Magefall
Author: David Estes
Date: 2021-09-12 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction
Description: Be bright but do not burn. Embrace the darkness but do not live in the shadows. The secrets of Kingfall's mage prison, Lockspell, have been buried for far too long. When mages Quill and Rondo are sentenced to a lifetime of hallucinations in Lockspell, only their mettle, desire for justice, and a chance encounter can help them escape. But what they discover in doing so may leave them wishing they'd stayed. In the north, King Jarrod Gaard faces an unexpected threat from the mages at Aeromand. Meanwhile, his counterpart in Solarii, Queen Rose Ontarii, must combat an even graver danger--one living

Copyright 2021 David Estes

Kindle Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Map of Kingfall- Circa 423 A.W. (After Weeping)- Western Half

Map of Kingfall- Circa 423 A.W. (After Weeping)- Eastern Half

Map of Kingfall- Circa 423 A.W. (After Weeping)- Full Map

Important Author’s Note and Trigger Warning

PART I

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

First Interlude: Roach

PART II

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Second Interlude: Life and Those Who Claim It

PART III

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Third Interlude: The Deceit of Memories

PART IV

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Epilogue: Into the Fold

POSTLUDES

Postlude 1: Charlotte Kerr

Postlude 2: Glynn Kerr

Postlude 3: Ginny

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Acknowledgments

An excerpt from Nightfall, Volume IV in The Kingfall Histories, coming SOON!

PART I

Map of Kingfall- Circa 423 A.W. (After Weeping)- Western Half

To view a downloadable map online: https://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com/p/blog-page.html

Map of Kingfall- Circa 423 A.W. (After Weeping)- Eastern Half

To view a downloadable map online: https://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com/p/blog-page.html

Map of Kingfall- Circa 423 A.W. (After Weeping)- Full Map

To view a downloadable map online: https://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com/p/blog-page.html

Important Author’s Note and Trigger Warning

Yes, it is time for the dreaded important author’s note. Similar to Dragonfall, I simply did not have enough pages to include resolution of all of the dangling threads as I continue this epic tale in Volume III, Magefall. For this, I am sorry. Unfortunately, Amari’s, Aisling’s and Prudy’s shared storyline must pause for the moment as I focus on the happenings in the rest of Kingfall.

That being said, in this volume more questions will be answered, and your loved (and hated) characters will face more and harsher struggles as they seek to understand the truth behind Erif Mirg’s death, the creation of the godblades, and how their return to the light and shadows will impact Kingfall’s ultimate fate. And, of course, in Volume IV, Nightfall, I will continue all the storylines as our characters’ paths begin to inevitably crash together. Thank you for sticking with me and my characters, I am most grateful for your continued support and encouragement.

Now for the second purpose for this note. Chapter 41 contains a jarring depiction of sexual violence against one of our main characters. Though the description is not explicit in nature, the violence and implied violence are intense, and may be disturbing to those triggered by scenes of this nature. I completely understand if some readers choose to skip this scene, and I have written the chapters that follow in such a way that the reading experience will not be negatively impacted if chapter 41 is skipped. Unfortunately, this horrible, tragic experience was always going to be part of one of the character’s story. I wish it wasn’t that way, but I learned a long time ago that my characters’ demand that their stories be told even if it makes me uncomfortable and sad. Now, the story continues!

David Estes

PART I

423 A.W.

Before the events of Dragonfall

Sampson     Roman     Grym

And with the return of the godblades, the Thousands will rise again, ushering in a swarm of darkness that will cover Kingfall from north to south, east to west. And all will suffer.

Kingfall Revelations (quote attributed to Mage Figmirre)

One

Sampson Gaard

On the banks of the Roughwater River, Avadon

AS SAMPSON GAARD STARED AT HIS REFLECTION IN THE GLASSY WATERS OF THE STILL POOL, he saw a face that he knew was his, and yet which might’ve been that of a stranger. The look in his eyes—haunted, hungry. The set of his jaw—firm, resilient. The angle of his arms—tense, ready to draw his weapon if the breeze blew in a way he didn’t like. And the weapon…

His hand was on his shadowblade’s dark hilt, though he couldn’t recall moving it there.

FEELS GOOD, DOESN’T IT? the blade said with a voice that would’ve sounded natural coming from an eel.

I… Sampson wanted to scream No! and cast the blade aside as he’d once done, but the truth was… Yes, it feels good. A memory pierced the fog of his mind. But I cast you away. How are you here?

IT’S NOTHING BUT A DREAM. A DREAM THAT CAN ONE DAY BE REALITY. I’M COMING BACK FOR YOU. BE READY.

Already the dream was fading, but Sampson wasn’t ready for it to end. What? No. Not yet. Just a little longer. I want to see. I need to see!

He awoke with a start, mind swirling past the image of his fingers curled around the sword’s hilt until it vanished into nothingness.

Nothingness, he thought. That was the right word for it considering that was all his eyes offered him. Sampson Gaard had been born blind. For him, the world was constructed of counting steps and using his other senses to guide him. The smell of baking bread meant he was approaching the palace kitchens. The sound of hammer on anvil alerted him that the forge was just around the corner. The smoothness of the Great Hall’s wall giving way to a rougher, angled texture told him he was about to pass into the war room. Long ago, he’d learned to taste the wind to determine whether it was going to rain, when everyone else simply looked skyward for signs of dark, threatening clouds.

Roman Leary had been his teacher and friend. And now, because of Sampson’s choices, Sampson’s greed, the man was dead. Gone.

He felt tears in his eyes, on his cheeks, but they didn’t blur the vision he no longer had.

Being blind was all he’d ever known. At least, until he’d found the shadowblade, his eyes finally opened to the vibrant beauty of the world for the first time. Well, perhaps found was the wrong word. His tears dried up and he scoffed out a laugh at the absurdity of it all. I’m supposed to feel free now, aren’t I? In a way, he did. The burden, the weight, of the ancient sword he’d wielded for so many months had been lifted from his shoulders. And, as a result, he’d been returned to the darkness.

Stop it, he thought bitterly. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not dead.

“I should be,” he muttered, as he sat on the banks of the Roughwater River, some indeterminable distance downstream from Kerr’s Crossing, where he’d thrown himself into the fierce rapids. This part of the river was calm, serene, peaceful. The current burbled gently along. Wind whispered through the reeds. Birdsong provided a melodious accompaniment. “Roman was nothing but loyal and kind and good,” he said aloud. In that moment, he realized that if he had the chance, he would trade places with the man who’d served and protected him his entire life, the man who’d been more of a father figure to him than his real father, the King of Teravainen.

HE DIED SO YOU COULD LIVE.

The voice of the blade seemed to rip the very breath from his lungs, and he doubled over, coughing. The blade’s laughter, rough and grating, followed. How can I still hear you? Sampson asked.

BECAUSE I’M CLOSE. WE SHALL BE REUNITED AGAIN SOON.

I don’t want to be reunited!

NO? WEREN’T YOU JUST LAMENTING THE LOSS OF YOUR SIGHT? THE LOSS OF ROMAN? I CAN GIVE YOU BOTH OF THE THINGS YOU SO DEARLY DESIRE.

Sampson froze. Roman is dead. I saw him die with the vision you gave me.

YES, HE NEARLY DIED. WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO BROUGHT HIM BACK FROM THE BRINK?

You? Sampson was scared to hope.

OF COURSE ME. I KNOW YOU DON’T THINK IT, BUT I CARE ABOUT YOU, SAMPSON. WE ARE CONNECTED NOW. NO DRASTIC, ILL-CONSIDERED CHOICE MADE IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE CAN CHANGE THAT. I RESPECT WHAT YOU DID. AT LEAST YOU SHOWED YOUR STRENGTH, YOUR METTLE. TRUTH BE TOLD, YOU SURPRISED ME. BUT IT DOESN’T CHANGE ANYTHING. YOU WERE MEANT TO BE MY WIELDER. WE BOTH KNOW THAT.

Sampson wanted to despise the sword, but if what it was saying was true—IT IS, the blade said, once more reading his thoughts—then that meant Roman was somehow, inexplicably, alive, which instantly sent his heart soaring from the abyss it had dug itself into.

Where is he? he demanded.

LOOKING FOR YOU. HE’S AGREED TO RETURN ME TO YOU.

That gave Sampson pause. From the beginning, Roman had been suspicious of the blade. He was ecstatic that Sampson had been granted the gift of sight, of course, but he’d also worried about the effect the blade was having on Sampson’s temperament and decision-making. He said that? he asked, still trying to wrap his head around the blade’s claim that Roman Leary was alive. He barely dared to hope.

Another harsh laugh, the sound ebbing away by the second, like an echo passing down a long tunnel, ever fainter. And then gone.

Sampson screamed over and over again in his own mind, hoping to bridge the connection to the shadowblade once more. There was nothing but silence. It’s all a game, he thought. A way to trick me into a fool’s errand to find a dead man who is supposedly in possession of the blade. Well, I won’t do it. I won’t.

Lying in the hot sun on the banks of the Roughwater, his clothes had finally dried out despite the wintry chill in the air. He stood, contemplating his next move. Traveling was going to be difficult without food or knowledge of the landscape. At least I have fresh water, he thought, reminded by the tinkling lullaby of the river. As he bent down and scooped a handful of water into his mouth, he knew the only real option was sticking close to the river, for at least he’d studied enough maps to know where it would take him. Heading southward would eventually lead to the waters of the Sacred Sea, perhaps a hundred miles east of the Strangle. Boarding a ship would almost guarantee he’d be able to make his way back to Wolfsgaard. On the other hand, if he followed the river northward, he would shortly reach Kerr’s Crossing. If Roman were truly alive and searching for him, he would be heading south, and their paths would meet.

I saw him die, he reminded himself. Logically, he knew his eyes hadn’t deceived him. But he also knew that logic and rational thought went out the window when you were dealing with an ancient godblade. He’d already seen the shadowblade do remarkable things, including healing him after he’d stabbed himself in the heart, and twisting the minds of strong Grizari bucks and does to serve him, Grym notwithstanding.

Grym, he thought. He wondered if he would ever see him again. “See,” he said aloud. “I guess I won’t be seeing much of anything now. Aaand now I’m talking to myself. Wonderful.”

He turned and started south. If Roman Leary were truly alive and searching for him, his sight assured that he would catch up to Sampson well before he reached the Sacred Sea. At least then they would be as far away from Kerr’s Crossing as possible when they were reunited. From there, they could make the long journey home together, shadowblade be damned.

Sampson’s first order of business was to find a proper walking stick so he didn’t tumble headlong into a hole or plunge into the water if the river unexpectedly curved eastward. Unfortunately, this side of the river was frustratingly devoid of trees or even large bushes. Eventually he settled for a long reed stalk he plucked from a grove growing with their feet in the water. It wasn’t nearly as strong as a branch would have been, and he had to be careful not to tap it too hard against the ground or it was likely to snap in half. It was far from ideal, but at least it would warn him of potential dangers a second or two before they arrived.

For the first few miles, he walked slowly, cautiously picking his way along the bank, his only companion the sound of the river chattering away as it passed over stones. Soon, however, his worries ebbed away. The day was unseasonably warm and pleasant, the land as flat as a plank, and he could sate his thirst as often as he pleased. His stomach was beginning to grumble from lack of food, but even that sensation was short-lived.

He started tapping his reed stalk less and less, sometimes taking a dozen steps before dropping the stalk to the ground once more.

Had he been more cautious he might’ve noticed the change in the feel of the ground, which was suddenly spongier, wetter, bouncing under his trod. He might’ve noticed the way the air grew cooler and moister. He might’ve noticed the bristling sound made by the army of reed stalks as they surrounded him.

Well, he did notice all these changes, just not as swiftly as he might’ve had he been more cautious. He ground to a stop just before his next bootfall would’ve plunged into a muck-filled bog as thick as black pudding. All at once, his senses flared. He smelled the fetid stench of standing water, the foul aroma of rot and decay, the earthy scent of mud and turf. He heard the whistle of wind between craggy trees, the croak of bullfrogs, the caw of long-legged birds alerting their friends to the presence of an intruder in their midst.

Tentatively, he tapped his reed stalk in front of him.

Something pulled on it. “What the—” He pulled back, but the something held fast, nearly jerking him off his feet as he strained against it. Then, all of a sudden, whatever had gripped the other end of the reed stalk let go. Sampson tumbled backwards, landing on something soft and squishy and as wobbly as a foal that hadn’t yet found its legs.

He tumbled off what he realized was a rotting log, one leg twisting awkwardly beneath him as he scrabbled to grab hold of anything that might arrest his fall, losing the reed stalk in the process. Landing in the waters of a marsh would’ve made a splashing sound, but to call the mucky mud water was being far too generous, the sound of his landing more akin to a squelch, or a splat, the viscous liquid sucking at his clothes with the same unexpected force as it had used in its attempt to wrench the reed stalk from his hands.

Face smeared with mud, he managed a laugh at his own clumsiness. Now he would lose a whole day as he was forced to backtrack to the main portion of the river to bathe and clean his clothes, laying them out on the bank to dry in the sun, before resuming his path south, giving the bog a wide berth. No matter. If Roman is truly alive, it will mean he’ll be able to catch up to me more quickly.

Fighting the pull of the muck, he dragged one arm free and reached for something solid. At first, he swatted at nothing but air, but then his fingers clamped around what felt like a thick knob on the log from which he’d tumbled. He dug his fingers in and pulled. At first, nothing happened, but then, ever so slowly, his body began to move in the direction of his hand, creeping through the thick mud.

Crack! The knob he’d been gripping broke, crumbling away and causing him to slam down once more. He landed face first in the muck, putrid slime splashing into his mouth, which was partially open as he’d concentrated on pulling himself up. He emerged spitting and gagging, and for several minutes he coughed and spluttered until he vomited. “Urgh,” he groaned. While he’d been fighting to force the foul fluid from his throat, the bog had pulled him further into its embrace. Both his arms now felt trapped, like they’d been tied against his sides by thick rope wound several times around his body.

