment,” said Aeolus. “We are Ghosts, Lord Archon. We must place the good of the Empire and its people before all other considerations. Even our own loves.”

“Your devotion to duty does you credit,” said Kylon, “but are you not jumping to conclusions? Why would Caina betray the Ghosts?”

“For money, for love, for hatred,” said Aeolus. “The reasons for treachery are as many as the grains of sand upon the shore. And it is also possible that her mind was altered by the magi. They have used such tactics against us in the past.”

“Or,” said Kylon, “someone is impersonating her.”

“Yes,” said Ark. “That is exactly what I thought.”

Aeolus raised his pale eyebrows. “Do you have any suspects?”

“As it happens, I do,” said Kylon. “A man called Sicarion, an assassin and a necromancer in service to the Moroaica.”

Claudia knew Sicarion better than she would have liked. He had worked with Mihaela in Catekharon, teaching her the necromantic spells needed to create the glypharmor in her ghastly Forge. He had been at Caer Magia, and had almost killed Corvalis in the spell-haunted ruins.

“It is exactly the sort of tactic he would use,” said Kylon. “He corrupted my sister when she was the High Seat of House Kardamnos. Taking Caina’s form, killing her friends and allies, and then standing back and watching as the Ghosts hunted her down and slew her…it would appeal to his twisted sense of humor.”

“Does he have the power to take different guises?” said Aeolus.

Kylon shrugged. “I know not. But he has survived for centuries by using his necromancy to graft organs and limbs stolen from his victims onto his corrupt frame. Surely spinning an illusion would be no great feat of sorcery for such a creature.”

“Perhaps you are correct,” said Aeolus. “Nevertheless, my death warrant upon her stands.”

“A death warrant?” said Kylon. “Are the Ghost circlemasters all so ungrateful?”

“Gratitude has nothing to do it,” said Aeolus. “Perhaps I am right. Or perhaps you are right, and this Sicarion has indeed taken Caina’s guise. But I dare not take the risk. Do you know what will happen if the Emperor is assassinated while in New Kyre? Or if you or one of the other Archons falls to an assassin’s blade – particularly if a renegade Ghost wields it?”

“War,” said Kylon. “It will mean war to the bloody end, what both Lord Titus and I feared.”

“Yes,” said Aeolus. “Lord Archon, I have chosen to take you into the confidence of the Ghosts because you understand the stakes. The more bellicose nobles of both the Empire and New Kyre might wish the war to continue. But if it does, we know that our nations shall reap only universal ruin. And if the Emperor or one of the Archons is assassinated while in New Kyre, war is certain. So you can see my suspicions, no? That Caina Amalas would turn renegade at a time of such tension?”

“I understand your doubts, Lord Aeolus,” said Kylon, “but I fear Sicarion, and not Caina, is responsible for these deaths. And if Sicarion is involved, he is acting at the bidding of the Moroaica. Andromache started the war between our nations at her command. Sicarion imparted some of her lessons to Mihaela, and she used them to create the glypharmor. The Moroaica almost seized the Ascendant Bloodcrystal with Sicarion’s help. My lord Aeolus, if I am right, if Sicarion is involved, then the Moroaica is taking a hand in these events…and we face dangers far greater than an endless war. If she is taken an interest, then almost certainly she plans to wreak some sort of sorcerous catastrophe.”

“I agree with Lord Kylon,” said Ark. “I’ve seen the Moroaica’s hand in events before. She almost murdered my son to free the demons below Black Angel Tower. If she is working some sort of sorcerous plot around the Emperor’s journey to New Kyre, it will be catastrophic.”

“Then we must be on our guard against sorcery,” said Aeolus. “We shall rely upon your arcane skills, Lord Archon, and your skills, Claudia.”

Claudia managed a nod. Once the prospect would have unnerved her. But after escaping Mihaela’s Forge, after confronting Rhames in the Chamber of Ascension at Caer Magia, it did not seem so terrifying. Yet it still unsettled her. She had seen the Moroaica’s arcane strength during her duel against Rhames. If the Moroaica chose, she could crush Claudia in the space between two heartbeats, and she doubted Kylon and Thalastre would fare much better.

“You may rely upon my aid as well, Lord Aeolus,” said Thalastre. “I wish to see peace between our nations, and I owe a debt to Sicarion and his mistress. Their meddling with the sorcerous relics of Caer Magia killed many innocent Kyracians, and almost slew me. I should like to see that debt repaid with interest.”

Aeolus raised his pale eyebrows. “As you dealt with the Legionaries who attacked Kyrant?”

Thalastre offered a chilly smile. “They shouldn’t have attacked my father’s stronghold.”

“Clearly,” said Aeolus. “Very well. We shall do what we must. If you can prove to my satisfaction that Sicarion, not Caina, killed Aiodan Maraeus and the Ghosts of Malarae, then I shall reconsider the death warrant. Until then, it stands. The lives of millions are at stake, and if the life of Caina Amalas is a necessary sacrifice for peace, then it is a sacrifice I will gladly make.”

Three days later they left Malarae with the remnants of the western Imperial fleet, escorting the Emperor and the Lord Archon as they sailed to New Kyre.

Chapter 11 - The Venatorii

“I suggest we remain here for now,” said Talekhris, tucking his jade mask into a pocket of his loose coat. “The Legionaries are going from house to house, searching for a blond, blue-eyed young woman named Anna Callenius. Dozens of wild stories are flying around, but it seems that she murdered the new Lord Governor.”

“Ranarius,” said Caina, looking at the dead Legionary. “He possessed the Lord Governor and attacked me, and I wound up killing him.”

“Ah,” said Talekhris. “That explains much. The Moroaica has used that sort of tactic before to discredit her enemies. It is remarkable that you managed to defeat Ranarius. When we arrived in Marsis and saw the chaos, I feared that you had been killed.”

“I’m not dead yet,” said Caina. “Thank you for your aid, by the way.” Corvalis moved to her side, the ghostsilver spear in hand. Harkus waited behind the Sage, calm as ever. “Sicarion would have killed us both if you had not arrived.”

Talekhris grimaced. “I only wish I could have killed him. The man is as resilient as a cockroach, and does not hesitate to flee when overmatched.”

“He will come for us again,” said Corvalis.

“Undoubtedly,” said Talekhris. “Where is Halfdan? I was unable to find him. I only located you by following Sicarion here, and it is vital that I speak with Halfdan at once. Additionally, if Ranarius set you up for the Lord Governor’s murder, we will need Halfdan’s influence to keep the Legions from arresting you.”

Again that wave of searing grief shot through Caina. For a moment she was eleven years old again, weeping as Maglarion cut her father’s throat in the darkness below the hills.

“He’s dead,” she said, her voice glassy calm. “Sicarion stabbed him in the back at the safe house. He would have killed me, but I set the warehouse on fire to escape.”

“I see,” said Talekhris. “I am sorry for your loss, Ghost. He was a wise and capable man, and we shall miss his counsel in the days to come.”

“If Halfdan is indeed dead,” said Harkus, “we should remain here until we have secured transport from the city. The Legions will not search the vaults below the Citadel for some time yet, but they will sooner or later.”

“Probably sooner,” said Caina. “There are Ghosts among the tribunes and centurions of the Legions, and some of them fought against Naelon Icaraeus’s slavers. They know the vaults are here.”

“Perhaps we should move to a different location,” said Talekhris.

“Not yet,” said Harkus. He turned to face Caina. “Ghost, with your agreement, I think you should remain here for now. If we try to move through the streets at night, it will look suspicious. Other members of the Order are in Marsis, and they will bring us supplies. Once the sun is up, we can travel to the harbor and secure a ship.”

“I already have,” said Corvalis. “Maltaer is waiting for us in the harbor.”

Harkus frowned. “I thought he would have fled.”

Talekhris grunted. “We paid him enough gold to wait. He will wait.”

It did not surprise Caina to find out that Maltaer had accepted payment from Lord Titus, Halfdan, Corvalis, and now the Ventaroii. The man was nothing if not a clever opportunist.

Harkus seemed unconvinced, but bowed. “As you wish, Sage. I will return with supplies.”

“Thank you,” said Talekhris. “We’ll attempt to make our way to the harbor and Maltaer’s ship at dawn.”

Harkus bowed again and disappeared into the darkness.

“Do you mind if I sit?” said Caina, turning towards one of the undamaged pillars. “It has been…it has been a rather long day…”

A hint of chagrin went over Talekhris’s face. “Yes, of course. Please, sit. I would offer you more comfortable accommodations, but I fear I have none available at the moment.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Caina. She sat against the pillar, the rock wall cool against her back, and Corvalis sat next to her. She wanted to slump to the floor and sleep for days. Or bury her face in Corvalis’s chest and weep.

But not until she had stopped the Moroaica.

Not until she had Sicarion’s head for what he had done to Halfdan.

“You seem more lucid than last we met,” said Caina at last.

“I have Harkus to thank for that,” said Talekhris. “I left him with instructions. If one of my resurrections left me unable to function, he was to kill me. With luck, when I returned to life, I would retain more of my memories.” He tapped the side of his head. “Harkus staved in my skull with a sledgehammer.”

“That…was kind of him,” said Corvalis.

Talekhris offered a smile. “The experience was not one I would recommend. But I suspect it forced the spells binding me to focus upon rebuilding my mind. I have recovered most of my memory. Not all of it – I can remember little of what passed before I met the Moroaica in Catekharon all those years ago. But of the nine centuries since, I remember most of what has transpired. Including my many deaths at the hands of the Moroaica and her pet assassin.”

“Your message to Halfdan,” said Caina. “You said you knew how to kill the Moroaica permanently.”

“Yes,” said Talekhris with a sigh. “I have carried the knowledge for centuries. But the knowledge…it was in separate pieces, and I could never remember all of them at once.” He shook his head. “Fool that I am, it has taken me three hundred years to realize the truth.”

“You know where her canopic jars are?” said Caina.

“She doesn’t have them,” said Talekhris. “I suspect she did when she escaped the pharaoh’s tomb in Maat of old, but no longer. She has transcended them, become so powerful that she can take another body at will.” He reached into his coat, pulled out a pair of wooden tubes, slid his Sage’s rod into them, and assembled the pieces into a cane. “As she tried to do with you.”

Caina frowned. “I thought a necromancer had to have a physical anchor in the material world to draw his spirit back after death.”

“Most necromancers do,” said Talekhris, leaning on his cane with a grunt. “But the Moroaica is so powerful that her spirit exists simultaneously in the material world and the netherworld, like a rift in the walls between the worlds. It is the source of her tremendous arcane strength and her immortality.”

“Then how do we kill her?” said Caina.

“By bringing her physically to the netherworld,” said Talekhris, “and killing her there.”

Caina had visited the netherworld in the flesh last year, forced to do so by the renegade Alchemist Ibrahmus Sinan. It had been a strange, terrifying place, haunted by malevolent spirits, her thoughts capable of reshaping the very land itself. Only Jadriga’s aid had kept the spirits of the netherworld from killing Caina.

“Why would that work?” said Caina.

“Because that will remove her advantage,” said Talekhris. “Entering the netherworld in the flesh would force her spirit solely into the netherworld. If she is killed there, she will have no means to return to the physical world, and her spirit will go to whatever awaits it beyond the netherworld.”

Corvalis barked his harsh laugh. “Well, that’s simple enough. We’ll just have to lure her into the netherworld. I’m sure she’ll cooperate.”

“No subterfuge is required, Master Corvalis,” said Talekhris. “The Moroaica will enter the netherworld in the flesh of her own volition,” he glanced at the ceiling, “and very soon, I fear.”

“Why would she do that?” said Corvalis. “Surely she is aware of her weakness.”

“Because,” said Caina, “of her great work.”

Talekhris nodded.

“What is the great work?” said Caina.

“You know,” said Talekhris. “She has told you, many times.”

“The destruction of the world and its reforging,” said Caina, Jadriga’s furious words echoing in her thoughts. “An end to suffering, to pain, to famine, to death. And then once the world is remade, she will make war upon the heavens themselves, make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind.”

Talekhris nodded again.

“But how is she going to accomplish this?” said Caina. “Can she truly make war upon the gods?”

“I doubt it,” said Talekhris. “But the magnitude of the sorcery required will likely destroy the world. She needs three things to cast her great work.” He gestured with one hand. “The Staff of the Elements, the ashes of a phoenix spirit, and the Ascendant Bloodcrystal. In the last two years, she has obtained all three of the necessary tools.”

“Sicarion said that,” said Caina. “That she would use the phoenix ashes and the power of the elemental princes to raise the dead. But surely that would take a vast quantity of phoenix ashes?”

“Phoenix ashes can kindle a fire,” said Talekhris, “and fires spread. With the power provided by the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and the elemental princes, she can spread the flames of the phoenix spirit across the world and raise uncounted millions of the dead.”

“But that would be disastrous,” said Caina. She remembered what had happened when Sinan drank his unfinished Elixir Rejuvenata, how it had transformed him into a grotesque, ravening nightmare. “She would create monsters. Millions upon millions of monsters.”

“Indeed,” said Talekhris. “She has convinced herself otherwise, I think. Perhaps she believes she will create millions of immortals free of suffering and hunger. And once she has done that, she will attempt to rip open a gate to the realms beyond the netherworld. If she is successful, the resultant backlash of force will almost certainly destroy this world. Assuming anything is left after the elemental princes awaken.”

“Which is why she is physically entering the netherworld,” said Caina. “If she is going to open a gate to the seat of the gods, she will have to do it from there.”

“The spell requires the additional power of the netherworld,” said Talekhris. “For the netherworld is the source of sorcery, and within the netherworld spells that would be impossible here become feasible.”

“Why cast the spell in New Kyre?” said Caina. “Does it have something to do with the war?”

“No,” said Talekhris. “The barrier between the mortal world and the netherworld is thinner in New Kyre, specifically in a place called the Pyramid of Storm. Do you know of the Surge?”

“The oracle of the Kyracian people,” said Caina. “Kylon mentioned her.”

“The Surge passes her mantle of power from generation to generation,” said Talekhris. “The thinness of the barrier between worlds within the Pyramid allows her to see the shadows of the future, to observe far-off events.”

“Then she is dead,” said Caina. “Jadriga likely killed her.” Perhaps they could use that to rouse the Kyracians against the threat in their midst.

“Most likely,” said Talekhris.

“Perhaps the Emperor is safe,” said Corvalis. “If Jadriga is casting the great work, she’ll be vulnerable. She’ll want Sicarion to protect her, so he will stay away from the Emperor and the Archons.”

“No. I think Sicarion will go after the Emperor as a distraction,” said Caina. “It’s exactly what the Moroaica would tell him to do.”

Corvalis snorted. “Then our task is easy enough. Find a sorceress of immense power, defeat her, and save the world and the Emperor in the process. Is that it?”

“Essentially,” said Caina.

“Well,” said Corvalis at last. “When do we start?”

“Soon,” said Talekhris. “After Harkus returns with fresh supplies, we will set out for New Kyre.”

“The Legions will try to stop us,” said Caina. “As will the Ghosts of Marsis…if Sicarion and Ranarius left any of them alive.” She thought of Jiri and Radast, of Hiram Palaegus and Ducas, the other Ghosts of the Marsis circle that she knew. Had Sicarion killed them all?

More blood on his hands.

More blood Caina would avenge, if she could.

“They will,” said Talekhris, “but they cannot stop my powers.”

“Don’t kill anyone,” said Caina, getting to her feet with alarm. “Both the Ghosts and the Legions are only doing their duty. For all they know, I did kill Aiodan Maraeus in cold blood.”

“Of course not,” said Talekhris. “I started down this path to stop the Moroaica, to save innocent lives, not take them. Though my errors have resulted in more deaths than I wish to remember.” He rubbed his face, and for a moment he looked tired. Like a man who had indeed spent nine hundred years pursuing his enemy across a dozen nations. “But the chance to end it is now within our reach. If we follow the Moroaica into the netherworld when she casts her spells, we can kill her.”

Caina nodded. “Thank you again for your aid.”

“I have fought her for far longer than you,” said Talekhris, “but she has impacted your life as much as she has mine, and you have the right to face her alongside me. More, I welcome your aid, and that of Corvalis. Perhaps together we can at last rid the world of her evil.”

“Perhaps we can,” said Caina.

Yet the cold dread within her did not budge. Ranarius had killed all those people in Varia Province. Sicarion had killed Halfdan, and claimed to have killed many more Ghosts.

How many more would die before they stopped Jadriga?

Of course, if they did not stop Jadriga, then the entire world might die.

“We had best try to get some rest,” said Caina, “before we head to Maltaer’s ship.”

Talekhris nodded. “I shall keep watch for Sicarion.”

###

The next morning they crept from the vaults and made their way to the harbor.

Marsis was under guard. Legionaries patrolled every street, and Caina saw parties going from house to house, searching for any trace of the Lord Governor’s assassin. The gates had been sealed, and armed cohorts stood in guard. Sooner or later pressure from the merchants would force the Legionaries to reopen the gates, but for now, Marsis was sealed.

Without Talekhris’s spells, they never would have made it out of the city.

Much as Caina loathed sorcery, the Sage’s powers were useful. He cast a spell to mask their presence, a subtle working of mind sorcery that made any observers overlook their presence. Even a first-year initiate of the Magisterium could have penetrated the spell, but none of Marsis’s magi had joined the search.

Not surprising, given than Andromache and Kylon had wiped out Marsis’s chapter of the Magisterium two years past. Their replacements must have decided to err on the side of caution.

They reached Maltaer’s ship in the harbor. The smuggler had changed little in the three years since Caina had seen him Rasadda, still clad in expensive clothes, still mocking and smirking. He even dared to make jokes about Talekhris as the eight members of the Venatorii accompanying the Sage scowled, but Talekhris did not seem to care.

Caina wondered how they would escape from the harbor. The twin fortress-lighthouses guarding the harbor were equipped with ballistae and catapults. Talekhris solved the problem by conjuring a fog so thick that the waiting Legionaries could not see them, and Maltaer’s ship sailed out of the harbor and into the western sea.

Caina stood at the stern as the ship sailed free of the fog, watching the coast vanish behind her.

She wondered if she would ever see the Empire again.

Chapter 12 - The Great Work

Night fell, and Sicarion made his way through New Kyre’s canal-lined streets.

The city was tense, with squads of ashtairoi patrolling the streets and the great walls that had warded New Kyre from armies since the end of the Third Empire. Sicarion saw men stockpiling weapons and arrows, food and water, all in preparation for the disaster that would unfold if the Archons and the Emperor failed to make peace.

Even in the midst of the preparations for war, Sicarion moved unnoticed through the streets.

Half of a million people lived within New Kyre’s walls, most of them in the hulking apartment towers ringing the city. Dozens of small boats, carrying passengers and cargo, made their way through their canals, lit by lanterns upon their prow and stern. Sicarion moved unseen through the crowds, simply a short man in a dark cloak.

He could have used a spell to conceal himself, but that was too dangerous.

Sorcerers filled New Kyre.

Most of the Kyracian nobility had some ability at sorcery. Those with middling power became stormdancers, wielding the power of wind and storm to lend their limbs strength and speed in battle. It made for a fearsomely effective combination. Sicarion knew that well, given the number of times he had failed to kill Kylon of House Kardamnos.

He would have the chance to rectify that, soon enough.

The most powerful became stormsingers, able to call the wrath of lightning and storm upon their enemies and the winds to fill the sails of New Kyre’s fleet, giving the Kyracians skill at sea unmatched by their foes. Even the master magi of the Magisterium often failed against a stormsinger’s power. If Sicarion used a spell of disguise here, sooner or later one of the stormsingers would notice.

Even he might not survive that.

And he had survived for centuries. He had no intention of dying here.

If he perished, he would not have the chance to enjoy the greatest pleasure of all.

They were all fools. The stormsingers and the stormdancers, the lords of the Empire and the Assembly of New Kyre, the emirs of Istarinmul and the khadjars of Anshan, they were fools forever scrambling in pursuit of power. Like jackals fighting to the death over a single piece of carrion.

Even the mistress was a fool, fighting her mad quest to wrest some shred of justice from an unjust world.

None of them understood that killing was the greatest pleasure, the ultimate power.

Sicarion’s grin widened.

Soon he would see the mistress kill an entire world.

He looked at the crowded slums, at the sailors and the soldiers and the mercenaries making for the taverns, at the slaves going about their masters’ business, at the women holding crying children and the men discussing the war in low voices.

They were all going to die.

He was going to watch them die when the mistress’s insane plan killed them all.

Sicarion made his way to the heart of the city, moving past the towering, elaborate ziggurats that housed the noble houses of New Kyre. Intricate reliefs and statuary decorated some of the ziggurats, harkening back to the glory of Old Kyrace. Others held lush gardens upon their terraces, the gardens seeming to hang over the city like some mad poet’s vision.

Such beautiful homes. Pity they would become the tombs of their owners.

Sicarion came to the Agora of the Archons, where the Assembly and the Archons of New Kyre met to govern the Kyracian people. He stopped in the center of the Agora and gazed up at the Pyramid of Storm.

Its dark bulk rose against the night sky, a thousand feet tall, its terraced sides the color of storms. Statues of ancient Kyracian heroes lined the terraces of the massive ziggurat, the great stormsingers and stormdancers and warriors from the long history of the Kyracian people. Thousands of years of history rose before Sicarion, memorialized in stone and statue.

And all of it about to end.

He started up the stairs to the Sanctuary at the pyramid’s apex.

A young woman in blue-green robes intercepted him, a corroded bronze amulet of three eyes hanging against her breasts. Her eyes shifted color as he looked upon her, blurring from the gray of a furious storm to the blue-green of a calm sea and back again.

“This is ground sacred to the Kyracian people, outlander,” said the priestess of the Surge. “Turn back, or suffer our wrath.”

Sicarion drew back his hood, and enjoyed the spasm of fear that went over the priestess’s haughty face. “Oh, I think your mistress will allow it. Since she is a captive of my mistress.”

The priestess attempted to rearrange her expression into its aloof mask, but the fear remained. “Then come.”

She stalked up the stairs, and Sicarion followed at a more leisurely pace, forcing her to slow to stay with him. He could practically taste her fear, and saw the sweat on the back of her neck. Oh, but it would be sweet to kill her, to slide his blade between her ribs and watch the agony flood her eyes as the life drained from her…

His hand twitched towards his serrated dagger, the faithful blade he had used to kill so many since the days of the Fourth Empire.

No. No killing yet. It might disrupt the mistress’s great work.

He could always kill her when he left.

The stairs ended at the Pyramid’s apex, all of New Kyre spread below him. A small temple crowned the Pyramid, built of gray stone, its sides ringed in columns, its walls adorned with scenes showing the gods of storm and sea granting the first Archons of Old Kyrace authority over the waves.

The Sanctuary of the Surge, the oracle of New Kyre.

Sicarion had never been more than a middling sorcerer. True, he had skill at certain applications of the necromantic sciences, but the art of killing had always interested him more than the study of sorcery. Yet even without working a spell, he could sense the power gathered within the Sanctuary.

This was a place of tremendous arcane power…and the mistress had been busy.

“The Surge awaits you within,” said the priestess, as if he had been summoned.

Sicarion grinned at her. “Such pretty eyes you have, my dear. Changing colors so quickly. Perhaps I should keep them as a trophy.”

She flinched, and Sicarion laughed and strode into the Sanctuary.

Inside the Sanctuary was simple and unadorned, its floors and walls sheathed in white marble. A square pool of water filled the central third of the floor, glowing with pale silver light. Sicarion saw vistas within the water as he drew near. A rift of golden fire filling the sky. Men and women falling to their knees in a marketplace, screaming and sobbing. A silver spear flashing in the storm, all the world revolving around its blow. The dead clawing their way free from the earth, wreathed in golden flame.

But even the strange pool held his attention for only a moment.

The mistress, indeed, had been busy.

Thousands upon thousands of Maatish hieroglyphs had been carved into the marble walls, each one pulsing with a faint green light. Intricate geometric diagrams connected the hieroglyphs, focusing and channeling the arcane force into patterns so complex that Sicarion could not possibly follow them. The latent power, summoned and waiting, made the floor vibrate beneath his boots.

The Ascendant Bloodcrystal itself floated at the far end of the pool, above a single massive hieroglyph written in phoenix ashes. The crystal was the length of Sicarion’s right forearm and intricate beyond belief, hundreds of Maatish hieroglyphs scribed in emerald flame upon its facets. The thing contained more sorcerous power than Sicarion had ever encountered in his life, and if the mistress had not shielded it within her warding spells, every single wielder of arcane force in New Kyre, and for a hundred miles in every direction, would have felt its presence.

If not for the warding spells, the crystal would have drained away the lives of every living thing in New Kyre by now.

“So the scarred one comes.”

The woman’s voice was strange.

It was three voices speaking in perfect harmony. The first was the voice of a young girl, calm and serene. The second was the voice of a woman at the height of her beauty, seductive and confident. The third was the rasping voice of an old, old woman, heavy with sorrow and wisdom.

The Surge stood in the corner of the Sanctuary. Despite her peculiar chorus of a voice, she was only middle-aged. She wore a simple white robe, belted at the waist, her hair hanging in iron-gray curtains around her shoulders and back. Her eyes glowed with silver light, the same light as the pool.

There was no fear on her face, only contempt and loathing. That irritated him, and his hand strayed to the handle of his dagger.

“The patchwork man, the quilt of corpses,” said the Surge, “pieced together out of stolen lives. The man who replaced himself piece by piece until nothing remains, only blood and rust and death.”

Sicarion worked a simple spell to detect the presence of sorcery. Tremendous power radiated from the pool and the wards the Moroaica had cut into the walls. The Surge herself carried great power, but she had no active wards, no defensive spells.

He felt his scarred face twist into a smile.

“Well,” he said, drawing his dagger. “Rust and death? Let us see how you like a little of both, my lady.”

“Enough,” said a second woman.

Sicarion turned and saw the Moroaica.

She stood next to the floating crystal, clad in a crimson robe. She still wore the body of the Caerish shepherd woman she had taken from the hills near Caer Magia, her wheat-colored hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Yet only a fool would mistake the Moroaica for an innocent peasant girl. Her brown eyes were hard and cold, full of ancient knowledge and power. She carried a metal staff in her left hand, and even as Sicarion watched, the staff blazed with flames, the fire changing to crawling fingers of lightning and swirling white mist before fading away.

Neither the fire nor the ice nor the lightning touched the Moroaica.

Sicarion made a grand bow, flourishing his cloak with one hand. “You really ought to kill her, mistress. No telling what kind of trouble she shall make.”

“She shall make no trouble whatsoever,” said the Moroaica, stepping around the pool, the Staff of the Elements tapping against the marble floor. “The nature of her power is to observe and foretell, not to act. She will watch and protest as I complete the great work, but do nothing.”

“I need do nothing at all,” said the Surge, “for the Balarigar comes to oppose you.”

The silver waters rippled, and for just a moment, Sicarion saw the face of Caina Amalas in the pool.

“You call her the Balarigar?” said Sicarion. “The demon slayer? The Balarigar is a myth, a story the Szaldic peasants tell each other.”

“So is the Moroaica,” said the Moroaica.

“She is your opposite and mirror,” said the Surge in her threefold voice, “and she is coming for you. You are what she could yet become. She is what you could have been. The storm of the world demands it. The shadows of all futures intersect upon this spot. She will come for you and prevail…or you shall triumph and the world shall be ashes forevermore.”

“Ashes?” said the Moroaica. A strange light came into her eyes, and Sicarion found himself taking a step back. “The world is already filled with ashes, with people broken upon the cruelty of life. I shall break the world and remake it, and forge a new world free of pain and death and loss…”

“You shall not,” said the Surge. “This world is not perfectible. And if you attempt to do so, if the Balarigar does not stop you, you shall destroy this world utterly.”

“I will not,” said the Moroaica, pointing the staff at her as it crackled with lightning. “I shall remake it! I shall create a world better than the gods ever did! And when I am done, I shall storm the heavens themselves, and bring retribution upon the gods for all the suffering their cruelty and their neglect brought upon us!” Her voice rose to a shout, the pale light from the hieroglyphs flaring brighter in response to her fury. “They will pay for it! They will pay for what they have done to us, what they have done to me…”

“They will not,” said the Surge. “The suffering of mankind is our own fault. And you shall only bring more pain upon us, in the end. I…”

“Silence,” said the Moroaica. The rage ended, and the mistress was calm again, as calm and cold as ice. Once she had always been calm and cold. But the time she had spent inside Caina Amalas’s head had changed her. Now she often became angry, flying into a rage when she considered the suffering of the weak.

“The Balarigar is coming for you,” said the Surge, and again Caina’s face flickered across the surface of the silver pool. “I have foreseen it.”

“She will not,” said the Moroaica, “because she is dead.”

Her ancient eyes turned to Sicarion.

“Well,” said Sicarion, uneasy. “Not quite yet.”

“She still lives?” said the Moroaica.

Sicarion nodded.

“Then you failed,” said the Moroaica. “I told you and Ranarius to kill her. I let you use whatever method you thought best, so long as you killed her. Instead you return here and report your failure? Killing is the one thing I can rely upon you to do! Where is Ranarius? Or has he fled into hiding?”

“He is dead,” said Sicarion.

“Again?” said the Moroaica.

“Permanently,” said Sicarion. “Ranarius foolishly allowed himself to be drawn into a confrontation in the hiding place of his canopic jar. The Ghost destroyed both him and his jar.”

“Did she?” murmured the Moroaica. She closed her eyes, as if recalling a memory. “Clever indeed. His knowledge of elementals was useful, but I have no further need of it. And he should have known better. She had already slain him twice.”

“Four times, actually,” said Sicarion. “He possessed the Lord Governor of Marsis and forced her to kill him, turning the Legions and her allies against her.” That had been Sicarion’s plan. It annoyed him that Ranarius had stolen the idea, though he had to admit the master magus’s implementation had been clever. “And in Varia Province, when he still had Ryther’s body.”

“And where were you during all of this?” said the Moroaica, her eyes still closed. Her thin fingers tapped the staff’s metal length. “Ah. You hung back and watched from the darkness, didn’t you? You wanted to kill Ranarius from the moment you met. So you let Caina dispose of him, and then you moved in for the kill.”

“Yes,” said Sicarion. It was no use lying to her. If she suspected him of deception, her sorcery would rip the truth out of him. “The plan worked, too.” He grinned. “Ranarius finally died his last death. I only wish I could have given it to him.”

“Yes, a brilliant plan,” said the Moroaica, “given that Caina is still alive.”

“I almost killed them both,” said Sicarion. “The Ghost and Aberon’s bastard both. But…”

“What?” said the Moroaica. Her eyes shot open, full of fury and rage, and for a moment Sicarion thought they had turned icy blue. “You killed Corvalis Aberon?”

She stepped towards him, and Sicarion sensed the massive force of her arcane power gathering for a spell.

She was going to kill him, blast him into a thousand pieces scattered from the Pyramid of Storm to the harbor. But what did she care for Corvalis Aberon?

“No,” said Sicarion, edging back. “I didn’t kill either one of them. I didn’t get the chance.”

The Moroaica shuddered, closed her eyes, opened them again. The Surge watched her from the corner.

“I see,” said the Moroaica, calm once more. “Why not?”

“Talekhris arrived,” said Sicarion.

An irritated hiss came from the Moroaica.

“He has recovered most of his memories since his last death,” said Sicarion, “and the full extent of his sorcerous powers. Certainly he was the strongest I have seen him. I barely escaped with my life, and fled across the sea to warn you of the impending danger, mistress.”

Her lip twitched. “How very gallant.” She stared into the silver pool for a moment, the staff swirling with a freezing mist. “So the Ghost comes, and brings powerful allies with her.”

“The Balarigar comes here, to the place where all shall be decided,” said the Surge. “Her destiny is bound to yours, tormented child of Maat.” A flicker of irritation went over the Moroaica’s face. “And the masked Sage’s fate is bound to yours. The storm of the world decrees it. They shall come here, to the eye of the storm, and all shall be decided.”

“Do stop talking,” said the Moroaica.

“Why haven’t you killed her yet?” said Sicarion.

“Because,” said the Moroaica, “in my brilliance, I observed from the shadows as my rival destroyed himself, despite the explicit commands of my mistress.”

Sicarion blinked. Had she just made a joke? She never used to say things like that. In fact, it was the sort of thing…

It was the sort of thing he would have expected Caina Amalas to say.

“Additionally,” said the Moroaica, “if I kill her, her mantle of power will pass to another Kyracian noblewoman with arcane ability somewhere in the city. That will alert the Kyracians to my presence, which I wish to avoid.”