He tried to lift his arms, but they felt heavier than lead anvils. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. For the moment, he seemed to be okay, suspended in the mud up to his neck. Think, you fool! Roman had read a passage to him about bogs like this one before, so thick they could barely be called liquid, and capable of taking a horse and rider if one plunged witlessly into its waiting arms.

Bogs like this didn’t discriminate. Whether he was a pauper, an earl, or a blind prince who’d once wielded a shadowblade mattered not to the bog.

“I’m supposed to swim,” he said, remembering the advice in the book. “Slow, methodical movements.”

The knowledge offered a sprig of hope, but it was swiftly crushed as he realized he was well beyond that point already, his arms and legs mired so deep that he couldn’t manage even a kick or a single stroke.

He felt the muck creep up his neck to the base of his chin.

That’s when true panic set in. “Help!” he cried. “Please! Someone! Anyone! HELP ME!”

No answer. No sound of hoofbeats or pounding footsteps. In this deserted section of Avadon, it was unlikely anyone was within miles much less shouting distance.

He pressed his lips tightly together as the bog rose past his mouth. He sucked in foul breaths through his nose, resisting the reflex to gag, which would only fill his mouth with slime. And then: Blade? he thought. Blade, please. I need your help.

No answer.

The muck tickled the tip of his nose. He threw his head back to gain another inch or two, breaths coming more rapidly now, his heart pounding out of his chest. I’m going to die, he thought, regrets spinning through his mind like dozens of tiny tornadoes. And what have I accomplished? I will forever be known as the Insignificant Prince. Void, no one even knows what’s become of me! Father, Amari, Jarrod…they all probably think I’ve been dead for weeks. At least his mother wouldn’t know the difference—she didn’t even know who he was when he sat with her, at least as far as he could tell.

The mud had reached his nose again. He considered breathing it in, but no—Roman had taught him to be a fighter. You’re blind, not an invalid, was something he liked to say when Sampson was feeling sorry for himself. So, instead, Sampson reared his head back to gain the tiniest window in which to suck in a deep breath, holding it in his lungs as the muck climbed over the crest of his nose.

All external sound vanished, his ears plugged tight. He could hear the beat of his own heart and a rushing in his head that reminded him of wind scraping the tops of waves just before they crashed against the shoreline at Wolfsgaard. Another sound arose, one he was beginning to believe he’d never hear again. A voice. My sister’s voice. “Sampson? Sampson? Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

His own voice answered, as clear as the blue skies that had seemed painted in the heavens over the Scattered Plains. “Sorry, I was…listening. To the wind. To the waves.”

“You’re always listening to something,” Amari said, sounding rather exasperated.

“And you’re always looking at something,” he said.

Amari laughed, a pleasant sound that he rarely heard unless they were alone together. “You’ve got me there. But you won’t so easily ignore me once I’m queen.”

“No one will be able to ignore you. Your voice will screech from the Wolf Throne like the call of a bird. A parrot, perhaps. All ears shall quiver to hear your call!”

“My voice is not screechy. Take it back.”

“I will not.”

“You wound me, Brother.”

“I love you, dear sister, else I would not tease you so.”

“I love you, too. Don’t ever forget that.”

Her words faded, along with the memory, replaced by the rushing in his ears, the pounding of his heart. Everything was cool. Everything was still.

His lungs began to burn, his chest to ache. His lips longed to open and breathe in whatever was available, but he clamped his mouth shut tighter. If you wish to claim me, you must pry my lips open! he thought defiantly. The godsdamned swamp wouldn’t claim this soul so easily.

He thought he heard something else—a snuffling. His mind felt fuzzy now. Thoughts twisted and pulled away before he could clamp down on them. “Ow!” he tried to exclaim as something pierced his hand, but he couldn’t make a sound as mud filled his mouth. Instinctively, his fingers wound around the thing that was poking him, clutching it tightly. There was a pulling sensation, but it was like everything else: muddled. What was left of his mind began to fade as slime slid down his throat.

Something wet lapped at his face. Sampson groaned and tried to roll over, but his body felt as heavy as an anchor. He tried to make sense of how he’d escaped the bog, which had been on the verge of entombing him in its muck just before he’d, apparently, blacked out. The wet thing smeared across his face again. “Stop that,” he managed to murmur, though his voice emerged as little more than a gravelly whisper.

A snorting sound followed. The wet thing returned, sliding across his cheek.

He reached up and tried to grab it, but the thing pulled away. He reached farther, his hand finding something hard and rough, which seemed to press against his palm. The something was familiar to him. “Hmm?” he said, which, of course, was the creature’s name.

Another snort. The beast, which was known amongst the Grizari as a grux, pressed harder against his palm, nuzzling. Sampson shook his head in wonder, trying to recall what had happened. Memories of the bog appeared, those last fleeting moments before he should’ve died, and then the stabbing pain in his palm, grabbing onto something, being pulled. And then…nothing.

“You dragged me from the bog, girl?”

Wetness on his face. The grux’s long, broad tongue, cleaning the mud from his skin. He remembered the mud filling his mouth, his throat. How am I alive? he thought, scratching Hmm under the chin as she continued to clean his face. After the grux pulled him from the bog he must’ve thrown up. Had Hmm had the foresight to position him on his side to prevent him from choking on his own vomit?

“Thank you,” he said. “But how did you find me?” More nuzzling. Hard bone pressed against his chest—her front horn, as long as a blade, the point as sharp as the tip of a spear. It was how she had saved him, he realized, poking the horn through the mud, trying to reach his hand. She wasn’t trying to stab him, but her aim had been too good. As it turned out, feeling the prick of pain was just what he’d needed.

Now, he grasped her horn once more, the bony surface marred by notches and runnels. She was the runt of her litter and had survived this long only by fighting her bigger, stronger siblings for food. It had toughened her, but also left her scarred. He remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on the beast, his lips curling in disdain at her scrawny, mud-splattered appearance, several of the frilled horns surrounding her neck chipped or broken off completely.

He wished he could gaze upon her again, for he knew she would be the most beautiful creature in the world.

He grunted as she slowly lifted him onto his feet. The tenderness she was displaying was the dead opposite of her stubbornness when he’d first tried to mount her, tossing him off again and again and again, until they’d reached a tenuous agreement to not hate each other as much as they wanted to. They’d been fast friends ever since.

He clung to her horn, his legs feeling wobbly and heavy. Because I’m caked with mud, he thought. Not to mention I haven’t eaten in a day, maybe more depending on how long I was unconscious. But food wasn’t first on his list. No, he needed water. To cleanse his mouth and throat. To remove the thick mud clinging to his clothes. “Help me up,” he said, words still hard to come by.

He felt her lower her head, and he used her sturdy frame to steady himself as he staggered to her side. He could feel that one of her forelegs was bent, almost like a step stool. He lifted his leg, but missed his mark, foot sliding down her thick skin. He tried again, and this time his foot found purchase. He felt her rough skin on his heel—the bog had evidently claimed his boots. Better them than me, he thought, taking a deep breath to gather his strength. Then he shoved upwards, fingers probing for one of Hmm’s frill-horns, finding one. Groaning, he pulled himself onto her back, legs strung over each side, chest pressed against her skin.

She snorted and then he felt the familiar bumping-bouncing as she began to walk.

“Well, well, what do we have ’ere?” said a harsh-sounding voice. “Seems like ye lost a fight with the Sucking Bog.”

“Actually, I won,” Sampson said, instantly on high alert. He must’ve fallen asleep on Hmm’s back, though he knew he wasn’t there now, grass tickling his cheek. Where did the grux go? He couldn’t recall how he’d gotten off her back.

He managed to sit up, straining for any sound of the beast—a snuffle or a snort or the pounding of her powerful hoofs. Nothing. “Lookin’ fer someone?” the voice asked. A man, given the deep timbre. Though he couldn’t see the owner of the voice, he pictured a man with three days’ worth of scruff on his cheeks, his teeth tobacco-stained and yellowed.

“My mount,” Sampson said. “Have you seen her?”

“I ain’t seen a horse, other than my own. How ’bout ye, Eels?”

“Nah, boss. Jest our two.” The second voice, Eels apparently, was higher pitched than the first.

If they hadn’t seen Hmm yet, Sampson wasn’t about to explain to them that she was no horse. “Do you have any food?” he asked. He felt so weak that he would be a fool to let his own pride forbid him from begging. Food, he thought. If I fell off Hmm’s back after I fell asleep, I bet she went looking for food. Which meant she’d eventually return. He didn’t know if these men were friends or foes, or whether they were armed, but he took comfort in his own logic.

“Course,” the first voice said. “Ye’d hafta be a fool to travel these parts without supplies. Unless yer a seasoned woodsman. There’s not a town or village from ’ere to Kerr’s Crossing.”

If you only knew… “I was, er, separated from my party.” Translation: I was leading an angry horde of Grizari against the Avadonians until I decided to abandon my shadowblade and go for a swim. “Would you be willing to spare some of your food?” he asked. “I will pay you back tenfold as soon as I am able.”

“Indeed, ye will,” the man said. “’Ere.” Something thumped against Sampson’s feet. “Ye never learned how to catch then.”

“Well, no, it’s kind of difficult for someone like me.” He felt around until his fingers found what had been thrown. A hard, crusty bread roll. His mouth salivating, he bit into it, not caring if he broke a tooth. He crunched through the outer layer of the bread until he got to the slightly less hard—but still rather hard—inner portion. It was flavorless and at least two days past when most folks would be willing to eat it, and yet as each bite slid down his throat, he began to feel the ache in his belly ebb. “Thank you,” he said around mouthfuls.

“What did ye mean by ‘someone like me’?” the man asked. His voice sounded closer now, and Sampson had the urge to scrabble backwards. A breath of air washed over him, but the day was windless. “Yer—yer blind, ain’t ye?” the man spat.

Sampson sighed. It must’ve been the man waving his hands across his face that had caused the air he’d felt. “Guilty as charged,” Sampson said. “I was born without sight.”

“That’s a damn pity,” the man said. “No wonder ye didn’t jump half out of yer skin when ye saw Eels’ ugly mug.”

Rather than arguing the point, Eels said, “Eels got in a lot of fights growin’ up. Eels’ nose has been broken more times than Eels can count.”

“Course he can only count to ten, even if he takes off his boots,” the man said. “Name’s Squig and I happen to only have one good eye. Not that it’s the same as havin’ no good eyes, but maybe I half-understand what it’s like to be blind. This ’ere’s Eels. He’s a simpleton but works hard and doesn’t talk back. What’s yer name, lad?”

“Sam…don,” he said, barely catching himself before speaking his true name. For all he knew his father had sent a search party asking questions about a Sampson all across Avadon.

“Samdon?” the boss said. “Odd name. Can I jest call ye Sam?”

“Sure,” he said, though he thought calling his fabricated name ‘odd’ was pretty rich coming from a pair who had introduced themselves as Squig and Eels. You can call me Scum if you give me more of that bread, he thought.

“Where ye headed, Sam?”

“South.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“I’m hoping to get to South Strangle. Board a ship, if possible.”

“To where?”

He shrugged. “Nowhere,” he said, as casually as possible. “I’m hoping to work on a ship as a deck hand. Swabbing decks. Repairing ropes. That sort of thing.”

“Never heard of a blind deckhand before, but why not? There’s a first time fer everythin’, right?” Squig said. “Anyway, seein’ that ye’ve been separated from yer group, ye can travel with us, if ye like. Jest so happens we’re ridin’ south, too. Hopin’ to find our fortune amongst the isles of the Sacred Sea. We’re treasure hunters, we are.”

“Since when?” Eels said, sounding confused.

“Since now. So, Sam, are ye with us?”

Sampson hadn’t planned to make friends on the trek south, but they had food and eyes that worked, both things he was presently short of. But he also couldn’t abandon Hmm, not after the way she’d saved his life. “Thank you,” he said. “But I need to find my steed first. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“I can understand that. A good horse is irreplaceable. Valuable too! Has anyone ever told you her color? That may be helpful in locating her.”

How to explain…, Sampson wondered. It was probably better that he provide ample warning of what exactly they were searching for. “Sort of a gray-ish hue, but—”

“Gray, ye say? Sounds like a Calabrian stallion. But I’ve never seen one in person. They’re rather rare around these parts.”

“No, she’s not a Calabrian stallion. Well, she’s not even a horse at all.”

“A donkey then? Stubborn creatures, if you asked me. Eels here was kicked by one once, he’s never been the same since…”

“No, she’s not a donkey either. She’s actually, what I’m trying to say is, my steed isn’t from around here, I got her from—”

Before he could explain further, Squig said, “What the…?” his unfinished question followed by the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of heavy hoofbeats, so loud and raucous they might’ve been an entire cavalry riding in perfect rhythm.

Sampson might’ve not been able to see what transpired, but the sounds told the tale pretty well. There was a high-pitched shriek and then a thump, followed by heavy snorting and stamping of hooves. All of it was surrounded by the fearful neighing of two horses. And then: “This…monster…is yer steed?”

“She has a name—Hmm. And she’s no monster, just a grux. Compared to others of her kind, she’s really quite small. And harmless, well mostly, so long as you stay on her good side.”

“Her horn…is pressed…against my throat.”

Sampson blanched. “Hmm, leave the good man alone. He gave me food and offered to provide an escort to the Sacred Sea.”

Another snort. The grux sounded wholly unconvinced. Sampson moved toward the sound, extending his arms and feeling around until his fingers slid over the creature’s rough hide. “There, there. You had no love for me when we first met, did you?” Hmm breathed out deeply, and Sampson could feel her body quiver under his touch. “Let him go so I can make proper introductions.”

He felt the animal move backwards a step. Squig cursed and the sound of him scrambling to his feet arose, followed immediately by steel scraping against steel.

“What are you doing?” Sampson said, feeling Hmm stiffen under his touch.

“That thing attacked me.”

“And you’re no worse for wear,” Sampson said evenly. He could picture the man gripping a sword, waving it menacingly in Hmm’s direction. The grux wouldn’t like that—not one bit. “Listen very carefully. If you are to survive this encounter, you will sheath your weapon. Do it now, slowly and without any sudden movements. Follow my instructions exactly, or I cannot promise I will be able to stop her from goring you.”

“Boss, mebbe ye should listen to him,” Eels said. “That pony looks angry.”

A growl of warning had begun in the back of Hmm’s throat, but had risen as they’d continued talking, and now it emerged, low and menacing. Unless Sampson’s ears were mistaken—which they rarely were—she was also scraping her hoof along the ground, preparing to charge. “Sir, I really must insist you—”

Steel shrieked and then went still as the sword was returned to its sheath. Sampson released the breath that had become lodged in his chest. “Now what?” Squig said, sounding none too pleased by the situation.

“Squig, Eels, meet Hmm. She’s served me faithfully for a while now.”

The grux stamped her foot hard enough to crack stone and snorted. At least she’s stopped growling, Sampson thought.

“And ye say she’s a…grux?” Squig said. “Never heard of such a creature.”

“I’m not surprised. Most humans know little about the ways of the Grizari. I can admit I knew next to nothing until not so long ago.”

Squig made a choking sound. “The Grizari? Ye mean to tell us this beast—”

“Hmm.”

“Aye, Hmm…belongs to the savages?” Squig finished.

“Well, she did, once. But they gave her to me, though I like to think she remains by my side of her own accord.” A thought occurred to him then, one Sampson wasn’t particularly pleased with. He never would’ve formed a bond with Hmm if not for the shadowblade. During his initial altercation with the grux, she’d have broken every bone in his body had the blade not healed him half a dozen times on his way to gaining her respect and loyalty.

He almost expected the blade to respond in his head with one of its usual arrogant comments, but instead it was Squig who filled the void of silence. “Ye’ve had dealings with the savages?”

Sampson ignored the repeated use of such a distasteful word as he didn’t think explaining the true nature and complexities of the Grizari to these men would accomplish anything at this point. “Some,” Sampson said instead. “They helped me when my expedition was in dire straits.”

“Expedition?”

As they’d talked, Sampson had been devising the story in his head. “Perhaps that’s a rather boastful word for it. It was more of a…journey. I hail from Armitage, you see. Given my…blindness…there weren’t many opportunities for me there. My parents died when I was young, and I was left in the care of a cruel uncle who’d rather I was invisible than blind. So, as soon as I came of age, I gave him his wish, setting out with a band of entertainers seeking employment in the heart of Avadon. They were willing to feed and shelter me as long as I cared for their horses, as I’ve always had a natural connection to animals.

“The plan was to follow the coastline until we reached the Roughwater, but our leader grew impatient and sought to shorten the distance by angling across the Lost Plains. We became disoriented and eventually realized we were traveling in circles. We ran out of food first, then water. When the Grizari found us, most of our party were already dead. The rest died shortly thereafter, though the Griz tried to help them. They fed me and cared for me until I was strong enough to do so myself.”

Finally, Squig interjected. “There’s been word on the wind that the Grizari have unified ’emselves and were marchin’ on Kerr’s Crossin’.”

“’Tis true,” Sampson said. “That’s why I had to leave. The situation had become precarious, so I slipped away in the dark of night with Hmm. We wandered blindly until we reached the Roughwater. From there we turned south until I blundered into the Sucking Bog. Hmm pulled me out or I’d be dead without a trace that I ever existed.”

“Why’d the Griz help ye? Ye know, bein’ that yer a human and all.”

Sampson managed a shrug. “Void if I know. Perhaps they pitied me. Perhaps I was merely their plaything.” The lies burned in his throat. He had wronged the Grizari in more ways than he could count, and now he was tarnishing them with his words. I have no choice, he said. These men believe them to be savages and nothing I can say will convince them otherwise.

“And the beast…it’s tame? It listens to ye?”

“It is a she. But yes, she is tame and obedient, when she wants to be. She doesn’t take kindly to me being threatened though. I’m sorry she mistook you for someone who meant me harm.”

“Er, I s’pose I can respect a steed that protects her master. If the roles were reversed, our horses would prolly turn tail and run. They are old and grumpy beasts. Not that I’m surprised, considerin’ the pittance we paid fer ’em. Their previous owners couldn’t be rid of ’em fast enough.”

“I understand if this is where we must go our separate ways,” Sampson said.

“Nah,” Squig said. “Yer beast, er, Hmm, jest caught me by surprise, is all. We’d be pleased to travel with ye fer a time, Sam. There’s always greater safety in numbers out ’ere in the wilds.”

“Wonderful!” Sampson said, unable to hold back his enthusiasm. Truth be told, he was rather surprised by their acceptance of him given the company he kept, but having a guide who knew the land in these parts was invaluable given his present situation. “I mean, I’d be pleased to ride with you. And Eels. Thank you.”

“Course. It’s the neighborly thing to do, especially given yer, er, situation.”

“You mean my blindness,” Sampson said. “No need to tiptoe around it, sir, I have lived with it my entire life.”

“I can appreciate that,” Squig said. “But aye, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to let a blind man wander ’round these parts.”

“’Made of gold, ye are,” Eels said, the simpleton finally raising his voice after having been silent for the majority of the conversation.

Sampson raised an eyebrow at the odd remark. “If you’re hoping for a reward, I’m afraid I don’t have a single coin to my name these days,” he said. “But I will strive to repay your kindness when we reach South Strangle. I will request an advance on my wages from whichever captain offers me work.”

“We cannot say no to that, can we Eels?” Squig said, sounding pleased. “We’re not exactly made of gold ourselves, are we? Not yet anyway.”

“I hope you find that treasure you’re after,” Sampson said. “Now, should we get moving? The sooner we are around the Sucking Bog and back to the river’s edge the better.”

“Aye, we are in agreement there, Mister Sam,” Squig said. “Mount up and have yer steed follow us.”

After a pat on Hmm’s chin, Sampson clambered up and whispered a command in the grux’s ear. The creature turned her head and began to lope in what, to Sampson at least, felt like the wrong direction entirely.

I must’ve gotten turned around during all the excitement, he thought. He settled in for the long ride south.

Two

Roman Leary

South of Kerr’s Crossing, Avadon

ROMAN LEARY WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. This he knew with all the certainty as he knew his own name or recognized his own reflection in a pool of water. His last act had been to protect Sampson from the dozens of Avadonian arrows fired by the staunch defenders at Kerr’s Crossing, using his own body as a shield.

He would do it again in a heartbeat.

He was only alive because of the ancient blade Sampson had wielded before they’d been separated. The shadowblade. Somehow, someway, it had reached out to him across the distance between them and healed his mortal injuries. He didn’t pretend to understand how such a thing was possible, and yet he felt a swell of gratitude to feel the air fill his lungs, the ceaseless beat of his heart in his chest. Thank you, he said now, wondering whether the blade would be able to read his thoughts from wherever it was.

MY PLEASURE, the blade said. He flinched, still not accustomed to that whisper-soft voice appearing like the hiss of a snake directly into his mind. THOUGH I DIDN’T DO IT FOR YOUR SAKE.

After I find you, you want me to return you to Sampson, Roman said. It wasn’t a question, but a reminder to himself of the deal he’d made with the devil. His life in exchange for this thing.

IT SHOULDN’T BE DIFFICULT. THE RIVER SWEPT HIM FURTHER SOUTH THAN ME. JUST FOLLOW THE PATH OF THE RIVER AND EVENTUALLY YOUR COURSES WILL CROSS.

The reminder that Sampson was likely lying half-drowned and blind on the riverbank somewhere caused an ache in his chest. Though Roman had allowed the lad to make his own decisions, he’d always protected him. But now…he was lost and alone, vulnerable to the evils of the world. At least the snake-tongued shadowblade had provided Sampson with a means to defend himself.

AND I WILL AGAIN, AS SOON AS WE FIND HIM AND TALK SOME SENSE INTO HIM.

Where are you?

KEEP WALKING. YOU ARE CLOSE NOW.

Since standing, surrounded by Grizari corpses and piles of ash where the corpses of dead demons had once lay, Roman had marched directly south, following the river. His clothes were bloodstained and pocked with holes where the arrows had pierced him, but his skin wore nothing but white scars to remind him that he’d cheated death.

He glanced to the right, where the Roughwater lived up to its name, its rapids plunging headlong between boulders the size of houses, overflowing churning pools of whitewater before being sucked down the next series of drops and channels, twisting and turning as it made its way south. The thought of Sampson being slammed around made his teeth grind together. Could he truly have survived it?

Fighting off the thought, he twisted his neck around, gazing behind him. He could barely make out the apex of the wall that marked the eastern side of Kerr’s Crossing, a large stone bridge that spanned the roughest portion of the river and provided the only safe means of crossing over into the heart of Avadon.

An Avadon that remained safe because Sampson had done what Roman was beginning to believe he might not be capable of doing: untethering himself from the shadowblade. How many lives had been saved because of the lad’s strength? How much destruction had been prevented? If Sampson had instead used the blade to cut his way through the gate at Kerr’s Crossing and unleash a mixed swarm of demons and Grizari…

Gods save us all, he thought. He’d seen the Grizari survivors retreating, heading eastward toward the Lost Plains. The demons had continued their charge west, throwing themselves with reckless abandon against the gate and walls, but the Avadonians seemed more than capable of repelling the horde.

NEED I REMIND YOU THAT BREACHING KERR’S CROSSING REMAINS OUR OBJECTIVE?

Roman cringed. Now that he was connected to the blade, he would need to guard his thoughts. He’d seen what wielding the blade did to a man. Sampson had been changed, and not for the better. In the end, he’d done the right thing, but it had been a close call. Roman shoved such thoughts to the very back of his mind, where he hoped the blade wouldn’t find them. At the front of his mind, he thought, Of course. For Teravainen, right? If the Gaards are to win the war and create an empire, they must exert their influence from the east as well as the west.

YOU THINK ME A FOOL, DO YOU? I KNOW YOU DISAGREE WITH MY METHODS, BUT I ASSURE YOU I WANT THE BEST FOR SAMPSON, JUST AS YOU DO.

I suspect our definitions of ‘the best’ are rather different.

PERHAPS, BUT WE BOTH WANT HIM TO BE ABLE TO SEE, DO WE NOT? OR WOULD YOU RATHER HIM REMAIN BLIND FOR THE REST OF HIS DAYS? DO YOU THINK IT’S WORSE TO NEVER HAVE SEEN THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD, OR TO HAVE GOTTEN A GLIMPSE ONLY TO HAVE IT SNATCHED AWAY AGAIN?

Roman didn’t respond, because such thoughts had already swirled through his head as violently as the river he now walked beside. In truth, it broke his heart to know that Avadon would only be safe if Sampson never regained the gift of sight.

CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE?

No, it’s just…I fear for Sampson. How could he have survived the Roughwater?

BECAUSE HE’S MY WIELDER, the blade said simply.

Roman frowned. Are you saying you protected him?

FOR A TIME, BUT THEN HE WAS TOO FAR AWAY FOR ME TO DO ANYTHING FOR HIM.

Then how do you know he’s alive?

BECAUSE I KNOW I WILL FEEL THE PRESS OF HIS PALM AGAINST MY HILT AGAIN.

How?

THIS I CAN’T EXPLAIN. IT IS SIMPLY SOMETHING I KNOW.

The certainty with which the blade spoke surprised Roman. You can see the future?

I AM NO SOOTHSAYER. BUT I TRUST MY ABILITY, WITH SAMPSON AS MY WIELDER, OF COURSE, TO SHAPE THE FUTURE TO MY WILL.

That notion, more than anything else the blade had said thus far, gave Roman hope. Because he’d once huddled in fear of an uncertain future, the two greatest loves of his life stripped away as though they’d never existed in the first place. His wife, Annaliese. His son, Brennan. He could’ve refused to stand ever again.

But he had stood, finding a strength inside him he never would’ve known he’d had if not for the tragedy he was forced to endure. And when he’d risen, he’d found a new love, his bond with a blind prince as strong as any father-son bond could be.

Now was no different. He could stand. He could fight. And, as the blade had said, he could shape the future to his own will. As a grim smile curled his lips at the thought, something caught his attention—a sliver of darkness set between two boulders, where the sun was shining directly.

The sliver of darkness seemed to swallow the light.

HELLO, ROMAN, the shadowblade said.

Roman set his jaw and made for the darkness.

Whether by mere happenstance or the strength of its will, the blade had been jammed between the rocks, thus preventing it from being carried further downriver.

Roman hesitated only briefly, his hand hovering over the unnatural darkness that surrounded the blade, before grabbing the hilt. He blinked. He’d expected to feel…something. A jolt of energy. A wave of mania. Something other than just the cool press of steel against skin, a sensation he was well-accustomed to from his time serving King Gaard and Prince Sampson.

WOULD YOU RATHER I FORCED YOU TO STAB YOURSELF THROUGH THE HEART? the blade asked.

Though Roman hadn’t been in his right mind at the time, his memory was still able to conjure fuzzy images of Sampson doing just that, plunging this very blade into his own chest. Of course, the shadowblade had immediately healed him, thus beginning a bond that had driven the prince to unite the Grizari and coerce them to attack Kerr’s Crossing.

Is that…necessary? Roman asked.