“They would drive you from the city?” said Sicarion, thinking of the combined might of the Kyracian stormsingers.

“Of course not,” said the Moroaica. “But then I would have to kill them all.”

Her confidence both unnerved and thrilled him. She could kill him with a thought. But she also had the power to destroy the assembled sorcerers of the Kyracian people.

And she could bring death on a scale unseen in history.

How Sicarion looked forward to it!

“You foes come for you,” said the Surge.

“Yes,” said the Moroaica, “and they shall perish, as has everyone else who has ever tried to stop me.”

“How?” said Sicarion. “Not that I doubt your strength, mistress, but Talekhris is strong, and the Ghost is fiendishly clever.”

“You shall overcome them,” said the Moroaica.

“Me?” said Sicarion. “While I am ever eager to serve you…”

“To kill at my bidding, you mean,” said the Moroaica.

“Of course,” said Sicarion, “but if Talekhris has recovered the fullness of his power, even I might have difficulty killing him.”

“And that is why,” said the Moroaica, “you are going to kill the Emperor of Nighmar.”

Sicarion felt himself smile. Killing the Emperor would mean the war between the Empire and New Kyre would continue, that more men would fall on the battlefields and the seas. “Not that I object, but I am curious how the Emperor’s death shall stop the Ghost and the Sage.”

“The Emperor’s ship will reach the harbor in a few days,” said the Moroaica. “I suspect Caina and Talekhris are close behind. The day after the Emperor and his party reach the city, they shall assemble in the Agora of Nations near the docks, and proceed to the Agora of Archons to conduct the formal ceremony of peace. The high nobles of both the Empire and the Kyracians shall be gathered in one place, giving you the ideal opportunity to kill the Emperor.” Her mouth twisted. “Since you were so keen on taking Rhames’s mask, you can easily disguise yourself for the task.”

“Truly,” said Sicarion. “But how will that stop the Ghost and Talekhris?”

“Because,” said the Moroaica, reaching into a pocket of her robe, “when you kill the Emperor, every eye shall be upon you, and you will be wearing this.”

She lifted a strange amulet, a crystal vial hanging from a fine golden chain. Something stirred within the vial, a flicker of mist, perhaps, or a pulse of pale gray light. A strange tinge of fear went through Sicarion as he looked at the vial, and he found himself reaching for his weapons.

It was just a vial. Why should it frighten him?

“Ah,” said the Moroaica. “I thought it might have that effect upon you.”

“What is it?” said Sicarion, working the spell to detect the presence of arcane forces. The vial in the Moroaica’s hand was powerful. He thought to find a mind-altering a spell upon the vial to explain the fear he felt, but instead he sensed…

“A summoning spell?” said Sicarion. “There’s a spirit in there?”

“Indeed,” said the Moroaica. “Do you know what a phobomorphic spirit is?”

“A creature of the netherworld,” said Sicarion. “Hostile to mortals. They can read minds, and take the form of whatever their victim most fears.”

“Correct,” said the Moroaica. “Within this amulet, I have bound a phobomorphic spirit. Which means that when you wear it…”

“Whoever looks at me,” said Sicarion, “will see their worst fears made flesh.”

The Moroaica nodded.

“Is there a limit to its power?” said Sicarion.

“None,” said the Moroaica. “Whoever looks at you shall see their worst fear…no matter how many people are looking at you.”

Sicarion began to smile again. “Which means if I kill the Emperor in front of such a large crowd, in front of the Ghost and Talekhris…”

“All eyes will be upon you,” said the Moroaica, “and then every single one of them will see their worst fear. Even someone wearing a Ghost shadow-cloak, which usually shields the mind from hostile sorcery. The spell will be upon you, not them, rendering their shadow-cloaks useless against its power. Even Talekhris’s wards and mask will be unable to stop the effect. With your opponents crippled by fear…I think you can see how easy it will be to kill them.”

“Yes,” said Sicarion, considering the matter. “Yes.” There were mind-controlling spells, he knew, that could induce fear in a victim. Yet such spells were difficult to cast. If the amulet worked as efficiently as the Moroaica claimed, if he could terrorize thousands upon thousands at once…

His smile widened as he thought of all the killing he could do.

“Take it,” said the Moroaica.

Sicarion took the amulet, the crystal vial icy cold beneath his fingers.

On sudden impulse, he slipped it over his neck, curious how the Moroaica and the Surge would react.

The Surge stepped back in alarm, her glowing eyes growing wide. Whatever her powers of prophecies and foretelling, they did not protect her from the amulet’s power. A vein bulged in her forehead, and her hands trembled as sweat appeared on her face.

“No,” she said, her three voices discordant with terror, “it is just an illusion, no, no…”

Sicarion wondered what she saw.

He looked at the Moroaica, wondering how she would react.

But she only appeared amused.

“Sicarion,” she said. “Did you think you could surprise me? That I would see my worst fears and weep?” She stepped forward, the end of the staff clinking against the floor. “I already saw my worst fears, two thousand years before you were born, Sicarion. What more do I have to fear?” Her cold smile widened. “What do I have to fear from you?”

Again Sicarion felt a flicker of fear, but this time it was not irrational. Perhaps the Moroaica’s time inside of Caina Amalas’s head had indeed unhinged her. But it had not made her any weaker. She had used him to dispose of rebellious disciples and those who stood in her way for centuries, but if he crossed her, if he challenged her, she would crush him like an insect.

And if he died, he would never see the carnage her great work would unleash.

“Nothing, mistress,” said Sicarion, removing the amulet. The Surge shuddered and let out a long breath. “Nothing at all.”

“I thought not,” said the Moroaica. She looked in the pool. “Lay your plans as you think best, and kill the Emperor. The distraction will keep Caina and Talekhris from interfering with the completion of the great work.”

Sicarion grinned. “I shall be glad to do so, mistress.”

“Go,” said the Moroaica. “And take heart. You shall soon have all the killing you can stomach.”

“I can stomach,” said Sicarion, “a great deal.”

And he very much looked forward to killing Corvalis Aberon and Caina Amalas at last. They had escaped him far too often, especially Caina. He would enjoy sliding his dagger between her ribs, would enjoy watching pain replace the smug coldness of her expression.

That he would get to kill Talekhris yet again was merely a bonus.

Sicarion strolled into the night, his plans forming.

###

The woman some called the Moroaica and others called Jadriga turned back to the hieroglyphs carved upon the wall, Sicarion forgotten. Either he would succeed and kill the Emperor, or he would perish. Jadriga did not care which. In the new world she would create, there would be no need for killing.

Her fingers tightened against the Staff of the Elements, the staff’s power trembling in her grasp.

She had acquired so many names during her long wanderings. The Szalds had called her the Moroaica, and the other barbarian nations of the far north called her Jadriga, the Sword-Queen. The Kyracians had called her the Bringer of Ashes, and the Anshani had bestowed the title of Bloodmaiden upon her. The Arthagi whispered of the Queen of Crows, the bringer of battles, and of old in Maat they had called her the Destroyer.

Appropriate, given that she had laid the Kingdom of the Rising Sun waste.

But none of those titles were her name, not truly. She had been born Malifae, the daughter of the scribe Horemb and the basket-weaver Behnu. But the eyes of the Great Necromancers had fallen upon Malifae, had chosen her to become one the pharaoh’s Undying concubines in his tomb, and Rhames had killed Horemb and taken Malifae.

Malifae had been dead for a very, very long time.

Now the Moroaica was all that remained.

She had destroyed Maat, taking her vengeance upon the Great Necromancers and their pharaohs. But even that had not been enough. Maat was dust, but there were more tyrants, more men like Rhames. The Moroaica had spent centuries destroying them one by one, throwing down empires and grinding kingdoms into the dust. But it was never enough. There were always men like Rhames who killed innocent men like Horemb.

And then she realized the world was broken.

The gods had built a world that was a torture chamber and prison, a world to heap suffering upon the innocent. Perhaps they had done it by design, and laughed at the torment of mankind. Or perhaps they simply neglected their creation. Or perhaps some of the philosophers Jadriga had met over the centuries were right, and there was one high god who ruled over all creation as a monarch over his subjects.

If there was, he had much to answer for.

And Jadriga would make him answer for it.

The Staff of the Elements blazed with fire in her hand.

“It is folly,” said the Surge.

Jadriga looked up from the pool. She had gotten lost in her thoughts. That had happened more and more lately.

Ever since she had been released from Caina’s flesh.

Memories not her own flowed across her mind. A villa in the hills overlooking the Bay of Empire. A library full of books, and a rumpled, kindly father. The Ghosts and the Vineyard, Halfdan and the others teaching her to use knives and stealth and lockpicks and disguises.

A man’s strong arms around her, his mouth against hers and his body warm against her skin…

Jadriga shook her head with a growl. Those were not her memories.

“I say again, it is folly,” said the Surge.

“It is not folly!” said Jadriga, Caina’s memories disappearing in a burst of fury. Even her anger, her endless anger, seemed hotter now. “It is justice. I will make a new and better world, and I will repay the gods for the cruelties.”

“You will not,” said the Surge.

“And you are so certain of that?” said Jadriga. “Perhaps you ought to aid me. Even nonsense-spouting oracles should wish for the better world I will bring.”

“I am certain,” said the Surge. “I see the storm of the world, and two paths lie before it. In one, the Balarigar defeats you. In the other, the storm of the world ends. The world burns and ends in darkness and silence. Not a perfected world. A dead world.”

“Then your sight is wrong,” said Jadriga. “I will have justice.”

“You already have,” said the Surge. “I see it in the shadows of your past, and long and black shadows they are! You have already taken your vengeance. The priest who slew your father died, if not at your hand, then at your instigation. The kingdom he served is dust and rubble. They both have been gone for centuries. For millennia. The world has gone on for generations.”

“It is still a cruel world, still infested with tyrants,” said Jadriga. “I will throw them down and make a new and better world. A world without death, without pain, without…”

“You cannot,” said the Surge. “The world cannot be fixed, it cannot be repaired. Cruelty and evil reside not in the world, but in the hearts of mortal men, and too often we choose to use them. It is our doing that makes the world evil. Not the work of any gods.”

“No,” said Jadriga, her voice dropping to a growl. “I will remake the world.”

“Then you shall have a world filled with death,” said the Surge. “Unless the Balarigar stops you. For your fates are bound together. She is what you could have been, and you are…”

“She is not me!” shouted Jadriga, the rage trembling through her again. “And if she makes it here, if somehow she escapes Sicarion, then I will kill her.”

“Will you kill her lover beside her?” said the Surge.

Again Caina’s memories burned through Jadriga’s mind as if they were her own. She remembered Corvalis’s eyes and hands, the first time they had kissed in the Inn of the Defender, the first time they had shared a bed…

Jadriga shook her head. “They are not my memories!”

“They haunt you,” said the Surge, “because you have been dead for a very long time. You claim new bodies, but you do not live. You have no free will, and you will pursue the final choice you made in life – to avenge your father – until you destroy the world. But the Balarigar still lives, and knows the love of a man, something you never knew in life. You…”

“Silence,” said Jadriga, and she turned away.

The Surge was wrong. Jadriga would remake the world, would end pain and suffering.

And then she would storm the heavens and make the gods pay.

She began casting spells, finishing the final stages of her great work at last.

Chapter 13 - Voyage

Caina spent the twelve days aboard Maltaer’s ship in a dull haze of grief.

She had spent time aboard ships before. Usually she brought a book or three to pass the time, but with their hurried escape from Marsis, she had nothing but the clothes on her back, her weapons, and her shadow-cloak. She had been with Halfdan for many of her journeys aboard ship, and they had spent hours talking, discussing the history of the Empire, or the state of current politics, or the best way to pick a lock in the dark. Sometimes she asked him how he had joined the Ghosts, and he told a different story every time, ranging from mundane to implausible.

But he was dead, and she would never speak with him again.

She never had found out how he had joined the Ghosts.

It was different than when her mother and Maglarion had killed her father. Then she had been only a child, frightened and helpless, certain she would to die. Now she was a Ghost nightfighter, twenty-two years old, and she had survived and defeated more foes than she wanted to remember.

And that still had not been enough to save Halfdan.

She replayed the confrontation in her head over and over. If only she had been a bit cleverer. She could have realized that Halfdan had been talking to Sicarion. She could have warned Halfdan. Or perhaps she should have let Aiodan Maraeus arrest her and then escaped. If she had done that, perhaps Halfdan would have left the warehouse before Sicarion killed him…

She turned the possibilities in her mind again and again, seeing dozens of things she could have done differently, blaming herself for each of them.

When the regret became too much to bear she locked herself in her cabin and went through the unarmed forms for hours, practicing them until sweat drenched her and she was too tired to stand. Caina wanted oblivion, wanted to drink herself into a stupor. Maltaer’s crew had wine, and they thought her a man, one of the Venatorii they had been hired to transport in secret. Caina could have easily gotten as much unmixed wine as she wanted from them and drank until she blacked out.

But doing so while pursuing the Moroaica and Sicarion would be monumentally stupid, and she needed to keep her wits about her, grief and regret be damned. So instead she exercised to exhaustion, toweled off the sweat, and sat again the wall of her cabin, staring out the narrow window at the endless waves of the western sea.

One day the door to her cabin opened, and Corvalis stepped inside.

“I locked the door,” said Caina, not looking up.

The deck creaked as he sat next to her. “It was an inferior lock.”

Caina snorted. “A poor choice on Maltaer’s part. Given that he is a smuggler.”

“All the easier to steal from his passengers, then,” said Corvalis.

Caina nodded and said nothing.

They sat in silence for a while.

“You’ve lost people before,” said Corvalis at last.

“Yes,” said Caina. “My father.”

“How did you cope with it then?” said Corvalis.

Caina shrugged. “I joined the Ghosts and I killed a lot of people.”

They lapsed into silence again.

“But my father’s death,” said Caina, “wasn’t my fault. Halfdan’s death was.”

“What?” said Corvalis. “Sicarion killed him, not you.”

“But I should have realized what was happening,” said Caina. “Everyone says I’m so clever, but I’m not. I didn’t realize Sicarion was there until he stabbed Halfdan. I should have…

“It’s Sicarion’s fault,” said Corvalis, “and maybe mine.”

Caina blinked. “Yours? That is absurd. You…”

“I thought it was a bad idea for us to split up,” said Corvalis. “I didn’t say anything, since I figured Halfdan knew what he was doing. I probably should have argued with him.”

“No,” said Caina. “It was a good plan. We just…”

“We didn’t know,” said Corvalis, “that Ranarius would possess the Lord Governor of Marsis and come after you. Maybe we should have predicted it. But we didn’t. Maybe we should have done a thousand other things, but we didn’t. None of it matters. Halfdan’s blood is upon Sicarion’s hands. Not mine, and certainly not yours.”

“I know that,” said Caina. “I’ve told myself a thousand times. I know it in my mind. But my heart thinks differently.” She sighed and rubbed her face, pushing away a few loose strands of hair. Idly she noted that it was going black at the roots, that she would need to dye it again soon.

Assuming she lived that long.

“The heart and reason are ever at war,” said Corvalis.

“That’s downright profound,” said Caina.

He snorted. “It’s not mine. Claudia used to quote it. Some book or another she read.” He took her hand. “I cannot blame you for grieving as you do. When Ranarius turned Claudia to stone, I killed a lot of people to save her.”

“Have you ever lost anyone?” said Caina.

His smile was tinged with regret. “I was an assassin of the Kindred for years. I killed more people than I care to recall.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Caina. “Someone you cared about who died. Or was murdered.”

Corvalis thought for a moment. “No. Not really. I remember when my father killed my mother…but I was a small child. I barely remember anything about her. If my father died today, I would be overjoyed. I was furious when Ranarius turned Claudia to stone, but I knew I had a chance to save her.” He shrugged. “The closest…was probably Nairia.” His voice grew quiet. “That was a betrayal, not a loss.”

Caina squeezed his hand. He never talked about Nairia. The Kindred often rewarded their assassins with beautiful slaves to use as they pleased, and Corvalis had fallen in love with his. But she had been an assassin sent by his father, dispatched to test him, and the betrayal had left him wounded.

“But, no, not like Halfdan,” said Corvalis. “I never had a…what was he to you?”

“A mentor,” said Caina, looking at the floorboards. “A second father, really.”

Corvalis laughed.

“What?” she said, hurt. “What’s funny about that?”

“Nothing,” said Corvalis. “But the first time I met him, I asked if he would cut off my head if he felt I had wronged you. He said he wasn’t your father, but that you were the best decision he had ever made.”

“The best decision?” said Caina, remembering. “He told me that, before he died in Marsis.”

“Not surprising, given that you saved his life,” said Corvalis.

She shook his head. “I didn’t in Marsis.”

“But numerous times before that,” said Corvalis. “From Sinan. From the glypharmor, and all the times before you even met me. He told me that you were not his daughter, but that if I ever hurt you without cause, he would make me regret it.”

Caina smiled. “Did he?”

“His exact words, if I remember correctly, were that he would give me such a death that even my father would shudder to hear of it.”

Caina laughed, wiped at her stinging eyes, and laughed again. “That’s so sweet.”

He grinned. “Is that not the path to a woman’s heart? To bring stern retribution upon anyone who crosses her?”

“Apparently,” said Caina, and she reached up, pulled his face close, and kissed him long upon the lips.

Then she rose, took his hand, and took a step back toward the narrow bunk.

“I imagine I don’t smell very good just now,” said Caina.

“For the gods’ sake,” said Corvalis. “We’ve been on a ship for days. Nothing smells good.”

He pulled her close and kissed her again, and a few moments later they were out of their clothes and on the bunk. As her arms and legs wrapped around him, Caina was grateful that all the sailors and the Venatorii were on the deck. The walls of the cabins were not terribly thick.

And then she ceased to care about that at all.

Later, after they finished, Corvalis levered himself up on an elbow. Caina slid over, trying to give him room, but the bunk was narrow and she overbalanced. She fell off the bed and landed hard upon her rear, her eyes going wide with pain and surprise. Corvalis swore and sat up, reaching for her, his face chagrined.

Caina looked at him and started to laugh.

“What?” said Corvalis. “What is it?”

Caina kept laughing. “It’s just…your expression. You look…you know, this isn’t funny at all. That really hurt.” She stood up, rubbing her sore leg. “Gods, but I hope I don’t have any splinters.”

Corvalis blinked and erupted with laughter, and Caina started laughing, too. She couldn’t help it. She sat down and leaned against him until they both stopped laughing.

“That wasn’t funny,” said Caina, wiping a tear from her eye.

“No,” said Corvalis with a final chuckle, “no, it wasn’t.”

“Then why are we laughing?”

“Because we’re mad, both of us,” said Corvalis. “Running around the Empire trying to get ourselves killed.”

“Aye,” said Caina, her head resting against his right shoulder. Gods, but he felt good. She reached for his chest, her hand tracing the lines of the black tattoo that spiraled over his muscles. “If we live through this…”

“Yes?” said Corvalis.

“If we live through this,” said Caina, “I don’t want to be a Ghost nightfighter any longer. I can’t…I can’t keep doing this, Corvalis. Not after what happened to Halfdan.”

He nodded, caught her hand and held it.

“If we live through this,” said Caina. “And all the consequences. Gods only know how many people Sicarion killed while wearing my face. And Lord Corbould…Lord Corbould is not a forgiving man, and I killed his son.”

“That was Ranarius’s fault,” said Corvalis.

“Lord Corbould might not see it that way,” said Caina. “He might not even believe me. But if we live through this, if I don’t have a price on my head…I want to go back to Malarae and run the House of Kularus. No one ever leaves the Ghosts, I know that. But I’ll run a Ghost circle out of the coffeehouse and gather secrets for the Emperor.”

“That sounds like a pleasant life,” said Corvalis. He snorted. “I’ll admit that when I was still an assassin of the Kindred, I never thought I would wind up helping a Ghost noblewoman run a coffeehouse, but I can think of worse fates. Far worse fates.”

“Maybe I’ll even claim my own name,” said Caina.

“The Lady Caina Amalas?” said Corvalis, surprised.

“No, Countess Caina Amalas,” said Caina. “My father had the title of Count, so I can claim it as my own.” She smiled against his shoulder. “Theodosia said it would make a grand story. The daughter of the murdered Lord of House Amalas returns to the Imperial capital after eleven years.”

“Perhaps she could write an opera about it,” said Corvalis.

Caina laughed. “You could even take your own name.”

“That would throw my father into a fit,” said Corvalis. “But I think I will keep the name of Anton Kularus. It is the House of Kularus, after all. And think of the opera that would make. The caravan guard who owns Malarae’s first coffeehouse and takes an Imperial Countess as a lover.”

“I suppose it would,” said Caina. She felt her smile fade. “Corvalis. If…if I die, I want…”

“No,” said Corvalis. “Don’t talk like that. For all you know the ship could sink before we even get to New Kyre.”

“That would certainly make an inglorious end to the opera.”

“But I think I know what you would say,” said Corvalis. “That you would want me not to blame myself, to carry on, to keep going.”

Caina managed to nod.

“I have only one thing to say to that,” said Corvalis. He rested his fingers under her chin and titled her face up to look at him. “I love you.”

She smiled. “I love you, too. I don’t….this is hard. Halfdan’s death, all of it. But it would be much harder without you.”

“Then let us see this through to the end,” said Corvalis, “together.”

She squeezed his hand. “Together.”

###

Twelve days after leaving Marsis, Caina climbed onto the deck of the ship and joined Talekhris and Harkus upon the prow, Corvalis following her in silence. She wore again her caravan guard disguise, short sword and ghostsilver dagger at her belt, throwing knives hidden beneath her sleeves, shadow-cloak concealed beneath a ragged brown cloak. Maltaer’s crew of smugglers paid her no heed as she passed.

“We have arrived,” said Talekhris.

Caina looked upon the city of New Kyre for the first time.

It was not as large as Malarae, but it was a nonetheless a vast city. Colossal statues of armored ashtairoi warriors guarded the entrance to the harbor, and she saw ballistae and catapults waiting there. Any ship foolish enough to storm the harbor would come to a bitter end. Beyond she saw the vast maze of the city itself, its canals glittering in the sunlight. Hundreds of ziggurats rose from the central districts of the city, proud and gleaming, the home of the noble Houses of the Kyracians. They reminded Caina of the burning pyramids of Rasadda. But the pyramids of Rasadda had been the tombs of the dead Ashbringer kings of old, and the ziggurats of New Kyre housed the living.

From the heart of the city rose the single largest building Caina had ever seen, larger than the other ziggurats, taller than Black Angel Tower, wider than the Great Pyramid of Corazain in Rasadda, more massive than the Imperial Citadel itself.

The Pyramid of Storm, the sacred to the Kyracian gods and the home of the Surge, the oracle who had sent Kylon to Caer Magia.

In the harbor Caina saw warships flying the Imperial standards. The Emperor and his escort had already arrived.

And somewhere in New Kyre, the Moroaica and Sicarion were waiting for her.

Chapter 14 - New Kyre

“How do you suggest we proceed?” said Talekhris.

Caina stood on the stone quay with Talekhris, Corvalis, and Harkus, the other Venatorii waiting in silence. Talekhris leaned heavily upon his cane, and looked like a minor Imperial noble come to bask in the reflected glory of his Emperor, his mercenary guards surrounding him.

It made for a good disguise.

Maltaer’s ship floated alongside the quay, rows of other ships stretching away as far as the eye could see. She had thought Malarae’s harbor grew crowded, but it had barely a third of the traffic maneuvering in the water around New Kyre. And that was even with the Starfall Straits closed to Kyracian trade. She could not imagine the ships that must have choked the harbor before the war.

“Can you find the Moroaica?” said Caina.

Talekhris frowned. “Not precisely. I can sense her presence, and I know that she is here, somewhere within the city. But her defensive wards are too strong, and I cannot pinpoint her exact location.”

“We know where she will be,” said Corvalis. “You said so yourself. The Pyramid of Storm, the weak spot in the barrier between the worlds.”

Talekhris pointed his cane at the bulk of the pyramid. “Unfortunately, the Pyramid is massive, and I suspect she could work her spells from anywhere on its surface. Or within it – there are galleries and chambers beneath the Pyramid, and temples and shrines upon its sides. Searching the Pyramid will take an entire day, and we may not have that long. Additionally, I doubt the Kyracians will let a group of foreigners wander through their most sacred site.”

“You could use your masking spell again,” said Corvalis.

Talekhris shook his head. “There are too many sorcerers in New Kyre. At least one of them would sense it.”

Caina looked at the crowds, watching men laboring to unload and load ships. The business of commerce carried on even through war and peace. She wondered how many of the laborers were slaves. The Kyracians allowed slavery, and Caina detested slave traders.

But if the Moroaica succeeded, the slaves and their masters would die alongside each other.

“We need to find Sicarion, too,” said Caina. “Otherwise he will likely try to kill the Emperor.”

“Or us,” said Corvalis.

“The Moroaica is the greater concern,” said Talekhris.

“To you, maybe,” said Caina, “but I am still a Ghost of the Empire.” Until Lord Corbould had her executed, anyway. “If need be, I can deal with Sicarion while you fight the Moroaica. But I suspect we will find Sicarion and Jadriga together.”

“Finding them is the difficulty,” said Harkus. “How shall we locate them?”

“I think,” said Caina, “we will have to contact the Ghosts in New Kyre.”

“The city has a Ghost circle, certainly,” said Harkus. “But do you know how to identify them?”

“No,” said Caina. She took a deep breath. “I mean the Ghosts that accompanied the Emperor from Malarae.”

“That is dangerous,” said Corvalis. “Sicarion boasted about going on a rampage in Malarae. The Ghosts of the capital almost certainly think that you are a traitor or a renegade, or that the magi twisted your mind.”

“Lord Corbould will be here,” said Caina.

“If he knows what happened in Marsis, he won’t help us,” said Corvalis.

“But if Lord Corbould is here, then Ark will accompany him as the Champion of Marsis,” said Caina. “He was there when the war started, and Corbould will want him here for the end, as a reminder to the Kyracians.”

“Assuming that Sicarion did not kill him,” said Corvalis.

That thought left Caina cold. Her guilt over Halfdan’s death was painful enough. If Sicarion had killed Ark or Tanya or their children, or Theodosia or any of her other friends in Malarae, she could never forgive herself.

“But if Ark’s here, I can convince him of the truth,” said Caina. He was one of the three men she trusted most in the world, after Corvalis and Halfdan…

Two men now, she supposed.

“So be it,” said Talekhris. “Let us find this Ghost.”

###

An hour later Caina stood in one of the dockside taverns with Talekhris, Harkus, and Corvalis. It was the middle of the day, and the tavern was full of workers and slaves eating and drinking. No one took any notice of one ragged Nighmarian noble and his guards.

“The ceremony is today,” said Caina. “In a few hours, the ashtairoi will clear out the Agora of Nations.”

“It’s already begun,” said Harkus. “Some of my men saw the ashtairoi ordering the merchants to tear down their stalls for the day.”

Caina nodded. “The Emperor and his party will gather, and the Assembly will come to escort the Emperor and the nobles to the Agora of the Archons. There the Emperor and the Archons will put their seals to the treaty of peace, and swear solemn oaths to abide by it.”

Talekhris frowned. “How did you discover all of this?”

Caina shrugged. “I bought a few people drinks. The Emperor and the high nobles are staying at the Imperial embassy, just off the Agora of Nations. It’s built like a fortified villa. We won’t be able to get inside, and even Sicarion might find it challenge.”

“If you are right, if the Moroaica commanded him to kill the Emperor to create a distraction,” said Harkus, “he won’t do it in the embassy. He’ll do it in public, before as many eyes as possible, to cause a panic.”

Corvalis shrugged. “If I was still an assassin of the Kindred and I had been hired to create a distraction, I could not think of a better way to go about it.”

“Not all of the Emperor’s companions are housed in the embassy itself,” said Caina. “The inns nearby are full to bursting. Ark is likely there.”

“If he is in New Kyre,” said Corvalis.

Caina shared his doubts, but she dared not give into them. “We’ll search the inns and see if we can find him. If not, we will meet back here in an hour, and then approach Kylon of House Kardamnos.”

“If we can,” said Corvalis. “He’s an Archon, and he’ll have bodyguards. I doubt they will let a group of foreigners approach, not now.”

“But if we cannot find Ark, it will be worth the risk to speak with Kylon,” said Caina. “He’s a stormdancer, and can sense the presence of sorcery. He’ll be able to prove that I am who I say I am, that I’m not under the control of the magi.”

“Very well,” said Talekhris. “We shall seek out the Champion of Marsis. I hope that you can indeed convince him to trust you.”

“As do I,” said Caina.

###

Ark looked out the window at the canal below and donned his armor.

The Kyracians seemed mad for water. New Kyre had streets, of course, but a canal ran down every street, crowded with boats. Ark did see the efficiency of it. Hauling ore to his foundry was blasted expensive, as was carting away the slag. Certainly it would be cheaper to bring it by boat. He wondered if he could persuade the urban prefect of Malarae to build a canal…

He pushed aside the thought and attended to the matter at hand.

If anyone would make an attempt on the Emperor’s life, it would be today. Soon the Emperor would enter the Agora of Nations, and the Archons of the Assembly would arrive to greet him and escort him to the Pyramid of Storm for the final sealing of the treaty. A horde of high lords, minor lords, and various functionaries would accompany the Emperor, not to mention the Imperial Guards and the ashtairoi attending the Archons and the Kyracian nobles.

A clever assassin could conceal himself in such a crowd.

Ark finished donning his armor. It was the armor of an Imperial Guard, black plate over black chain mail, lighter and stronger than ordinary steel through the skill of the magi. After all his experiences with the Ghosts, it made Ark uneasy to wear armor forged by the Magisterium. On the other hand, he had carried a sorcery-forged sword at his side for two years now.

He turned, buckling on his sword belt, and saw a short, ragged man standing in the doorway. A caravan guard, by the looks of him, with greasy blond hair and blue eyes. Likely one of the guards hired by one of the minor nobles who had insisted on accompanying the Emperor.

“You’ve the wrong room,” said Ark.

“Ark,” said the man with a woman’s voice.

Ark frowned, his eyes narrowing, and recognition came.

He knew that face, those icy blue eyes, and he moved at once.

A heartbeat later he stood before Caina Amalas, his sword drawn and at her throat.

Or at the throat of a sorcerer masquerading as her.

Caina swallowed, a muscle in her jaw working. When he had seen the false Caina in Malarae, she had been clothed in a rich gown, her hair and makeup perfectly arranged, jewels glittering at her throat and fingers. This Caina wore the leather armor and ragged cloak of a caravan guard, and she looked utterly exhausted. Dark circles ringed her bloodshot blue eyes, and the roots of her blond hair had turned black.

For a moment they stared at each other.

“I see,” said Caina, “that you received a visit from Sicarion in Malarae.”

“Sicarion?” said Ark. She had warned him against the scarred assassin.

“He has a sorcerous mask,” said Caina, “that lets him assume any form he wishes. I take it that he used it to assume my form in Malarae?”

Ark nodded.

Caina closed her eyes. “Damn it. I hoped I was wrong about that.” She opened her eyes. “Who…who did he kill? Did…did Tanya…”

“No,” said Ark. “He threatened her. He would have killed her, but I put a javelin through his shoulder.”

“Oh,” said Caina. “Good.”

He remembered helping her hunt for the pyromancer in Rasadda, remembered the blaze in her eyes as they fought Naelon Icaraeus in the darkness below Marsis. Had she looked so tired then? It had only been two years past.

But those two years had been eventful ones.

“He did kill many Ghosts,” said Ark, “and several of my workers.”

“It was my fault,” whispered Caina. “He did it to get at me. All those people…it was just a game to him. A way to hurt me. To hurt me before he finally killed me.” She blinked. “And you don’t know…that means you don’t know if I’m really Caina Amalas or not.”

“No,” said Ark. “Lord Aeolus has put a death warrant on your head.”

“Aeolus?” said Caina. “I don’t know the name.”

Ark was surprised. But, then, he hadn’t known that Aeolus had authority within the Ghosts. Perhaps only the circlemasters knew.

“One of the high circlemasters,” said Ark. “He believes you either betrayed the Ghosts or were subverted by the magi, that you killed Lord Corbould’s son.”

“I did,” said Caina.

Ark frowned.

“He attacked me at Zorgi’s Inn at Marsis,” said Caina. “Ranarius’s spirit had possessed him.”

“Is Halfdan with you?” said Ark. “He needs to speak with Aeolus. If Aeolus realizes that you are here, he will have you killed.”

“Halfdan’s dead, Ark,” said Caina.

Ark felt a twitch go over his face. Halfdan had recruited him into the Ghosts, had helped him hunt for Tanya after the Moroaica’s slavers had taken her.