OUR BOND HAS ALREADY BEEN SECURED BY BLOOD. YOURS, TO BE SPECIFIC. I SAVED YOU FROM CERTAIN DEATH. ANYWAY, YOU WILL ONLY BE MY TEMPORARY WIELDER, SO SUCH RITUALS ARE UNNECESSARY. RETURN ME TO SAMPSON AND I SHALL RELEASE YOU FROM OUR TETHER.

Roman fought off a thought he didn’t want the blade to be privy to. He peered into the darkness, assessing how tightly the blade was wedged between the adjacent walls of rock. Pretty damn tightly, from what he could tell. He gave a small tug to test his theory, and to his surprise, the blade slid free as easily as if it’d been stuck in a stick of butter.

The blade’s grating laughter sounded in his mind. SEE? THE WORLD BENDS TO MY WILL. Roman didn’t wait a second longer to slide the blade into his sheath. REALLY? YOU JUST RECOVERED ME. WHY NOT FIND SOMETHING OF FLESH AND BLOOD FOR ME TO STAB?

This isn’t a game. Not to me.

YOU WOUND ME. THIS ISN’T A GAME TO ME EITHER. THE FATE OF KINGFALL HANGS IN THE BALANCE, AND WE HAVE THE POWER TO TIP THE SCALES IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION, THE DIRECTION IT SHOULD’VE TIPPED CENTURIES AGO.

Meaning?

ALL WILL BECOME CLEAR IN TIME. BUT FIRST WE MUST LOCATE SAMPSON. I LONG TO BE REUNITED WITH MY RIGHTFUL WIELDER.

Roman wanted to find Sampson, too, but for other reasons. He needed to confirm the lad truly was alive. As you wish, he said, turning and heading south once more, the roar of the Roughwater drowning out all other sound.

Three

Sampson Gaard

Unknown location, Avadon

“I CAN’T HEAR THE RIVER,” SAMPSON SAID, LISTENING INTENTLY. At least two hours had passed as they’d ridden south. Thankfully, his companions hadn’t asked many questions, though Squig liked to talk. A lot. He mostly told stories of absurd adventures that he swore were the gods’ honest truth—‘on my dead mudder’s grave’, he repeated more times than Sampson could count—but which Sampson was all but certain were stolen from some imaginative storyteller Squig had listened to.

“We angled away from it,” Squig said. “Need to put some distance between us and the Sucking Bog. We’ll return to the river after we’ve passed the worst of it.”

That made sense. Still, Sampson would feel better once he could hear the burble of the river close at hand. “How large is the bog?”

“That’s a movin’ target, lad. The bog claims more of the good land every year, growin’ by the season. In a hundred years it may very well reach Kerr’s Crossing. I’d like to see the look on Glynn Kerr’s face when it does. Then again, that man is so shrewd and greedy he’d probably figure a way to bottle the muck and sell it to lords in faraway lands. Where did ye say ye were from again?”

After telling his fabricated story, Sampson had purposely avoided the topic. He knew the chances of being caught in a lie grew with each subsequent telling, as key details were changed or forgotten. Eventually he’d be forced to cover one falsehood with another, which was a recipe for disaster. The second he lost these men’s trust they’d leave him in their dust. “I grew up in Armitage,” he said, though he was fairly certain Squig wouldn’t have forgotten a detail like that. “Have you ever been?” Please say no.

“Nah. Never had a reason to go so far south. Too close to Crimea for my likin’. Crimea’s a dangerous place after what happened with the Horde.”

It was true, Crimea was in a period of rebuilding after being devastated by the deadly mountain-dwelling creatures, but Sampson had never heard anyone call it dangerous. “We never had any trouble. Far as I know, the Crimeans stay on their side of the border, except for the merchants and their vessels.”

“If it’s jest the same to ye, I’ll stay on this side of Beggar’s Canyon, ’specially with all the demons runnin’ amok.”

“I would think you’d prefer to be on the western side of the Roughwater,” Sampson said.

“I would, but my, er, reputation has taken a hit or two as of late. Eels and I ain’t exactly allowed anywhere near the capital city.”

“You’ve been banned from Dunadin? Why?”

“Banned is a strong word, but aye, we’re forbidden to enter the city limits. But it was all jest a bit of miscommunication, I swear it. I only kissed the city marshal’s wife because I was drunk off my arse and I swore she was a whore.”

Sampson was rendered speechless, though the silence didn’t last long, Squig moving on to the next topic with a zeal that contradicted his present pitiable situation.

“Say, what’s it like to be born without eyes?”

Sampson didn’t think it necessary to point out that he had eyes, they just couldn’t see. Instead, he said, “I imagine it’s much the same as those who are born without brains.” Like you, for example, he thought. If Squig or Eels noticed the subtle slight, they gave no indication. He continued: “You don’t actually know what you’re missing.” Of course, now I miss being able to see, he thought. I miss it like crops miss the rain during a drought.

“So ye don’t even know what a blue sky looks like?”

Gods how Sampson missed the blue sky, its unfathomable expanse stretching endless wings overhead. “I don’t even know what it means for something to be ‘blue’,” he lied.

“That’s mad,” Squig said. “Ain’t it, brudder?”

Sampson’s brows furrowed. Eels is Squig’s brother? He had failed to mention that little fact before. Perhaps he was embarrassed by his brother’s simple nature. Void, his brother even referred to him as ‘boss’.

“Mad is bad I’m mad, egad, so sad how mad the lad is mad is bad I’m mad, egad, so sad…” Eels continued to repeat the nonsensical words over and over again, not seeming to notice that the conversation had moved on.

Squig chuckled. “He likes to repeat things he hears. That is one of his favorites. Have you heard it before?”

“Nay,” Sampson said. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Huh,” Squig said, as though surprised. “It’s a very common rhyme taught to Avadonian children. It’s meant to twist their tongues. Took Eels a whole year to master it, but he never gave up until he could repeat it a hundred times without a word going astray. My brother might be simple, but he’s determined when he wants to be.”

“I can hear that,” Sampson said. Eels was still repeating the rhyme, his voice low and droning now, almost like a chant. “I guess the rhyme never made it as far as Armitage.”

“I guess not.” As the man moved on to the next topic, a discussion of the various islands of the Sacred Sea and how he planned to discover a new island that would likely be filled to brimming with buried treasure, Sampson’s thoughts circled around something he thought was important, something he couldn’t quite see.

Not yet.

After a half day of steady travel, the sound of the river continued to elude Sampson’s ears. He’d asked twice more about when they would reach the Roughwater again, and each time he was given a similar, vague answer. We’ll get there when we get there. Can’t be too careful when dealing with the Sucking Bog.

The bog simply can’t be that big, Sampson thought now. Squig was prattling on about a map he’d hustled from another ‘treasure hunter’ that supposedly showed the location of the undiscovered island that was all but certain to contain wealth unimaginable.

At first, Sampson thought Squig might be more similar to his brother Eels than he let on, a few marbles short of a complete set, but now he was beginning to realize all the stories about treasure hunting were nothing more than a means to distract him from the truth that was unfolding with each step their steeds took beneath them.

“We’re not going south, are we?” he finally said, resigned to the truth.

“I was wonderin’ when we’d have to have this conversation,” Squig said.

“You knew if you returned to the river, I would be able to tell which direction we were going based on the sound of the water.”

“Aye. And the sound would be gettin’ gradually louder as well,” Squig said.

Because of the rapids, Sampson thought. We’re heading back to Kerr’s Crossing. Of all places. “You said you’ve been banned from Dunadin, so why—” He cut off sharply, digging his heels into Hmm’s side. The beast pulled to a stop with an annoyed snort. They know who I am. They’re going to trade me to Glynn Kerr in exchange for the return of their rights to enter the Avadonian capital. He froze. None of that made sense. They couldn’t possibly recognize him unless they’d been involved in the Battle at Kerr’s Crossing. Which they clearly weren’t.

“Figure it out yet, lad?” Squig asked, sounding as smug as a fox that was already inside the henhouse.

Sampson recalled something the man had said about his simple brother soon after they’d met. He likes to repeat things he hears. He combined that information with something Eels had said before: Made of gold, ye are. These men were treasure hunters, but the treasure they sought wasn’t made of gold or precious stones. No, the treasure these men sought was built of flesh and blood and bone. “You’re slavers,” he spat.

“Ye say it like a dirty word,” Squig said. There was amusement in his tone.

“Slavers are the worst kind of filth.” Sampson’s own father was a man who eschewed morals, but even he loathed slavers.

“Thankfully, I do not care what you think of me. So long as we get paid.” His lilting, low-brow accent had vanished, replaced by the sharpness of words spoken with perfect diction. This was an educated man who’d chosen to use his knowledge and intellect for the most heinous of pursuits.

Something still didn’t make sense to Sampson. “Why bring me to Kerr’s Crossing? Surely there are other places you can hawk your wares.”

“Well, we wanted to go south, lad, sell you into combat to the Pentocki sellswords, but they wouldn’t pay a wooden coin for a blind man. Glynn Kerr will find use for you in his mines, I expect, and we will still get our coin.” The man’s voice had grown closer as he spoke, which meant he’d been slowly moving his horse toward him.

Sampson’s senses were suddenly on high-alert and he cocked his head to the side, picking up a sound that must’ve only just reached the fringes of the range of his keen hearing. The sound of churning water. We’re already here, he thought, frantic now. If they’d reached Kerr’s Crossing, then Squig and Eels would have the demon swarm to deal with. Maybe in the chaos he could escape. Maybe he should give the command to Hmm to flee right now and take his chances before the Avadonian guards atop the wall noticed their approach. His mouth opened, but before he could speak, Squig’s voice arose so close to his ear it startled him: “Sorry, kid, it wasn’t personal. Just business.”

He turned as a sound on the opposite side—the chuff of a horse—arose. Sensing imminent danger, he tried to raise his arms to protect himself, but something whistled through the air a split-second faster, cracking into his temple with enough force to twist him back around and then he was falling, his hands, arms and legs having lost all strength. He slid from his mount and thumped to the ground, throbbing pain pumping through his skull. There were sounds, but they seemed as distant as the Roughwater—Hmm’s low growl, Squig shouting orders to Eels, and Eels monotonous chanting: “Mad is bad I’m mad, egad, so sad how mad the lad is mad is bad I’m mad, egad, so sad…”

A final, devastating thought eclipsed everything else: If he was already at Kerr’s Crossing, then he’d missed Roman Leary completely, the man probably having traveled along the river while they’d ridden inland.

And then nothing.

Four

Roman Leary

The Sucking Bog, Avadon

ROMAN FROWNED AS HE STARED AT THE FETID, MUCK-FILLED WATERS OF THE BOG. Could Sampson have been carried by the river’s current past the bog completely? It was possible, the bog having grown on the eastern side of the river, where the water was less swift-moving, pools of standing water forming over the years, creating their own ecosystem for a miscellany of long-legged birds and other creatures that apparently enjoyed spending their days mired in sludge. If Sampson had become caught in the pull of the current on the western side of the river, however, he might’ve skirted the bog and been swept further south.

HE DIDN’T, the blade said, having not spoken for hours as Roman trudged along the riverbank.

How do you… Roman let the unfinished thought trail off. You lied to me. Your connection to Sampson has not been fully severed, not by distance nor by his rejection of you.

HE DIDN’T REJECT ME.

No? Roman scoffed. Throwing you into a violent, turbulent river wasn’t a rejection?

TEMPORARY MADNESS, the blade said. HE REALIZED HIS MISTAKE ALMOST IMMEDIATELY AND DOVE IN AFTER ME.

Because you’ve chained him to you like an animal.

YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING.

No? From where I stand, you’re nothing but a leech, preying on the most innocent of souls, twisting them until they are beyond all recognition.

THIS CONVERSATION IS POINTLESS. YOU NEED TO TURN AROUND AND HEAD NORTH. SAMPSON WAS COUGHED ONTO THE RIVERBANK NOT FAR FROM HERE. I SENSE HIM MOVING FURTHER AWAY.

He should be going south, to get as far away from Kerr’s Crossing as possible.

HE’S GOING NORTH.

Why would he do that?

WHY, HE’S LOOKING FOR ME, OF COURSE.

It was then that Roman realized something: Sampson would never be free of the blade, not so long as it was cool and hard and sharp.

Since the moment the blind prince had been tucked into Roman’s arms, he’d spent his life trying to protect him. Not just by stepping in front of danger, but by giving Sampson the skills to protect himself, to survive, to live as normal a life as possible. A memory rose to the surface of his mind:

Panic set in the moment Roman turned the corner and found the street empty save for a few beggars muttering nonsense as they drowned their sorrows with cheap mead drunk from battered old water skins. You’re a damn fool, he thought bitterly. He’s only ten. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to swim and you threw him in the deep waters.

He took a deep, steadying breath. Stop. You gave him this challenge; it’s your responsibility to get him out of it. Find him. Find the prince.

Roman started the search, methodically scouring the city, street by street, widening the search area each time a block proved fruitless. He knew he should fear the king’s wrath at having lost the prince, but the only fear he felt was for Sampson.

The ill feeling grew and grew until he was forced to stop in an alley, spewing vile stomach acid like a drunkard. He wiped his mouth clean, feeling numb now. When his son was stillborn all those years ago, he hadn’t had the opportunity to protect him. All he could do for him was give him the burial and respect and love he deserved. When the king had unexpectedly awarded him a second chance at fatherhood with Sampson, Roman had vowed to never let anything hurt the boy.

A vow he might’ve failed to uphold.

As he stepped back out onto the main street, he turned in a circle. People stared at him. They knew who he was—he’d started marching Sampson Gaard through the city a couple years back, giving the prince more and more freedom, growing his confidence until this very challenge, leaving the prince in a crowded marketplace with instructions to make his way back to the palace.

I was supposed to stay close enough to keep an eye on him, he thought. Sampson had moved faster than he expected, feeling his way around a merchant’s cart and out of sight. That was the last he’d seen of the boy.

He stopped turning, nodding to himself. It was time to resign himself to the fact that he needed help. He needed to return to the palace, admit what had happened, and organize a proper search party.

Despondent, he trudged back to the palace. Head down, he entered the gate, which was opened for him without a word. Inside, he finally lifted his head, about to bark orders to the first man he saw.

He froze, mouth dropping open slightly. For, standing before him wearing a victorious smile, was none other than Prince Sampson Gaard, his charge for the last decade of his life, a boy he thought of as a son.

“What took you so long, Mister Leary?” Sampson said.

Without thinking, Roman crossed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around the boy. Sampson, clearly surprised, stiffened. Though the two were as close as close could be, they’d never hugged or showed any physical affection.

“Uh…,” Sampson said.

Roman immediately realized he’d crossed a line, and in a very public place at that. The only fortunate thing was that it was dusk and most of the day’s activities in the courtyard had ceased. He released the prince and backed away a step. “Apologies, Your Highness. I was concerned for your safety. I’ve been searching for hours.”

“Why?”

The question was full of the innocence of a boy growing into his own, regardless of whether his eyes worked or not. “Because, ah, because I was being foolish,” Roman said. “I should’ve trusted in your abilities. I am proud of you.”

A genuine smile curled the prince’s lips, his eyes rolling around aimlessly, as though searching for something that could never be found. “Do you think Father would be proud, too?”

Your father barely knows you exist, Roman thought, hating that it was the truth. In the early days, Roman had appeared before the king regularly to provide updates on his youngest child’s progress, but over time the meetings had become less and less frequent as Sampson’s father showed little to no interest in the topic. Now, Roman was fortunate if he spoke to the king once in a year. “Of course he would,” he said. “I will be sure to inform him of your great triumph.”

The memory faded. Roman blinked, the fetid bog slowly coming back into focus. He’d kept his promise, telling the king the very next day about how Sampson had managed, sightless, to travel a full sixteen city blocks with nothing but his senses and wits to guide him back to the palace. He still remembered the king’s exact response, as though it were yesterday. ‘So my son, now ten name days old, finally managed to do what any six-year-old could do? What am I supposed to do? Clap him on the back and congratulate him? Don’t return until you have real progress to report.’

In that moment, Roman had hated the king with all his being.

Gazing at the swamp, he realized that he needed to trust Sampson the way he didn’t trust him on that day in the city. He’d proven time and time again that he was capable, a survivor. Wherever Sampson was, whatever he was doing, he would get through it without him. There was only one way to rescue Sampson now.

He hid the thought deep inside him, where even the blade’s consciousness could not reach:

I must destroy it. I must destroy the blade.

He set off toward the east, the river growing smaller and smaller behind him, until it was nothing but a thin line. The stench of the bog receded, too, until it was replaced by the fresh smell of grass. Once he was well clear of the bog, he adjusted his course south once more, the sun bright upon his cheeks, providing a small measure of warmth on an otherwise chilly day.

TURN AROUND, the blade said.

“No,” Roman said aloud, enjoying the way the word sounded to his own ears.

I WILL FORCIBLY STOP YOU IF I MUST.

Nothing more than a bluff, Roman said. Otherwise you wouldn’t have said it. You would’ve done it already. No, our bond is too new. You haven’t had time to dig your claws into me just yet, have you? I feel compelled to go north, but it’s nothing more than a stiff wind blowing in my face. And I’ve faced headwinds my entire life. This one won’t stop me.

WHERE ARE WE GOING?

Roman ignored the blade, walking faster.

WHERE ARE WE GOING!?

Roman walked on, ignoring the repeated question until, eventually, the blade went silent.

Leaving Sampson behind was the hardest thing Roman had ever had to do, but he couldn’t see him again until he was rid of the blade once and for all.

Five

Sampson Gaard

Kerr’s Crossing, Avadon

PAIN ASSAULTED SAMPSON THE MOMENT HE AWOKE. He groaned, clutching at his throbbing temples. His head felt as though it had become the focus of a pair of miners’ picks, chipping away at his skull.

That bastard, he thought, remembering Squig’s snide words just before he had his simpleton brother knock him unconscious. His next thought was: Where’s Hmm?

He tried to speak, but his mouth felt too dry to form words. He licked his lips, trying to work up some saliva. “Here,” a voice he didn’t recognize said. He felt a hand curl behind his head and lift him up, and then a waterskin was pressed to his lips. Cool liquid splashed into his mouth and he swallowed it too fast, choking and spluttering. “Slower,” the same voice said. He tried again, and this time he was able to drink without gagging.

“Thank you,” he managed, the last drips of water dribbling down his chin.

“Save it,” the voice said. “I don’t require thanks from the animals I care for.” The voice wasn’t harsh or angry, just matter of fact.

“I’m not an animal,” Sampson said.

“No? Soon you will carry what you are told to carry, you will swing your hammer and pick where you are told to swing them, you will eat and drink when you are told to eat and drink. Your ability to choose has been taken from you. Our ability to choose is the only thing that separates us from animals, don’t you think?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I have a master, too, and my master paid good coin for you, despite your blindness. Personally, I wouldn’t have paid half what he did, but I guess your strong back and arms were enough to compensate for your…deficiencies.”

“Where are Squig and Eels?”

“The snakes who brought you here? Probably off counting their coin somewhere. They are regulars, stopping by every few months with slaves to sell. Women, men, old, young—they are less discriminating than I would like, but I suppose we can find use for all types in Avadon. After all, no one wants to breathe in rock dust or shovel horse dirt for hours on end, do they?”

Sampson’s head was beginning to clear, but the pain had not subsided, threatening to pull him under once more. He fought off a wave of nausea, listening to the world around him. He heard the calls of birds and the shouts of men. A wagon’s wooden wheels clattered past, navigating what sounded like uneven cobblestones. A horse’s hooves clopped by.

“Kerr’s Crossing?” Sampson said.

“Aye. We brought you in the backdoor, so to speak.”

“But the demons…”

“We can handle them. We towed you across the river in a basket hanging from a rope. That’s how we’ve been making deliveries lately to avoid having to open the gates and risk a demon invasion.”

Lovely, Sampson thought. “Also, there was an animal with me…”

“The scrawny grux? It was shot with an arrow tipped with a heavy dose of longsleep. The beast will be transported downriver and then ferried across and brought back up north. How’d you come to have a grux anyway?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m bored already. Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly,” Sampson said evenly. In reality, the thought of food of any kind made his stomach churn. He could barely keep the water down as it was.

“Good. Now it’s time to take a ride.”

“Where are we going?”

“Why, Dunadin, of course. It’s time to start your employment. Work hard and keep your head down and you’ll last longer than most. Glynn Kerr isn’t exactly a patient man.”

Sampson’s teeth clenched together so hard he feared he might chip several of his teeth. Every bounce, thump and rattle of the wagon sent spikes of pain through his head, leaving his stomach roiling. He dry-heaved again, gasping. After the first few times, everything left in his stomach was gone. Considering he was tied to some kind of a bar inside the cart, he wasn’t able to fully turn as he threw up, which meant his britches were now sodden with stomach acid, undigested food and sputum.

“Kind of a rough ride, innit?” a rasping voice said.

“You call this rough?” Sampson said. “Smooth as new skin if you ask me.”

“Your stomach thinks differently,” the man said. Although Sampson was aware of others confined to the same rickety wagon, no one had spoken until now. Their unwashed smell permeated everything, though he was certain his wasn’t much better.

“Does it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You have a rather dry sense of humor, dontcha?”

“Hard to have any sense of humor when your entire body hates you.”

“Trust me, you’ll wish to be back in this wagon after we get to Dunadin. Heard plenty of stories, have I.”

There was another violent bump that caused Sampson’s behind to bounce free of the wagon before slamming back down. “Ow,” he said, though the new pain was almost a welcome distraction from his pounding skull.

“That was a big’un, alright,” the man said.

“You’d think Glynn Kerr would use some of his piles of gold to fix the damn roads,” Sampson commented. Teravainen was far from a perfect place to live, but at least the roads were free of holes deep enough to be shallow graves.

“He’d rather spend his coin on slaves he can use to bring in even more coin.”

Sampson nodded. He knew of Glynn Kerr. Growing up, his father had cursed the man’s name under his breath on numerous occasions. Sampson always suspected the king envied Avadon’s wealth. Because Solarii and Odin bordered Teravainen, they were his initial targets in the war, but his true objective had always been Avadon and Kerr.

And now I’m about to be his slave, Sampson thought. Father’s head would explode if he knew.

The cart rattled and bumped, chasing away his thoughts of home. For now at least, home was lost to him. He needed to focus on his present situation. He could use his blindness to his advantage. Being underestimated had its benefits. Maybe this time he could use it to escape.

“Where you from, lad?” Raspy Voice said.

“Armitage. You?”

“Flood’s End.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Is it true that—”

“Yes,” the man interrupted. “The Sourceless Waters fall from the very sky.”

Amazing, Sampson thought. One day he hoped to see such a sight in person. He stiffened, shocked by his own thoughts, how easily they appeared. Before he found the shadowblade and gained his sight, he would’ve never even dreamed of such a thing, but now…

He longed to see the beauty of the world. Desperately.

He breathed deeply through his nose, recomposing himself. “I’ve never met a Loslandian before,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. Kingfall doesn’t exactly look upon our country with fondness.”

That much was true. Loslandians were considered queer folk with queer traditions, not dissimilar to the broad range of unusual folk hailing from Calabria to the north. “How did you end up here?”

“Fishing,” the man said.

“Fishing?” There was silence save for the creaking and groaning of the wagon as it tumbled and bounced over runnels and ruts in the road. “Hello?” Sampson said, wondering if the man had somehow managed to fall asleep despite the tumultuous ride.

“Aye, I’m here. I forgot for a moment you were blind. I was nodding. I went fishing, as I’ve done every day of my life for years, decades. I spotted another boat. It appeared to be in distress, the occupants bailing water from within using naught but their hands. A man and a woman. When they saw me, they cried for help.”

Sampson knew what was coming because he’d been duped too. “It was a ruse.”

“Aye. I feel rather foolish now, but their act was exceptionally believable. They must’ve pulled the same stunt half a hundred times before me. Anyway, before I knew what was happening, I was hogtied and tossed in the bottom of their boat, which was as dry as bone. They’d been splashing water from their canteens over the side as though bailing a boat full of holes. And now I’m here.”

The story was shameful. Baiting a poor fisherman like he baited his fish? Just the thought left a bitter taste in Sampson’s mouth. And it was Glynn Kerr’s willingness to pay top coin for slaves that kept scoundrels like that in business. “You didn’t make the cut to be a sellsword either, eh?” he said.

The man laughed. “I’m a hundred and sixteen years old, son. I couldn’t fight my own shadow.”

Sampson gaped. “Now I fear you’ve been telling me tall tales this entire time.” He’d heard of long-lived creatures, of course, but godlings were rare and the elves of Lothgloria were a reclusive race. “Are you…”

“Human? Aye. The waters of Flood’s End are said to have healing properties. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but let’s just say I’m not the only one from my village who has lived to see one hundred.” He offered a low chuckle. “I used to see it as a blessing, but now I’m realizing it may have been a curse. I’d rather have died thirty years ago in my own bed than surviving to see this horrid place.” He cut off, seeming to realize his error. “Sorry, I forgot you’re Avadonian.”

“Not really. Those from Armitage consider themselves as much Crimean as they do Avadonian.” It was something Sampson had once read in a book. “Armitage is only a couple of hundred miles from the border. If not for our strategic location along a major shipping route, Glynn Kerr might’ve sold us to the Crimeans years ago.”

“He’d sell his own daughter if the price was right!” the old man said with a guffaw that swiftly morphed into a hacking cough.

“Are you all right?”

The coughing fit twisted and turned, and Sampson could picture a wrinkled old man’s face turning beet red. Mercifully, the fit slowed and then receded into a long wheeze. “I’m as fine as can be expected,” the man rasped. “I don’t know if it’s the northern air or not having access to the magic of the Sourceless Waters, but whatever the case, I suspect Glynn Kerr paid good coin for a dying slave.”

Despite his belief as to the impossibility of such a feat, weariness eventually dragged Sampson into a weighty slumber, his dreams filled with dragons and swords as bright as the sun and as dark as the shadows.

Strangely, he was awoken not from the bumps and potholes, but from the absence of them. The wagon stopped smashing about, causing an almost eerie silence to surround them. “You awake?” the old man asked.

The fact that he had to ask meant a thick darkness had fallen, the sky devoid of stars or moonslight. They’d travelled all day and deep into the night. “Aye. Have we stopped?”

“Nay. The road is smooth.” Sampson scented the air, trying to identify whether there’d been a change. The earthiness was gone, replaced by smoke. There were approaching an encampment. “By the gods…”

“What is it?” Sampson asked.

“Torches. There are…thousands of them.”

No encampment then, Sampson thought. When he’d joined with the Grizari, he’d planned to ride into this place a victorious conqueror, claiming it on behalf of his father and Teravainen. Instead, he’d arrived bound and enslaved.

Dunadin.

Sampson had once had the opportunity to run his hands over a sculptor’s depiction of Avadon’s capital city constructed of clay on a large platform. The massive stone structures were built directly into the side of the mountain, the first of hundreds of towering behemoths chained together by rocks and dirt to form the Spine. Ironically, it was in the heart of the Spine that his world had changed forever. It was there that he’d first opened his eyes and seen. It was there that he’d first spilled blood. It was there that he’d seen his future as something within his grasp.

His father had ordered the sculpture be ground to dust and the sculptor horse-whipped.