“How?” said Ark at last.

“Sicarion killed him,” said Caina. “He used the mask to copy my face and stabbed him in the back.”

“Gods,” said Ark at last. “If this…if this is a deception, it is a cruel one.”

“I know,” said Caina. She took a deep breath. “Are you going to kill me?”

Ark hesitated, trying to decide what to do.

“Ask me anything,” said Caina. “Something that only you and I would know.”

“In Mors Crisius,” said Ark. “Why did I hate you the first time we met?”

“I looked too much like Tanya,” said Caina. “It reminded you of her, and it hurt.”

“In Rasadda,” said Ark. “When you left the Magisterium’s chapterhouse, after dinner with Kalastus. What did we talk about?”

“I told you what had happened to me, what Maglarion did to me,” said Caina. “I told you why I had joined the Ghosts.”

Ark nodded. He had never told another living soul about those conversations. The five years he had spent looking for Tanya was a part of his life that he wanted to forget.

“So you’re really Caina,” said Ark.

She almost smiled. “It would appear so.”

“But Aeolus could be right,” said Ark. “You could have been twisted by the magi.”

“It’s possible,” said Caina. “I can’t prove it. You could find one of the magi, have them check me for any spells…”

“I would sooner trust you,” said Ark, “than any of the brothers of the Imperial Magisterium.”

He lowered his sword, and Caina blinked.

“You could have betrayed the Ghosts,” said Ark, “but I would sooner believe that the sun had risen in the west. And the magi could have twisted your mind, put a compelling spell upon you, but I think you would sooner die than help them.”

“Ark,” said Caina, and she grinned and caught him in a hug. “It’s good to see you again. And I’m glad, I’m so glad, that Sicarion didn’t hurt your family.”

“He tried. I’ll repay him for that, if I ever get the chance,” said Ark.

Caina stepped back. “You might have the opportunity. He’s in New Kyre.”

“What?” said Ark.

“The Moroaica’s here as well,” said Caina. “She’s going to cast a spell to destroy the world. She sent Sicarion to kill the Emperor to create a distraction.”

Ark grunted. “So we need to find Sicarion before he kills the Emperor, and stop the Moroaica before she works her spell and kills everyone in New Kyre.”

“Pretty much,” said Caina.

“Ah,” said Ark. “Just like old times, then.”

She grinned. “Dear gods, I hope not.”

###

A few moments later Caina led Ark and the others to the tavern. Ark had rounded up those he thought he could trust – Theodosia, Claudia, and Lord Martin Dorius. Caina was not surprised to see that Martin and Claudia were betrothed. She hoped Corvalis would approve.

Corvalis, Talekhris, and Harkus waited at a table, and Corvalis looked up in surprise as they approached.

“Corvalis!” said Claudia, and she ran forward and hugged him.

“Sister,” said Corvalis, kissing her on the cheek. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, still hugging him. “After what happened in Malarae, I was afraid…”

“It’s going to take more,” said Corvalis, “than that scarred little rat Sicarion to kill me.”

“Lord Martin,” said Harkus. “You seem to have risen in the world since our last meeting.”

“Aye,” said Martin, looking at Caina. “I unjustly received all the credit for putting down the cult of Anubankh in Caeria Ulterior. My standing among the lords of the Curia rose considerably.” He looked at Talekhris. “And you, my lord Sage, seem…healthier.”

Talekhris’s smile was bitter. “Death, I fear, often has that effect upon me.”

“While it is, of course,” said Theodosia, “good to see you all again, I suggest we settle upon a plan of action at once. That scoundrel Sicarion has blood upon his hands and must be brought to heel before he can work any more harm.”

“And we must find and stop the Moroaica,” said Talekhris.

“I think I know how we can find Sicarion,” said Caina.

They all looked at her.

“How?” said Talekhris.

“Rhames’s mask,” said Caina. “Sicarion has it, and we can use it to find him.”

Claudia frowned. “But I couldn’t detect it when Rhames used it to disguise himself as Anashir.”

“Nor could I,” said Talekhris, “and with no disrespect to Claudia, I’ve had rather more practice.”

“You couldn’t sense it, either,” said Corvalis.

“Yes,” said Caina, “but I don’t think Sicarion knows how to use it properly, or he isn’t as experienced with it as Rhames. When he…when he killed Halfdan, he was wearing the mask, using it to appear as me. And I could feel the spells upon the mask.”

“Then you think we can detect the mask?” said Talekhris.

“I do,” said Caina. “Sicarion is likely using the mask to disguise himself – with his scars, it would be difficult for him to pass unseen on the street with so many Imperial Guards and ashtairoi keeping watch. I can sense spells, and so can Talekhris and Claudia. We divide into three groups and search for Sicarion.”

“I shall have to remain near the Emperor,” said Ark. “Lord Corbould wishes me to accompany him in the procession.”

“As do Claudia and I,” said Martin. “If either the Champion or I leave the procession, Lord Aeolus will take note, and he has ordered your death.”

“I know,” said Caina, “and it’s just as well. Stay near the Emperor and keep watch over him, and sound the warning if Sicarion approaches.”

“The Venatorii and I,” said Talekhris, “will watch the street leading from the Agora of Nations to the Agora of Archons. Sicarion might try to attack the procession as it heads towards the Pyramid of Storm.” His face hardened. “And it will give me a chance to seek for the Moroaica.”

“Don’t put your mask on,” said Caina, “unless absolutely necessary. I doubt either the Imperial Guards or the ashtairoi would react well to a masked man approaching the nobles.”

Talekhris nodded.

“Theodosia,” said Caina, “I assume you brought the Grand Imperial Opera to New Kyre?”

She smiled. “The entire company, of course. After the Emperor and the Archons have sealed the peace, we shall sing before them in the Agora of Archons to herald the new era. It was a devil of a time picking an opera to appeal to Kyracian sensibilities, but I suspect we shall dazzle them.”

“Have your maids and stagehands keep watch,” said Caina. “Sicarion isn’t a fool, and he knows that nobles often ignore servants. He might try to conceal himself among them. If you find him, don’t try to fight him yourself. He won’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in his way.”

Theodosia sniffed. “Dear child, I am the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera, not a warrior. If I see anything amiss, I will let the Champion or Lord Martin know at once.”

“Corvalis and I,” said Caina, “will watch the crowds. The ashtairoi were sealing off the Agora of Nations, but I suspect the commoners and slaves will watch from the streets and the rooftops overlooking the Agora. Sicarion might try to hide himself there.”

“A solid plan,” said Martin.

“It’s the best we can do for now,” said Caina. She looked at them. “Thank you for believing me.”

Theodosia laughed. “We would be fools not to.”

“You saved my wife and son,” said Ark. “If you marched into hell, I would follow you.”

“You saved me from the stone and from Mihaela,” said Claudia, “and you outwitted Rhames. I will listen to whatever you say.”

“Aye,” said Martin, and Talekhris and Harkus echoed it.

Corvalis barked his harsh laugh. “I already do whatever you tell me anyway. Why stop now?”

Caina blinked, her eyes stinging. They trusted her. She did not deserve it.

Halfdan had trusted in her, and that had not saved him.

The distant blast of a trumpet cut into her thoughts.

“The ceremony will begin soon,” said Ark. “Lord Martin and I need to assemble with the other nobles. If we don’t, Lord Aeolus will get suspicious.”

Caina nodded. “We had best go.”

“May the gods of war and battle be with us,” said Martin.

“I hope they are,” said Caina. “We shall need all the help we can get.”

Chapter 15 - A Mask of Gold

Kylon walked across the Agora of Archons, Thalastre on his side.

He wore his stormdancer’s gray leather, sword ready at his side, his sea-colored cloak hanging from his shoulders. Thalastre wore a new stola of green silk, her hair arranged in an elaborate crown, her jewelry glittering.

The chief nobility of the Kyracian people assembled below the Pyramid of Storm. Kylon took his place with the other Archons behind Tiraedes, the senior Archon and Speaker of the Assembly. The thalarchons and officers of the fleets gathered nearby, along with the stormsingers and stormdancers. Alcios stood with Thalastre’s father, speaking in a low voice, while Cimon waited with the grim silence of a soldier preparing to face battle.

In a way, Kylon supposed, it was like a battle, but with words and courtesies instead of swords and spears. The Empire and New Kyre were like two tavern brawlers unable to overcome each other, finally agreeing to an uneasy truce rather than waiting until they bled to death. Yet it was still a battle.

Still, Kylon supposed, it was harder to kill a man with words than with blades.

But if anything went wrong, if Sicarion arrived and killed the Emperor or one of the Archons, the swords and spears would come out.

He shook his head. His arcane senses detected the tension around him, the fear and the grim determination, and it was affecting his mood.

“You are wary, husband,” said Thalastre in a low voice, her calm mask unwavering as she looked around them.

There was no use trying to hide his mood from her. “I am. The Ghosts we met in Malarae are not fools. If they say there is a threat, then there is.”

Thalastre nodded. “We shall be on our guard.”

“Sicarion would kill you,” said Kylon, “if he gets the chance.”

Thalastre blinked. “Oh? Have I wronged him?”

“I fought him in Marsis, the day the war started, and again in Catekharon,” said Kylon, “and he got away from me both times. He is the kind of man to hold a grudge. If he gets a chance, he will kill you. And he will kill you just to spite me. The way he killed those Ghosts in Malarae to spite Caina.”

“I shall be cautious, husband,” said Thalastre. She sniffed. “And if this Sicarion fool thinks to lift his hand against me, we shall see he likes the taste of a stormsinger’s lightning.”

“If he shows himself, do not underestimate him,” said Kylon. “I did, at first, and he almost slew me.”

“We will be careful,” said Thalastre, “but for all his power and cunning, he is only one man. We are surrounded by hundreds of ashtairoi and the most powerful stormsingers of New Kyre. The Emperor has his Imperial Guards and his magi. If Sicarion tries anything, if he kills anyone, he will not make it three steps before he is cut down.”

“I suppose you are right,” said Kylon.

Yet the unease would not leave him, and not all of it came from the emotions of the men and women around him.

The same feeling had come to him before entering Catekharon, the certainty that the Sages’ offer was a trick in some way he could not see. The same feeling came to him every time he entered a battle he wasn’t certain he could win, a battle where he was sure he had overlooked some vital detail about the enemy.

Something important.

But what?

He glanced at the Pyramid of Storm. There had been no word from the Surge or her priestesses for weeks. That was odd – the Surge usually sent one priestess to witness significant events in the history of the Kyracian people. But she was inscrutable, and followed no laws but the will of the mysterious future she served.

If she chose not to send an emissary, that was her own affair.

The trumpets rang out.

“Time to go, husband,” Thalastre said, squeezing his arm.

Kylon nodded, and they joined the other Archons as they marched to escort the Emperor of the Nighmarian Empire to the Agora of Archons.

###

Ark stood motionless, trying not to drop his hand to his sword hilt.

If he did, and someone took it the wrong way, he could start another war.

Lord Martin and Claudia waited nearby. Martin wore the ceremonial armor of a Lord Governor of the Empire, gleaming steel plate and a crimson cloak. Claudia wore a green gown that matched her eyes, and looked like the young, noble-born betrothed of the Lord Governor, not a former sister of the Imperial Magisterium. Yet Ark noted the tension around her eyes, the faint movement of her lips as she cast the spell to sense the presence of sorcery over again.

So far, it seemed, she had sensed nothing.

Fortunately, no one noticed her spells. Dozens of nobles surrounded the Emperor of Nighmar, and Imperial Guards ringed them all. Battle magi of the Magisterium stood ready, clad in black armor of their own, swords and maces waiting at their belts. A ring of ashtairoi blocked off the streets leading to the Agora of Nations, holding back the crowds. Thousands had come out to gawk at the foreign nobles, to see the war end.

And Sicarion could hide among them so easily.

It reminded Ark of standing in the front lines of the Legions as they waged war against the barbarian nations of the north, of standing and waiting as the enemy ran screaming at them.

He looked at the main avenue leading to the Agora of the Archons, and saw the Assembly of New Kyre marching towards them, escorted by ashtairoi.

Ark rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, and waited.

###

Caina shouldered her way through the crowd, not bothering to apologize.

Corvalis helped with that. He was a big man, and could put on a terrifying scowl. The Kyracian commoners and slaves took one look at his face and the weapons at his belt and hastened to get out his way.

“Anything?” murmured Corvalis.

“No, nothing,” said Caina, biting back a curse of frustration.

She had sensed the presence of sorcery, faint but powerful, as they passed the edge of the Agora. But those spells radiated from the high magi and the battle magi who had escorted the Emperor from Malarae.  Wards and spells to detect the presence of sorcery, no doubt in case the Kyracians attempted any treachery.

That was just as well. As much as Caina detested the magi, she would not turn away their help if Sicarion tried to attack. Though she did not know how much use the magi would be against someone like Sicarion.

They pushed their way through the spectators. She and Corvalis made a circuit of the Agora’s outer edge, seeking for any sign of sorcery. So far Caina had sensed nothing, save for the spells upon the magi. Yet even as she looked, her mind turned over the puzzle, seeking a different angle of attack.

If she was Sicarion, how would she go about killing the Emperor?

The actual deed itself would not be hard. Alexius Naerius, for all his power, was only an old man in a ceremonial robe. Likely he wore a chain mail shirt beneath the robe, but that would be no obstacle to someone like Sicarion.

But getting close enough to kill the Emperor would be an obstacle.

Hundreds of Imperial Guards and a score of powerful magi surrounded the Emperor. Most of the nobles knew how to use their swords. Even if Sicarion got close enough to kill the Emperor, he wouldn’t make it two steps before a dozen swords met his flesh and a dozen spells ripped him to bloody pieces. And Sicarion was not a fanatic. The man served the Moroaica for the love of killing, not out of any sense of duty. He would not sacrifice his life in her service.

No, he would find a way to kill the Emperor and preserve his own life.

But how? If he got close enough to kill the Emperor, the Imperial Guard would…

Caina stopped, her eyes widening with the realization.

Sicarion would not get close enough to stab the Emperor. He would find a way to kill the Emperor from a distance.

Corvalis stopped, stepping around a scowling old woman in a slave’s gray tunic, and looked back at her.

“What is it?” he said. “You feel something?”

“No,” said Caina. “I have an idea. Nobody ever looks up.”

They ducked into a doorway off the main street, away from the press of the crowd.

“He’s going to shoot the Emperor,” said Caina. “A bow, probably. Or maybe a spell, something like that lance of shadow and green flame he used against us in the past.”

Corvalis frowned. “Are you sure? I’ve never seen him use a bow.”

“I’m not,” said Caina, “but it’s the only thing that makes sense. He can’t get close enough to use a sword or a dagger, not without the Imperial Guard and the battle magi tearing him to pieces.”

“I can’t think of anything better,” said Corvalis. “You may be right.”

“And that means,” said Caina, “we don’t have to find him. We just have to find the best place for an archer to hide.”

She stepped back into the street and looked around, seeking for a vantage point an archer might use to fire into the Agora. The buildings overlooking the Agora itself were a logical choice, but an archer waiting there would be visible. That left…

Caina nodded, her suspicion hardening into certainty.

A tenement stood a few blocks away, a sagging nine-story tower that looked in danger of falling over. It likely offered cheap rooms to workers and mercenaries staying in New Kyre, the sort of place where the landlord preferred not to ask too many questions of his tenants. The tenement’s roof was flat, and would command an excellent view of the Agora.

And a skilled archer, if he concealed himself carefully, could put a shaft or a crossbow bolt into almost anyone in the Agora.

“There,” said Caina, pointing at the tenement.

Corvalis frowned. “It would be a devil of a shot.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Sicarion,” said Caina. “And he would find a spell easier to aim than an arrow, I think. Let’s see if I’m right or not.”

They made their way through the narrow alleys, pushing their way past the gawking crowds and the vendors selling cheap food. They reached the base of the tenement, and Caina saw that it overlooked a wide canal that led to the harbor proper. Dozens of people leaned out of the tenement’s narrow windows, looking at the spectacle in the Agora.

“Crowded place,” said Corvalis.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Caina. “With that mask, he can look like anyone he wants. A peasant, a noble, a slave. Me. So witnesses don’t matter.”

“The roof?” said Corvalis.

Caina headed for the door. A gang of young men waited near the entrance, but one look at Corvalis and their attention turned elsewhere. Caina stepped through the front hall and climbed the rickety stairs, the wooden boards creaking beneath her boots. It made he remember fleeing from Kylon in Marsis, hiding in an abandoned tenement to avoid the stormdancer.

She wished that Kylon was here now. She needed all the help she could get against Sicarion, and if she had guessed right, the scarred assassin awaited her at the top of the tower.

They reached the top floor. A short search found a ladder leading up to the roof, the entrance sealed by a trap door. Caina looked at Corvalis, and he nodded, drawing his dagger with his right hand and loosening the ghostsilver spear in its wrap. Caina slipped a throwing knife into her hand and started up the ladder, and froze when she reached the top rung.

“What is it?” said Corvalis in a low voice.

“Sorcery,” said Caina. “A powerful spell. Nearby.”

“Sicarion,” said Corvalis.

Caina nodded.

“We should strike the instant we see him,” said Corvalis.

“No,” said Caina. “He might be disguised as anyone. Not until we’re sure.”

Corvalis nodded, and Caina took a deep breath and pushed open the trapdoor.

Sunlight flashed into her eyes, and she pulled herself onto the roof. It was flat, with barrels here and there to catch rainwater. A row of wooden posts ran down the center of the roof, no doubt allowing the residents to hang their wash to dry. To the left Caina saw the gleaming ribbon of the canal making its way to the harbor. The roof was deserted, save for a woman in a blue gown who stood at the edge, gazing down at the Agora.

Caina gripped her knife, and the woman turned to face her.

And Caina looked at herself.

Or, rather, a woman who was her exact duplicate.

The duplicate’s blue gown was close-fitting around the torso and arms, the skirts hanging loose around her legs. Her black hair had been arranged in an elaborate braid, and jewels glittered on her fingers and ears. The duplicate looked at them and grinned.

Caina hoped she really did not look like that when she smirked.

“Well,” said the false Caina. “You found your way here. I was hoping you might. We can conclude our little game before the festivities begin.” Her blue eyes shifted to Corvalis. “Can you tell us apart? You…”

“Enough, Sicarion,” said Caina, pointing with her throwing knife. “We know who you really are.”

The false Caina grinned and rubbed a hand over her face. The golden mask that had once belonged to the Great Necromancer Rhames appeared, and the impostor pulled it away.

Her form rippled and wavered…and then Sicarion stood in her place.

“You got out of Marsis alive, I see,” said Sicarion. “I thought you might. All the work Ranarius did to pin Aiodan Maraeus’s murder upon you wasted. No matter. You can die here just as easily as you could in Marsis.”

“I didn’t die easily in Marsis, did I?” said Caina.

“No.” Sicarion said. “But Halfdan did. Which is why you’re here, I suppose. To avenge one confused old man, an old man whose final thought was that his favored protégé had just killed him.”

A wave of fury rolled through Caina, and she almost threw the knife at him. But a flicker of unease stayed her hand. Sicarion seemed to have been expecting them. Had he laid a trap?

She saw no sign that he had a bow or a crossbow.

“How are you going to do it?” she said. She stepped to the right, and Corvalis moved to the left, putting space between them in case Sicarion worked a spell. “An arrow, I assume?”

Sicarion laughed. “An arrow? From this distance? Don’t be absurd. Arrows are not an enjoyable method of killing. Too…remote.”

“A spell, then?” said Caina. Corvalis drew his sword and dagger, the wrapped ghostsilver spear still strapped to his back.

“Of a sort,” said Sicarion. “I’m going to stroll up to the Emperor and cut his throat.”

“Using the mask?” said Caina. “It won’t work. There are too many sorcerers in the Agora. They’ll sense it before you get within a hundred yards.”

“Oh, the mask is just the beginning of the fun,” said Sicarion. “Simply so any surviving witnesses will think you did it. Assuming there are any.”

Her unease grew. He was planning something that would kill everyone in the Agora?

“The Imperial Guard won’t stop me,” said Sicarion. “The stormsingers and the stormdancers will run away from me. The Emperor will be on his knees before me, screaming and sobbing like a child. And then, only then, will I kill him.”

“No, you won’t,” said Caina. “You’re not leaving this rooftop alive.”

“Do you want to know how I’m going to do it?” said Sicarion. “You were always so clever, Ghost. Call this a parting gift. The answer to one final riddle before you die.”

He reached into his dark cloak and drew out a golden chain. A crystal vial swung at the end, filled with something like rippling dark smoke. Caina felt powerful sorcery radiating from the thing.

Sorcery that felt almost familiar.

“What is that?” said Caina.

“Do you know what a phobomorphic spirit is?” said Sicarion.

“A creature of the netherworld,” said Caina. “It takes the form of whatever its victim fears the most.”

“You’ve met them before, I see,” said Sicarion. “The mistress made me this little gift, a phobomorphic spirit bound within the amulet.”

“So that’s it,” said Caina. “You’re going to unleash a phobomorphic spirit into the Agora and exploit the chaos? That won’t work. The magi will banish the spirit, and the Imperial Guard will kill you before you reach the Emperor.”

“You’re right,” said Sicarion. “That would be a terrible plan. Fortunately, I have a better one. Would you like to know what it is?”

“Enlighten me,” said Caina.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Sicarion. “I know how your mind works, and I knew you would come for me. I’ve been looking forward to killing both of you for a long time, but I’m going to enjoy killing the Emperor more. Just think…killing that one old man will trigger a war that will kill uncounted hundreds of thousands.” Glee filled his mismatched eyes. “All those deaths from my hand, just by killing one old man.”

“Yes, how very efficient,” said Corvalis.

“Precisely,” said Sicarion. “But I’m going to get you out of the way first. And test my little toy all at the same time.”

“No, you’re not,” said Caina, and she drew back her arm to throw the knife, while Corvalis raised his sword and dagger.

Sicarion grinned and dropped the amulet over his head, the crystal vial coming to rest against the leather armor covering his chest.

He rippled and changed, and for an instant Caina wondered if the phobomorphic spirit had possessed him.

And then he vanished, and in his place stood…

All the moisture drained from Caina’s mouth, and her hands trembled.

In his place stood Halfdan.

He still wore a furred merchant’s robe and cap. Yet the tip of a bloody sword jutted from his chest, and his eyes blazed with hatred as they looked at Caina.

“Your fault!” he screamed.

“What?” said Caina.

“Sister?” said Corvalis, his voice shaking, but Caina barely heard him.

“Your fault,” hissed Halfdan. “You killed me. You killed me!”

“No!” said Caina. “Sicarion killed you. I tried to save you, I…”

Some part of her mind realized that this was wrong, that Halfdan couldn’t possibly be standing here before her. Yet grief and shame filled her heart in overpowering waves. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, to beg his forgiveness.

“This…no,” said Corvalis, his eyes wide, his voice hoarse. “Sister, no, I did…I did everything I could, I got you away from Ranarius, I…”

“Silence!” bellowed Halfdan, stepping closer. He had a sword in his right hand and an ugly, serrated dagger in his left. “What a miserable disappointment you are. I took you in, I turned you from a weeping orphan brat to a

Ghost nightfighter. And you killed me!” His face turned red with fury as he lifted his sword and dagger. “You left me to die! You let Sicarion kill me!”

“It’s not true!” said Corvalis. “I didn’t abandon you. I tried to save you, Claudia. I swear it, I…”

“I tried,” said Caina. “I tried so hard. I’m sorry, Halfdan. Please, forgive me, forgive me…”

The small part of her mind screamed at the wrongness before her eyes. Halfdan was dead. He could not be here! Yet she felt the tears sliding down her face, the grief striking her in terrible waves.

“Claudia,” said Corvalis, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, forgive me…”

“You deserve to die,” said Halfdan, grinning, “for what you did to me.”

“Yes,” whispered Caina.

Claudia. Why was Corvalis talking about Claudia? She was in the Agora with Lord Martin.  Yet he was saying Claudia’s name as he looked at Halfdan.

Like he saw Claudia standing there, accusing him, instead of Halfdan.

A spell. Sicarion’s amulet. This had to be a spell of some kind, some trick of sorcery digging into her mind and twisting her emotions.

But it was too strong.

Every time Caina looked at Halfdan, the grief and pain struck her anew, so strong and so sharp that it took every shred of strength she possessed to keep from falling to her knees and weeping.

If it was a trick of sorcery, it was too strong for her to overcome.

She grabbed at the hood of her ragged cloak. Her shadow-cloak was hidden beneath it, and she yanked the cowl over her head, hoping to shield her mind from the effects.

Nothing happened.

“You think I am not real?” screamed Halfdan. “You think to hide from your crimes beneath a shadow-cloak? Then die! Die!”

He drew back his weapons to stab, and Caina stumbled back.

Corvalis made no move to defend himself, but only slid his weapons into their sheaths and spread his arms, as if awaiting death.

Halfdan grinned and turned to face him.

Caina screamed and threw herself into Corvalis, pushing him back. Halfdan’s blades missed them both by a few inches.

“No,” said Corvalis, “don’t, I deserve this…”

“This isn’t real!” said Caina.

Yet she could not convince herself of that. Her mind knew it had to be a spell. But the grief and the guilt were crippling. She had to get away. She had to get Corvalis away before Sicarion killed them both.

“Run!” said Caina.

Halfdan moved to block the trapdoor to the ladder, and Caina seized Corvalis’s hand. They ran from Halfdan, towards the edge of the roof, and jumped.

The city rushed up to meet them.

###

Sicarion blinked in surprise as Caina and Corvalis flung themselves from the rooftop.

That had worked even better than he had expected.

Once he donned the amulet, he had no idea what they would see when they looked at him. Apparently the sight had been so horrifying that they had thrown themselves to their deaths rather than face it.

He strolled to the edge of the roof, hoping to see their lifeless, broken bodies, and the smile faded.

They had jumped in the direction of the canal.

He was not sure if they had hit the canal. For that matter, he did not know if they could survive landing in the water from this height. He had survived falls from greater heights, of course, but he had been able to find replacement parts to repair his injuries after.

Caina and her imbecilic lover had no such abilities.

He could not see their bodies.

On the other hand, the corpses could even now be floating down the canal.

His smile returned. In the end, it was of no consequence if they had survived or not. Even if by some miracle they were uninjured, they could not face him. Not while he wore the amulet.

And if they could not face him…the nobles and magistrates gathered in the Agora certainly could not.

He shivered with pleasure at the thought of the carnage that he would unleash.

Sicarion returned the amulet to a pocket of his cloak and donned the golden mask once more, commanding it to give him the appearance of Caina Amalas in her finery. He felt the illusion wrap around him, and smiled behind the mask.

He had killed so many people over the centuries. Lords and magistrates, magi and occultists, rich and poor, noble and common, men and women and children from every walk of life.

But he had never killed an Emperor before.

Time to rectify that.

Chapter 16 - Dark Dreams

The procession made its way into the Agora of Nations, and Kylon saw the Imperial embassy awaiting them.

Ranks of Imperial Guards stood in orderly rows, clad in their black armor, their shields gleaming with mirror brightness upon their left arms, and he remembered their skill and valor from Marsis. Battle magi in black plate stood scattered among the Imperial Guards. Kylon respected the magi rather less than the men of the Imperial Guard, but he knew enough to be wary of their arcane power. Dozens of noblemen stood behind the Guards.

In their midst stood Alexius Naerius, Emperor of Nighmar.

Kylon’s first impression was that the Emperor looked tired. The Emperor was in his middle sixties, tall and erect in a ceremonial black robe with purple trim, his white hair and beard close-cropped. Yet the Emperor had ruled over the Empire for nearly thirty-five years, longer than Kylon had been alive, and he saw every one of those years upon Alexius Naerius’s face.

Sometimes the responsibilities of his titles seemed more than Kylon could bear, but he could not imagine the burdens of ruling such a vast Empire for three and a half decades.

Men were fools to crave such power.

“So that is the Emperor,” murmured Thalastre. “He looks like someone’s kindly grandfather.”

“He has no children, I fear,” said Kylon. “The Kindred assassins killed them all during power struggles in the Empire.”

“The poor man,” said Thalastre.

The procession stopped, facing the Imperial party, and the heralds stepped forward to offer formal welcome to the Emperor.

###

Claudia’s eyes swept back and forth over the Kyracians as she stood with Martin, trying to keep the tension from her face.

The spell to sense arcane force was not a difficult one, but it did require some concentration. It would look suspicious if she stood scowling at the Kyracians, but she would hardly be alone. The tension was thick, and even the commoners and slaves watching the Agora had fallen quiet.

So many things could go wrong in the next few moments.

She felt dozens of minor spells around her, the wards surrounding the battle magi and the high magi who accompanied the Emperor. She sensed a similar number of wards around the stormsingers and stormdancers among the Kyracians. Yet there was no trace of the alien, Maatish sorcery she would detect from Rhames’s mask. Perhaps Caina and Corvalis had already killed Sicarion. Maybe Sicarion had not shown himself.

Or perhaps he was only waiting to strike.

She sensed a new spell as one of the stormsingers summoned power to amplify a herald’s voice.

“Citizens of New Kyre!” said the herald, his voice booming over the Agora like thunder. “Hearken and bear witness to the words of your Assembly. By the authority of Tiraedes, High Seat of House Cyrsalos, Archon and Speaker of the Assembly, the embassy of Alexius Naerius, Emperor of Nighmar, has been invited to New Kyre to discuss peace with the Kyracian people! The august Emperor of Nighmar himself has come to meet with the Assembly of New Kyre, that peace and amity may be restored between our two nations!”

Despite the danger, Claudia felt a flicker of amusement. It was a pleasantly neutral speech, and overlooked the fact that the Empire and New Kyre had been enemies and rivals since the fall of Old Kyrace at the end of the Third Empire.

Some of the Kyracians stepped into the empty space between the two parties. One was an old, silver-haired man who walked with quiet dignity, Lord Tiraedes, the Speaker of the Assembly. Other Kyracian nobles accompanied him, and Claudia spotted Kylon and Thalastre among them. Ashtairoi stood guard on either side of the party, proud in their gleaming cuirasses and plumed helms.

The Emperor walked to meet them. Lord Corbould and Lord Titus accompanied him, Lord Aeolus a dark shadow at Corbould’s side. From what Claudia understood, both Aeolus and Corbould had favored war to the bloody end with New Kyre, but would support the Emperor after he made his decision. Ark walked after Lord Corbould, the Champion of Marsis surviving as his patron’s bodyguard. Imperial Guards and a pair of battle magi flanked them.

The Emperor and Tiraedes stopped and greeted each other, speaking in low voices.

And Claudia felt a surge of arcane power.

She spun and saw a woman in a blue gown striding across the Agora, skirts rippling around her legs.

“Martin,” said Claudia. “Martin! It’s him.”

###

Ark turned as the Emperor and Lord Tiraedes fell silent, his hand falling to his sword hilt.

He recognized the blue-clad woman hurrying across the Agora. It was Caina, but Caina as she had appeared in Malarae, wearing a rich blue gown and gleaming jewelry, her hair and makeup perfectly arranged.

An illusion.

“That’s him!” said Ark. “That’s the assassin I told you about, Lord Aeolus!”

“Imperial Guards!” said Corbould. “Seize that woman at once!”

“I told you she was not to be trusted,” said Aeolus in a low voice.

“That’s not her,” said Ark, “that’s…”

“People of the Empire and New Kyre!” shouted the false Caina in Kyracian, a spell amplifying her voice. “My name is Caina Amalas! Once I was a Ghost of the Empire, but I betrayed my Emperor and murdered my comrades. I murdered Aiodan Maraeus and laughed as he died.” Corbould scowled, his hands curling into fists. “I confess all my crimes freely and without remorse, and now I have come to kill the Emperor!” She grinned, her eyes wild and full of madness. “And all the Kyracian Archons, while I am at it.”

“Enough!” said Corbould. “Take her into custody. We’ll deal with this renegade Ghost later.”

“My apologies, my lord Speaker,” said the Emperor. “I am sorry to trouble you with an internal matter.”

“It is of no concern,” said Tiraedes. “Clearly the woman has lost her mind.”

“My lords,” said Ark, “kill her now! She is not what she appears.” He did not know what Sicarion intended, and he certainly had not expected such a bold approach. How did Sicarion possibly think to prevail against so many foes? “Kill…”

“Better to take her alive and learn what she knows,” said Aeolus.

“Forgive the interruption, my lords,” said Kylon, “but I agree with the Champion. I believe that is Sicarion, an enemy I have faced before, and I urge you to kill him at once.”

“Him?” said Corbould. “That is clearly a woman, and she just admitted to murdering my son! She will stand trial for it, and…”

The false Caina grinned and reached into the front of her gown as a score of Imperial Guards moved around her. Ark caught a glimpse of a golden chain and a crystal vial, and Caina dropped the amulet over her head, the vial bouncing against her chest.

She rippled and disappeared.

Tanya appeared in her place.

Ark felt his breath catch in his throat, stepping back in surprise.

All around him, all through the Kyracian and Imperial nobles, men and women stared at Tanya in shock, their eyes widening, their mouths falling open in surprise. He saw a ripple go through the commoners surrounding the Agora, heard some of them scream in terror.

But he barely noticed them.

His eyes were fixed on Tanya.

She looked terrible, half-starved, her arms and legs little more than sticks. She wore filthy rags, her hair brittle and thin, her eyes glittering in her gaunt face. She carried something cradled in her thin arms, a small, motionless form…

Nicolai. She was holding Nicolai.

“Why did you abandon us?” said Tanya, her voice a scratchy whisper. Part of Ark’s mind wondered how he could hear her so clearly over the screams from the crowds, but pain and grief flooded him. The slavers had taken her and it was his fault. If he had not gone hunting that morning, if he had stayed in the village, perhaps he could have fought off Naelon Icaraeus’s slave traders. Perhaps he could have kept Tanya from her ordeal.

Perhaps Nicolai would not lie dead in her arms.

“No!” said Ark. “No, I didn’t, I swear I didn’t abandon you. I looked for you. For five years I looked for you.”

“You looked for me?” said Tanya, her voice rising to a shriek. “Did that help our son? Did you come in time to save Nicolai? He starved to death waiting for you!”

“I tried,” said Ark, “I tried to find you…”

Around him the Agora of Nations dissolved into shrieking pandemonium. Thousands upon thousands gaped at Tanya, some with frozen horror. Others had fallen to their knees, weeping and screaming and begging for forgiveness or mercy. Still others fled, howling for the gods to save them.

Why were they reacting that way? None of them knew Tanya. Why would her appearance frighten them so?

But the guilt and the pain consumed him.

“Tanya,” said Ark, but she sneered, spat, and flung the corpse of their son to the ground.

###

Claudia took a step back in fear.

Caina Amalas had vanished, and Claudia’s father stood in her place.

It was impossible. Decius Aberon had not accompanied the Emperor from Malarae, and remained at the Magisterium’s Motherhouse in Artifel. Yet her father stood there, plump and smug in his purple-trimmed black robes, his thick face sneering with contempt as he looked at her.

“Well, well,” he said. Somehow, even through the screaming chaos filling the Agora, she heard his resonant voice. “Little Claudia, my wayward child. I didn’t think you had such treachery in that pretty little face.”

“You’re a monster!” shouted Claudia. “I saw what you did to Corvalis. I’ve seen what you have done to your enemies!” A pair of Imperial Guards backed away, swords drawn, horror on their faces. “I will not join you!”

“Join you?” said the First Magus. “My dear foolish little daughter, you do get ahead of yourself. You betrayed me, and I never forgive betrayal. No, I’ve come to demand retribution.”

A battle magus fell to his knees near Claudia, weeping and begging for forgiveness.

“Retribution?” said Claudia, stammering over the word. She had always known that someday her father would come and take his revenge.

“Why, yes, of course,” said Decius. “Did you think I would forgive you? I’ve come to make you pay. I am going to burn out the arcane ability from you, break your mind beyond repair, and sell you into slavery. You’ll amuse some Istarish emir until your beauty fades, and then you’ll spend the rest of your life scrubbing dishes in his kitchens. But only after I kill your betrothed in front of you.” He strolled toward the Emperor, a sword in his right hand and a serrated dagger in his left. “How long do you think I can make him scream?”

“Martin!” shouted Claudia, tugging at his arm. “Martin!”

But he stared at Decius Aberon with stricken horror on his face.

“No,” said Martin, “listen to me, I thought it was the right decision, I did not send those men to die on purpose! I thought Lord Conn was wrong…”

Decius laughed with contemptuous amusement, and Claudia screamed.

###

Kylon drew his sword, intending to cut down the false Caina before Sicarion could attack.

But before he could move, she disappeared…and Andromache appeared in her place.

Kylon’s mouth fell open in surprise.

She looked little different than when he had last seen her two years ago in Marsis, the day Sicarion had lured her to Scorikhon’s tomb. She wore a red gown with black sleeves, her long black hair bound in a thick braid. She looked serene and calm as ever, a pillar of determination and sorcerous strength.

Yet contempt came over her face when she looked at Kylon.

“Brother,” she spat, her voice full of venom. “The fool who brought me to my death.”

“Sicarion killed you,” said Kylon, horrified, “offered you up to that wraith in the tomb.”

“I relied on you!” screamed Andromache. “You were my strong right hand, Kylon. I trusted you to protect me, but you failed me.”

“You put your trust in the Moroaica and Sicarion!” said Kylon. “Not me!”

“You should have persuaded me,” said Andromache. “I would have listened. You could have kept me from destruction. But you closed your eyes and walked alongside me to my death.”

“No,” said Kylon, but there was a quaver in his voice.

“Look at what you have done to New Kyre!” said Andromache, waving a hand. Oddly she was holding a sword and an ugly serrated dagger as she strolled towards the Emperor, who stood staring at her, all the blood draining from his face. “Chaos and ruin! We could have won the war in a single day, Kylon! We could have taken Marsis, made New Kyre safe from the Empire forever. But you were too weak. Now the Emperor stands triumphant in the Agora of Nations, gloating over his victory. New Kyre is beaten, Kylon, and it is your fault!”

Kylon backed away in horrified regret, and bumped into Thalastre. A fresh fear forced its way into his reeling mind. The Agora of Nations had erupted into screaming chaos, men fleeing in all directions. Some had fallen upon their swords, blood pooling beneath them. He had to get Thalastre away from the mayhem. He had almost lost her once to a Dustblade’s necromantic sorcery. He could not bear to lose her again.

He grabbed her arm, intending to drag her to safety, but she stared at Andromache, weeping.

“Mother, I’m sorry!” she shouted. “I should have listened. I should have listened! I’m so, so sorry.”

Her mother? Why was she talking about her mother?

“You failed,” said Andromache. “You let me die…and now your wife is going to die in front of you. You were too weak to save either of us.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kylon, tears in his eyes, but Andromache kept walking toward the Emperor.

###

“Tanya,” said Ark, staggering toward her.

Around him the others had fallen into madness. Corbould ranted in fury, while Lord Titus bellowed terrified-sounding threats. The Emperor had gone rigid as a statue, eyes fixed on Tanya, while Lord Aeolus was talking to no one in a monotone, gesturing madly as his words went faster and faster.

“Get away from me,” spat Tanya. “I regret that I ever married you. I wish I had never let you touch me. Better that Nicolai had never been born than to have a pathetic fool like you for a father. Why don’t you fall on your sword and die?”

Ark shook his head, struggling to clear it. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.

But he could not think past the condemnation in Tanya’s eyes.

He bowed his head and wept.

###

Sicarion stood in the midst of the chaos and watched them flee like terrified rabbits.

This was simply marvelous.

He laughed aloud, enjoying the horror on the faces all around him. He had removed Rhames’s mask, tucking it away in his belt, but kept the amulet resting against his chest. Nobles and Imperial Guards and ashtairoi fled in all directions, trying to get away from whatever vision the phobomorphic spirit had put into their minds. Others wept, covering their faces like children trying to ward away the monsters under the bed. Still others begged for mercy, and some were so overcome they attacked anyone standing nearby or fell upon their own swords. A few of the older men collapsed, clutching their chests as their hearts gave out beneath the weight of their terror.

Sicarion supposed if he stood motionless long enough, eventually everyone in the Agora would kill themselves in terror or die from fear-induced heart failure.

That would be enjoyable.

But not nearly as enjoyable as killing them himself.

He would start with the Emperor. Then he would kill Kylon. No – Kylon’s wife first, and then Kylon himself. After that, Claudia Aberon and her betrothed, and then that annoying veteran Legionary from Malarae, and then…

So much killing to do, so little time!

Sicarion almost found himself wishing that Caina had survived the fall from the tenement’s roof. Let her arrive to find her Emperor dead, all her precious friends and allies lying in their own blood.

He walked toward the Emperor, smiling.

###

Jadriga stood at the entrance to the Sanctuary of the Surge and gazed down at New Kyre.

At the chaos filling the Agora of Nations and spilling into the surrounding city.

Sicarion knew indeed how to create a distraction.

“The end comes,” said the Surge in her threefold voice. “The great darkness begins. Soon the world will burn. All will burn.”

Jadriga did not bother to tell the oracle to be silent.

The results of the great work would speak for themselves soon enough.

For after all these years, after millennia of study and work and gathering power, Jadriga was finally ready.

At last she would make a new world, one free of pain.

At last she would make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind.

She turned to face the silver pool, the Staff of the Elements in hand. The Ascendant Bloodcrystal floated over the sigil of phoenix ashes, its green fire shining in the thousands of hieroglyphs carved into the Sanctuary’s walls, the glyphs designed to channel, redirect, and focus the tremendous powers she would summon.

The greatest single spell in the history of the world was ready.

Jadriga raised the staff and began to speak the final words of the spell, power flaring to life around her.

Chapter 17 - A Mask of Mirrors

Caina plummeted towards the city below.

And as she did, the strange, spell-induced terror vanished.

Only to be replaced by a very natural and rational terror as she realized what a bad decision she had just made.

The canal hurtled to meet her, and Caina just had time to clap her feet together and cross her arms over her chest.

She slammed into the water like a ballista bolt. The shock blasted the air from her lungs, and she hit the bottom of the canal, every inch of her body aching.

But she was still alive. The water had absorbed enough of her momentum that the fall hadn’t killed her. Caina clawed and kicked, ascending through the twenty feet of water, and broke the surface, gasping and coughing. She looked around, half-frantic. Where was Corvalis? Had he hit the water? Or was he lying dead in the street below the tenement?

She swam to the edge of the canal, gripped the rough rock wall, and looked around, trying to find Corvalis…

A pair of strong hands hauled her from the water. Caina sputtered and reached for her dagger, but saw Corvalis’s face. She landed on the ground next to him, still sputtering.

“How,” she said, “how did you get of the water first?”

He shrugged and wiped his face. “Artifel is on a lake. I’ve had a lot of practice swimming.”

Caina pushed the wet hair out of her eyes and tried to stand. Her legs jerked, and she decided that sitting seemed like the better idea for the moment. At least until her heart stopped pounding. “Are you…are you hurt?”

“No,” said Corvalis. “Shaken, but I don’t want to do that again.” He shook his head. “What…what happened?”

Caina blinked, and her mind started to work again.

“Sicarion,” she croaked. This time she stood. “We’ve got to keep moving. He will come for us any minute. Or, worse, he thinks we’re dead and attack the Emperor.”

“What did he do?” said Corvalis. He shook his head, rubbing the heels of his hands against his forehead. “I looked at him and he turned into Claudia…”

Caina blinked. “You saw Claudia?”

“I did,” said Corvalis. “She was…half-stone, half-flesh, and in terrible pain. She said I had failed her, that I had left her to die. I knew it had to be an illusion, a spell. But…I could not make myself believe otherwise.”

“I saw Halfdan,” said Caina. “He blamed me for his death.” The memory of it still sent a stab of grief through her. “I knew it wasn’t real. But I couldn’t convince myself of it. I tried pulling up the cowl of my shadow-cloak to ward my thoughts, but it didn’t work.”

“That crystal amulet,” said Corvalis.

Caina nodded. “There must be a spell on it. Something that makes you see your worst fear, your worst regret.”

“A powerful spell,” said Corvalis, “if it’s strong enough to pierce a shadow-cloak’s protection.”

“Aye,” said Caina. They hurried away from the canal and into the narrow street. She looked around, but saw no sign of Sicarion. Or of Halfdan, or some other spell-conjured regret from her past. “And if it’s strong enough to do that, then…”

She stopped, her eyes growing wide.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, that’s very bad.”

The sounds of chaos rose from the direction of the Agora of Nations.

“That doesn’t sound good,” said Corvalis.

“The amulet,” said Caina, “if it’s strong enough to pierce the protection of a shadow-cloak…Corvalis, there are thousands of people in the Agora. And if Sicarion interrupts the ceremony, they’ll all be looking at him. If he’s wearing an amulet that makes everyone who looks at him see their worst fear…”

The screaming from the Agora grew louder.

“It will cause a riot,” said Corvalis.

“And Sicarion can stroll right up to the Emperor and kill him,” said Caina. “Run!”

Caina sprinted, ignoring her aching legs, and Corvalis followed her. They turned the corner around the base of the tenement and ran onto the street leading to the Agora of Nations.

A mass of men and women ran at them, mostly slaves and commoners. Many screamed and wept as they ran. Caina braced herself to shove through the crowd, but they sprinted past her, desperate to get away from the Agora. She dodged around them, Corvalis keeping pace, and came to the Agora of Nations.

The orderly lines of the Imperial embassy and the Kyracian Assembly had disintegrated into chaos. The spectators fled in all directions, some toward the Agora of Archons, others into the side streets. Caina saw men and women on their knees, weeping and begging for forgiveness or mercy. An ashtairoi drew his sword and drove it into his chest, falling to ground with a clatter of armor. Some of the Imperial Guards fought each other, and a few shook their swords at the sky, screaming incoherently. Caina saw no sign of Ark or Claudia or Lord Martin. What would they see when they looked at Sicarion? Had they been able to resist the effect?

Or were they already dead?

“The Emperor,” said Corvalis. He had unwrapped the ghostsilver spear and held the weapon with both hands. If Sicarion had warded himself, they would need a weapon that could penetrate his protective spells. “He’ll be near the Emperor.”

If he hadn’t already killed the Emperor.

Caina shoved her way into the press, dodging past screaming and sobbing men.

###

“I loved you,” spat Tanya. “I trusted you. Every day I told Nicolai that one day his father would come to rescue us.” Loathing filled her voice, her eyes glittering with maddened hatred. “Do you remember the day you met me, the day you saved me from bandits on the road? Gods, how I wish the bandits had killed me!”

“I’m sorry,” said Ark. “I looked for you, I tried to find you, I…”

“Useless,” said Tanya. “Weak and useless, just as your father always said.”

She walked toward the Emperor. She had thrown aside Nicolai’s corpse, and for some reason Ark could not find it. The Emperor stared at her, his face a bloodless mask, a tremor going through his hands.

“Sister,” said the Emperor. “I am sorry, Rhoanna. I should have listened to Halfdan. I should have listened to Halfdan. I am so, so sorry.”

Tanya made no response to the strange statement, and again Ark’s mind screamed that something was wrong.

But the regret and pain paralyzed him.

###

Caina shoved through one final knot of screaming slaves and came to the heart of the Agora.

The Imperial embassy was in disarray, the Imperial Guard paralyzed with horror. The Kyracian nobles suffered similar effects, screaming and shouting and weeping. Caina tried to find Kylon. He would listen to her, and perhaps he might know enough sorcery to undo the effects of Sicarion’s amulet…

“Talekhris!” hissed Corvalis, pointing.

The Sage stood rooted a dozen yards away, his silver rod clenched in his right hand, his worn coat hanging around him. Kylon had sorcery, but Talekhris had much more. If anyone could defend against Sicarion’s amulet, Talekhris could…

Then Caina saw the cords bulging in the Sage’s neck, saw the sweat dripping down his face.

“Talekhris!” she said. “Sicarion…”

“Yes, I know,” he gasped. “I can’t…I can’t help you. His amulet. It has a phobomorphic spirit bound within it, enhanced by potent spells.”

That made a devilish sort of sense. Phobomorphic spirits took the form of their victims’ worst fear. If Sicarion’s amulet had been enspelled with a phobomorphic spirit, that meant anyone who looked at him would see their worst fear…

Which explained the madness filling the Agora.

“Can you shield us from it?” said Caina.

“No,” growled Talekhris. “I can’t. There’s no protection from the effect, no shielding. It bypasses all defensive wards and directly touches the subconscious mind. I don’t…I don’t dare move…”

“Why not?” said Corvalis.

“Because I’m nine hundred years old!” said Talekhris. “I have so many fears, so many regrets! I cannot…I cannot control them. If I look upon Sicarion, my fears will overcome me, I will unleash my powers…and I will blast this Agora to cinders. Thousands of innocents will die!”

“Then we’ll do it ourselves,” said Caina. “Wait here. If we get that amulet off Sicarion, we’ll need your help against his sorcery.”

Talekhris managed a sharp nod, tears flowing from his eyes to mix with his sweat. Caina wondered what kind of horrors he had seen after nine centuries spent hunting the Moroaica, and decided that she really didn’t want to know.

She ran into the chaos, dodging around an Imperial Guard who lay dying upon his own sword. The Emperor had to be nearby. Assuming that Sicarion hadn’t yet killed him.

Caina spotted Alexius Naerius, Emperor of Nighmar.

The old man stood rigid, his face drawn. He looked like a man awaiting a deserved death with dignity, a condemned criminal who had made his peace with his sentence. Halfdan walked towards him, sword and serrated dagger in hand, and the spasm of grief and remorse and pain shot through Caina. She heard a strangled groan as Corvalis came to a stop alongside her, his green eyes fixed on Halfdan.

No. Not on Halfdan. On Sicarion, using a sorcerous bauble to steal Halfdan’s face. Just as he had used Rhames’s mask to steal Caina’s face, to stab Halfdan in the back…

A thread of rage pushed its through Caina’s crippling sorrow, and she used it to force herself forward another step.

Halfdan stopped before the Emperor and raised his weapons to kill.

“Sicarion!” Caina screamed.

And Halfdan paused.

###

Sicarion turned in surprise, ignoring the trembling Emperor for the moment. No need to worry about a threat from him. The old man looked on the verge of death.

Sicarion saw who had called his name and felt himself smile.

Caina Amalas and Corvalis Aberon stood a dozen yards away, both looking the worse for wear. Caina’s face twitched and jerked, her blue eyes full of tears. Corvalis clutched a ghostsilver-tipped spear, and he could have cast the weapon and skewered Sicarion.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The fear was too much.

He would stand there until Sicarion strolled over and cut his throat.

Oh, but this was going to be sweet. Which one to kill first? Corvalis or Caina? He decided on Corvalis. Caina had caused him so much trouble, and it would be sweet to kill her lover in front of her.

Sicarion headed towards Corvalis.

###

“I know what you did!” shouted Caina.

Halfdan walked towards her, weapons in hand.

“Treacherous child,” he hissed. “I took you in, I trained you, I made you what you are, and you cannot save the Emperor. You couldn’t even save me! I am ashamed, so ashamed. I wish I had left you to die in the darkness beneath the hills…”

She heard Sicarion’s rusty, rasping voice coming from Halfdan’s lips.

“You do?” he said, amused. “Do enlighten me.”

“You are unworthy of the name of the Ghosts!” said Halfdan.

“A phobomorphic spirit,” said Caina, her voice shaking as she fought to hold back the tears. “Bound in that amulet. It reflects back our darkest fears, deepest regrets. It’s not…it’s not…it’s not real!”

“Pathetic,” said Halfdan. “Crying like a child.”

“Very clever,” said Sicarion.

“It’s not real!” shouted Caina, failing to convince herself.

Sicarion laughed. “It doesn’t matter. The emotions might be created through sorcery…but they are real enough, and strong enough, and you cannot overcome them.” Halfdan spread his arms, face alight with hellish glee. “Go on. Put a knife through my throat. Right now. I won’t stop you. Come on, mighty Balarigar! Let’s see how strong you really are.”

Caina snatched a throwing knife from her belt.

“I knew you would betray me,” said Halfdan. “After everything I have done for you, this is how you repay me? You let me die? You raise a blade against me in anger?”

Caina sobbed. It wasn’t real! But the grief and sorrow filled her, and she wanted to collapse to the ground and weep until death claimed her.

But the thread of rage still burned through her heart.

She screamed and flung the knife.

The weapon clattered to the ground a few inches from Halfdan’s boots.

“Pathetic,” spat Halfdan.

“I thought not,” said Sicarion. “I’m here to kill the Emperor, but let’s have a little fun first, shall we? I’ll kill Aberon in front of you, and you can curse yourself for it. Then the Emperor. I’ve never killed an Emperor before. And then, Caina of the Ghosts, only then will I give you the mercy of death.”

He laughed, long and loud, and Halfdan started towards Corvalis, drawing his weapons back.

“Corvalis!” shouted Caina. “Run. Run!”

“Claudia,” croaked Corvalis, shaking. “I…I tried, I looked for you…”

It was no good.

Pure terror joined the emotions raging inside of Caina’s head. She had no particular wish to die, but the prospect did not frighten her. But the thought of seeing Corvalis die terrified her. She had to do something. She had to stop Sicarion.

Caina took a step forward, and Halfdan shouted curses at her. Useless, it was useless! Corvalis was going to die, the Emperor was going to die, and she had failed them both as she had failed Halfdan…

She wanted to collapse, to wait until death took her.

But the thread of rage would not let go.

She bowed her head, trying to think of something, anything, she could use against Sicarion. Halfdan screamed in fury and pain, and she heard Sicarion’s mocking laughter. A trio of dead Imperial Guards lay on the ground nearby, blood soaking into their purple cloaks and reflecting in the gleaming surface of their shields.

Caina blinked.

Shields that had been polished to a mirror sheen…

The phobomorphic spirit within the amulet showed anyone who saw Sicarion their worst fear.

So what would happen if Sicarion saw himself?

Caina didn’t know, but she wanted to find out.

She tore her eyes from Halfdan’s furious face and wrenched the shield from the grasp of the dead Imperial Guard. The thing was heavy, and Caina held it before her, fingers grasping the cold metal of the edges.

“Sicarion!” she yelled. “Look at me. Damn you, look at me!”

Halfdan stopped a few paces from Corvalis and looked at her, still berating her.

Then he stopped, frowning, and titled his head to the side.

Caina held the shield before her, arms trembling, heart hammering against her ribs.

“No,” Sicarion muttered.

Halfdan stepped back.

“No!” Sicarion shouted, and for the first time Caina heard fear in his rusty voice. “No! I killed you, you miserable bastard! I watched you die, I laughed as you bled out on the floor, I…”

Sicarion kept ranting, his threats mixing with Halfdan’s curses, and Caina lifted the shield before her eyes. She still felt the fear, still heard Halfdan, but the terror that gripped her faded somewhat.

She sprinting forward, screaming, and drove the shield into Halfdan. His face impacted against the shield with a crack, and Sicarion roared in sudden fury. Caina raised the shield over her head. A stab of grief shot through Caina as Halfdan’s betrayed eyes drilled into her, but she was already in motion.

She brought the shield down on the top of Halfdan’s head.

He stumbled back and dropped his weapons, the impact of the blow knocking the shield from Caina’s hands. She flung herself at him, clawing at his chest. The damned amulet had to be there, even if she couldn’t see it.

Something cold and pulsing with sorcery brushed against her fingers, and she yanked.

The amulet came off in her hand, the gold chain snapping, and Halfdan disappeared. Sicarion reappeared, blood streaming from a gash atop his scarred head, his face bruised.

Sicarion threw himself at her with a yell, and Caina went down with the scarred assassin on top of her, the amulet tumbling away.

###

Tanya disappeared, and Ark blinked.

The grief and pain were still there, but they faded like mist in the morning sun. Nothing he had seen had been real. With Caina’s help, he had rescued Tanya and Nicolai from the darkness below Black Angel Tower. Tanya and Nicolai and Natasha were safe in Malarae.

A lie. It had all been a lie, pumped into his head by some mind-controlling sorcery.

He turned his head and saw Caina fall, a hideously scarred man atop her.

###

Caina clawed at Sicarion’s face to little effect. The assassin’s scarred, mismatched hands clamped around her throat, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Black spots appeared before her eyes.

She yanked a throwing knife from her belt and slammed it into his side. The blade plunged through his leather armor and bit into his flesh, and Sicarion screamed. He struck her across the face, the back of her head bouncing off the ground, and white light flashed across her vision.

He ripped the throwing knife from his side and raised it high. “I’m going to…”

The ghostsilver spear plunged into Sicarion’s left side and burst out of his right in a spray of gore. The impact threw Sicarion off Caina, and he rolled to the side, snarling. Caina coughed and saw Corvalis standing a dozen yards away, his arm outstretched from his throw. Sicarion scrambled to his feet, the spear jutting from his torso, and began casting a spell, darkness and green fire dancing around his fingers. Caina coughed again and tried to sit up, hoping to throw a knife before Sicarion finished his spell…

“Die,” he snarled, “die, die…”

The green fire brightened.

Sicarion’s head popped off his shoulders and rolled away, crimson blood spurting from the stump of his neck. The corpse swayed for a moment and fell to the ground, the green fire fading away. Ark stood over Sicarion’s body, his Kyracian sword gripped in both hands, blood dripping from the blade.

“You should not,” he said, voice quiet, “have touched my wife.”

Caina sat up, and Corvalis helped her to stand.

“Are you all right?” said Corvalis.

“Not particularly,” said Caina, rubbing her throat, “but I’ll manage. You?”

He nodded, and Caina heard a squelching sound as Ark ripped the ghostsilver spear free and cleaned it on Sicarion’s cloak. He handed the weapon back over to Corvalis. A stunned silence fell over the Agora, men and women picking themselves up and shaking off the remnants of Sicarion’s dark dream.

“That throw,” said Ark, “was almost worthy of a Legionary. Almost.”

“Thank you,” said Corvalis, taking the spear back. “What did you do? You hit Sicarion with that shield and started fighting him…and then the fear just vanished.”

“I made him look at himself,” said Caina.

“With a face like his,” said Ark, “that would make anyone despair.”

Sicarion’s corpse had started to fall apart, blood pooling beneath it. He had been held together by necromancy, his sorcery binding replacement parts to his scarred flesh. But with his death, the spells had been broken…and now his corpse was breaking down into its component parts.

The smell was unpleasant.

Caina heard herself laugh. It sounded reedy and half-mad, and she forced herself to stop. “The shield. The Guards polish their shields to a mirror shine. Enough that Sicarion could see himself. I wonder what he saw.”

“His own death, probably,” said Corvalis. “Which met him soon enough.”

Caina looked around the Agora. The Imperial Guards were drawing themselves back into formation, seeing to the dead and the dying and guarding the Emperor and the nobles. The Emperor himself stared at Caina with a stunned, ashen expression.

She would have to explain herself.

Later. Right now she had to join Talekhris and find the Moroaica.

A boot scraped against the stone, and Caina saw a man in the gray leather of a stormdancer approaching, a lovely young Kyracian noblewoman at his side.

“Kylon,” said Caina.

“Caina,” said Kylon, gazing at Sicarion’s dissolving corpse. “The Ghosts finally killed him.”

“Kylon,” said the woman. Caina guessed she was Thalastre. “This is…this is her? The Ghost? But she threatened the Emperor, she…”

“An illusion, I think,” said Kylon.

Thalastre bowed. “I am Thalastre of House Kardamnos, and it is my very great honor to meet you. I owe you my life. Several times over. I…”

“It is an honor to meet you, but we have to hurry,” said Caina. “Kylon, the Moroaica is here in New Kyre. Probably somewhere near the Pyramid of Storm. She’s about to cast her great work.” She saw Talekhris hurrying over as fast as his injured leg would allow, Harkus and three of the Venatorii following him. “I don’t think she’s started yet. We…”

“Seize that woman!”

Caina turned as Lord Corbould, Lord Titus, and a pale-haired man she did not recognize hurried to the Emperor’s side.

“That is her, your Majesty,” said Corbould, pointing at Caina. “That is the woman who murdered my son, who attacked us here!”

“It would appear so,” said Titus, “though she looks…rather different that she did a few moments ago.”

“The wear and tear of combat could explain that,” said the pale-haired man.

“This is madness,” said Ark, gesture at Sicarion’s liquefying corpse. “That was your attacker, my lords. He used a sorcerous relic to appear as this woman.” Martin and Claudia hastened over, and Caina saw Claudia gather up the phobomorphic amulet and Rhames’s mask from Sicarion’s belt. “If not for her help, we would all be dead.”

“Dozens of witnesses saw her murder my son,” said Corbould, “and thousands more heard her admit it a few moments ago. I want her arrested.”

“I take exception to that, Lord Corbould,” said Kylon. “She is valiant and clever. She would no more lift her hand against the Emperor than you would.”

Corbould’s lined face tightened. “With respect, my lord Archon, this is an internal matter for the Empire.”

“I, too, have seen her valor,” said Lord Martin, scowling at Corbould. “Without her help, the cultists of Anubankh would have destroyed Caeria Ulterior, and much else besides.”

“Yes, I shall be glad to heed the counsel of a military incompetent who got himself banished to Caeria Ulterior,” said Lord Corbould. “Imperial Guards, take her. Kill her if she resists.”

A score of Imperial Guards headed towards Caina, swords drawn.

“With respect, my lord Corbould,” said Martin, “does not the Emperor command the Imperial Guard?”

All eyes turned to Alexius Naerius, and the Guards hesitated.

“Whatever you want to do to me, for the gods’ sake, do it quickly,” said Caina. “We cannot hesitate. New Kyre is in terrible danger.”

“Yes,” said Talekhris. “My lord Emperor, I urge you to make a decision quickly. Uncounted lives are at stake.”

Corbould snorted. “And just who the devil are you?”

Harkus frowned. “Even a high lord of the Empire should speak respectfully to the Sage of the Venatorii.”

“The Venatorii?” said Corbould. “Are we surrounded by secret societies now? Gods! My lord Emperor…”

“Enough,” said Alexius. Though his voice was quiet, the others all fell silent at once. The Emperor looked at Caina, and she forced herself to meet his gaze.

“I believe,” said the Emperor at last, “that…”

Caina gasped and stumbled, and would have fallen had not Corvalis caught her arm.

She felt sorcery in the air, powerful sorcery, stronger than anything she had ever encountered before. Every single sorcerer in the plaza, whether the magi or the stormsingers or the stormdancers, looked at the towering stone mass of the Pyramid of Storm.

The ground trembled beneath Caina’s boots.

A moaning wind rose up, blowing dust through the Agora.

“What is happening?” said Corbould.

“Too late,” said Talekhris. “The great work.”

A column of raging golden flame erupted from the apex of the Pyramid.

Chapter 18 - A World Reborn

“Now,” said Jadriga.

She took a deep breath, her stolen body’s lungs filling with air. After two thousand years, she was ready. Two thousand years of torment, of study, of constant struggle and experimentation and fighting. Two thousand years spent acquiring the most profound knowledge of sorcery ever collected upon this world, knowledge that surpassed the Great Necromancers of Maat, or the Imperial Magisterium during its height in the Fourth Empire.

Knowledge that she could at last put to use.

“Do not do this, I beg,” said the Surge, all three of her voices filled with fear. Her priestesses huddled behind her, watching Jadriga with wide eyes. She felt a slight twinge of amusement at their terror. The priestesses of the Surge were so haughty when dealing with the lords of New Kyre. Yet the sight of the Bringer of Ashes herself, the dread sorceress of legend, unnerved them so terribly.

How would the priestesses react, Jadriga wondered, if they knew that she had been younger than they when she died the first time?

It mattered not. Malifae had been dead for centuries…but the Moroaica, the Bringer of Ashes and the Queen of Crows, would throw the gods from their thrones.

“You need not do this,” said the Surge. The silver pool flickered with images, showing cities wreathed in flame and falling into chasms, the oceans rising to break free of their shores, mountains falling and the plains burning. Sometimes the face of Caina Amalas flickered across the pool. Jadriga wondered if Sicarion’s distraction had succeeded.

It matter not. If Caina tried to intervene, Jadriga would kill her.

“You need not do this!” said the Surge, fresh urgency in her voices. “Can you not see the folly? The world will burn and drown and freeze if you wake the elemental princes! If you enter the netherworld and tear open a gate to the heavens, you shall shatter the barrier between the mortal world and the netherworld. Our world shall be torn asunder!”

“You are wrong,” said Jadriga, forcing her will into the Staff of the Elements in her right hand. Fires wreathed the staff, but the metal felt cool beneath her hands. “Perhaps the storm of the world, as you term it, grants clairvoyance, but it does not grant you an understanding of the underlying principles of sorcery. I will do this, and I will succeed.”

“No,” said the Surge. “You shall not.”