The entrance into Glynn Kerr’s precious mines was behind Dunadin’s stone walls. Within the mine was the largest and most valuable magenum deposit in all Kingfall, the source of Avadon’s great wealth. Aye, Sampson thought. Magenum and a whole lot of gold to boot.

The wagon suddenly lurched to a stop. “What’s happening?” Sampson asked.

“The end of the line, son.”

“Out,” a gruff voice said. “All of you.” From their occasional coughs and grunts, Sampson had been aware of other slaves within the wagon, but none other than the old man had offered a single word. More grunts and groans arose now, followed by the shuffling of bodies. Sampson started to push to his feet, but the ropes tethering him to the bar prevented him. “Not you,” the voice said. “You must be special. You’ve been granted an audience.”

An audience? With whom? he wondered.

“What’s your name, lad?” The question came from the old man, whose voice was further away now.

“Sam,” he said. The wagon jolted and began to move. “My name is Sam.”

“I’m Nell. Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” Sampson said.

“I will.” Nell’s voice was barely discernible now, the distance between them growing with each rotation of the wagon’s wheels.

All was still. All was silent. Sampson tried to feel for any changes in direction, memorizing the route through the city in case he ever needed to flee in reverse. Right, left, left, right. Wait, was that a true right or just a rightward curve around a bend? It was hard to tell. Before long he lost track of the turns and bends, the path through the city a veritable maze. After he swore they’d made four right turns in a row, he realized the driver had been commanded to take the most convoluted path to his destination as possible. “Seems rather inefficient to go in circles,” Sampson said. “Or are you not from around here? Are we lost? Tell me we’re not lost.”

The driver didn’t respond, merely grunted and continued his strange route through the city. Sampson settled in, casting aside what he’d memorized so far. It wouldn’t be helpful in the least. For all he knew they could’ve cut a straight path through the city all the way to Kerr’s stronghold. In fact, that made the most sense given what he knew about the man, who was known to pride himself on practicality and efficiency. Rather than a miasma of entangled streets and alleyways, it made more sense that the city was sliced into evenly spaced square blocks.

After what felt like hours, the wagon finally pulled to a stop. A moment later, Sampson felt a tug on his ropes and then his hands fell away, still tethered together but free of the bar. He cringed, his shoulders, elbows and wrists aching from being bound in the same position for so long.

A strong hand on his elbow “encouraged” him to crawl toward the rear of the wagon. He expected portable steps to have been dragged over so he could clamber down them, but instead he found only empty air. His breath caught in his throat for the split-second of freefall and then exploded from his mouth as he landed with an unceremonious thud on the hard, stone ground. The night air had grown chilly, the stone like ice against his skin. “Up,” the same gruff voice commanded.

He favored the arm that had impacted the stonework, cradling it with the other arm as he pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled and almost fell as he was shoved roughly forward but managed to maintain his balance. Heat washed over his skin on either side as he must’ve passed between a torchlit entranceway. Immediately the air grew warmer as he was marched along a corridor, or at least that’s what it felt like. Over the years he’d learned to sense the solid things around him, and now he could feel the presence of thick stone walls on each side.

“Hurry up. Master Kerr isn’t a patient man.” A narrow stick poked him in the small of his back and he scrambled forward more swiftly. Slam! He hit the closed wooden door hard enough to rattle his teeth. Harsh laughter arose from behind.

“Enter,” a deep voice said from inside, as though he’d simply knocked rather than smashed his face against it.

“You heard the man.” More laughter as he fumbled around for the doorknob, finally managing to close his fingers around it and turn. Another prod from behind sent him through the door and into the room. Warmth surrounded him. A merry crackling sound told him a hearty fire burned in the hearth. The door slammed behind him.

The smell of pipeweed curled inside his nose. It was strong, but not strong enough to mask other smells. The smell of food, savory and buttery and herbed. His appetite returned, his stomach gurgling loudly.

“Did you vomit on yourself?” the deep voice said. There was a hint of disgust in the man’s tone.

I’m standing in front of Glynn Kerr himself, Sampson thought, incredulous. Not in a million years would he ever have predicted he’d be in this position. Not even when his father sent him on a secret mission to Avadon did he ever think for a second that he’d be captured. “I sustained a head injury from your slavers. The road north isn’t well-maintained. My stomach rebelled.” He said each of these things in an even voice, hiding his own emotions.

“If you’re going to dine with me, you’ll need to wear something clean,” Kerr said. “Here, you can borrow my trousers and shirt. They should be close enough to a fit.”

A bundle hit him in the chest, and he was too slow to react by a hair. The clothes tumbled to his bare feet. “Thanks,” he muttered, reaching down to collect them.

“What happened to your boots?”

“The Sucking Bog asked to borrow them. I couldn’t bring myself to say no.”

Kerr snorted. “I should think not. It’s a wonder you survived the meeting at all. Greater men than yourself have failed to do so. Put the clothes on. I’m certain we can work something out regarding boots too. I have more pairs than I could wear in a lifetime.”

Sampson frowned, but obediently began shucking off his filthy trousers and soiled shirt. Why had he been singled out amongst all the other slaves? Because he was blind? Because he was youthful? No, those things alone didn’t explain it.

Only one thing did.

Kerr knows who I am. Shite.

“What’s for supper?” he asked, pulling on the trousers, which were rather stiff, as though they’d never been worn. The shirt, on the other hand, was soft and smelled of an unusual mixture of lye and pipeweed.

“The rest of the slaves are eating what I like to call ‘slop.’ We’ll be eating braised quail, buttered sea snails, pickled heart of artichoke, and, for dessert, apple crumb cake. The apples that were used are from my personal orchard. It’s always nice to enjoy the fruits of one’s labors, don’t you think?”

Sampson was fairly certain the man had never picked a single apple from any of his trees, relying instead on his personal army of slaves to complete such mundane tasks. “Quite,” he said. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

“Nothing is free in this world,” Kerr said. “Now sit. I trust you can navigate the room without assistance?”

“Of course, though I would usually have my stick to assist me.”

“I’ll have one brought to you.”

More kindness from a man who was supposed to be his enemy. But why? His instincts were firing in all the wrong ways, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to make demands. Plus, his stomach was craving a good, hot meal. He’d be a fool to reject it because of some sort of misguided principle. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way around a plush chair, a tall porcelain vase—who puts a vase in the middle of a room?—and a randomly placed ottoman, until his finger touched the smooth wood of a table. “A test?” Sampson said.

“More like a bit of fun. You didn’t so much as stumble or stub a toe.” He sounded rather disappointed.

“Where should I sit?”

“Here.” Kerr’s voice was closer now, and it was followed by the scraping of chair legs against the floor. Sampson felt his way over toward the voice until he located the chair, easing himself down.

Another chair scraped. It sounded like it was directly across from him. “You must be starving. There’s no need for formality. You may begin eating.”

Sampson didn’t require further urging, the smell of food all he could think about now. He located a utensil—a fork—and tapped it around until it clinked on a plate. He slid it across until it bumped into the first morsel. He didn’t care what it was, stabbing it and shoving it into his mouth. The taste was buttery. There was another taste, too, though he couldn’t identify it. Not that he cared, already reaching for his next bite.

He continued like that for a while, until juice was running down his chin and the ache in his belly had vanished. Somewhat sheepishly, he located a cloth and used it to clean his face. Next he found a goblet and used its contents to wash everything down. The liquid had a metallic taste to it—perhaps what passed for wine in this part of the world. “I forget my manners,” he said when he finished.

“Do not concern yourself with that,” Kerr said. Sampson realized he hadn’t heard any sounds of eating or drinking by the man across from him. Not a smack of his lips or the clink of silverware or the gulp of a swallow. The smell of pipeweed was stronger than ever. Had the man just been smoking and watching him eat this entire time? The thought was somewhat disconcerting.

“Now that my belly is full, shall we cut to the chase?” Sampson said. He didn’t know if it was wise to initiate such a conversation but didn’t care at this point. He was tired and sore. All thoughts of using his blindness to lull his captors into a false sense of security so he could escape had faded away into the night.

Kerr ignored the question. Instead, he said, “Did you know the Thousands believed drinking the blood of their enemies gave them power over them in combat? And eating their flesh…they believed they could control their very minds.”

Sampson’s lips closed. The aftertaste of the drink lingered on his tongue, sharp and coppery. Like blood. He wouldn’t. The food had been so soaked in butter he could barely taste it in his haste to get it down his throat and into his belly. Now, he began to feel ill.

“You should see your face. I’ll bring a mirror. Oh wait…never mind. Never fear, it wasn’t human blood, just that of a pig. I drink a goblet a day, for vitality. And the food might not have been braised quail and buttered sea snails, but it was edible. By my count you consumed three caterpillars, four salted grasshoppers and a whopping six goat testicles.”

Sampson couldn’t control his stomach as he gagged, turning to the side and retching right on the floor. Maybe such fare was considered edible here in Avadon, but in Teravainen it wouldn’t be suitable for hogs to consume. If it was just the strange food he might’ve endured, but the thought of drinking pig’s blood put him over the edge.

“Is that any way to show your gratitude for my hospitality?” Kerr said.

Sampson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do you want, Kerr?”

“It’s Master Kerr to you now, slave. And what I want is to know why in the void you attacked Kerr’s Crossing with an army of Grizari, Sampson Gaard?”

There was silence for several heartbeats as Sampson considered what to say to the horrid man sitting across from him. Finally, he said, “You seem to have me mistaken for someone else. Do you really think a blind man could lead an army of Grizari into combat?”

“Did I say ‘lead’? I suspected as much, but you’ve just confirmed your position as their leader. That is one of several things that baffles me. How did you persuade the Griz, who are known to despise all humans, to let you lead them? And how is it possible that a blind man such as yourself would be able to see as you fought Peony Normandian and Dragonrider Dane? It wouldn’t have anything to do with that fancy shadowblade you were waving around, would it?”

“You were there,” Sampson said. “On the wall.” He cast aside any notion of trying to play dumb. This man had seen him with his own two eyes.

“Of course I was. I am no coward like your father, hiding behind his walls while his soldiers do his dirty work.”

“Don’t talk about my father,” Sampson growled.

“Does this have anything to do with that old adage to not speak ill of the dead? I’m sorry, Prince Slave, but I don’t believe in such nonsense. The dead don’t care how we speak of them.”

“The dead? What are you going on about? Like you said, my father is tucked safely behind his walls.”

“You don’t know.” Kerr’s voice was filled with wonder bordering on excitement as he spoke. “Oh, this is too rich. Wait, there’s no such thing as too rich.”

“Speak plainly,” Sampson demanded. Acid continued to roil in his gut.

“I’m pleased to be the one to inform Your Highness that your father, King Cronus Gaard, the Terran Wolf, feared and hated amongst his enemies, is dead.”

“You’re lying.”

“I can’t say I wish I were. When the news reached my ears, I could scarcely believe it myself. King Gaard killed in his bed by his own daughter, Crown Princess Amari, who then poisoned her mother as well before drinking a vial herself for good measure? They say you can’t kill two birds with one stone, and yet this time the stone killed three.”

“You’re lying,” Sampson repeated, unwilling to rise to the bait. Since he’d been captured, this man had sought to play games with his head at every turn. The convoluted route through the city, making him navigate obstacles as he crossed the room, tricking him into drinking pig’s blood and eating grasshoppers…Sampson was beginning to think that the bumpy, awful road they’d taken north wasn’t a road at all, the driver having been commanded to travel just off the road across untrodden wasteland.

“What do I have to gain by lying?” Kerr said. “It’s not exactly a secret. All Kingfall is buzzing with the scandal. Believe me or no, I care not. All I know is your brother Jarrod is king now, and if you hope to ever see him again you must give me what I want.”

Sampson felt numb. It wasn’t that he believed a word this man had said, but the realization that the world had continued to turn while he’d been wielding a shadowblade and orchestrating a Grizari revolution. Logically, he knew that other events were happening, but he hadn’t once considered that things would be different if or when he ever returned to Wolfsgaard. Now, that realization was all-consuming. If Kerr was lying about everything, would he and Amari’s relationship ever be the same again? Would he have the courage to finally visit his mother knowing she wouldn’t know who he was? Would his father look at him with anything other than disappointment? “What is it you want?” he said.

“You haven’t figured it out by now? I want the blade, of course. The shadowblade. Tell me where it is, and you can be on the first ship back to Wolfsgaard. Prince Sampson, you can have your life back.”

Sampson couldn’t stop his lips from curling into a smile. He relished the ability to disappoint this man, to prevent him from getting something he wanted. “No,” he said.

“No?”

“You heard me.”

“A pity,” Kerr said. “I always thought you were the smart one. I guess not. No matter. A few days in the mines will change your attitude soon enough. And then the blade will be mine. Guards!”

Six

Grym son of Drynym

The Lost Plains, Avadon

A few days earlier

“FATHER!” GRYM’S DAUGHTER EXCLAIMED, HER SMALL, STOUT LEGS CHURNING BENEATH her as she raced toward him. He lowered his head and Shrym slammed her small, sharp horns into his own powerful, curving ones as they locked together.

Grym’s heart soared. Everything that had happened, everything he’d done, suddenly seemed worth it for this single, bright moment. Gods, had he really almost abandoned this beautiful doe just to chase some feeling that he was supposed to go north? It was inconceivable, and yet even now he felt the strange pull, the instinct telling him he was in the wrong place, despite his daughter’s infectious presence.

“My daughter,” Grym said when they separated.

“When other bucks returned to camp without you, I feared worst,” Shrym said.

“Bah,” Grym said. “Yer father made of tougher stuff than that.” They locked horns again, a tender nuzzle that would appear to an outsider as a vicious battle for dominance.

A commotion caused Grym to pull away from his daughter. He had no eyebrows, but a frown knitted his broad forehead into long, parallel lines. “What happening?” he asked.

“Been fighting ever since got back,” Shrym said. “You can set straight. Tell them you leader.”