“Why even attempt to dissuade me?” said Jadriga. “If you are right, I am an undead thing, and can no more change my course than a river can choose to alter its bed.” The rage burned anew in her, the rage that had blazed in her heart every day for millennia. “I will remake the world, I shall set it ablaze and reforge it. I shall rip the gods from their thrones and make them pay for…”

“Yes,” said the Surge, closing her silver-glowing eyes, “yes, you have said it all before. I am sorry for all that has befallen you. But your will was lost long ago. All that remains of you is your rage, and you will continue your path of destruction until you destroy yourself at last.” She opened her eyes. “Or the Balarigar stops you.”

“No one will stop me,” said Jadriga. “Leave the Sanctuary. Or stay if you wish. But the amount of power I am about to summon will be lethal to anyone standing nearby.”

“So be it,” said the Surge, and she led her priestesses from the Sanctuary.

Jadriga gave them no further thought. They had no weapons that could harm her, no spells to penetrate her wards. Soon enough, when the new world arose from the ashes of the old, they would understand.

She cleared her mind, performing the basic mental exercises of sorcery that Rhames had taught her so long ago, and pointed the Staff of the Elements at the floating Ascendant Bloodcrystal, the hieroglyph written in phoenix ashes glowing with golden light.

And then she began the spell.

She spoke the intricate phrases in Maatish, summoning the power and pushing it into the elaborate designs she had carved into the walls and floor and ceiling. The hieroglyphs glowed brighter and brighter, until as one they erupted with pale green flame, sheathing the Sanctuary in emerald fire. The lines of green light danced, growing sharper and brighter as she summoned more sorcerous force.

And still Jadriga drew more power.

Suddenly thousands of lines of green light stabbed into the staff’s dark metal. A ribbon of fire erupted from the Ascendant Bloodcrystal and wrapped around the Staff of the Elements, augmenting the staff’s power. Jadriga now held enough power to shatter the Pyramid of Storm in a heartbeat if she chose.

But the final spell was just beginning.

She let the power flow into the staff, its flames turning a ghostly green. Jadriga raised the staff, and the tremendous might of the Ascendant Bloodcrystal poured into her. The bloodcrystal’s sorcery filled her mind, and it extended the reach of her thoughts, until it seemed as if her mental vision could encompass the entire world at once.

And the dozens of hibernating elemental princes that dotted the surface of the world.

The elemental princes came here to rest between the endless, eternal battles they waged in the netherworld. A short respite from their eternal perspectives, though their sleep could last tens of thousands of years. The Stone in Cyrica Urbana was one such elemental lord, and Ranarius had foolishly tried to awaken it as a weapon against her. Had he succeeded, the elemental would have killed him, Cyrioch would have been destroyed, and hundreds of thousands would have perished in the resultant earthquakes. The power of one awakened elemental prince beyond mortal reckoning.

And now Jadriga would wake them all up at once.

She sent the command through the staff, and power flooded through her. Jadriga gasped and caught her balance, leaning upon the Staff of the Elements as a vortex of green flame blazed around her. The staff had been designed to awaken one elemental at a time. But with the Ascendant Bloodcrystal’s sorcery to fuel her spells, Jadriga could use the staff to draw upon the power of every hibernating elemental lord at once.

Giving her power enough to crack the world in half, to rip open the barriers between the mortal world and the netherworld.

But still she had not yet finished gathering power.

Jadriga screamed another spell, her head resounding with the words, and lowered the barriers she had erected around the Ascendant Bloodcrystal.

The crystal came to life at once, burning like a sun of green fire. It had been designed as a weapon, constructed to kill every living thing within five hundred miles and transfer the stolen life energy to its wielder. The crystal had a mind and will of its own, and its purpose thundered inside her skull.

It spoke to her using the voice of Rhames, of course.

“Use me,” said the Ascendant Bloodcrystal in Rhames’s familiar, dry tones. “Use me and become a goddess. Use me and lay this wretched world waste! Fulfill my purpose, and fulfill yours!”

Jadriga smiled. “You shall not fulfill your purpose…but you shall achieve mine.”

Vengeance for her father. Vengeance for all who had suffered in this dark world of misery.

Wielding the might of the awakening elemental princes, Jadriga absorbed the power of the phoenix ashes and poured them into the Ascendant Bloodcrystal. The crystal loosed a hideous, strained screech. It had been built of blood and death, and was a tool of necromancy. The phoenix ashes were life. Raw, unrestrained life, regeneration and rebirth.

Immortality, if wielded properly.

Jadriga shoved the power of the ashes into the crystal, cracks spreading across its facets. The bloodcrystal glowed golden, not green, and its power reached out, touching everything for a thousand miles. But instead of seeking out the living and offering death, the crystal’s power, overwhelmed by the phoenix ashes, sought out the dead and offered them life.

The crystal’s shrieking grew louder, and Jadriga flung out her hands.

The Ascendant Bloodcrystal exploded in a pillar of golden flame. The Sanctuary shattered into glowing stone splinters, a firestorm raging around Jadriga. The pulse of golden fire poured out from the pyramid, spreading across the earth and the sea.

She felt the fire touch the dead in their graves, uncounted millions of them.

And one by one they began to rise, restored to life by the power of the phoenix ashes.

They would spread across the world, killing and killing as the madness of their new lives took hold…and their victims would rise in turn, reborn by the power of the phoenix ashes. In time the madness would end, but by then the entire population of the world would have been killed and raised again. The power of the phoenix ashes would make them immortal and invincible, free from the ravages of disease and age, immune to hunger and thirst.

Perfected, as the gods had never bothered.

The elemental princes would lay the world waste as they returned to the netherworld, and reborn humanity, immortal and invincible, could remake the world in a new image, free of war and strife.

Jadriga raised her eyes and looked at the sky, the pillar of golden flame stabbing upward. The barrier between the worlds was thin here, a consequence of the Surge’s powers. A powerful sorcerer could tear open a gate without mirrors or stone arches or any of the other material anchors usually required.

And Jadriga now had more power than every sorcerer in the world.

She made a tearing motion with her free hand, and the gate ripped open.

It spread across the sky a thousand feet overhead, a massive rift of snarling golden flame and silver light. It opened wider and wider, and through the maelstrom Jadriga saw the gloom and ever-shifting terrain of the netherworld.

It was far overhead, but Jadriga wielded the combined powers of the hibernating elementals, and the distance was no obstacle.

She stepped into the air, and a pillar of ice formed beneath her boots.

Step by step Jadriga climbed, ice harder than granite coalescing beneath her. A slender spire of dark, silvery ice ascended from the top of the Pyramid and the wreckage of the Surge’s Sanctuary, rising as she climbed. Jadriga ascended, the Staff of the Elements swirling with frost in her hand, and soon she stood five hundred feet over New Kyre, the spire of ice rising with her.

She saw the rising chaos in the city, saw thousands of the golden dead emerging from the harbor, sheathed in phoenix fires as they screamed the madness of their rebirth. The earth shook and trembled, the seas heaving, and the wind howled overhead, though it did not touch Jadriga. She felt a brief pang of regret. Everyone in New Kyre was going to die. Everyone in the world was about to die, and she regretted the pain she would cause them.

But it was worth it. They would be reborn in new and immortal forms, free of age and disease. The horror spreading below her was the final death of the old, decaying world, and the birth throes of the new.

Her hand tightened against the staff.

And the gods would not be here to ruin the new world as they had the old.

Jadriga climbed, ignoring the screams of the city below, the ice spire and stairs rising as she did. The burning rift she had carved into the sky grew brighter as she drew nearer.

And then at last the spire pierced the gate, and Jadriga stepped through the rift and into the netherworld.

The noise from the dying city faded away.

She felt turf beneath her boots, and stepped away from the frozen spire and onto a plain of rippling, knee-high grass. The grass was utterly devoid of color, and waved in a wind that Jadriga neither heard nor felt. Strange things floated overhead. Pieces of land, as if scooped from the earth by a giant hand. Images of stone and obsidian, showing men and women and bizarre, alien creatures. Uprooted trees, some hanging upside down. Towers and stairs that went nowhere, or circled into each other in an endless twisting spiral. Black clouds billowed overhead, moving against the direction of the peculiar wind. An eerie green glow lit everything, and from time to time a burst of silent emerald lightning jumped from cloud to cloud.

The netherworld.

The source of sorcery, the home of spirits and djinni and elementals.

And from here she would open a gate to the world beyond the netherworld, the abode of the gods, or perhaps the high god that ruled over all of creation. The power of the elemental princes flowed up the spire and into her, and with it she would overthrow the gods.

And then her new world would dwell in bliss and harmony forevermore.

Jadriga began the spell, the netherworld flowing around her.

Chapter 19 - Balarigar

“What is happening?” said the Emperor.

No one answered him. Every eye turned toward the Pyramid of Storm, the shaft of flame stabbing upward, the tear of golden light spreading across the sky. Caina felt an unrelenting wave of arcane power pressing against her skin, stronger than Maglarion’s great bloodcrystal, stronger than Mihaela’s Forge, stronger even than the Ascendant Bloodcrystal in the heart of Caer Magia.

“I think,” said Caina. Her voice was a scratchy whisper, but they turned to look at her nonetheless. “I think that the world is about to end.”

The pillar of light exploded, the storm of arcane force growing stronger. The earth trembled beneath Caina’s boots, and screams rose from the streets around the Agora of Nations. A wall of golden flame erupted from the Pyramid and spread in all directions, flowing over New Kyre like a towering wave. It swallowed the ziggurats and temples below the Pyramid and spread across the city with terrific speed.

Caina’s first impulse was to run. But there was no way anyone could outrun that wave of fire. She saw the magi and the stormsingers working spells, preparing wards to repulse the flames. But she had seen the power of the phoenix fire that had consumed Ibrahmus Sinan in Malarae, and knew their wards could not turn aside the flame.

They had failed to stop Jadriga, and they were about to die.

There was only one thing left to do.

Caina seized Corvalis’s free hand, holding it as tight as she could.

He squeezed back.

The wall of flame, taller than the Pyramid of Storm itself, surged into the Agora of Nations, and Caina closed her eyes.

The wave of golden fire slammed into her, and Caina felt its awesome arcane power like a web of needles dragging over her skin, her stomach clenching in pain. She waited for the end, waited to the fire to scour the flesh from her bones and the agony to begin.

But nothing happened.

Stunned, she turned and watched the wall of flame roar away, passing through the tenements and the ships filling the harbor. She looked back at the heart of New Kyre, at the ziggurats and towers and temples rising from the center of the city.

All of them untouched.

Nothing. The fire had done nothing.

Yet the pillar of golden fire still billowed from the Pyramid of Storm, and as Caina watched, something glittering began to rise from the Pyramid, like a slender column of crystal, or perhaps ice…

“Nothing,” said Lord Titus. “The fire did nothing.”

“Plainly,” said Corbould. “My lord Emperor, I suggest we have the woman arrested at once, before she can work any further…”

“Are you blind?” said Talekhris, pointing at the Pyramid. “The destruction of the world begins, and you quibble over trifles?”

Corbould scowled. “The death of my son and an attempt upon the life of the Emperor of Nighmar are not trifles. Whoever you are, I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head, or else…”

Talekhris, the Emperor’s advisors, Harkus, Ark, and Kylon all began trying to talk at once, but Caina barely heard them. The power radiating from the Pyramid grew stronger as the pillar of ice climbed towards the burning rift in the sky. Yet Caina sensed new flickers of power around her, sorcery that lingered in the Agora. She looked around, trying to find its source, and realized that it emanated from the three dead Imperial Guards lying near the Emperor.

Their dead eyes glowed.

Caina blinked in surprise. The glow in their eyes brightened to golden flames, and golden fire wreathed their hands and leaked from the joints in their armor.

“Corvalis,” she hissed, releasing his hand and drawing her ghostsilver dagger.

The dead men stood, and the argument ceased as dozens of the slain began to stand, their eyes crackling with golden fire, a faint halo of flame dancing around their hands.

“What is this?” said the Emperor. “Magi, explain.”

Kylon answered him first. “I fear they are undead, my lord Emperor. Creatures raised by the Moroaica’s black sorcery.” He looked at Lord Tiraedes and the other Archons. “My lords, we must reach the Pyramid at once. This spell is the work of the Moroaica, and these undead…”

“No,” said Talekhris, holding his silver rod in his right hand and putting on his mask with his left, “no, these things are not undead. They are much worse. The phoenix fire has restored their flesh to life, but their souls have moved on to their final destinations. These are merely…empty shells, restored to life, but empty nonetheless. Mindless and soulless…and filled with rage.” White light blazed to life around his rod. “Defend yourselves!”

As one, the burning dead loosed horrible, mindless howls, and flung themselves forward. Talekhris slashed his rod, and a blast of white fire ripped across the three burning Guards nearest to the Emperor. The white flame quenched the golden, and the corpses fell to the ground, lifeless once more.

But dozens more charged. Caina saw an ashtairoi fall beneath the burning hands of a corpse, saw battle break out across the Agora.

“Defend the Emperor!” roared Corbould, and the surviving Imperial Guards hastened to form ranks around Alexius Naerius, drawing their swords and raising their shields.

“Defend the Archons!” shouted one of the ashtairoi, and the Kyracian soldiers formed up, putting themselves between the Archons and the golden dead. Kylon stepped before the ashtairoi, his sword glittering with frost.

Caina supposed he did not need the ashtairoi to defend him.

Then a dead Imperial Guard charged Caina, and she had no more attention to spare for anything else.

The dead Guard did not bother with subtlety or strategy. The creature reached for her with hands wreathed in golden flame, a horrible moan coming from the slack lips. Caina sidestepped and drove her heel into the back of the Guard’s knee. The Guard toppled with a clatter of black armor, and Corvalis plunged his ghostsilver spear into the man’s exposed throat. The golden fire sputtered and went out as the ghostsilver blade pierced the spells, and the Guard went still.

Then the golden flames returned. The wound on the dead Guard’s throat closed, more golden fire shining around his eyes and hands. The Alchemist Sinan had possessed a similar power when Caina and Corvalis fought him outside the Lord Ambassador’s mansion in Malarae. Every time he had been mortally wounded, the power of the phoenix ashes had regenerated his injured flesh…though at an increasingly severe cost.

The dead Guard hauled himself back to his feet. A new ear, wet and glistening, had grown over the healed wound in the Guard’s throat, and strange black bulges dotted his neck.

Corvalis yelled and slashed the spear across the Guard’s throat yet again. Once more the Guard collapsed to the ground, but the golden fire reappeared at once, his wounds beginning to close.

“Sinan,” said Corvalis. “It’s like Sinan all over again.”

Caina risked a quick look around the Agora. Talekhris’s sorcery had destroyed dozens of undead Guards and ashtairoi, but even now the golden fire returned to their limbs, reanimating them once more. The living Imperial Guards and the ashtairoi had destroyed scores more of the golden dead, but the sorcerous fire returned to them, healing their wounds and restoring them to life with grotesque deformities. Even the severed limbs and heads began to grow additional body parts, tiny legs sprouting from the ragged stumps of necks, mouths and teeth yawning from the sides of severed arms.

It was like a scene from a mad painter’s blackest nightmares.

And more of the golden dead ran from the streets, gibbering and hooting, and Caina saw chaos in the harbor as the dead rose from the waters. There had been vast naval battles in the waters outside of New Kyre, dozens of them over the centuries.

“Everywhere,” said Caina. “It’s happening everywhere.”

“I can see that,” said Corvalis, ghostsilver spear ready in his hands.

“No, the entire world,” said Caina. “The spell…that spell was powerful enough to cover every nation under the sun. Jadriga’s covered the world with the power of the phoenix ashes.” She remembered the Moroaica’s speeches about creating a new world, a world free of death and injury. “We can’t kill them. They’ll just keep coming back over and over again until they’ve killed everyone…”

“And everyone has become one of them,” said Corvalis, voice grim.

The scope of it horrified Caina. An entire world filled with creatures like the golden dead, mindless, immortal things hunting each other in a thoughtless fury, growing more twisted and deformed as they died and were reborn again and again? Was this what the Moroaica had intended? Surely not even Jadriga was so mad. Perhaps she had thought it would work differently. Perhaps she had known it would be like this, but had convinced herself otherwise.

Or perhaps the spirit of Horemb had been right, and Jadriga was frozen in her grief and rage, unable to stop her quest for vengeance until it destroyed her.

Or it destroyed the world.

“We’ve got to stop the Moroaica,” said Caina. “It’s the only way. Otherwise those creatures will kill everyone in the world.”

“We have ghostsilver weapons to penetrate her wards,” said Corvalis, “and I think I know where she will be.” He pointed the spear at the Pyramid, at the raging maelstrom of golden fire in the sky above it. Looking at the vortex, Caina glimpsed a colorless plain beneath an unnatural sky. Was the rip in the sky a massive gate to the netherworld? Talekhris had said Jadriga would enter the netherworld in the flesh to work her spells. “Let’s go.”

“We’ll never make it,” said Caina. “Not the two of us. We need help.”

She spotted Talekhris. The Sage backed away, unleashing blast after blast of white fire at his burning foes. Dozens of them fell to the power of his sorcery, yet hundreds more swarmed into the Agora, and more rose from the harbor. The Imperial Guards and the ashtairoi had split into two groups, fighting to defend their nobles. She saw Kylon moving in a sorcery-fueled blur through the golden dead, his frost-wreathed blade quenching the fires of his foes and leaving motionless corpses in his wake.

It was only a matter of time before they were overrun.

But Caina looked at Kylon’s sword and something clicked.

“I have an idea,” said Caina. “Let’s go.”

She sprinted toward Talekhris, Corvalis following.

###

“Hold!” roared Ark, raising his borrowed shield. “Hold, damn you! You are Imperial Guards, not quaking children! Let’s show the Kyracians how men of the Empire fight!”

Almost all the centurions of the Imperial Guard had been killed in the mayhem of Sicarion’s attack, and the last centurion had fallen when a wailing, flame-wreathed corpse ripped his head off his shoulders.

The centurion’s corpse had risen to join the golden dead a few moments later.

So Ark had taken command of the defense of the Emperor and the nobles. One of the magi had protested, but had changed his mind after Ark had split his lip. Once the thought of punching a high magus would have daunted him, but he had seen some terrifying things during his time with the Ghosts.

Though he supposed an army of insane, mindless corpses wreathed in golden fire was the worst yet.

But he had been the first spear centurion of the Eighteenth Legion, and he would be damned if he would accept any foolishness in a battle, even if they were all about to die.

“Battle magi!” said Ark.

A black blur shot overhead, four battle magi using their sorcerous power to enhance their leap. A mob of fifty or sixty golden dead charged the Imperial Guards, and the battle magi landed in their midst like thunderbolts. They struck left and right with their weapons, the power of their spell-enhanced blows driving the golden dead to the ground.

But they never stayed down. In a few moments they would rise again, brought back to life by the golden flames. And every death made them a little more monstrous. Sometimes they grew new limbs, or gained a foot in height, or simply became stronger and faster.

Ark desperately hoped that Caina had a plan.

The battle magi finished wreaking mayhem among the golden dead and jumped back to the safety of the Imperial line. Perhaps twenty of the burning dead had fallen, and the rest came in a disorganized rush.

“Shields!” shouted Ark. The Guards raised their shields, drawing back their swords to strike, and the golden dead attacked in a wall of deformed flesh and golden fire. Ark struck with his storm-forged sword again and again, the blade hewing through necks and limbs with equal facility. For an odd moment it reminded him of his early days working at Legion’s forge, hammering out horseshoes and armor under the supervision of the centurions.

Then the last of the golden dead fell, and Ark looked around.

He had lost three more Guards to that charge. But all the golden dead lay strewn and motionless across the ground, their blood pooling on the flagstones of the plaza. Already he saw the dim glimmer of golden fire in their eyes and upon their fingers.

“Move,” said Ark. “Move! Closer to the Kyracians! Get away from the dead!”

The Imperial Guards obeyed, moving with the smooth coordination of elite soldiers. The nobles and the Emperor moved in the center, shielded by the Guards. Though there were far fewer Guards now, and every wave of golden dead reduced their numbers a little further…

“This is madness, Ark,” said Corbould, his sword in hand. He would have fought in the battle line, but Ark had forbidden it. “We cannot prevail! We must find a safe place…”

“There is no safe place!” said Ark. “Where can we go? You saw that golden flame. Gods, half the world must be overrun with the damned things. We have to fight for as long as we can.”

“Until what?” said Corbould. The Guards moved closer to the Kyracians, and more mobs of golden dead emerged from the streets, some pursuing terrified slaves and commoners. Ark wished he could send them aid, but if the Guards broke formation they would be overwhelmed.

“Caina will know what to do,” said Ark.

Aeolus and the Emperor shared a look.

“Your damned Ghost,” said Corbould. “You had better be right, Arcion.”

Ark hoped so, too.

Then another wave of golden dead attacked, and there was no more time for argument.

###

Kylon moved in a blur before the ashtairoi, the sorcery of air fueling his speed, the sorcery of water granting his blows the power of a flood. He danced through the golden dead, dodging around their clumsy attacks, striking right and left with his sword. The touch of his frost-wreathed blade quenched the golden fires in their flesh, and the reborn men toppled limp and motionless to the ground.

Yet more kept coming.

And those he slew rose again, the golden fire healing their wounds. Worse, they came back stronger, with new limbs growing to replace the ones he severed, the strange sorcery warping and deforming their bodies. They got a little stronger and a little faster with every death.

Sooner or later they were going to overwhelm him.

The ashtairoi fought with valor, cutting down wave after wave of the golden dead. The stormsingers stood behind them and unleashed their powers. Gusts of hurricane winds flung the golden dead like toys, while blasts of lightning ripped down from the sky to tear the golden dead to smoking shreds. Kylon whirled and took the head off one creature with a powerful slash, and he saw Thalastre standing with the other stormsingers, arms upraised as she called the lightning. He was relieved that she was safe. If she had fallen and been reborn as one of those flame-wreathed corpses, he was not sure he could have borne the sight.

He struck down another of the golden dead, and another.

But for every one he killed, two more took its place…and the creatures kept rising again.

###

Caina ducked under a flame-wreathed arm and slashed with her dagger. The ghostsilver blade bit into the throat of the golden dead, blood bursting across her fingers. The creature toppled and fell motionless, and Corvalis struck down two more, the spear a blur of black and silver in his hands.

The golden fire began to glimmer in the dead men.

But for a moment, just a moment, she had a clear path to Talekhris.

Caina sprinted to his side, leaping over a pair of corpses. A ring of motionless dead men surrounded Talekhris, and the Sage’s rod crackled with white fire. Harkus and the remaining Venatorii guarded the Sage, attacking any dead men that got past the barrage of spells. The golden dead struck by Talekhris’s sorcery remained down for longer, and did not rise again so quickly.

But they still rose eventually.

Even with Talekhris’s power, sooner or later the golden dead would overwhelm them. Caina wondered what was happening in the rest of the world, how Malarae and Cyrioch and Rasadda and Marsis would fight the golden dead, and put that ghastly thought out of her mind.

The only way to help them was to stop the Moroaica.

“Talekhris!” said Caina.

“Go!” shouted the Sage, his voice hoarse. “I cannot hold them off forever! Go to the Pyramid of Storm, enter the netherworld after the Moroaica, and kill her. It is the only way to end her spells. Go, quickly!”

“I cannot,” said Caina. “The golden dead fill the streets. I won’t make it halfway to the Pyramid of Storm before I am torn apart. But together with the Imperial Guard and the ashtairoi, we might make it there.”

Talekhris shook his head, the jade mask glinting. “They will not stand a chance.”

“If they fight together, they do,” said Caina.

“They cannot hold off the burning dead long enough to join forces,” said Talekhris.

“What if you strike all of them at once?” said Caina. “Every one of the golden dead in the Agora?”

“Even I do not have that kind of power!” said Talekhris. He waved his rod, and a sheet of white fire slammed into a dozen charging dead, throwing them to the ground. Their halos of golden fire vanished, save for a faint glimmer around the eyes. Beyond them the ashtairoi struggled to hold position, surrounded by the burning dead. Kylon attacked, his sword sheathed in freezing white mist…

“Their swords,” said Caina. “Could you enspell their swords against the golden dead?”

“I…” His voice trailed off. “Yes, yes, that could work. And that would be far less effort than striking myself. Gods, I am a fool! I should have done this at once.”

He waved the rod, a surge of arcane power flooding the air, and struck it against the ground. A corona of silver fire snarled around him, and then erupted in all directions. The flames passed through Caina without touching her, but she saw the swords of the Venatorii glow with silver light, the weapons of the Imperial Guard and the ashtairoi gleaming like silver candles.

###

Ark blinked in astonishment.

His storm-forged sword shone with pale silver light. At first he thought that the sword had always been enspelled, that the fight against the burning dead had awakened some long-dormant arcane property within the blade. But he saw the silver light shining from the weapons of the other men, and realized that something else had happened.

One of the golden dead, once a lovely young woman, her face now distorted with strange, tumor-like growths, lunged at the shield wall. Ark stabbed with his glowing sword, and the blade scratched across her shoulder. In an instant the golden fire winked out, and the woman’s corpse toppled to the ground.

The merest touch had been enough to overcome the golden dead. Perhaps one of the magi had devised a counter-spell.

But he suspected Caina had had something to do with it.

“Strike hard, men of the Guard!” roared Ark. “The silver light is anathema to the undead! Strike!”

The Imperial Guards attacked with new vigor, and this time they mowed through the golden dead, driving them across the Agora. Within moments the Imperial Guards had hacked their way clear, leaving a trail of corpses behind them. The ashtairoi did the same, and soon the Agora had been cleared of the golden dead.

But Ark saw the golden fire pooling anew in the eyes of the corpses.

They had won a respite, but not for long.

Ark faced the Emperor and the other nobles. They had to decide upon a plan of action. Sooner or later the burning dead would rise again, and more and more of the creatures were rampaging through the rest of the city. If they stayed here they would be overwhelmed.

He opened his mouth to speak, and then heard Caina Amalas shouting.

###

“Hear me!” yelled Caina into the sudden silence, grateful that Theodosia had long ago taught her how to project her voice. Corvalis and Talekhris and the surviving Venatorii followed her, and she saw the tension in Talekhris’s frame as he struggled to maintain the spell he had placed upon the spears and swords of the ashtairoi and the Guards.

She had to hurry. She had to convince them to follow her plan at once.

The Guards and the ashtairoi leveled their weapons at her. After all, when they had last seen her face, Sicarion had tried to kill the Emperor.

“My name is Caina Amalas!” she shouted. “And I was a Ghost nightfighter, and I have fought the enemies of the Empire for half my life. When the Istarish and the Kyracians came to seize Marsis, I killed Rezir Shahan and I liberated the slaves, and I threw his head into his own army!”

A murmur went through the ashtairoi and the lords of the Assembly.

They remembered the tales of the Balarigar.

“I went to Catekharon,” said Caina, “and I stopped the renegade Seeker from unleashing destruction. I have fought sorcerers, slavers, and thrown down corrupt lords. And again and again I have fought the disciples of the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend, the woman the Kyracians call the Bringer of Ashes. But she is no legend! One of her disciples disguised himself as me and conjured a vision of your worst fears. And even now the Moroaica is summoning the golden dead from atop the Pyramid of Storm!” She pointed at the Pyramid, at the snarling, growing vortex to the netherworld.

They were listening. They hadn’t killed her yet. That was good.

“My lords, heed me, I beg,” said Caina. “You must join forces and fight your way to the Pyramid of Storm.” She gestured at Talekhris. “The Sage can maintain the spell warding your weapons. Once we get to the Pyramid, I can follow the Moroaica into the netherworld and kill her with this dagger.” She lifted the ghostsilver blade. “This is our only chance, my lords. We must kill the Moroaica. If we do not, the spell will continue. The dead will rise again and again in golden fire, and will not stop until they have transformed New Kyre into a city of living corpses. They will not stop until they have killed the world. My lords, you must heed me. Do with as you will. Kill me if you must.” Corvalis scowled. “But go to the Pyramid of Storm and stop the Moroaica. The fate of New Kyre, of the Empire, of every nation and every generation yet unborn rests upon your shoulders!”

She fell silent, breathing hard. Theodosia would have been proud. She hoped Theodosia was still alive.

“Citizens and lords of the Assembly,” said Kylon, stepping away from the ashtairoi ranks. “I urge you to follow her counsel. If not for this woman, we would have been victorious in Marsis. If not for her, the terrible weapons in Catekharon would have drowned the world in blood. And if not for her, my wife would be dead, and ancient Maat would have been born anew in blood and death.” He walked to Caina’s side, and Thalastre joined them. “I would prefer to act with the consent of the Assembly, but if need be I shall do this myself.”

“You have,” said Lord Tiraedes, “quite convinced us, Kylon.”

“This woman is a traitor and a murderess,” said Corbould. “I will not rest until I see her dead.”

“Perhaps she speaks the truth,” said the pale-haired lord near Corbould, “but she might not. Better that we kill her rather than risk of future treachery.”

Ark snorted. “A fine argument, given that she just saved us from a disciple of the Moroaica.”

“Enough!” said Lord Titus. “My lords, we must act at once, or we risk ruin darker than any in the history of the Empire. In the history of the world! My lord Emperor, what shall we do?”

For a moment Alexius Naerius stared at Caina. She had never spoken to him. She had served him for half her life, and Halfdan had always spoken highly of him, but she did not know him at all.

“My lords,” said the Emperor at last. “In this matter I shall give you one command, and I expect you to obey it diligently.”

He pointed at Caina, and she took a deep breath. If they came to kill her, she would not resist. They had to stop the Moroaica before she destroyed the world. If her life was the cost for that, so be it.

“Do whatever that woman tells you,” said the Emperor.

Caina blinked.

She had not expected that.

“My lord Emperor!” said Corbould.

“Corbould,” said Alexius, and the old lord fell silent, still glaring at Caina.

She took another deep breath. If they lived through this, she could deal with Corbould later.

“Ark, Kylon,” said Caina. “Get us to the Pyramid of Storm.”

Chapter 20 - The Golden Dead

Ark looked at the sky and frowned.

The tear in the heavens was getting bigger.

The Imperial Guards marched deeper into New Kyre, flanked on either side by ashtairoi with their shields and swords. The combined nobles of the Assembly and the Imperial embassy walked in the center of the formation, along with the stormsingers and the magi. Together they guarded Talekhris, who gripped his Sage’s rod in both hands, silver fire flickering around it. They had to keep the golden dead from reaching him. Without him, they would lose the spell enhancing their weapons, and then the golden dead would tear them to pieces.

They had been attacked three times since leaving the Agora of Nations, mostly by bands of golden dead wandering the streets. All three times they had been victorious at minimal cost, but if Talekhris was killed, the next skirmish would not go as well.

They did not have much time left.

Thousands upon thousands of golden dead rose from the harbor, clawing their way free from their watery graves at the bottom of the sea. The creatures had no purpose, no direction, and attacked and wandered at random, moaning and wailing. Sometimes locked doors thwarted them, and other times they stormed into the ziggurats and the tenements, killing everyone within. If the huge mass of golden dead forced the Imperial Guard and the ashtairoi to retreat into one of the ziggurats, they would be trapped until they died of hunger and thirst or the golden dead killed them all.

Or until the rift in the sky swallowed them.

When they had left the Agora of Nations, the vortex has been perhaps half the size of the Pyramid of Storm. Now it was large enough to cover the Pyramid itself, and perhaps a third of the Agora of Archons as well. Looking at the rift gave Ark a sense of vertigo, as if he was staring into a chasm that had no bottom.

He saw Caina looking at him, her ragged caravan guard’s disguise dirty and bloodstained. As always, her ability to change her appearance surprised him. He had seen her as a beautiful young noblewoman, so stunning that she drew half the eyes in the room, or as a scarred, weathered mercenary who had nothing in common with that beautiful woman.

“The damned thing’s getting bigger, isn’t it?” said Ark.

Caina nodded. As always, Corvalis walked at her side, the ghostsilver spear ready in his hand.

“What is it?” said Ark.

“Talekhris says it’s a gate to the netherworld,” said Caina. “Apparently Jadriga had to open it to draw enough power to raise the golden dead. Then she entered the netherworld to make war upon the gods. But whatever she’s doing in the netherworld is making the gate bigger. It will keep getting bigger until it rips apart our world.”

“Gods,” said Ark. “And Kalastus just wanted to burn Rasadda to the ground.”

She almost smiled. “Life was simpler back then, wasn’t it?”

“Lord Champion!”

Ark turned. The men marched up a broad avenue leading to the Agora of Archons, a wide canal flowing down its center. Bridges stretched over the canal every fifty yards, dozens of boats floating abandoned in the water. The people of New Kyre had fled the streets once the golden dead rose. He hoped they had gotten to safety behind locked doors. He hoped the golden dead did not start tearing down those locked doors.