If only it was that simple, Grym thought. “Stay here,” he said, stalking off toward the sound. The Grizari camp was familiar to him as he’d lived in a similar place his entire life. Bucks and does alike worked side by side, cooking meat over firepits, sharpening weapons, mending clothing and tents. Young Griz tested their mettle against each other, locking horns and trying to push their opponents back over a line drawn in the dirt. On the expansive plains outside the encampment, herders rode grux in circles that started large but gradually tightened as they corralled the cattle herd into a tight knot in preparation for nightfall.

Grym wished he could stop and simply let all the normalcy sink into his flesh like the warm waters of a hot spring, but the angry shouts and growls toward the center of camp kept his feet moving steadily forward. He knew what it meant.

Elation filled his chest. It’s over, he thought. Whatever came next would be hard, but at least it would be the Grizari’s choice. When Sampson had thrown his shadowblade into the Roughwater and dove in after it, the Grizari leaders that the bastard had previously chained to his will had been released.

He smiled as he pushed through the bodies and strode into an area ringed with stones. Such an area was designated for combat to the death, used when a Grizari leader’s rule was challenged by another in their tribe. The stones would be lit on fire before the contest began. Now, the ring of stones was surrounded by a crowd of Griz hoping to watch a fight.

Grym didn’t plan to disappoint them.

He locked eyes on the dead center of the area, where three powerful Grizari stood nose to nose to nose, teeth bared, horns locked. All three had been pawns of the shadowblade wielder only several hours earlier. All three had once led their respective tribes, just as Grym’s father, Drynym, had led his tribe before Sampson had killed him.

Shrz was the largest of the three, and, coincidentally, had commanded the largest of the Grizari tribes. Wyrt was the smallest, an aging Griz leader who’d once been feared but who was now well past his prime. Dyrm, son of Thrm, was of similar age to Grym and had assumed control of his tribe after his father had died in an accident. Thrm had been a staunch rival of Grym’s father, mostly because he’d once rejected Drynym’s request for a marriage between Grym and Thrm’s only daughter, Eyrm, a broad-shouldered doe with horns so long and sharp they were capable of impaling an entire brace of coneys with a single stab.

Before Sampson had walked into Dyrm’s tribal encampment, the four Grizari tribes had been splintered. Though they’d been unified by unnatural means, Grym couldn’t abide them returning to being the people known as the Scattered Tribes.

The three Grizari were discussing who got to kill who first. So heated was their argument that they hadn’t yet noticed Grym’s approach.

“Nrrg,” he said softly, the Grizari word for ‘stop’.

Still they didn’t notice him, the clash of their horns drowning out his voice.

“NRRG!” he roared, shoving his way into their midst. Wyrt backed away immediately, while Shrz and Dyrm lunged toward him. He grabbed Shrz’s horn in one hand and Dyrm’s in the other, extending his arms in either direction to hold them off. “I said, stop.”

Shrz, who Grym had found to be a dangerous but pragmatic leader, raised his head and offered a half-smile. Dyrm, however, snapped his head back and forth several times, twisting Grym’s arm. Pain flared up and he was forced to release him. His shoulder ached, though he showed no outwards signs of weakness.

“Better,” Grym said.

“Thought Grym was dead,” Dyrm said, glaring at him. It sounded to Grym as though ‘thought’ could’ve been replaced with ‘hoped’ and it would’ve still been a true statement.

Grym said nothing, content to let the discussion unfold naturally.

“We were just discussing Grizari future,” Shrz said. To an outsider, the Grizari language was rough and guttural, devoid of vowels. To Grym, it sounded like music.

“And?” Grym said.

“Wyrt is content to separate into four tribes,” Shrz said. Wyrt’s head hung. He was clearly ashamed by his own weakness. “I wish to remain unified. As does Dyrm.”

“I am in agreement. What is problem?” Grym asked. He already knew the problem. None of these men would be willing to serve each other, which left the role of leader uncertain.

Dyrm growled. Shrz chuckled. Said, “You think to assume leadership because human said so? Where human now? Tribes want strong leader, leader who continue to fight for Grizari right to these lands, on both sides of Roughwater.”

Now that surprised Grym. He thought that now that Sampson’s influence was broken, the Grizari would be able to return to their nomadic way of life but unified rather than scattered. “Grizari need ten times the warriors to breach Kerr’s Crossing,” he said.

“Coward’s talk,” Dyrm spat. “Should go play with young ones.”

“We have entirety of Lost Plains to live,” Grym countered, ignoring the insult. “Would rather our people die in combat?”

“Warrior’s death is better than coward’s life.”

“You agree with him?” Grym asked Shrz.

“Aye.”

“Wyrt?”

The aging leader hesitated only a moment before taking a step back, lowering his horns. “I will bow to the will of the victor.” With that, he turned and exited the circle, joining the throng, which had grown in size over the last several minutes.

“You should leave, too,” Dyrm said to Grym. “This between me and Shrz.”

“No,” Grym said.

“As wish. I defeat you first. Then defeat Shrz.”

“No.”

“No?”

“There will be no question of my command,” Grym said. “I fight both you at once.”

Dyrm snorted. “Not a coward then. A fool with death wish. Never fear, we will grant wish.”

Shrz raised an eyebrow, something glimmering in his eyes. Is that grudging respect? Grym wondered.

“Father!” a voice cut in. As Grym turned, he spotted Shrym entering the ring, legs carrying her toward him with impressive speed. She slowed as she approached.

“Told you not to come,” Grym said. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to watch him be killed. Though she hid it well, he knew she’d been badly affected when she’d seen her grandfather killed by Sampson. “This my decision.”

“I know, Father. Not here to stop you. Here to witness great victory.” She lowered her horns. He sighed. He often forgot just how much strength she had inside her. Some of it was born into her, while he knew a large portion had been gained by all she’d endured in her short life. A dead mother. A dead grandfather. A hard life on the plains.

“Of course you are,” Grym said, with fondness. He lowered his own head far enough to lock her horns. “You my daughter. Death, whenever comes, will not change that.”

She looked up at him with big, dark eyes. “You will never die, Father. You live in me.”

“So touching,” Dyrm said. “Now it’s time for me to kill you.”

Grym hadn’t planned to respond to the threat, but Shrym had other plans, planting her feet solidly at either side as she glared at the warrior, who easily outweighed her by twenty stone. She didn’t respond with words, however, dragging a thumb across her throat. Then she turned and stalked away.

“Never fear,” Dyrm said, once she was outside the ring. “I will take mercy once you dead. Will treat Shrym as own daughter. Will teach her respect.”

The thought of Dyrm with his daughter, more than anything else, motivated Grym. “Enough talk. Light the ring!”

A torchbearer stepped forward, lowering the fire toward the stones, which were glistening with the oil painted onto their surface. As soon as the torch approached the oil, flames leapt up and then shot to the sides, the fire spreading around the ring. Escaping now would require enduring terrible burns. The pain of the burns, however, would be nothing compared to the shame of having fled from a fight. Grym would rather have his heart ripped from his chest than cast shame on his family, on his father’s legacy.

He faced his opponents, who fanned out to either side, determined to benefit from their advantage in numbers. Grym was confident he could win this fight, but he wasn’t so arrogant as to think it would be easy. Like him, both of his opponents were born for combat.

It was tempting to strike first, but he held himself back, biding his time as his foes circled like a pair of massive vultures smelling blood.

The standoff didn’t last long. Dyrm leapt forward, swinging his blunt fist like a club. Every instinct told him to meet his enemy head on, to take the blow and thrust forward with his horns. And he would have, if not for his certainty that Dyrm’s attack was nothing more than a distraction, the true danger coming from the deadly snake darting in to strike from behind.

Grym dove for the ground, hearing the grunts of his opponents as they crashed into each other in a tangle of arms and horns and legs that stumbled over his prone form. Weight pressed down upon him, but he was already scrambling away, escaping before his legs could be pinned. With the speed of a much smaller warrior, he twisted his powerful body around and fought to his feet, lunging forward at the pair, clubbing them simultaneously around the throat area.

Shrz, who was more off-balance than Dyrm, was toppled, while Dyrm took the blow without falling, staggering back a few steps. Grym knew he wouldn’t get a better opportunity to even the odds, ignoring Dyrm and pouncing upon Shrz even as he tried to roll away. He caught the large Grizari in the head with his knee, pressing the entirety of his thirty-stone frame upon him. Bones crunched, blood spurting from Shrz’s nose as it shattered.

Grym tried to close his hands around Shrz’s neck, but before he could Dyrm came flying in, bashing him free with a shoulder that he used with all the force of a battering ram slammed into a stubborn gate by ten men. Grym landed hard on his backside, his head snapping back like a whipcrack. Dyrm drove forward with his horns, crushing him under the twin spirals of bone and knocking the breath from his lungs.

Grym had the presence of mind to use his own momentum in his favor, somersaulting over backwards and throwing his opponent off him with enough force to send Dyrm airborne for a moment before he came slamming down on the hard-packed earth. Both warriors were gasping for breath now as they dragged themselves to their feet to face each other. Shrz was still down, unmoving, his body as limp as a wet rag.

Dyrm feinted left. Grym didn’t move, but not because he wasn’t fooled. He was still trying to get a breath into his lungs. The next attack wasn’t a feint, Dyrm striding forward and kicking him in the knee before he could dodge or move to block the blow. The impact hobbled him, and he tried to limp away to buy himself some time. Dyrm wasn’t interested in delaying things further, pushing the advantage and attempting another kick at Grym’s injured leg. Grym narrowly avoided the blow, which might’ve been devastating had it connected.

Rather than continuing to retreat and hope to win as the mouse in its game with the cat, he chose to be the lion. Sucking in a thin breath, he shot forward, lowering his head and leading with his horns. Dyrm did the same, their horns locking, their feet digging into the turf as they grappled.

Grym started off slow, building his strength like a wall pieced together brick by brick. Dyrm was forced to walk back a step or risk being bowled over, growling his effort from deep inside his throat. Grym unleashed a growl and pushed harder, earning another step.

That’s when Dyrm found another level of strength, as Grym knew he would. His opponent despised weakness and failure and defeat, and Grym fully expected him to reassert his will. When he felt Dyrm leaning in with his entire weight, Dyrm met it full force for one second, two seconds. Three. And then, suddenly, he was gone, twisting hard to the side while sweeping a foot along the ground directly in Dyrm’s path.

Unhindered, Dyrm flew forward, feet catching on Grym’s foot. He fell facedown, horns dragging runnels into the dirt like a plough dragged behind an ox.

Grym threw himself forward, crashing his elbow into Dym’s back, drawing a groan. He was about to slam his fist into the back of his head, when Dyrm bucked with enough force to send Grym airborne for a moment, just enough time for Dyrm to twist around and lunge forward with his head. His horns bashed into Grym’s chin, snapping his head back. Dyrm followed up the maneuver with a hard twist to the side, slamming Grym down on his back. Stars exploded before his eyes, his head ringing. And then Dyrm was upon him, pounding away with fists the size of sledgehammers. Each impact made a thumping sound, like a mallet being used on a piece of tough meat. One of Grym’s eyes began to swell closed, while bones cracked in his face. He tried to get his hands up to defend himself, but they were pinned to his sides.

His head flopped to the side, his one uninjured eye falling open, staring at the flames, which seemed to be dancing ever more wildly as if energized by the sight of blood. And then he saw beyond the flames, through the flames, to where Shrym stood watching, horror on her expression, as he was annihilated. Seeing her reminded him of Dyrm’s words from before: Will treat Shrym as own daughter. Will teach her respect.

“No,” he said, the word emerging slurred and wet and tasting of copper from the blood running down his face and over his lips. Dyrm kept pounding, as though he hadn’t spoken. Thump, thump, thump! He couldn’t feel the blows now, his body numb, his veins filled with fire. “No!” he shouted, wrenching one arm free from where Dyrm had it trapped under his knee. He swung it up and caught Dyrm’s fist just as he was about to slam it into his face. The buck’s eyes widened, his head cocking to the side ever so slightly in surprise. He thought it was already over. He thought I was a breathing dead man. Grym freed his other hand and reached up to grasp his opponent’s thick neck.

Grym squeezed, earning a rasping gasp from Dyrm, whose opposite hand shot up to extricate the fingers now choking the life from him. His fingers were strong, and yet no match for Grym’s will, which was built of steel and fire and the love for his daughter. Dyrm quickly realized this, and began to hit Grym once more, raining down blow after blow after blow, until his other eye swelled shut, rendering him blind.

And yet still he squeezed. He squeezed long after Dyrm had stopped punching him, long after he felt the buck’s dead weight press against him, his arms flopping to the sides lifelessly. He continued to squeeze until a familiar voice spoke the name that meant more to him than life itself. “Father?”

He released the corpse, shoving it hard to the side. He rolled over onto his knees, looking up, barely able to see anything through the swollen slits of flesh that surrounded his eyes. But he could see her eyes, alive with concern for his well-being. “I’m here,” he managed with a voice barely above a frog’s croak. “I’ll always be here.”

Pain and exhaustion grabbed him in their powerful arms and dragged him into the abyss.

Something cool and soft drew Grym out of the darkness. He opened his eyes, a hint of soft light penetrating the shroud that seemed to have fallen across his vision. “Can’t see,” he said.

“Father!” Shrym’s voice, deep and raspy and as wonderful a sound as Grym had ever heard.

“My…daughter,” Grym said, relishing the feel of her hands as they clutched his, placing them on his abdomen. “My eyes, are they…”

“Swollen bad,” Shrym said. “Face looks like grux’s backside.”

A laugh burst from Grym’s mouth, which immediately made his entire body hurt. He groaned. “So yer sayin’ it’s improvement?” he croaked.