One of his scouts hurried closer. Ark had asked for volunteers, and the Guards had a goodly number of men who knew how to move quietly. The burning dead, for all their strength and speed, were not terribly clever, and a skilled man could avoid their notice.

“Lord Champion!” said the scout, breathing hard. “A great mob of the dead march through that side street.” He pointed at a street that branched off from the main avenue, another canal going down its center. “At least five hundred strong.”

Ark cursed. “Can we get to the Agora of the Archons before they intercept us?”

“I do not believe so,” said the scout. “They’ll hit us just as we pass the street.”

“It’s not much farther to the Agora of Archons,” said Kylon. “If we press on, we can perhaps make it.”

“I agree with Lord Kylon,” said Talekhris, a hint of strain in his voice as he maintained the spell upon the weapons. “This will not end until we get to the Pyramid of Storm and confront the Moroaica.”

“If we cannot get to the Pyramid,” said Ark, “then we will not end anything. More golden dead rise from the harbor. If we get pinned here, they’ll catch up to us and we’re finished.” He turned to Kylon. “I suggest we fight off the smaller band of golden dead. If we do it quickly enough, we can finish them off and make it to the Agora of Archons before the rest catch us.”

“Agreed,” said Kylon.

“Formation!” shouted Ark to the Imperial Guards. “Facing that street! Shield wall, and spears on the flanks. Go!”

The men hastened to obey, forming a shield wall to block off the side street. The ashtairoi arranged themselves on the flanks, their spears flickering with the silver light of Talekhris’s sorcery. Behind them the magi and the stormsingers readied themselves.

A moment later the street gleamed with golden light as a mob of the burning dead came into sight.

Ark realized that he had made the right decision. The golden dead were sprinting, and if he had kept marching to the Agora of Archons, the dead would have struck the middle of the column. The Guards and the ashtairoi might have been scattered, or pinned in place until the tide of golden dead rising from the harbor trapped them.

Now they just had to defeat the smaller group of burning dead before the rest attacked.

Ark hoped the Guards and the ashtairoi were up to the task.

“Hold!” he shouted, pointing with his sword as the wall of golden flame and gibbering, reanimated flesh.

###

Kylon braced himself, drawing upon the sorcery of air for speed and the sorcery of water for strength.

The golden dead charged the shield wall. They did not bother with tactics or formations. They charged in a single solid mass, a tide of fists and golden fire. Through the power of water sorcery, he sensed the emotions of the reborn men and women, and felt nothing but insane, mindless fury. If Talekhris was right, the dead had been reborn without their souls and minds, and were nothing but animal impulses and fury.

Like maddened animals, lashing out at everything around them in their pain.

Was this what the Moroaica had truly wanted? A world filled with such creatures?

“Magi!” bellowed Ark, and Kylon had no more time for contemplation.

He drew on the sorcery of air and jumped, the power of his leap carrying him over the heads of the Imperial Guards and the ashtairoi. Several of the battle magi also jumped, black swords and maces in hand. Kylon landed in the midst of the charging dead, his sword a silvery blur, and destroyed three of them before they could react.

His sword thrummed with Talekhris’s alien sorcery. All his instincts demanded that he call upon the sorcery of water to sheathe his weapon in a freezing mist, but Talekhris’s power allowed Kylon to destroy the golden dead with a single scratch of his blade. No need to behead the golden dead or hew off their legs at the knees – breaking the skin was enough for the silver light to cancel the sorcery reanimating them.

But even Talekhris’s sorcery could not keep the dead from rising again. For every one of the burning dead Kylon struck down would rise again within moments.

A ripple went through the mob of corpses as four battle magi crashed into them, wielding swords and maces glowing with silver light. The battle magi used cruder spells than the stormsingers and stormdancers of New Kyre, relying upon raw psychokinetic force to enhance their strength and speed. Yet Kylon had to admit they were effective. The battle magi tore through the burning dead, the touch of their glowing weapons breaking the sorcery upon the living corpses.

Yet more and more of the creatures charged, and Kylon and the battle magi kept fighting. Soon the solid mass had been broken into ragged bands of golden dead, the street carpeted with deformed corpses.

Ark’s voice boomed over the melee. The man did indeed have the voice of a centurion.

“Back to the lines!” thundered Ark. “Prepare to receive the charge!”

Kylon heard the clang as the Guards and the ashtairoi raised their weapons. He turned, struck down two more of the burning dead, and sprinted back toward the waiting soldiers. A burst of air sorcery, and he leaped over their heads and landed behind the lines. Thalastre was waiting for him, fear on her face, but her expression calmed once she saw him returned safe.

But if they could not find and stop the Moroaica, no one would be safe.

The burning dead came at the waiting Guards and ashtairoi.

###

“Strike at will!” said Ark.

He stood in the line with the other men of the Guard, shield raised, sword drawn back. The golden dead came in ragged waves, thanks to Kylon and the battle magi. Ark lowered his shield and thrust, and his storm-forged sword pierced the shoulder of a burning corpse. The dead man collapsed, the fires in his eyes and hands winking out. Around him the golden dead crashed into the shield wall, trying to pursue the stormdancer and the battle magi that had slain so many of them.

They found the swords of the Imperial Guards instead.

The ashtairoi closed from the flanks, stabbing with their spears. Soon the golden dead were enclosed in three sides. The burning corpses tried to break out, but the lines of swordsmen and spearmen stood fast, and soon bodies littered the street.

And then it was over.

Ark lowered his sword, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face and his arms heavy with fatigue. All of the burning dead had been killed. Or destroyed. Or only stunned until enough of the golden fire gathered in their bodies to resurrect them. Already he saw glimmers of golden flame pooling in their unseeing eyes and dancing around their fingers.

They would not have long before all of the golden dead rose again.

“Back to the main avenue,” said Ark. “We…”

“Champion!”

Ark turned, ran back to the main avenue, and saw the dark tide coming towards them.

###

Caina stared at the harbor in horrified fascination.

A sea of nightmares washed toward them.

Most of the golden dead in the Agora and the streets had been killed in the chaos of Sicarion’s attack upon the Emperor, by the stampedes and riots. They had not been dead for very long, and their bodies had suffered minimal damage. The phoenix fire had not needed to do much to resurrect them.

The dead from the sea were different.

Some of them had been dead for centuries, had been nothing more than long-crumbled bones. It would take tremendous amounts of phoenix fire to rebuild their bodies.

And just as happened with Sinan in Malarae, there had been…errors in the reconstruction.

Creatures of nightmare lumbered, crawled, slithered, and hopped up the avenue. Some looked still recognizably human, but with pale, glistening flesh and misshapen, distorted limbs. Others were far worse. Caina saw a creature with fifteen heads, all of them screaming and hooting, pulling itself along with five arms. A woman had three arms sprouting from her neck, her head bulging from her belly, eyes rolling back and forth in horror. One man looked like a grotesque centipede, dozens of legs sprouting from his misshapen belly. Still others looked like creatures beyond human conception, hideous amalgamations of flesh and organs and bones fused together at random.

“Gods, gods,” said Lord Titus. Even the stout old lord looked shaken. “What are they?”

“The future,” said Caina, “if we do not stop the Moroaica.”

A world of mindless, empty creatures, preying endlessly upon each other, dying and rising and again and again, growing more terrible with every death. Could this horror truly have been what Jadriga intended? Caina could not believe it even of the Moroaica. Perhaps Horemb’s spirit had been right, perhaps Jadriga no longer had the power to change, and would continue her course until these devils filled the world.

Or perhaps the gate over the Pyramid would expand until it ripped the world apart.

That seemed almost merciful now.

“Lord Champion,” said one of the scouts, “they come in great numbers from the sea!”

“Run!” said Ark. “All of you, run for the Agora of Archons, now! Make for the base of the Pyramid of Storm. Form up in defensive lines when you get there. We’ll have to protect the Sage long enough for him and the Ghosts to kill with this mad sorceress. Move, damn you! Move!”

The Guards and the ashtairoi sprinted for the Pyramid, urging along the nobles of the Assembly and the Empire. Alexius Naerius ran faster than Caina would have expected, though given how often assassins had come for the Emperor, he must have had to run for his life for than once.

She shot a glance back at the horde of mindless horrors surging after them.

Fear made for a marvelous motivator.

A few moments later they reached the Agora of Archons, the golden dead in pursuit.

The Agora was vast, the proud ziggurats of the Kyracian Houses ringing it on three sides. It was also deserted – Caina hoped the people of New Kyre had taken safety behind closed doors.

The Pyramid of Storm rose on the far end of the Agora. It looked like a man-made mountain, its terraced sides covered in statues and small shrines. Caina had read that only the greatest heroes of the Kyracian people received statues or tombs upon its side. Once it had been topped with the Sanctuary of the Surge, where the Surge used her visions to guide New Kyre. Now the Sanctuary was gone, only a pile of broken stone atop the Pyramid. Likely Jadriga had killed the oracle and her priestesses.

The gate to the netherworld screamed overhead, a writhing vortex of golden fire. Just looking at it gave Caina a terrible sense of vertigo. A slender crystalline spire rose from the top of the Pyramid and pierced the gate. It was made of ice, and Caina saw the faint marks of a stairwell winding its way around the spire.

Perhaps that was good. If Jadriga had already entered the netherworld, then Caina had a chance of killing her and ending this madness.

Assuming that Jadriga simply did not kill them all on sight.

They reached the base of the Pyramid, and Ark barked orders. He moved the Emperor and the nobles too old to fight to the Pyramid’s second terrace, out of easy reach of the golden dead. Everyone else formed up at the base of the stairs leading to the Pyramid’s crest, Imperial Guards waiting in orderly lines, ashtairoi ready with sword and spear. The magi began working their spells, as did the stormsingers.

The silver glow faded from their weapons.

“I must go,” said Talekhris, lowering his silver rod. “The Moroaica has already entered the netherworld.”

“We’ll have a devil of a time without your sorcery,” said Ark.

“I know, and I am sorry for it,” said Talekhris. “But if I can kill the Moroaica, you will have no further need for my help.”

“Perhaps we can be of assistance,” said Thalastre. “The touch of frost, though not as effective as the Sage’s spells, seemed to temporarily quench the golden fire. If the other stormsingers and I spread an aura of frost to your weapons, it will at least give you some advantage.”

“I will take whatever aid I can,” said Ark.

Caina looked at Corvalis and Talekhris. “We have to go. The longer we delay, the more people will die.”

Corvalis nodded. “Lead on.”

Caina tightened her grip on the ghostsilver dagger and started running up the stairs, Corvalis and Talekhris following.

###

Ark turned as the Imperial Guards and the ashtairoi arranged themselves in formation.

The burning dead poured into the Agora of Archons.

There were thousands of them, all of them wreathed in golden flame. Some still looked mostly human, and had likely been killed in the attack. But the deformed creatures from the sea outnumbered them tenfold.

“So many of them,” murmured Thalastre.

Ark and Kylon shared a look. He had thought it odd that Caina had spoken highly of the stormdancer after the incidents in Catekharon and Caer Magia. She hated sorcerers, and if given her will, would have killed every last brother and sister of the Magisterium in the Empire.

But after seeing Kylon fight, Ark understood her respect.

“Do you think we can win, husband?” said Thalastre, her voice low so the others would not hear.

Kylon shrugged. “No. But we don’t need to win. We need only to delay.” He looked at Ark. “If anyone can deal with the Moroaica, it is the Ghost.”

“She killed her once before,” said Ark.

“Lord Champion.” Claudia approached, Martin following her. “The other magi and I can distribute our warding spells over the line. It shall not be much, I fear. But it will give the men some protection.”

“As I told Lady Thalastre,” said Ark, “I will take any advantage I can get. Best to begin now. Looks like the golden dead shall pay us a visit at any moment.”

Thalastre and Claudia went to the stormsingers and the magi, and Kylon strode to join the stormdancers and the battle magi. Ark lifted his sword and went to the front of the battle line. The mass of golden dead charged toward the Pyramid, a sea of deformed flesh and brilliant golden fire. Perhaps the rift over the Pyramid drew them as moths to a lantern’s flame.

Ark raised his sword, braced himself, and prepared to fight.

And, most likely, to die.

Chapter 21 - The Gate of Hell

The presence of overwhelming sorcery washed over Caina with every step she took.

She gritted her teeth and pressed on. The aura of power radiating from the apex of the Pyramid of Storm was bad, at least as bad as the aura she had sensed from the Ascendant Bloodcrystal in Caer Magia. Caina’s bones vibrated with every step, needles crawling up and down her skin, her stomach clenching and her head throbbing. The wind howled around the Pyramid, and from time to time she felt a tremor go through the massive stone structure.

That alarmed her further. Jadriga had stolen the Staff of the Elements from the Tower of Study in Catekharon, a staff that had the power to awaken the great elemental lords. If Ranarius had awakened the great elemental sleeping in the Stone of Cyrioch, it would have destroyed all of Cyrioch.

What would happen to the world if Jadriga woke them all at once?

Anyone who survived the golden dead would perish in the earthquakes and firestorms and hurricanes unleashed by the awakened elementals. Was that was Jadriga wanted? The Moroaica had often spoken of destroying the world and remaking it anew, of rebuilding it without pain and suffering. Did she think to lay the world waste, that the golden dead would kill each other over and over again until they were perfected?

Was she really that mad?

Or had she fooled herself?

The philosophical considerations could wait. Caina pushed on, climbing the steep stairs as fast as she could manage, Corvalis keeping close pace behind her.

A few moments later they reached the Pyramid’s apex, and Caina looked at the wreckage of the Sanctuary of the Surge. Once, she suspected, it had crowned the entire top of the Pyramid. Now only a few broken walls remained, and a delicate spire of ice rose from the ruins. It stabbed upwards, rising a thousand feet over the Pyramid, and vanished into the maelstrom of the gate.

A set of stairs wound their way around the spire.

“Quite a climb,” said Corvalis. Talekhris pulled himself up the last step, rubbing his bad leg.

“Aye,” said Caina, “but we have to make it now. Jadriga must have used it to enter the gate. Just as well for us that she did not destroy it behind her.”

“She saw no need. She believes her victory is assured.”

Caina had never heard a voice like it.

It sounded like the voices of three women speaking at once, one old, one young, and one in the prime of her life. Was it a trick of Jadriga’s? Caina turned, her dagger ready, and Corvalis adjusted his grip on the ghostsilver spear.

“No,” said Talekhris, “no, she’s no threat. Don’t attack.”

A woman in a plain robe stepped around the pillar of ice, her gray hair blowing in the wind whipping past the Pyramid. She looked about middle-aged, but her eyes glowed with silver light.

“Who are you?” said Caina, but she already suspected the answer.

“I am called the Surge,” said the woman, “for I see the storm of the world, and the path it shall take. The Bringer of Ashes has unleashed the great darkness, and ruin shall engulf the world. Yet there is a chance the course of the storm can yet be turned. For you are the Balarigar, and you have come.”

“The Balarigar is a myth,” said Caina, though she had exploited that myth from time to time.

The Surge offered an eerie smile. “Then why are you here?”

“Enough,” said Caina. She looked at the Agora a thousand feet below, saw Ark and Kylon and the Imperial Guards locked in combat with the monstrous golden dead. “Why didn’t the Moroaica kill you?”

What if the Surge now housed the Moroaica’s spirit? It was the sort of trick Jadriga might try to play, if she feared Talekhris’s power.

“Because I was no threat to her,” said the Surge. “My mantle of power permits me to observe events, to see the path the storm of the world might take. Not to interfere with the course of events.”

“She is right,” said Talekhris. “The Surge will observe, never interfere.”

“Then she’s not the Moroaica?” said Corvalis. He must have come to the same conclusion as Caina.

“No,” said Talekhris, his jade mask glinting in the golden flame dancing overhead. “She is who she says that she is.”

“Fine,” said Caina. “If you cannot interfere, than perhaps you can share your observations.”

“I shall,” said the Surge. “You are the last hope. Already the darkness swallows this world. Unless you stop the Moroaica, she will triumph, and destroy the world in her rage.”

“She’s up there, isn’t she?” said Caina, pointing at the rift. “She opened that gate into the netherworld and then climbed up the spire of ice?”

“You are correct,” said the Surge. “Already her great work unfolds. The lords of the elementals wake from their long sleep, and the fires of the phoenix ashes spread to every corpse in the world, raising them to a twisted mockery of life. The Moroaica’s vision is to destroy the world and remake it. Already it is begins…but the world she creates will be far different than the perfect world she envisions.”

“The golden dead,” said Caina. The sounds of battle drifted up from the Agora below. “She thinks they’ll…improve, somehow? That they’ll regenerate until they’ve recovered their memories and their souls return?”

“Yes,” said the Surge, all three of her voices full of sorrow. “But they will not. The Moroaica’s heart is frozen, her ability to change her choice taken from her by death. She will continue until she is destroyed, or the world is destroyed around her.”

“She’s in the netherworld now,” said Caina. The Surge nodded. “Why? To open a gate to challenge the gods?”

“You speak truly,” said the Surge. “Even I do not know what realm lies beyond the netherworld. Such sight has not been given to me. Yet the Moroaica has gone to the netherworld to rip open a portal to the realm beyond and destroy the gods. She wields the Staff of the Elements, and so long as she carries it, she can draw more and more power from the elementals awakening here.”

“That’s why the rift is getting larger, isn’t it?” said Corvalis, and the Surge’s silver-glowing eyes shifted toward him. “She draws more and more power to open her portal to the realm of the gods, but to pull the power through, it has to make the gate here larger.”

“You see truly, consort of the Balarigar,” said the Surge. He snorted at the title. “Even the twisted world unfolding below us will not come to pass if the Moroaica succeeds. The power needed to open a gate to the realm beyond the netherworld is immense. She will draw so much power that the gate over the Pyramid will expand until it shatters the material world into dust.”

“If we kill her,” said Caina, “we can stop it? Or is it already too late?”

“No,” said the Surge. “She is the axis of the spell. If she is killed while in the netherworld, the axis shatters. The spell will unravel, and her great work shall be left incomplete.”

“Then we find her and kill her,” said Caina. “For the final time.”

“It will not be so easy,” said the Surge.

“Of course not,” said Caina. “She is a powerful sorceress. But Talekhris has power of his own,” she gestured at the Sage, “and we have ghostsilver weapons that can penetrate her wards.”

“This is so,” said the Surge. “But I can see the shadows of the future, the path of the storm of the world. Heed me! You can defeat the Moroaica, but she must first defeat herself.”

“Defeat herself?” said Caina. “What does that even mean?”

“She must overcome herself,” said the Surge. “Her sorcery is mighty, her mind cunning and deep. Yet her will is frozen, her heart locked. She must first defeat herself.”

“You speak in riddles,” said Caina. “What do you mean?”

The Surge’s silver eyes met hers. “I am sorry for the price you shall pay, if you are victorious.”

What did that mean? That Caina would lose her life if the Moroaica was defeated? That they all would lose their lives? She did not want to die. She most certainly did not want Corvalis to die. She did not want anyone to die.

But if they had to die to stop Jadriga…then that was the price they would pay. They were still Ghosts of the Emperor, at least until Lord Corbould worked his will. Caina’s feet had been upon this path for eleven years, half her life, ever since Maglarion and her mother had murdered her father, and she had vowed never to let it happen again, to stop men like Maglarion.

She would walk this path to the end.

“Ghost,” said Talekhris. “We cannot linger.”

“You’re right,” said Caina.

“Go,” said the Surge, “and may your valor hold true to the end.”

Caina walked past her without another word and came to the spire of ice.

She put a boot upon the first step, expecting it to be slick. Yet the ice felt as firm and rough as rock, and Caina found that she could climb with ease. She braced one hand against the spire, and the ice felt pleasantly cool beneath her fingers, though it tingled with sorcery.

“Come on,” said Caina, and she started up the winding stairs, moving as fast as she dared. Up and up they climbed, the golden vortex drawing nearer. Already from the top of the Pyramid she saw the whole of New Kyre, but as they climbed higher, she saw the sea stretching away to the west and the plains outside the walls.

Everywhere she saw golden fire as the burning dead made their way across the plain and rose from the waters. A mass of golden flame blazed before the base of the Pyramid in the Agora, and Caina hoped that Ark and Kylon and Claudia and Martin were holding their own.

But the only way Caina could help them was by killing the Moroaica.

She kept climbing.

Soon the vortex blazed a dozen feet above her head, wave after wave of terrible sorcery washing through her. The sense of arcane force was so powerful it made her bones hurt, and she took care to keep her balance. It would be a poor joke to have come all this way only to trip and fall to her death from such a height. New Kyre seemed like a toy city spread out beneath her, a child’s model.

Yet people were dying down there.

One final step, and the vortex writhed a foot above Caina’s head, an enormous sheet of golden flame that spread in every direction. Strange that it was so silent, that it gave off no heat. Yet sorcerous power radiated from it in terrible waves.

She took a deep breath, looked down at Corvalis.

“I love you,” said Corvalis. “Whatever happens next. Remember that.”

She managed to nod. “I love you, too.”

“Go,” said Talekhris. “If we can defeat the Moroaica, you shall have all the time in the world to exchange endearments.”

Caina nodded, took another deep breath, and climbed the final step.

She walked into the blazing sheet of golden fire.

###

The netherworld screamed around Jadriga, shuddering from the power she had summoned. Here reality was fluid and reshaped by the power of thought, and sorcery was a form of thought.

And Jadriga had drawn a tremendous amount of sorcerous power into the netherworld.

A blazing tear of white light shone before her, widening with the might of her spell. The arcane strength of the elemental princes tore into the netherworld, and the gash of white fire widened, opening into a gate to the realm beyond, the realm of the gods.

And once it was open, Jadriga would fling the gathered power of the elemental princes through the gate.

The gods would burn for what they had done. Even if there was a high god, he too would burn.

Jadriga summoned more power…and paused.

She sensed the presence of others within the netherworld.

Caina Amalas.

It had to be. There was no one else who could have done it…and had the Surge not predicted it?

Idly she wondered how Sicarion had died, and decided that she did not care.

Not now, not when she was so close to creating a world of immortals, a world free of death and suffering.

Briefly she wondered if Corvalis had come with Caina, and a tide of emotion surged through Jadriga…

She shoved it aside. Those memories did not belong to her.

And she would not allow Caina to jeopardize the new and better the world, her vengeance upon the gods.

She turned to face the gate back to the material world and began casting a new spell.

Chapter 22 - The Netherworld

A sheet of gray mist swallowed Caina.

Utter silence covered her. The mist absorbed even the noise of her footsteps. She heard nothing but her heartbeat and the steady rasp of her breath. Caina looked around in alarm, but saw neither Corvalis nor Talekhris.

Had the gate deposited them somewhere else? Or it had trapped them here, in this misty place between the worlds? Perhaps Jadriga had anticipated that someone would pursue her, and had left a defense upon the gate.

Then why bother leaving the spire of ice standing?

Caina took another step, and the mist billowed away into nothingness.

And once more she found herself standing in the netherworld.

It had changed little from her last visit. The gray, featureless plain stretched away in all directions, the colorless grasses waving in a wind she did not feel. Black clouds billowed and rippled over the sky, moving far faster than clouds ever did in the material world, green lightning leaping silently from thunderhead to thunderhead. Strange objects floated overhead, pieces of broken statues, stairs that went nowhere, towers and trees that hung upside down.

From time to time the terrain changed, the plains shifting to barren black trees, or a stagnant gray swamp, or a glittering desert of black glass. Caina knew that she could control the terrain with her thoughts, that if she stayed long enough the landscape would start mirroring her unconscious mind.

She turned, seeking Corvalis and Talekhris, and realized that something was wrong.

The first sign was the hum. She felt it just at the edge of her hearing, a low tearing that sounded like stressed metal, like a cuirass slowly being torn in half. A strange vibration went through the ground beneath her boots.

She sought the source of the hum, and saw the white light.

It was a tear in the sky, like the one over the Pyramid of Storm. Yet it was fashioned of brilliant white light, more light pouring out of it, so bright Caina had to squint. Looking at it made her head hurt, and the tear seemed to grow larger and larger.

“The gate to the realm beyond.”

Caina turned as Corvalis and Talekhris moved closer. Behind them she saw the spire of ice rising from the ground of the netherworld. The vortex of golden fire stretched beyond the spire, and she glimpsed New Kyre through the gate, far below.

“That’s it, then?” said Corvalis, the ghostsilver spear in his right hand. The blade gleamed with a pale white glow as the ghostsilver reacted to the netherworld’s ambient power. “A gate to…the next life, or the home of the gods?”

“It is,” said Talekhris. “Sorcerers often visit the netherworld in the flesh, particularly the Alchemists of Istarinmul. But no one has ever visited the realm beyond while wearing mortal flesh.”

“Jadriga doesn’t plan to visit it,” said Caina. “She plans to burn it.”

“When the gate is open wide enough,” said Talekhris. “She will draw the power of the awakening elemental princes, pull it through the gate to our world, and unleash it upon the realm beyond.”

“Would that work?” said Corvalis. “Could she truly kill the gods themselves?”

“I do not know,” said Talekhris. “Perhaps the philosophers are right, and there is only one high god who will act to stop her. But we cannot take the chance. The very attempt will shatter the material world.”

“Then perhaps we should hurry,” said Corvalis.

“We need not,” said Talekhris. “Time flows differently in the netherworld. We could spend weeks here, and if we survive and return to the material world, from their perspective it will seem like only a few hours have passed.”

“That may be so,” said Caina, “but we should not leave Jadriga time for her work.”

“Lead on,” said Talekhris.

Caina nodded and head towards the white glow, the ghostsilver dagger shining in her right hand. Corvalis walked at her right, the spear ready, while Talekhris hobbled along on her left.

“Be wary,” said Talekhris. “The netherworld is psychomorphic.”

“Long word,” said Corvalis.

“It mirrors your thoughts,” said Caina. “Not at first, but gradually, as it settles around you. You can control it, if you concentrate, but not always.”

“Sometimes when two sorcerers cross paths here,” said Talekhris, “they will duel with thought, not sorcery, and try to kill one another by altering the environment around them, by turning the air to flame or stone.”

“I suspect that will not work against the Moroaica,” said Corvalis, “if she has often journeyed here.”

“No,” said Caina, remembering her last conversation with Jadriga in the netherworld. “It won’t.”

“Our strategy is plain,” said Talekhris. “I will engage the Moroaica with my spells, and hold her attention. One of you must then strike her with your ghostsilver weapons. With your shadow-cloaks, you can keep her from sensing your presence until it is too late.”

Caina nodded and drew up the hood of her shadow-cloak, as did Corvalis. The cloak billowed and rippled around them in the strange wind, reacting to the sorcerous power of the netherworld, but hopefully the cloaks would shield their thoughts from Jadriga’s arcane senses.

“Can you hide yourself from Jadriga?” said Caina.

“No,” said Talekhris. “I am simply too powerful. The minute I stepped through the gate, she knew I was here. She may likely have some defenses prepared.”

“Then let’s find out what they are,” said Caina.

Caina’s eyes swept the shifting terrain, fearing an attack from phobomorphic spirits or renegade elementals, but she saw no sign of any attackers. Perhaps Talekhris’s power had frightened off the prowling spirits of the netherworld.

Then the humming, tearing sound grew louder, and the netherworld rippled and changed around Caina.

The grassy gray plain vanished, white walls rising from the earth. The walls came together to form whitewashed houses with flat roofs. Thousands upon thousands of houses – a great city. In the distance she saw splendid temples and palaces built of white stone, their sides covered in hieroglyphs, their columns sheathed in gold. Under the sun, Caina knew, they would shine like brilliant jewels.

Under the sky of the netherworld, they looked cold and dead.

“What is this place?” said Corvalis. “Something from your memories? I have never seen it before.”

“No,” said Caina. “Not ours, but the Moroaica’s. This was the capital of the Kingdom of the Rising Sun, long ago. It was where she was born. It was where Rhames killed her father and turned her into one of the Undying.”

“Khaset,” said Talekhris, his jade mask turning back and forth. “The city’s name was Khaset.”

“How do you know that?” said Caina.

“Because I know the history of the Sages,” said Talekhris. “You recall that the Sages were once the artificers of the Great Necromancers of Maat, just as the Alchemists were their apothecaries? The history of Khaset is preserved in the history of my order.” He pointed at one of the massive temples. “The precursors of the Sages were housed there, near the temple of Anubankh. And that is where we shall find the Moroaica.”

“Why is that?” said Caina.

“Because the temple of Anubankh,” said Talekhris, “is where she stood when she set Khaset to burn.”

The sky flickered overhead.

And fire began to rain from the heavens. Caina threw up her arm to shield her face, but she felt no heat from the flames. She lowered her arm as globes of burning stone fell from the skies, slamming into the temples and palaces of the pharaoh and the gods of Maat. The center of Khaset burned in an inferno of liquid stone and ashes, and the firestorm spread through the rest of the city, devouring the houses of the rich and the poor alike. The flames roared past Caina without touching her or the others, and she realized it was only an illusion, the netherworld shaping itself around the memory of Jadriga’s past.

The flames vanished, leaving the city a crater of rubble and smoke…and then Khaset rose again from the ashes, rebuilt anew. Caina blinked in surprise, and the balls of fire began to fall from the sky once more.

It was the same memory, replayed over and over again.

“If she is reshaping the netherworld to her defense,” said Corvalis, grunting as he tapped a whitewashed wall with the end of his spear, “then this is a poor way to go about it.”

“She isn’t,” said Caina. “She’s thinking about it, though. This is when she destroyed Maat, when she threw down the pharaohs and the Great Necromancers. When she repaid them for the death of her father. That’s what she thinks she is doing now by trying to destroy the gods.” She looked at Talekhris. “You said she’ll be at the temple of Anubankh?”

“Yes,” said Talekhris. “Our history records that is where she cast the spell that destroyed Khaset and shattered the Kingdom of the Rising Sun. Though why she cast it there, we know not…”

“I do,” said Caina. “Anubankh was the Maatish god of necromancy. You said the Great Necromancers were housed in the temple. That was where Rhames would have turned Jadriga into one of the Undying. Do you know the way?”

The Sage nodded, and Talekhris led the way through the narrow streets of Khaset’s poorer districts. Again the city burned around them, only to rise over and over again. Caina looked at the whitewashed houses of the Maatish commoners and wondered if Jadriga had killed them all.

They came to the vast plaza before the temple of Anubankh.

The temple was a huge structure of stone, all pylons and columns and soaring obelisks. Its sides had been sheathed in gold, and Caina saw countless reliefs showing the glory of Maat and its pharaohs, displaying their victories over lesser peoples. A pair of massive obelisks sheathed in electrum rose from the center of the plaza, their sides carved with thousands of Maatish hieroglyphs.

Between the obelisks stood three tall figures draped in ragged black robes, their faces concealed beneath cowls.

Talekhris stopped and leveled his rod at the cloaked figures.

Caina suspected they were not part of Jadriga’s memory.

“What are they?” said Caina. “Jadriga’s defenses?”

“Aye,” said Talekhris, sweeping his rod before him as the great temple fell and burned and rose again in the space of a few heartbeats.

“Phobomorphic spirits?” said Caina. They resembled the phobomorphic spirits she had seen after Sinan had sent her into the netherworld. Yet why hadn’t they changed form? These spirits had an air of menace, of power, that Caina did not recall from the phobomorphic spirits she had fought.

“No, much worse,” said Talekhris. “Mirrorshades. High mirrorshades, to be precise. They can duplicate you precisely, use all your strengths against your weaknesses.”

“One for each of us, too,” said Corvalis. “How thoughtful.”

“How do we defeat them?” said Caina. She assumed the mirrorshade spirits would not simply let them walk past.

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Talekhris.

The spirits stepped forward, their robes rippling, and they changed.

And Caina stared at an exact duplicate of herself.

“Not again,” she muttered.

Sicarion’s illusion had shown her dressed in finery, her hair and makeup elaborately arranged. The mirrorshade spirit had simply duplicated her appearance – a short, lean woman in men’s clothing and leather armor, a glowing dagger in her right hand, her blond hair going black at the roots and blue eyes like disks of ice.

Did she really look wrathful, so exhausted?

Not surprising, given what had happened in the last few weeks.

The other two spirits changed, mimicking Corvalis and Talekhris perfectly.

“Defend yourselves!” shouted Talekhris, casting a spell, and the spirits moved.

Caina’s duplicate and Corvalis’s charged, while the false Talekhris began casting a spell, purple fire flaring around his rod. Caina pivoted, intending to aid Corvalis against his double, but it was too late. Her duplicate raised her arm, a throwing knife glinting in her fingers, and Caina had to dodge. The blade hurtled past her ear, bouncing off the flagstones as Khaset burned and rose.

The mirrorshade might have been a spirit, but here its blades could kill.

The duplicate lunged at her with a curved dagger, and Caina had to fight.

Caina knew how to fight with knives, with her bare hands. She had practiced for years under an exiled Kyracian master of unarmed fighting who had trained stormdancers, had learned the use of blades from Halfdan and Riogan. She had used knives and daggers to kill more men than she could recall.

But her duplicate pressed her hard, the mirrorshade’s dagger a white-gleaming blur. Caina backed away, breathing hard, her shadow-cloak billowing around her. She tried again and again to penetrate the duplicate’s defenses, but the mirrorshade anticipated her every attack.

Given that it could read her mind, even with the shadow-cloak, that was not surprising.

Caina jumped back, ghostsilver dagger in her right hand, throwing knife in her left. She saw Corvalis battling his duplicate in a blur of spears, each moving with deadly speed and grace. Talekhris and his mirrorshade flung blasts of arcane power at each other. She could expect no help from them, not while their duplicates battled them.

But neither could she aid them.

Her duplicate stalked after her, dagger held low, blue eyes tight and focused.

“Lie down and die, mortal fleshling,” hissed the duplicate. “You cannot prevail against me. You know you cannot.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Caina. “Now you’re going to spit out all my worst fears at me, is that it? That it was my fault Halfdan died?” She slashed, and the false Caina jumped back. “Or that I’ll never have children? Or you’ll show me the death of Corvalis? Or the world burning if your mistress prevails? Come on, let’s get it over with. I tire of these little horror shows.”

“So confident,” said the mirrorshade. “Will you be so bold if I look like this?”

Her form blurred, and the duplicate became someone else.

Specifically, Maglarion.

Caina’s skin crawled with revulsion. Maglarion looked just as he did the day he had killed her father, clad in the dusty black coat and trousers of a minor Nighmarian noble, the bloodcrystal that had replaced his left eye concealed behind an eye patch. The dagger that had cut the throat of Sebastian Amalas gleamed in his right hand.

“Do you remember this?” said Maglarion.

“All too well,” said Caina. “Though you picked a poor form to wear. Maglarion is dead. He fell five hundred feet to his death. I suggest you follow the example of the original.”

Maglarion hissed and attacked with the dagger, wielding it with the same skill that the false Caina had shown. Caina retreated, dodging and ducking under the strikes, trying to land a blow of her own. But the mirrorshade anticipated every movement she made, and always avoided the blows in the last instant.

“Or this?” said Maglarion, and the mirrorshade became a duplicate of Kalastus, his black robes flying around him, eyes glittering with madness. “Or would you prefer this?” Kalastus transformed into Ranarius as Caina had seen him in Cyrioch, tall and austere and sneering. “Or perhaps me?” Ranarius became Rhames, the withered, undead Great Necromancer clad in an ornamented robe of red and black. “How should you like to die, Caina Amalas who once was of the Ghosts?”

“Stop talking and fight,” said Caina.

“As you wish,” said Rhames, blurring to take Caina’s form once more.

Through all the changes of form, the mirrorshade flung knives and slashed with the dagger, and Caina only just managed to dodge the blows. Around her the plaza blazed into ruin and rose and burned once more. Talekhris and his duplicate exchanged volleys of sorcerous light, while Corvalis and his mirrorshade danced around each other, their spears a blur.

Yet only Talekhris’s duplicate used sorcery. All the mirrorshades had the ability to cast spells, surely. Caina’s had even taken the form of several different sorcerers. Yet her mirrorshade never attempted to cast spells, but only attacked with a dagger.

Why?

Because Caina herself could not cast spells. Because the spirit was mirroring her. It could take forms from her past. It could attack her using her skills with knife and dagger. But it could not use sorcery against her.

It could only use what she possessed.

Including, perhaps, her weapons?

A wild, reckless idea took hold in Caina’s mind. She dropped her ghostsilver dagger, the weapon clattering against the white flagstones of the plaza. The mirrorshade hesitated, and Caina yanked off her belt and its sheathed throwing knives, dropped it to the ground, and pulled the daggers from her boots and discarded them.

She tensed, preparing to dodge if her duplicate attacked.

But the mirrorshade remained motionless.

“Ah,” said the duplicate, and the dagger in her hand dissolved into mist. “Very clever. Very clever, indeed.”

Then she flickered, wavered, and vanished from sight.

Caina held her breath, but the mirrorshade did not return. She scooped up her weapons, but still it did not reappear.

Her gambit had worked.

“Throw down your weapons!” she shouted, running for Corvalis and Talekhris. Both men battled their duplicates, light flashing back and forth between Talekhris and his mirrorshade. “Throw down your weapons! Talekhris, release your spells.”

“But…” said Talekhris, risking a glance in her direction.

“Do it now!” said Caina.

Corvalis dropped his spear, and Talekhris lowered his rod, the snarling light of his defensive spells fading away.

Both their mirrorshades froze. The copy of the ghostsilver spear in the hands of Corvalis’s duplicate rippled into smoke and drifted away. Talekhris dropped his rod and pulled off his jade mask, and his mirrorshade did the same.

For a moment they all stared at each other.

Then the mirrorshades dissolved into smoke and vanished.

“What did you do?” said Corvalis, blinking.

Talekhris chuckled. “I should have thought of it myself. The mirrorshades…well, mirrored us. They took our strengths and reflected them back upon us. So if we wanted to defeat them…”

“Then the only way was not to fight them at all,” said Corvalis. He picked up the ghostsilver spear. “A pity we won’t be able to deal with the Moroaica so easily.”

“No,” said Caina. The last time she had actually fought the Moroaica had been in the darkness below Marsis, and Jadriga had overpowered her easily. And even when Caina had prevailed, Jadriga’s spirit had possessed her body, waiting to take a new host.

But not this time.

Either Caina would stop Jadriga, or Jadriga would kill her and destroy the world.

She looked into the temple and saw the white glow deep within its depths.

The gate to the realm beyond.

She looked at the others and nodded, and they walked into the temple of Anubankh.

Chapter 23 - They Shall Pay For What They Have Done

Nothing moved in the temple.

The strange repetition, the destruction of Khaset over and over again, stopped as soon as they set foot inside. Perhaps it was an aspect of Jadriga’s memory. Perhaps she had seen Khaset burn, but not the interior of the temple of Anubankh.

Or perhaps, Caina thought, Jadriga did not want the illusionary fire to hinder her aim.

They walked deep into the temple, past pylons carved with elaborate scenes of Maatish conquest, past rows of sphinxes watching them with frozen stone eyes. The white light grew brighter, and again Caina felt the presence of mighty sorcery.

At last they came to a vast hypostyle hall, its lofty ceiling supported by pillars thick as ancient oaks. A dais rose at the far end of the hall, and Caina suspected that a stone image of Anubankh had once stood there, looking down upon his priests and worshippers. Stone tables dotted the hall here and there, and Caina realized this was where the Great Necromancers had converted their victims into Undying slaves.

Most of the far wall had been ripped away. In its place blazed a rift of white light, a tear in the air, growing as Caina watched. It should have been blinding, yet Caina could look into it without pain. Beyond the sorcerous gate, she saw nothing but whiteness.

The humming, tearing noise was very loud in here.

A woman stood before the dais, silhouetted in the white glow from the rift. She held a metal staff in her left hand, and turned as Caina and the others approached. She looked Caerish and no more than twenty, with brown eyes and hair the color of wheat.

But Caina would know those ancient, heavy eyes anywhere.

“So,” said the Moroaica. “You have arrived.”

“You noticed,” said Caina.

“Indeed,” said Jadriga. “Perhaps I should have anticipated it.”

“I’m surprised the Surge didn’t warn you,” said Caina.

“She did,” said Jadriga. “She said the Balarigar would come for me.”

“And here I am,” said Caina.

“Here you are,” said Jadriga. “A ridiculous myth of the Szalds. You are no more truly the Balarigar than I am the Moroaica. The legend of the Moroaica only exists because I crushed the solmonari sorcerer-priests of the Szalds long ago, and to slake their shattered pride they invented the tale of a Balarigar who would slay the demon.”

“Perhaps,” said Talekhris, “you should have heeded the warning.”

“And you,” said the Moroaica, her eyes shifting to him. “The Sage. Still pursuing me after all these centuries? All because of a few lessons? You should have given up and died in your sleep centuries ago.”

“No,” said Talekhris. “It is my responsibility. All the horror you have unleashed, all the death you have wrought…you have done it with knowledge I gave you. Everything you have destroyed, I bear some of the blame.”

“How foolishly proud,” said Jadriga. “I acquired knowledge from you, but I would have gained it elsewhere. And now you have chosen to follow Caina to destruction? So be it. I…”

Her eyes fell across Corvalis, and she fell silent.

He met the Moroaica’s gaze without blinking, his face a hard mask.

A brief tremor went over Jadriga’s face, followed by an expression that looked almost like longing. It vanished quickly, but Caina saw it nonetheless. The Moroaica’s spirit had spent a year inside Caina’s head, and when she found a new body she had carried a copy of Caina’s memories with her.

Including, apparently, Caina’s feelings for Corvalis.

The prospect had filled Caina with panic at first. What if Jadriga decided to claim Corvalis for her own? Caina had no way to stop her. With her sorcery, she could kill Caina and take her place. Or she could reach into Corvalis’s mind and twist his thoughts.

Yet Jadriga had done none of those things, pursuing instead the completion of the great work, and Caina had realized she never would. She had been only fifteen years old when Rhames killed her, and she had never been in love with a man the way Caina was in love with Corvalis.

The Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of dread, did not know how to act upon the emotion.

And even if she had known, Caina realized, it would not have mattered. Perhaps Horemb’s spirit had been right, and Jadriga no longer had free will, was locked into her course of torment until she destroyed the world and herself.

And despite everything Caina had seen, despite the horrors Jadriga and her disciples had wreaked, she felt a stab of pity. To have those feelings, but to be unable to act on them, had to be its own form of torment. And Caina had seen her father die, and while the pain of that would never leave her, she had grown used to it over time. It had simply become part of her. But to be locked as she was when she was eleven, when she had just seen her father die, to remain that way for thousands of years…little wonder Jadriga wanted to destroy and rebuild the world.

Caina felt sorry for her.

But she would still stop the Moroaica.

Jadriga’s face settled into its usual cool, remote mask. It was odd that Caina had seen the Moroaica wear three different bodies, yet still recognized that expression.

“Then I assume Sicarion is dead?” said Jadriga.

Caina nodded.

“Little loss,” said the Moroaica. “He cared nothing for the purpose of my great work, only for the killing. Still, he was an effective tool.”

“Such,” said Corvalis, “a gracious epitaph.”

For an instant Jadriga look stung, but she shook her head.

“It matters not,” she said. “He has served his purpose. The great work is underway. Soon every living man, woman, and child shall have been reborn through the phoenix ashes, and countless generations of the dead will rise. I shall draw upon the power of the great elemental lords, and with their strength I shall enter the realm of the gods, throw them down, and make them pay for all the cruelties they have inflicted upon us.”

“Reborn?” said Caina. “Is that what you call it?”

Jadriga shrugged. “There is always pain and blood in birth, is there not? But this shall be a final birth. Mortal man shall die and rise again, reborn in the power of the phoenix flames, immortal and perfect and free from…”

“They are none of those things,” said Caina. “All you’ve done is create a world of monsters. Have you seen them? Did you go back through your damned gate to look? The dead you’ve raised aren’t perfect. They’re empty shells, with no souls and no minds, just rage and thoughtless fury. They’ll kill until there are none of the living left, and then they’ll kill each other over and over again, and every time they die and rise again they become a little more corrupted. And then when you finally awaken the elemental lords, they will raze every city, shatter every mountain, burn every forest, and boil every ocean to steam. Is that what you want? A ruined world filled with monsters? That’s what your great work has created.”

“No,” said Jadriga. “No. You do not see. You do not understand. I am making a better world, a world free of death and pain…”

“You are not!” said Caina, rage burning through her. All of it, Halfdan’s death, the carnage in New Kyre, all of it had been created by the vision of a madwoman, a sorceress too twisted to see the harm she would unleash. “All you’ve done is create a world of death and pain.”

“It was already filled with death and pain!” said Jadriga, some of her calm slipping away. “The gods made it that way. Do you not see, Ghost? I have your memories. I know how you have suffered, how you watched your father die, as I did. You have seen the cruelty and the pain, the slavers, the tyrants, the corrupt lords! The gods did this to us. They made this world into a torture chamber and left us to scream. I…”

“It was our doing, not theirs,” said Caina.

“You defend them?” hissed Jadriga.

“A man murdered my father, not a god,” said Caina. “A man you taught as your disciple. A man murdered your father and turned you into one of the Undying, not any god. We do it to ourselves, Jadriga. Over and over again, we torment ourselves. The pain of the world is the work of men and women, not of gods.”

“Then aid me,” said Jadriga.

Caina let out a harsh laugh. “You cannot possibly be serious. After everything I have seen?”

“Yes,” said Jadriga. “I asked for your help in the great work when we first met, and that has not changed. You think the new world is flawed? Help me to improve it. And come with me.” She tapped the butt of the Staff of the Elements against the gleaming floor, flames blazing around its length. “The gate is almost open. Soon I will enter into the realm of the gods. Then we can demand an accounting for the torments of mankind. Perhaps there is even a high god, a lord over all creation, and we can force answers from him. Do you not wish that?”

Part of Caina, a large part of her, did wish that. Often she had lain awake at night, gazing at the ceiling, wondering why her father had died. Why Corvalis’s father had been so cruel. Why so many terrible things had happened.

“No,” said Caina.

“Do you not want to know why?” said Jadriga.

“I know why,” said Caina. “I’ve always known why. There is good and evil in every heart, and our failure to stand against that evil is what works grief in the world.”

“Profound,” said Talekhris. “You have gained wisdom, Ghost.”

“Trite,” said Jadriga. “The world can be remade. It can be cleansed of evil. And I shall do it. Already it…”

“By filling the world with monsters?” said Caina. “By setting it to burn and leaving it in ashes?”

“Come with me and you will understand,” said Jadriga. She held out her free hand to Caina. “Follow me through the gate to the realm of the gods.”

“If you open that gate,” said Talekhris, “you will rip apart the material world.”

Jadriga ignored him. “Come with me, Ghost. Demand that the gods account for their crimes. And after we have thrown them from their thrones and made them suffer, we can return and put the new world in order.”

“No,” said Caina. “You don’t understand. The evil in the world was made by men…and you are creating more of it. I will not join you…and I will stop you and kill you, if I can.”

Jadriga raised an eyebrow. “You have already killed me once, and seen me die twice. Yet death did not stop me.”

“It didn’t,” said Caina. “But here…here it will be different, will it not?”

Jadriga nodded. “I see Talekhris at last discerned the truth. But it does not matter. You cannot stop me, Ghost, and the ragged Sage most certainly cannot stop me.” The Staff of the Elements crawled with fingers of brilliant blue-white lightning. “One last chance, Caina Amalas. The Surge was right about one matter – we are very much alike. You have suffered many of the same things I have. Help me bring justice to the world. Or die here and now.”

“No,” said Caina.

“So be it, then,” said Jadriga, leveling the staff. Talekhris began muttering a spell, and Corvalis raised the ghostsilver spear. “Then…”

“Malifae!” said Caina.

Jadriga flinched, all the color draining from her face.

“What did you say to me?” said Jadriga.

“Your name is Malifae,” said Caina. “That is the name of the girl you were, before Rhames killed you.”

“You cannot know that,” said the Moroaica, her voice shaking with anger. “Everyone who knows is dead.”

“Your father told me,” said Caina.

Jadriga said nothing, her face ashen, her lips trembling.

“Horemb,” said Caina. “His name was Horemb. He was a scribe. Your mother sold baskets in the market, until one of the Great Necromancers killed her on a whim.”

“Rhames,” said Jadriga. “Rhames must have told you.”

“He didn’t,” said Caina, taking a deep breath. This was a gamble, she knew. But if she could reach Jadriga, could convince her that this was folly… “Your father himself told me.”

“You lie,” said Jadriga.

“No,” said Caina. “His spirit was bound to you, a consequence of the ritual the Great Necromancers used to make you Undying. I spoke with him when you tried to possess me after Rhames killed you in Caer Magia. He has been watching you for all of these centuries.”

Jadriga said nothing, her hands shaking.

“He said that you couldn’t stop,” said Caina. “That you had lost your free will when you became Undying, that your heart and mind were frozen in that instant when you saw him die, when you vowed revenge for what had happened. Don’t you see? Everyone who hurt your father or you has been dead for millennia. Maat is dust and ashes. Why are you continuing? It’s because…”

“Enough!” hissed Jadriga.

“It’s because you cannot stop,” said Caina. “You can’t change your mind, your purpose, even after it was fulfilled. You destroyed Maat, but you continued on, finding new tyrants to overthrow, new enemies to crush, and it’s continued until you’ve almost destroyed the world and invaded the heavens.”

“I said enough!” said Jadriga.

“But you can stop,” said Caina. “You can turn aside. There’s no need to keep destroying. You…”

Jadriga threw back her head and howled in rage, her scream echoing off the thick stone columns. Her free hand hooked into a claw, and she thrust it in Caina’s direction.

A column of darkness and snarling green flame burst from her fingers and hurtled toward Caina.

It happened so fast that she did not have time to react, time to dodge. Silver light pulsed before her, and the lance of darkness slammed into the light. There was a hideous snarling noise, and a blast of hot air hammered into Caina, throwing her back several paces. Talekhris waved his silver rod, and she felt the crawling tingle as he summoned power.

“Then perish!” shrieked the Moroaica, her face twisted with centuries of rage. “You choose to side with the tyrants, with the gods that have poisoned this world? Then I will sweep you aside!”

Talekhris struck back as Caina caught her balance, unleashing a blast of silver fire at Jadriga. That spell had destroyed the golden dead with a touch, had driven back Sicarion. But Jadriga merely made a twisting motion with her right hand, and the flames winked out.

She launched an attack of her own, shadows and green flames hammering at Talekhris. Silver light flared around him as he worked warding spells, turning aside her wrath. But Caina had seen enough sorcery to recognize the signs of strain in Talekhris’s defenses, to feel the backlash as his spells buckled beneath the Moroaica’s assault.

He needed help.

Caina flung a throwing knife, hoping that the Moroaica had warded herself against sorcery, not steel. But Jadriga had not been so incautious, and Caina’s knife bounced away in a spray of sparks.

But even the most powerful wards could not turn aside weapons of ghostsilver.

“Corvalis!” shouted Caina, and they charged. Caina reversed her grip on the ghostsilver dagger, getting ready to stab, while Corvalis drew back the spear to throw.

Again Jadriga gestured with her free hand.

Psychokinetic force erupted from her in all directions, catching both Caina and Corvalis and flinging them into the air, and even Talekhris rocked back a few steps. Caina hit the floor hard, rolling over the polished granite, and scrambled back to her feet, trying to ignore the pulsing ache in her limbs.

Their attack had not reached Jadriga, but the distraction had cost the Moroaica. Talekhris’s unrelenting assault of silver flame had driven her back a few feet, and Caina sensed the sorcerous distortions as the Sage’s spells hammered at the Moroaica’s wards. Shadows and green flame snarled back and forth between Talekhris and Jadriga, the air rippling, the floor around their feet starting to smoke and buckle. It reminded Caina of Jadriga’s sorcerous duel with Rhames in Caer Magia. There Caina had been able to escape by finding Rhames’s final canopic jar and smashing it, severing Rhames’s link to the mortal world. Jadriga was stronger than Rhames, and had no need of a canopic jar. But that made her more vulnerable, here in the netherworld. Caina need only get close enough to bury the ghostsilver dagger in the Moroaica’s heart.

But only if the Moroaica let her get close enough.

Corvalis recovered faster than Caina and charged, drawing the ghostsilver spear back to throw. Again Jadriga gestured, turning her whole attention to Corvalis, and again Talekhris’s power drove her back. The force of her spell slammed into Corvalis, flinging him against one of the massive columns thirty yards away. For a terrible instant, Caina was sure that he was dead, that he had been thrown against the pillar with enough force to shatter his bones and turn his heart to pulp.

But he only slumped against the floor, dazed.

Why hadn’t Jadriga killed him? Her first psychokinetic burst had been a quick reaction. This time she had had more than enough time to summon ample power to kill Corvalis. But she hadn’t.

She was in love with Corvalis, thanks to Caina’s memories. Perhaps that was why she could not bring herself to kill him.

Caina ran to join Corvalis as Talekhris and Jadriga dueled.

“That hurt,” Corvalis muttered, getting back to his feet. An inferno of power raged back and forth between the Sage and the Moroaica, blasts of sorcery rebounding from their wards to rip gaping holes in the walls and the ceiling. A burst of psychokinetic force ripped away part of the ceiling, hurling debris a thousand feet into the air, and Caina saw the sky writhing overhead, the black clouds spinning around Jadriga’s gate.

“I don’t think she can kill you,” said Caina.

“I rather doubt that,” said Corvalis.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” said Caina. “She has my memories, Corvalis. Everything before we fought Mihaela in Catekharon. Which means…”

“Which means she has all your memories about me,” said Corvalis.

“She’s in love with you,” said Caina, “and she can’t make herself kill you.”

“Gods, that’s disturbing,” said Corvalis.

The temple of Anubankh shuddered around them. Jadriga took step after staggering step toward Talekhris, the Staff of the Elements leveled before her, volleys of killing sorcery ripping from her hands. Talekhris retreated, his wards sputtering around him.

He was losing the duel.

“If I can distract her,” said Corvalis, “maybe I can hold her attention long enough for you to kill her.” He gripped the spear. “It has to be now, though. I don’t think she has much attention left to spare for us, and it looks like Talekhris is about to lose.”

Caina nodded. “Let’s…”

Jadriga released one hand from the staff long enough to point at them.

Darkness boiled up from the floor, resolving into the shape of a score of hooded spirits in ragged black robes, their cowls covering utter blackness. They looked a bit like mirrorshades, or perhaps phobomorphic spirits. Caina did not sense the same level of power she had felt from the mirrorshades.

But there were so many of these creatures.

Jadriga might not be able to kill Corvalis herself, but perhaps she would be willing to let a summoned spirit do it.

The Moroaica gestured, and the spirits lunged at Caina and Corvalis, reaching for them with withered, skeletal hands.

Corvalis exploded into motion, the ghostsilver spear a blur. The white-glowing blade sheared through two of the conjured spirits, and they dissolved into mist at its touch. Like the other spirits Caina had seen in the netherworld, the hooded wraiths seemed vulnerable to the touch of ghostsilver. She ran to join Corvalis, the ghostsilver dagger a gleam of white light. She struck down one, two, three of the spirits, their forms dissolving at the dagger’s touch. For a moment Caina wondered if the spirits were illusionary, if Jadriga had only distracted them with a trick of light and shadow.

Yet a spirit’s hand brushed her shoulder, and icy numbness spread through her left arm and into her chest. Caina jerked back, and the chill numbness faded. She could only imagine what would happen if three of them touched her at once.

She kept fighting, but more of the spirits rose from the ground.

The roar of the sorcerous duel grew louder, the glare of the spells brighter.

“This ends now!” screamed Talekhris, his clothes tattered and smoldering, his Sage’s rod ablaze with silver light. “After all these centuries! You will not harm any more innocents! No more will you control the nations like puppets, and harvest death to fuel your power!”

“Fool!” said Jadriga, ablaze in a sorcerous glow of her own. “You cannot stop me! You never had the power to stop me! Lie down and die!”

The thunder and glow of sorcery intensified, and Caina heard both Jadriga and Talekhris scream. Caina slashed through another hooded shadow, the floor trembling beneath her boots, chunks of rubble falling from the temple ceiling overhead, only to dissolve into mist when they struck the floor. Caina cut through another shadow, Corvalis at her side. If they could just get through the shadows, if they reach Jadriga…

The shadows vanished.

Talekhris floated a few feet off the floor, motionless, caught in the grip of Jadriga’s sorcery. She looked exhausted, her clothing scorched, her face marked with soot. But her eyes glittered with triumph, and she held out her right hand.

“You should have died a long time ago, Talekhris,” said Jadriga. “Let me rectify that.”

She closed her first, and Caina felt the spike of arcane power.

Talekhris’s head exploded in a red mist, his jade mask shattering into a thousand glittering green shards, his Sage’s rod breaking in two. Jadriga lowered her hand, and his headless corpse slumped motionless to the floor.

He was dead for the last time.

Caina started to run at the Moroaica, but Jadriga whirled to face her, green fire blazing around her free hand.

Chapter 24 - Father and Daughter

“It is over,” said Jadriga.

The white nothingness of the rift grew larger, its hum louder in Caina’s ears, as blood pooled around Talekhris’s corpse. Caina adjusted her grip on the ghostsilver dagger, wondering if she could throw it, but the Moroaica was too far away. She saw Corvalis adjust his grip on the ghostsilver spear, but Jadriga had more than enough time to stop him.

“You put too much faith in the power of that fool,” said Jadriga. “So I offer you a final chance. Join me in the great work. Or die here and now.”

“What about Corvalis?” said Caina. “Will you kill him?”

Jadriga hesitated, the green fire dancing around her fingers painting her face with ghostly color.

“Yes,” she said. “I will stop anyone who tries to interfere with the great work.”

“You didn’t kill me earlier,” said Corvalis, and Jadriga’s eyes shifted to him. “You could have ripped me apart with that spell, but you didn’t.”

“Talekhris held my attention then,” said Jadriga. “You might have noticed.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” said Caina. “You couldn’t bring yourself to kill him. You…”

“Enough!” said Jadriga. “Your memories might be lodged within me, but they are not mine! Do you think they will stop me?”

“Actually,” said Corvalis, his voice soft, “I think they will stop you. And I think I know how to use them to stop you.”

“Absurd,” said Jadriga. “Join me or die.”

“You know how I will answer that,” said Caina, raising the ghostsilver dagger.

She looked at Corvalis and smiled, and he smiled back. They had failed and the world would burn…but at least they would die together. Perhaps it was inevitable. Caina was only a woman with a knife and a shadow-cloak, and Jadriga was the most powerful sorceress the world had ever known. Perhaps her victory had been unavoidable.

But at least Caina would die with Corvalis.

“I love you,” said Caina.

“I love you, too,” said Corvalis.

A shiver of rage went through Jadriga. “Perish.”

She lifted her hand, the emerald fire blazing brighter, and Caina and Corvalis sprinted at her. Caina drew back her ghostsilver dagger to throw. Perhaps she would get a lucky throw in. Perhaps…

Too late.

A lance of shadow and green fire blazed at Caina.

She wondered how much it would hurt.

Corvalis shoved her.

His push sent her sprawling to the floor, and she looked up just as the spell aimed at her slammed into him. His tattoos gave him a measure of resistance to sorcery, but against the Moroaica’s power the tattoos were useless. Green fire shot through him, the darkness swirling around his chest, and he collapsed to the floor.

He lay motionless, his eyes staring at the ceiling without blinking, the ghostsilver spear clattering away.

“Corvalis,” whispered Caina.

She crawled to his side and took his hand.

No pulse. No breath.

“No,” she whispered, “no, no.”

She could not fool herself, could not tell her herself that he had only been stunned. She had seen death, again and again. She knew what a dead man looked like.

Caina could not convince herself otherwise.

They were supposed to have died together.

Most likely they still would.

Caina closed her eyes and pressed his limp hand against her forehead, waiting for the killing spell from Jadriga.

Nothing happened.

Her fingers tightened against Corvalis’s.

Still nothing happened. The only noise was the shrieking hum of the gate to the realm beyond.

At last Caina looked up, her eyes burning.

Jadriga stood frozen before the dais, the Staff of the Elements still in her left hand, her right hand hooked into a claw. She stared at Corvalis, her face working, and with a shock Caina realized that the Moroaica was weeping.

“Why?” she said. “Why did you make me kill you? Why? Why?”

“You killed him,” said Caina, her voice a whisper.

Jadriga heard her anyway. “No! I…I didn’t mean to, I was trying to kill you. I didn’t…he got in the way, he just got in the way…”

“I loved him and you killed him,” spat Caina, “so why are you crying?”

“It’s not real!” screamed Jadriga. “I remember kissing him, I remember him holding me…but it didn’t happen to me. Those were your memories, not mine.” She began to cry harder. “You loved him, not me. Not me. Your memories…your…”

Her words dissolved into an incoherent groan, and she dropped the Staff of the Elements. Great, wracking sobs shook her, and Jadriga bowed her head and wept, overcome by terrible, paralyzing grief.

Grieving over the love she had taken from Caina’s memories, the grief she could not process, the grief that Caina herself now felt.

But the grief did not paralyze Caina.

She wanted to lie down and die beside Corvalis, to rest her head on his chest and wait for death. Halfdan was dead. Corvalis was dead. They had both gone to join her father, the children she would never have. Caina had lost so much.

But there were others she could still lose.

Claudia was still alive, as was Lord Martin. Theodosia was still alive. Kylon and his new bride yet lived. Ark commanded the desperate defenders at the foot of the Pyramid, and far away in Malarae were Tanya and Nicolai and Natasha, and Shaizid and Caina’s workers at the House of Kularus. They would die if the golden dead overran Malarae. The entire world would die.

The sorrow filled her, moved her to a place past pain, past anger, to icy coldness.

And in that icy coldness, Caina rose and picked up the ghostsilver-tipped spear, its blade shining like a torch.

Still Jadriga wept, incoherent with grief.

Caina sprinted forward, the spear in her left hand, the dagger in her right.

At the last instant, Jadriga looked up. Some instinct, some intuition, must have warned her. Her bloodshot eyes widened, and she raised her hands, green fire glimmering around them.

But it was too late.

Caina plunged the spear into her belly. The ghostsilver head burned white-hot as it pierced the Moroaica’s wards. Jadriga staggered back with a strangled scream, and Caina stabbed, the ghostsilver dagger burning through the wards and sinking between the Moroaica’s ribs.

Jadriga stumbled, her eyes going glassy, and Caina twisted the dagger. The Moroaica groaned and fell to her knees, the spear’s shaft bumping against Caina’s leg.

“Corvalis,” whispered Jadriga. “I…I…”

She slumped against the steps of the dais as her heart stopped, her robe wet with blood, her breath fading away.

Caina gazed down at the dead woman, numb. She wondered if Jadriga’s spirit would attempt to possess her, as she had in Caer Magia, but Caina felt nothing.

Talekhris had been right.

Smoke rose from Jadriga’s wounds, and the ghostsilver weapons melted, sizzling and sputtering, and Caina sensed chaotic, broken sorcery dancing around the Moroaica’s final corpse. Jadriga had accumulated so much power over the centuries. What would happen to that power once she perished?

The corpse burned with white flames as the ghostsilver weapons melted, and Caina took a stunned step back. The temple of Anubankh cracked and splintered, the chunks shooting to the sky and vanishing. Glowing white mist swirled around Jadriga’s corpse, pulsing with sorcerous power.

And in the mist, Caina saw images take form.

The hazy, translucent form of Jadriga herself appeared, wearing the body that lay dead upon the floor. The mist swirled, pooling over the dais, and then Mihaela appeared, or at least Mihaela after her mind had been wiped and her body possessed by Jadriga. An image of Caina herself materialized, clad in her black jacket and shadow-cloak, and then the Moroaica herself as she had appeared in Marsis, a young Szaldic woman with long black hair.

Jadriga’s past. The mist was displaying the Moroaica’s past before Caina’s eyes, even as the temple and the image of Khaset shattered around her.

Dozens and dozens of women formed out of the mist, all the different bodies the Moroaica had stolen over the centuries. The mist also formed into scenes and vistas, images of Marsis and Caer Magia, of Catekharon and Khaset, of strange and alien places Caina had never seen, all the cities and kingdoms Jadriga had visited in two thousand years.

Still the Moroaica’s final body burned, the ghostsilver weapons melting as her sorcery collapsed.

And as the roof of the temple ripped away, Khaset burning around them, the corpse crumbled into smoking ashes. In its place knelt a beautiful girl of about fifteen, wearing only a thin white shift, her long black hair hanging around her shoulders, her black eyes filled with tears. She wept and wept, sobbing with grief for her lost father.

Malifae.

The girl the Moroaica had been so long ago.

“Father,” moaned Malifae, rocking back and forth, “father, father, father, father…”

“My daughter, I am here.”

Caina blinked.

The mist dissolved away, and in its place stood a stout middle-aged man, sweat gleaming on his bald head. Ink stains marked his hands and forearms, and a deep, heavy sorrow filled his black eyes.

A sorrow that lifted as he looked at the weeping girl.

Malifae blinked and looked up. “Father? It…it cannot be…”

“Oh, my daughter, my poor daughter,” said Horemb. “I have watched you for so long.”

“Rhames…Rhames killed you,” said Malifae. “I saw…I saw it, I never forgot, it was all I could think of for so long…”

“I was with you,” said Horemb. “Rhames’s sorcery bound me to you, though neither you nor Rhames ever knew it. For all those years, my poor daughter, I watched as you were bound to your hate, I…”

“I did,” whispered Malifae, “I did such terrible things.”

“I know,” said Horemb. “You were Undying, chained in black sorcery, your mind frozen in hate…”

“Father!” said Malifae, and she surged to her feet, wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder.

And she wept and wept.

Caina stared at them, the remnants of the ghostsilver weapons and the Moroaica’s final body sizzling and crackling at her feet.

Horemb’s dark eyes met her own.

“Ghost. You have freed us,” said Horemb. “After so long, you have freed us.”

Caina said nothing, too many emotions warring through her. She wanted to crawl to Corvalis’s side and sob. She wanted to scream at Horemb and Malifae. Part of her noted that the gate upon the dais was shrinking, that the copy of Khaset was ripping itself apart, and that part of her mind wanted to run away very quickly.

“I am so, so sorry,” said Horemb, “for everything you have lost.” Malifae sobbed into his shoulder, shaking, and would have fallen if not for his arm.

“I…” said Caina.

The bones of the Moroaica’s last body smoldered before her, the ghostsilver weapons twisted and unrecognizable. She wanted to kill the Moroaica for Corvalis’s death. But she had killed the Moroaica. The Moroaica had died long before Caina had even been born. She had died again and again.

All that remained was the spirit of a brutalized girl, sobbing into her father’s shoulder.

“She,” said Caina, “she is beyond all vengeance now.”

“You could come with us,” said Horemb as Malifae wept.

“Where?” said Caina.

“To the realm beyond,” said Horemb. “I have seen your memories, Caina Amalas. Those you have lost await you there. You can join them. If you are ready.”

Caina said nothing, unable to think through the storm of rage and exhaustion and grief that clouded her mind. It sounded so easy. To simply let go, to rest at last. Perhaps her father and Halfdan and Corvalis awaited her beyond the gate.

But part of her heart recoiled at the idea. She had been prepared to die fighting alongside Corvalis. She had been prepared to die stopping the Moroaica. But she was not prepared to die in the netherworld as Jadriga’s gate collapsed around her.

“I see,” said Horemb at last. “Then go, quickly. The gate to the realm of the living will not last much longer. I wish I could reward you for all you have done. You have saved us. You have saved the world from my daughter’s slavery. I have nothing I can give you, save these words. The star is the key to the crystal.”

“What?” said Caina. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” said Horemb. “When the time is right.” Both he and Malifae began to turn translucent, sinking into the gate behind them.

“What is happening?” said Caina.

“We are dead, my daughter and I,” said Horemb. “We died a long time ago, and Rhames’s sorcery kept us from moving to the next realm. Great harm was the result. But now you have freed us. Farewell, Balarigar, demon-slayer, breaker of chains. Know that if you choose to follow us, we shall greet you with open arms, and one day all the lives you have saved this day will rejoice at the sound of your name.”

They faded away, shrinking into the white gate as it closed around them, and Malifae looked up with her dark eyes.

“Caina,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

They disappeared into the white light, and the gate closed after them.

The ground jolted, throwing Caina to the floor of the temple. Or, at least, what had used to be the floor of the temple. It transformed back to the colorless gray grass of the netherworld as the Moroaica’s memory of Khaset unraveled around her. The walls of the temple faded like mist, and the flames of the inferno that had consumed the city vanished.

But the shaking got worse.

Power, all that power. The Moroaica had wielded unmatched sorcerous might, and had bound the power of the elemental lords within her. Now that she had died the final death, what would happen to all that power?

Caina suspected she was about to find out.

The shaking got worse, nets of green lightning snarling across the black sky. Pieces of Khaset and the temple ripped up from the dissolving memory and shot into the sky, floating alongside the upside-down towers and uprooted trees. Caina stood and broke into a stumbling run.

She saw Corvalis’s body lying in the grass and fell to her knees alongside him, a wave of fresh agony stabbing into her heart. She could not leave him, not like this.

Green lightning fell from the sky, tearing smoking chunks from the grassy plain. Parts of the ground began to melt, turning into bubbling lava.

Was she ready to die here?

She thought that she was.

But would Corvalis want her to die here, when the gate still waited to the material world?

“I love you,” whispered Caina, kissing his cooling lips one last time.

Then she got to her feet and sprinted, dodging around the disintegrating walls of Khaset and the spreading pools of lava. The ground jumped and heaved beneath her boots, and she almost lost her balance and fell. A searing wind howled around her, threatening to knock her over. Perhaps the powers Jadriga had unleashed would kill her before she even reached the gate.

Then she saw the gate’s golden glow.

It had shrunk considerably, but Caina still saw the hazy shape of New Kyre through the golden flames, the icy spire jutting from its heart. The gate shrank, the golden fires dimming as the spell unraveled.

Caina summoned once last burst of speed, jumped, and slammed into the frozen spire. Her boots found purchase on the steps, and she scrambled down them as the gate closed above her.

Again gray mist swallowed her, and when it cleared she found herself two thousand feet above New Kyre, a thousand feet above the apex of the Pyramid of Storm, the vast gray sheet of the sea spreading away to the west.

Caina stumbled down three steps.

The spire shuddered, cracks spreading down its length.

“Oh,” said Caina, the final realization coming to her.

Jadriga’s spells had maintained the spire, and Jadriga was dead.

It seemed that Corvalis and Halfdan and her father would not have to wait for her in the realm beyond for very long after all.

The thought was a relief.

The spire shuddered, its massive length splintering, and Caina lost her balance and fell, the Agora of Archons rushing to meet her.

Chapter 25 - Storm

“Hold!” roared Ark, lashing out with his frost-wreathed sword. “Hold, damn you all! Hold!”

But he doubted the Legionaries and the ashtairoi could obey for much longer.

Thousands of the golden dead filled the Agora of Archons, charging the base of the Pyramid in waves of mutated flesh. They seemed drawn to the golden fire of the rift overhead, like moths drawn to flame.

Or sharks to blood in the water.

Perhaps that was for the best. It kept the golden dead from swarming through the rest of the city, from attacking the commoners in their homes.

On the other hand, once the golden dead killed the Guards and the ashtairoi, they could turn their attention to the rest of New Kyre’s population at leisure.

The surviving Legionaries and ashtairoi had been driven back to the base of the Pyramid, some even forced up to the second tier. The sorcerous cold of the stormsingers was not as effective as Talekhris’s spell, but it did help.

Without it, Ark was sure they would have been overrun long ago.

But they could not hold forever.

Ark thrust his sword, the icy steel jamming into the shoulder of a creature with two heads and five arms. The creature shrieked, reaching for him, but the ice of the blade quenched the golden flames dancing in its eyes, and it fell, joining the others that lay strewn about the base of the Pyramid.

Three more surged forward to take its place. The stormsingers and the battle magi blurred through the mass of golden dead. Ark had used them to break up charges, but now they fought constantly. There was no good reason to hold them back. The golden dead came on in endless waves. Ark saw Kylon strike down three of the golden dead, jump over their heads, and kill two more.

It did not make a dent in the sea of mutated flesh.

A huge creature, a thing that looked like three corpses mashed together, slammed into the lines of the Imperial Guard. It killed four Guards in the space of a heartbeat, ripping them to shreds, and at once golden fire glimmered around the dead Guards.

The line wavered, and Ark knew the battle was lost. The Guards and the ashtairoi would fight to the last man as the golden dead swarmed over them, but the battle was over. A dozen different possibilities blurred through Ark’s mind as he struck down another deformed corpse. Perhaps he could cut his way to the Emperor, try to get him and Lord Corbould out.

But what was the use? Perhaps it was better to simply fight until his aching arms and burning lungs finally gave out.

Ark raised his sword to strike down another golden dead, and the creature went motionless.

He stabbed, and golden dead made no move to block. The blade sank into the mutated flesh, the frost quenching the golden fire, and the creature collapsed. Ark ripped his blade free, looking for another target.

But the golden dead had gone motionless.

All of them stood frozen. Ark looked back and forth, wondering if it was a trick of some kind, but the creatures had not shown any level of cunning. Then the golden fire winked out in the eyes of the golden dead, every single one of them at once.

A few heartbeats later they collapsed motionless.

Ark looked around, stunned. The golden dead carpeted the flagstones of the Plaza. He prodded one with his sword, but the creature did not react. For that matter, he saw no sign of the golden flames anywhere. The fires had not reappeared.

The silence went on and on.

“She did it,” muttered Ark, looking at the burning rift in the sky.

“Lord Champion?” said one of the Guards. “What…what do we do now?”

“Get one of the magi,” said Ark.

###

Claudia cast another sensing spell, sweeping her hands over the waiting corpses.

Nothing.

“The sorcery is gone, just…gone,” she said, not quite able to believe it. “The spell is broken.”

Lord Corbould scowled at the golden dead. “Then why is that thing still there?”

He pointed at the gate in the sky.

“It won’t be for much longer,” said Ark. “It’s shrinking.”

The rift was closing itself, shrinking faster and faster. Another few moments and it would vanish entirely. The golden light vanished from the icy spire, and it began to tremble.

Her hands curled into tight fists.

Corvalis was up there. If he didn’t get out soon, the rift would close, trapping him in the netherworld. She wanted to run up the spire and help him, but she knew it was futile. The gate would collapse long before she could get even a third of the way up.

The vortex shrank, spinning around the spire, and Claudia bit her lip.

A dark figure half-stumbled, half fell out of the vortex.

But just one.

Claudia could not see if it was Caina or Corvalis or the Sage who had exited the gate.

The gate snapped closed, and the crystalline spire shattered.

The dark figure tumbled into space, a shadow-cloak billowing behind.

Claudia’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Kylon!” Thalastre shouted.

###

Kylon looked at the tumbling figure, and then back at his wife.

“Go!” Thalastre said. Her hair was in disarray, her gown and face smudged from the wrath of her sorcery, but she was unharmed. “You know what to do. I’ll catch you. Go!”

He nodded, rammed his sword into its scabbard, and drew upon the sorcery of air, as much as he could hold.

Then he sprinted up the stairs of the Pyramid in a hurricane blur, shooting past the startled nobles. He veered right, running along the terrace of the pyramid, dodging past statues and shrines, summoning the power of water sorcery to augment his strength.

He felt Thalastre’s power close around him, the winds rising at her command.

The edge of the terrace came, and he jumped, his sorcery augmenting his leap, the winds rising to lift him as Thalastre summoned them.

And he shot from the Pyramid like a stone hurtled from a catapult.

Any other time, the sensation would have been exhilarating. Or terrifying. Now he was focused on the dark figure tumbling head over heels. He caught a glimpse of Caina’s face, her eyes closed.

He slammed into her at the apex of his leap, and her eyes opened wide with surprise.

He wrapped his arms around her, and they plummeted toward the Agora, moving with speed enough to splatter them across the ground.

But Thalastre’s sorcery of wind howled around them, slowing their descent…

But not enough.

They hit the ground hard, and Caina bounced out of Kylon’s arms. He rolled, summoning the sorcery of water to strengthen him, and came to a stop thirty yards away. Every muscle ached, and every inch of his body throbbed, but he was still alive.

He heaved himself to his feet and staggered across the Agora.

Thalastre reached him first, her skirts in her hands as she ran.

She caught him a hug. “You made it.”

“You caught me,” said Kylon.

They hurried to where Caina lay motionless. Her eyes were closed, blood streaming down her temple. But she was still alive.

Others joined them. Ark and Lord Martin, and Claudia Aberon. Lord Corbould and Lord Titus. Tiraedes and the other lords of the Assembly.

The Emperor himself.

“It appears the woman was correct, my lord Emperor,” said Tiraedes.

“Indeed,” said the Emperor.

###

Claudia Aberon gazed at the motionless form of Caina Amalas.

“She was victorious,” said Lord Titus, but Claudia barely heard him.

Talekhris, Corvalis, and Caina had gone into the rift together, and only Caina had come out.

Corvalis was dead.

“I demand that you arrest this woman at once,” said Corbould.

“Why?” said Titus. “Clearly her warnings were correct.”

“And without her efforts,” said Kylon, “we would all be dead.”

“She murdered my son,” said Corbould.

“And she killed dozens of Ghosts in Malarae,” said Lord Aeolus.

“Kill her,” said Corbould. “Now.”

“Perhaps that would be safest,” said Aeolus.

“No,” said Ark. “Are you blind? I…”

“Enough,” said the Emperor, his voice quiet. “Arrest her and secure her in our embassy. I will decide what to do with her.”

Claudia watched as the Imperial Guards picked up Caina and carried her away.

Corvalis was dead.

She lowered her face and cried, and Martin’s arm closed around her shoulders.

Chapter 26 - If Not For Her

The next day, after the peace with New Kyre had been sealed, Alexius Naerius, Emperor of Nighmar, sat alone in his study in the Imperial embassy.

Through the windows he heard the noise rising from the Agora of Nations as the merchants went about their business, as the slaves labored to repair the damage from the golden dead.

It was odd. Likely thousands of people had died across the world yesterday, but life still went on. Merchants bought and sold. Men went to their work, and women tended to their families. Yesterday might have been a sorcerous catastrophe unlike any in the history of mortal men, but the children still had to be fed.

Life went on.

Perhaps it was both the strength and weakness of mankind.

A quiet knock at the door captured his attention. “Yes?”

“My lord Emperor,” said a tribune of the Imperial Guard. “They have answered your summons.”

“Good,” said Alexius. “I will speak to them one by one, please.”

The tribune bowed and went to carry out his commands.

And soon Alexius would need to make a decision.

“I demand punishment,” said Lord Corbould Maraeus, pacing back and forth before Alexius’s chair. “That woman murdered my son in front of a hundred witnesses.”

“Evidently he was possessed by the spirit of one of the Moroaica’s disciples at the time,” said Alexius.

“That matters not,” said Corbould, smacking his right fist into his left palm. “She raised a hand against a son of House Maraeus, and she must pay for it.”

Alexius raised his eyebrows. “As I recall, there was little love lost between you and Aiodan.” Though that was true for most of Corbould’s children.

“Indeed,” said Corbould, “but he was still my son.” He stopped pacing. “I will be blunt with you, my lord Emperor. I have always loyally supported you.”

“And I am grateful for it,” said Alexius.

“I know, and for that I owe you candor,” said Corbould. “If you allow that woman to escape punishment, my loyalty may no longer be so unwavering.”

Alexius nodded, and thanked Corbould for his counsel.

Lord Aeolus was next.

“My advice is that you kill her immediately,” said Aeolus.

“Then you think she tried to kill me in the Agora?” said Alexius. “That she truly betrayed the Ghosts and the Empire?”

“In truth, I do not know,” said Aeolus in his emotionless voice. “But if there is even the chance she has been twisted by the magi, or enslaved to another sorcerer, we dare not take the risk. Better to kill her and avoid another potential disaster. We almost lost everything yesterday, and the upheaval from the disaster shall sow chaos across the Empire for years to come.”

“The world was almost destroyed yesterday,” said Alexius. “It would seem Caina Amalas saved it.”

“That may be true,” said Aeolus, “but it has no bearing on the governance of the Empire.”

Alexius thanked him and called in his next guest.

“She has saved your life before,” declared Theodosia of the Grand Imperial Opera, one of the Ghost circlemasters of Malarae. “You recall the downfall of Haeron Icaraeus?”

“All too well,” said Alexius.

“The sorcerer in Haeron’s employ almost worked a spell that would have destroyed Malarae,” said Theodosia. “Caina stopped him before it was too late. She saved everyone in Malarae, and she does not deserve to be accused by that puffed-up fool Lord Corbould.”

“I would trust her with my life,” said Ark, Champion of Marsis. “She saved my wife and son from the Moroaica. When the Istarish invaded Marsis, she rescued my son from their slavers and killed Rezir Shahan. If not for her, my lord Emperor, the Kyracians and the Istarish would rule in Marsis.”

“I have heard that,” said Alexius. “Halfdan told me.”

He felt a pang. Halfdan had been a reliable friend for decades. What would Alexius do without him?

“If our nations were still at war,” said Kylon, High Seat of House Kardamnos and Archon of the Assembly, “I would urge you to execute Caina Amalas at once, so that the Empire would be deprived of her skills. Her wit and boldness have saved your Empire from disaster again and again. She killed Rezir Shahan. She stopped Mihaela the Seeker from unleashing glypharmor upon the world. She kept Rhames from using the Ascendant Bloodcrystal to rebuild the Kingdom of the Rising Sun upon the ashes of the Empire. And she slew the Moroaica and saved us all. She deserves your praise and gratitude, not condemnation.”

His final guest came attended by her priestesses, her eyes flickering with a silver glow.

Unlike the other guests, Alexius rose and greeted her. “Thank you for coming.”

“Customarily,” said the Surge in that eerie threefold voice, “we summon petitioners to our Sanctuary. But since our Sanctuary was laid waste, it seemed a wise time to break tradition. Though I am curious why an Emperor of Nighmar would wish to speak with the Surge.”

Alexius snorted. “Are you not an oracle?”

“I am,” said the Surge, “though I wish to hear your reasons from your own lips.”

“Because a grave decision lies before me,” said Alexius, “and I wish to choose wisely. And it is well known the Surge has the power to see potential futures. Will you grant me your counsel?”

“I shall,” said the Surge.

“If I spare the life of Caina Amalas, what will come to pass?” said Alexius.

“Your closest allies will lose faith in you,” said the Surge. “They will not forsake you, but when your span of years is done, they will turn upon each other viciously. Civil war will grip the Empire for years after your death, if you spare the Balarigar.”

“Then she truly is the Balarigar?” said Alexius. “As this sorceress was truly the Moroaica?”

“The Balarigar and the Moroaica are merely titles,” said the Surge. “Names. But we call the flower with a sweet fragrance and sharp thorns a rose, and its nature does not change based upon what name we give it. We call the demon-slayer and the liberator the Balarigar. The title is irrelevant. Caina Amalas has done the things that make her the Balarigar.”

Alexius took a deep breath. “And if I execute her?”

“You will surely die.”

Alexius frowned. “Her friends will take revenge upon me?”

“No,” said the Surge. “But if you execute her, you will die. Malarae will burn, and your Empire shall fall.”

“Do you know why?” said Alexius, shuddering. For thirty-five years he had tried to keep peace in the Empire, and he had been mostly successful. But to hear that one death could undo everything he had worked to build…

But he already knew that, did he not? Even the Emperor of Nighmar could not control the future, and the death of one woman could set off a chain of events no one could foresee.

Perhaps not even the Surge.

“Darkness,” said the Surge. “Candles in the desert, and vials of tainted poison. A broken lock, and a king in exile. That is all I can see. I fear I can say no more.”

Alexius nodded. “Thank you.”

The Surge tilted her head to the side. “You already know what you must do, do you not?”

“I do,” said Alexius, “but that does not make it any easier.” He raised his voice. “Bring her, please. My lady, I thank you for your counsel.”

The Surge and her attendants departed, and a few moments later the Imperial Guards returned with Caina Amalas.

She still wore the clothes of a caravan guard, though they had been cleaned and she had been bathed, her wounds bandaged. Her blond hair was going black at the roots, and her blue eyes held a dull disinterest as they looked at him.

The apathy of grief.

Oh, but the Emperor knew it well. He had known it over and over again during his long life.

“Leave us,” said Alexius.

The Guards hesitated.

“Leave us,” repeated Alexius. “If she wanted me dead, I would have died long ago.”

Caina blinked, a flicker of curiosity pushing its way through the apathy.

The Guards bowed and withdrew, though they did not look pleased.

For a moment Alexius and Caina regarded each other in silence.

“Did Halfdan ever tell you?” said Alexius at last.

Caina blinked. “Tell me what, my lord Emperor?”

“How he joined the Ghosts.”

She almost smiled. “No. It…was a game between us. When I asked, he would tell a different story every time. Sometimes an outrageous lie, and sometimes a cunning story. I would have to find the errors. But he never told me the truth.”

“It was over forty years ago,” said Alexius. “The old Emperor was sick, and there was a great deal of upheaval over the choice of his successor. Some of my enemies sent the Kindred after my sister Rhoanna and I, and we fled to a vineyard in Caeria Superior. The owner of the vineyard was a scoundrel, but his young son was a dutiful lad, and Rhoanna charmed him. The owner of the vineyard sold us to the Kindred, but his son warned us and we fled. A few years later the Kindred killed my sister,” the grief of it echoed within him, even all these long years later, “but I was the new Emperor. The son of the vineyard owner came to me, and to repay him for my life, I gave him a place in the Ghosts. Halfdan served me ever since.”

“He told me that, once,” said Caina. “I didn’t think he was telling the truth.”

“I grieved to hear of his death,” said Alexius, “and I am pleased you dealt out justice to his killer.”

“You knew him longer than I did,” said Caina.

“I did,” said Alexius. He sighed. “And I trusted him as I trusted no other man. And he trusted you.”

Caina blinked, a glint of tears in her blue eyes.

“He told me about you often,” said Alexius. “The barren girl who grew up, became a nightfighter, and saved my Empire. We never met before yesterday, Caina daughter of Sebastian, but I know a great deal about you. And I know I owe you a great debt.”

She regarded him in silence for a moment, and he saw the intelligence Halfdan had described in her.

“But you’re going to execute me anyway,” she said.

“I may have no choice,” said Alexius. “Corbould Maraeus is one of the most powerful lords in the Empire, and the Imperial Curia will probably elect one of his sons as my successor once I am dead. Lord Conn, most likely, after his victories in the Argamaz Desert. Yet if I fail to execute you for the murder of his son, Lord Corbould will withdraw his support from my throne. Though he would not do anything so crass as a rebellion.”

“But your rule would be severely weakened,” said Caina, “making civil war a real possibility. And a certainty after you die.”

Alexius nodded. “You understand.”

“Of course, you are the Emperor,” said Caina, “and you could merely pardon me. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

Alexius felt himself smile, impressed. She was as clever as Halfdan had said. “It does not. They say the Emperor is the most powerful man in the Empire, but often it does not work that way. I am like a custodian, trying to keep the lords and the merchants and the magi and the provinces from ripping each other apart.”

“Which is why the Ghosts are useful to you,” said Caina, “your unseen hand in keeping order.”

“Such as when you killed the Lord Governor of Rasadda, or exposed Amirzid Asurius,” said Alexius, “before they could cause revolts.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “I am glad you understand. I must do what is necessary to maintain peace in the Empire, no matter how grim. Because if I do not, the cost will be countless innocent lives.”

“Which is why,” said Caina, “you are going to execute me.”

She did not sound upset. Merely…indifferent. He could understand why. In the last three weeks, the man she had regarded as a second father and the man she loved had both been killed in front of her. In her current state of mind, she did not care about her own fate.

Alexius had felt that way, more than once. But he was the Emperor of Nighmar, and the burden of the Empire’s peace and security was upon his shoulders. He had no choice but to go forward.

“No,” said Alexius. “Instead, I am going to give you a choice.”

She blinked in surprise. Clearly, she had not expected that.

“First,” said Alexius, “if you wish, I will have you executed. You may have wearied of life, and I will not deny you the final rest, if that is what you wish.”

A flicker of amusement went over her tired face. “Hardly a compelling argument.”

“I thought not,” said Alexius. “I will be blunt. I do not believe you responsible for Aiodan Maraeus’s death, even if your hand dealt the blow. The blame rests with the renegade Ranarius, not with you. But Lord Corbould does not believe that. And Lord Aeolus thinks that you may have been twisted by the magi or the Moroaica, and he believes the safest course is to kill you. So I must take some action against you, which leads to the remaining three choices.”

“Which are?” said Caina.

“Exile from the Empire, and I expel you from the Ghosts,” said Alexis. She nodded without expression. “You could take up residence in New Kyre. Lord Kylon seems most grateful to you, and I am certain he would give you sanctuary.”

“Though that would cost him,” said Caina, “since the Assembly of New Kyre saw me try to kill you.”

“That was Sicarion,” said Alexius.

“If Sicarion convinced Lord Corbould,” said Caina, “I am sure his illusion convinced some of the lords of the Assembly.”

“That leads to the third choice I am able to offer you,” said Alexius.

“Which is?”

“Exile, but you remain in the Ghosts, and are banished to Istarinmul,” said Alexius.

She frowned. “Istarinmul? Why?”

“The Ghost circle in Istarinmul was destroyed by the Kindred during the war,” said Alexius, “and we need to rebuild it. I would send you alone to Istarinmul, with a sum of money, in whatever disguise you choose to employ. Then you could assemble a new Ghost circle in Istarinmul as you saw fit.”

Caina shook her head. “I’ve never been to Istarinmul. I speak the language, but I know little of the city.”

“The fourth choice is that I fake your death, give you a sum of money, and allow you to go and do as you please,” said Alexius. “To reinvent your life in whatever form you wish, so long as you leave both Malarae and the Ghosts. But,” he considered for a moment, “from what Halfdan told me of you, I think you might find that intolerable. You are a fighter, and would grow restless if idle.”

“I was ready to stop,” said Caina. “I was going to settle down in Malarae with Corvalis, and run the House of Kularus…”

Her voice broke, and she scowled and looked at the ceiling, rubbing at her eyes.

“But we don’t get what we want, do we?” she said at last. “We never get what we want.”

“Sometimes not,” said Alexius. “What I want is to pardon you and give you a title at my court, for you saved both my Empire and the world. But since that is not within my power, I instead offer you these four choices. Death, exile, a Ghost circle, or a new life and identity in whatever shape you wish. Which will you choose?”

“The star is the key to the crystal,” said Caina. “Do you know what that means?”

“I fear not,” said Alexius, puzzled. “Is it from a poem? A song, perhaps?”

“I know not,” said Caina.

“A matter for another time, then,” said Alexius. “A more immediate matter. Which do you choose?”

She bowed her head for a moment, and then told him.

Chapter 27 - Closed Circle

The next day, the Imperial Guards walked Caina to the vast harbor of New Kyre, to where the merchant ship waited to take her to Istarinmul.

Her head and heart felt as if they were full of broken glass shards, ready to cut at the slightest touch. She wanted to lie down and sleep forever. She wanted Corvalis, she wanted to hear Halfdan launch into one of his interminable lectures about wine.

Instead she walked between the Imperial Guards, her pack swaying against her back. She wore again the disguise of a caravan guard, a wandering mercenary traveling to Istarinmul in search of his fortune.

And when she arrived…then she would see.

Her mind whispered that it was not too late, that she could return to the Emperor and ask for death. She had looked into the gate to the realm beyond, and she knew that Corvalis and Halfdan and all the others awaited her beyond the threshold.

But she was not ready to lie down and die just yet.

They reached the quay, the massive statues of the ashtairoi rising in the distance, and Caina blinked in surprise.

A crowd awaited her.

“My dear girl,” said Theodosia, “did you really think you could sneak off unnoticed?”

Caina made herself smile. “I had little choice in the matter.”

And then, despite herself, she smiled in truth.

Ark stood next to Theodosia, and so did Kylon and Thalastre. Lord Martin waited next to Ark, solemn in the black coat of a Nighmarian nobleman.

“This isn’t just,” said Ark. “I owe Lord Corbould a great deal, but this is not justice.”

“It is necessary,” said Caina. “Perhaps it is for the best. I did kill Aiodan Maraeus, even if he was possessed at the time.”

Ark growled. “You saved my wife. You save my son, twice. And if not for you, those damned living corpses would have filled the world.”

“Corvalis and the Sage,” said Caina, “deserve most of the credit.”

“You helped save my life,” said Thalastre.

“And you helped not save just the Empire, but New Kyre as well,” said Kylon. “If you ever need a refuge, Caina Amalas, House Kardamnos shall always welcome you with open arms.”

“Thank you,” said Caina.

“And I saw what you did in Caer Magia and Calvarium,” said Martin. “I am a loyal subject of our Emperor…but this is unjust.”

“Do not blame him,” said Caina. “He only does what is necessary.” She hesitated. “Claudia. Did…”

“She would not come,” said Martin. He sighed. “She is distraught…and I fear she blames you for the death of Corvalis.”

“Perhaps she should,” said Caina. “Ark. Theodosia. Look after Shaizid and the House of Kularus while I am…gone, will you? Shaizid is a good manager, but I fear…”

“They shall be,” said Ark, “under the protection of the Champion of Marsis.”

Theodosia smiled. “And it shall be known that the leading lady of the Grand Imperial Opera favors the House of Kularus with her patronage.”

Caina said farewell once more and boarded the ship. It pulled away from the city, and Caina watched New Kyre recede in the distance. The city was safe, and the war was over. The Moroaica was dead at last, her spirit freed from the chains of necromancy and madness Rhames had laid upon her so long ago, and no more would she wreak havoc and destruction in the name of revenge.

The Empire had been saved.

And it only had cost Caina everything.

She watched the land recede, her eyes burning with tears.

Then she shoved away from the rail and walked to the prow to see what lay before her.

Epilogue

The Surge stood atop the Pyramid of Storm, watching as the slaves rebuilt her Sanctuary. They all kept a good distance from her.

“The star is the key to the crystal,” she whispered, watching the storm of the world with her second sight.

When the Moroaica had come to the Sanctuary, the shadows of the world had converged on two paths – destruction or salvation.

But now the Moroaica was no more, and the shadows of the future had taken a different path.

“The star is the key to the enslaved,” she murmured. The slaves glanced at each other uneasily, but kept working. “The star is the key to the blight. The star is the key to ruin. The star is the key to demons.”

And if she closed her eyes, she saw the Balarigar holding the star in her right hand, ruin in her wake.

“Mistress?” said one of her priestesses. “You speak of the Balarigar?”

“Yes,” said the Surge, gazing at the young woman. “Pray for her. For through the choice she made after the fall of the Moroaica, the fate of many lives now rest in her hands.”

For Surge foresaw that the Balarigar would carry the star, and the star was the key to the crystal.

And to far worse things.

THE END

Thank you for reading GHOST IN THE SURGE. Look for Caina’s next adventure, GHOST IN THE COWL, to appear in spring of 2014. If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page.

Other books by the author

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael’s power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled for free. Mazael’s adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants, Soul of Serpents, Soul of Dragons, Soul of Sorcery, Soul of Skulls, and Soul of Swords, along with the short stories The Wandering Knight, The Tournament Knight, and The Dragon’s Shadow. Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One.

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father’s library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother’s treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind…even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read  Child of the Ghosts for free. Caina’s adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames, Ghost in the Blood, Ghost in the Storm, Ghost in the Stone, Ghost in the Forge, Ghost in the Ashes, Ghost in the Mask, and Ghost in the Surge, along with the short stories Ghost Aria, Ghost Claws, Ghost Omens, The Fall of Kyrace, Ghost Thorns, Ghost Undying and Ghost Dagger. Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One.

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing for free. Rachelis’s trials continue in The Assassins, The Blood Shaman, The High Demon, The Burning Child, The Outlaw Adept, The Black Paladin, and The Tomb of Baligant. Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One and The Third Soul Omnibus Two.

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world…or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest, followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight and Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife.

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn’t expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland’s one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds…

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade, A Wizard of the White Council, and The Destroyer of Worlds.

About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.

He has written the DEMONSOULED series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER’S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

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Table of Contents

Description

Chapter 1 - The Lord Governor’s Ball

Chapter 2 - Disciple of the Moroaica

Chapter 3 - The Champion and the Gladiator

Chapter 4 - To End The War

Chapter 5 - Death Warrant

Chapter 6 - Puppets

Chapter 7 - The Renegade

Chapter 8 - A Dead Heart

Chapter 9 - A Mask of Scars

Chapter 10 - The Lord Ambassador

Chapter 11 - The Venatorii

Chapter 12 - The Great Work

Chapter 13 - Voyage

Chapter 14 - New Kyre

Chapter 15 - A Mask of Gold

Chapter 16 - Dark Dreams

Chapter 17 - A Mask of Mirrors

Chapter 18 - A World Reborn

Chapter 19 - Balarigar

Chapter 20 - The Golden Dead

Chapter 21 - The Gate of Hell

Chapter 22 - The Netherworld

Chapter 23 - They Shall Pay For What They Have Done

Chapter 24 - Father and Daughter

Chapter 25 - Storm

Chapter 26 - If Not For Her

Chapter 27 - Closed Circle

Epilogue

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