The cool, soft cloth returned to his face, moving gently across his skin. “I won’t leave side until healed,” Shrym declared, her words sounding very much like an oath. He blinked, and a portion of his vision cleared, leaving him with the barest glimpse of his daughter’s face. It was shadow-dark and surrounded by light from a lantern hanging behind her. She looked perfect.

“I be fine,” Grym said. “You must leave fer food, drink.” Speaking of which… “Water?”

“Open yer mouth.” Grym obeyed, and he felt drops of water on his tongue. He lapped at them, swallowing each like it might be the last he ever got.

“More,” he said when the drips stopped falling.

“Need to take slow. Give more in hour or so.”

Grym knew there was no arguing with his daughter when she took on that tone. He liked to think she got her stubborn streak from her mother, but it wasn’t true. Shrym’s mother had been a strong, capable doe, but she wasn’t as stubborn as he was, not by a longshot. Though he hadn’t loved her—Grizari didn’t have time for such fanciful human emotions—he had cared for her. Losing her shortly after childbirth had left a hole in his heart, one that Shrym had managed to fill over time, until he was whole once more.

The murmur of muffled voices nearby drew his attention. “What’s that?” he asked.

“I find out.” There was the rustle of cloth as Shrym presumably opened the tent flap. More voices, growing louder. The voice of his daughter above the others. “You no go anywhere near him, Eyrm. That final.”

Eyrm, Grym thought. Sister of Dyrm. Once, Grym’s father had convinced him that he was destined to mate with her, that it was the only way to save their tribe from dwindling away into extinction. Unfortunately, Eyrm’s father, and then brother, hadn’t agreed.

“It’s fine, Shrym,” Grym said. “Let her in.”

“But, Father,” Shrym protested.

“She won’t kill me, will you, Eyrm?”

A new voice arose, strong and serious. “No.”

“Fine, but I stay,” Shrym said.

“Daughter, I thank you fer caring fer me. Take break. This not fer yer ears.”

Shrym released an exasperated sigh but didn’t argue further. More cloth rustled, the lanternlight shifting across his limited vision. All he could see was a sliver of the tent’s interior and the lantern hanging from a rope, swinging slightly. And then:

A line of gray, unmarred skin. A throat, as broad as a stump. He tilted his head to take in her frame, garbed in blue-painted leathers: broad shoulders and chest, muscled torso, powerful legs. “I’m up here,” Eyrm said, and Grym raised his line of vision to her face, where he found a square jaw, high cheekbones, flat nose, dark coallike eyes, and a perfectly round scalp from which two spikelike horns grew, almost two full feet long. In short, she was as breathtaking a doe as Grym had ever laid eyes on. The years hadn’t faded her beauty at all. If anything, her maturity had only amplified her alluring features. “You always had wandering eye, Grym.”

“Guilty,” Grym said, trying to smile. He wondered what she thought of how he looked, as battered and bruised and swollen as he was. “And you always called me on it.”

“Guilty. But that was long time ago.”

“And yet feels like yesterday.”

“Not to me.” There was a weight to her words that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Tell me.”

“Why dwell on past? Prefer look to future.”

“My father taught that past is foundation fer future.”

“I hope not,” Eyrm said. “Or my future be full of pain.”

“Tell me,” Grym said again.

“Is that command by leader of unified tribes?” Eyrm said.

“No, it is—”

“Good, then I remain silent.”

“But you will support my leadership?”

“You killed my brother.”

Grym said nothing. He knew such an act in the human world would likely lead to a blood feud that could endure for generations. But Grizari culture was different. The ring of fire was considered a sacred tradition that molded entire tribes.

“Dyrm was tyrant,” Eyrm said after several seconds of silence. “After Father died, brother was my jailor fer many years. Grym make better leader. Yes, I will support you.”

“Thank you,” Grym said. He wondered what she meant by ‘jailor’, but he wouldn’t ask her to reveal that which she clearly wanted to keep locked deep inside her.

“Don’t need thanks. Just keep Grizari safe. Brother wished to march into battle. Would only mean more heartache and pain.”

“I will. I will keep us safe.”

To Grym’s surprise, Eyrm knelt beside him. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but then he felt the cool cloth on his face as she moved it tenderly over his skin. It was followed by the warmth of her lips as she kissed him on the edge of his mouth.

She pulled away, stood, and moved from his field of vision.

Grym closed his eyes, listening to the sound of his heart pounding in his chest.

Grym was surprised it took so long for his second visitor to arrive.

In fact, it was a full day later, a day he’d spent being tended to by Shrym while he faded in and out of sleep. His body was healing rapidly, the swelling already diminishing by half, which made him even more grateful for his tough Grizari body.

Such it was that when Shrz was shoved inside the tent by two other Grizari, Grym was fully sitting up, working his way down a long bone, gnawing away every last bit of meat to ensure he rebuilt his strength as soon as possible.

Shrz was in chains. His nose was swollen and crooked from when Grym had broken it during the fight. There was bruising around his cheeks and throat as well. Other than that, he was in good form, having been knocked unconscious well before the fight had reached its hottest moments. Still, the capable warrior looked different now. His head hung in a way it had never hung. His shoulders drooped. His chest seemed less firm, sunken in rather than puffed out. This was a proud warrior who’d been embarrassed during the most critical fight of his life, defeated mere seconds after it had begun.

Worse, he’d survived to breathe another breath, a fate more shameful than the defeat itself.

“You’ve come fer my decision,” Grym said.

One of the two Grizari responded, while Shrz continued to stare at his feet. “Aye, Shrz not die in ring, so must be executed in accordance with Grizari law. But requires yer command.”

Shrz’s head finally snapped up. There was desperation in his dark eyes. “Please. Give me final chance at honor.” He wasn’t pleading for his life, Grym knew. Quite the opposite. “Allow me honorable death, the death I was denied in ring. Death by yer own hand.”

Grym considered the request, which was reasonable. If he were in the buck’s skin, he would likely ask the same. To survive a defeat in the ring brought shame on one’s entire family. If Grym executed Shrz, it would balance the scales and restore his family’s honor.

And yet Grym couldn’t do it. Not because he couldn’t bear to stab his blade through another buck’s heart, but because he still needed Shrz. “No,” he said.

“No?” Shrz said, disbelieving. “You would refuse me my honor? My family’s honor?” The lost look had vanished from his eyes, replaced by bitterness.

“You will have yer honor. But not through death under my hand. Through life in service to yer people.”

“I don’t understand. I am fallen leader. What is left fer me?”

Having expected this visit, Grym had given his answer much thought over the last day, his confidence in the right decision growing by the hour. “Not so long ago, you commanded largest tribe. Many still loyal to you.”

“You are victor. My people understand that. Will obey yer command.”

“Perhaps by action, but not in spirit.”

“Before you kill me, I will speak to them. I will persuade them.”

“Not enough. Need you by side. Shrz will be my lieutenant. This my command. Will you refuse?”

Grym already knew what Shrz’s answer would be. To refuse a direct command by one’s leader would make his shame of surviving the ring appear as small a thing as tripping on a stone. “No,” he said. “I will not.”

“Good. Now sit. Break bread. Eat meat. Drink strong drink. We have much to discuss.”

Seven

Roman Leary

South Strangle, Avadon

ROMAN WATCHED AS THE AVADONIAN SOLDIERS BOARDED THE VESSEL. Well, to call them ‘Avadonian’ was a bit of a stretch. Trained on Pentock, they were grim-eyed sellswords bought by Glynn Kerr and used as his personal enforcers. In Roman’s estimation, they were men without honor, men who would serve whichever master bid the highest, which would allow them to repay their debt to their lords on Pentock most swiftly. They spread out along the ship’s deck, hands on their weapons, prepared for a fight even if the chances of one were less than zero. The ship’s captain would have to be a damn fool to try to avoid paying the toll required to pass through the canal’s lock system. A toll that, Roman had heard, was raised annually. Clever, he thought. Kerr pays for his sellswords from the profits. It was an ingenious system that would build more and more wealth over time. Not to mention the fact that there was a lock on the northern end of the Strangle, too, which required a second toll be paid. The captains had no choice—pay the toll or find another way to the Frozen Passage, a dangerous journey that would require them to pass by the Stormlands of Travail and risk losing their entire ship and the lives of every soul onboard.

SO WE BEG OUR WAY ONTO A NORTHERN-BOUND SHIP, RETURN TO WOLFSGAARD, AND THEN WHAT? the shadowblade asked.

Roman didn’t answer, instead concentrating on the mental wall he’d built brick by brick to hide his true thoughts from the blade.

FINE. HAVE YOUR SECRETS. EVENTUALLY YOU’LL REVEAL YOUR MIND TO ME. THEY ALWAYS DO.

He continued to ignore the blade, paying close attention to the scene on the water. Crouching on the embankment, the sparkling waters of the Sacred Sea spread out before him, Roman watched as the captain handed over two very bulky-looking bags that were presumably filled with clinking gold coins. The coins were weighed, apparently to the satisfaction of the toll collector, who nodded. The sellswords reversed their course, clambering down a rope ladder and back into the small fleet of rowboats that were tethered to the ship’s hull. The ropes were unknotted and the sellswords rowed back to shore to await the next ship.

Next, the lower sluices were opened, water bursting from the gaps, causing the lock to drain. Once the lock’s water level was even with that of the Sacred Sea, hardy men used powerful cranks to open the massive gate, which cracked in the center and swung to either side on dozens of hinges each the size of a man’s forearm. The captain shouted orders to his men to raise anchor, and soon the ship eased forward into the lock, stopping only when it bumped against the upper gate. From there, the lower gate and sluices were closed, and the upper sluices were opened, the lock filling to its normal level once more, the ship rising slowly as if levitating. Finally, the upper gate was opened, allowing the ship to move freely into the canal and continue its path north.

Roman couldn’t help but to be impressed. The entire event hadn’t taken more than a half-hour, a rather efficient process that had clearly been perfected in the decades since the canal was constructed.

YOU HAVE A FUNNY WAY OF TRYING TO HAIL A SHIP, the blade said as Roman watched the ship sail into the distance, the canal stretching rod-straight all the way to the horizon.

Another will come, Roman said, mostly just to shut the blade up.

It didn’t work. I CAN HELP YOU, YOU KNOW.

I don’t need your kind of help.

NO? BECAUSE YOU’RE SUCH A MAN OF HONOR? ALL HAIL ROMAN LEARY, WHO HAS DRAWN A LINE OF MORALITY IN THE SAND HE REFUSES TO CROSS.

So what if I have?

THEN YOU’D BE BETTER OFF DIGGING A HOLE IN THE SAND AND STICKING YOUR HEAD IN IT. THE CRUELTY OF THE WORLD WON’T RESPECT YOUR MORALS.

You know nothing about the world.

DON’T I? I SAW KINGFALL AT ITS WORST, HUMANS KILLING HUMANS. GODBEASTS AND DREADBEASTS SLAUGHTERING AT WILL. WHY DO YOU THINK THE GODS ABANDONED THIS WORLD, THEIR TEARS FALLING FOR A HUNDRED DAYS? OUT OF LOVE? NO. THEY LEFT BECAUSE THEY WERE ASHAMED AT WHAT HUMANITY HAD BECOME.

That was the past.

AND DO YOU BELIEVE THE PAST DOESN’T REPEAT ITSELF? IT DOES AND IT WILL. A GREAT WAR IS COMING. I WILL BE WIELDED. BY SAMPSON, NOT BY YOU.

Anger rose inside Roman and he almost shattered the wall he’d built. Almost revealed his plans. Instead, he clenched his teeth, grasped the hilt of the blade in both hands as he unsheathed it. And then he shoved it deep into the ground. He kneeled motionless for several long moments, breathing through his nose and getting control.

WELL, THAT WAS UNEXPECTED, the blade said. MIND PULLING ME OUT NOW. IT’S RATHER DARK DOWN HERE.

Roman thought that was a rather ironic thing to say considering the shadowblade exuded its own darkness, but he let it go. It was so tempting to shove the blade in further, all the way to the hilt. Then he could stamp on it until the sword was completely buried. He could pile rocks on it. Anyone passing would see it as nothing more than a cairn, a worthless mound of stones unworthy of their attention.

He cast aside the thought as the naïve belief of a child. Before Sampson had unearthed the blade, it was hidden in a tomb of thick rock. No amount of rock or dirt or even steel would prevent the blade from seeing the light of day again.

Thus, he drew the blade from the ground as easily as a toothpick from a cube of cheese. He sheathed the blade. And then he marched for the dock built on the canal side of the lock. He had work to do.

A bustling village had grown on the northern side of the lock, a collection of a few hundred structures tethered together by a dozen or so intersecting roads. The village wasn’t much more than a waystation to those passing through, a place to cast off one’s sea legs and enjoy some Avadonian hospitality—a warm meal, a warm bed, and for some, a warm body. But Roman knew that to those who lived here, their village was their livelihood, and those passing through their customers. The warm lanternlight of the town was tempting indeed.

Before he changed his mind, he turned away and made for the cold, dark planks of wood that extended out into the waters of the canal.

At first the sellswords stationed at the lock eyed Roman with mistrust as he sat on a crate to wait, but soon they grew bored of him, passing the time playing games of chance, eating and drinking. They weren’t as rowdy a bunch as Roman expected them to be, and even when tempers flared, they didn’t explode into fights. There was something…professional about them that Roman grudgingly respected, even if he could never condone accepting coin in exchange for loyalty, which, in his opinion, should be a thing earned through shared experience, intersecting beliefs, and mutual respect.

HYPOCRITE, the blade said.

What?

THESE MEN ARE NO DIFFERENT THAN YOU.

Explain.

WHEN YOU BECAME LOYAL TO KING GAARD, YOU ACCEPTED ROOM AND BOARD AND COIN TO BOOT, the blade said. DID YOU NOT?

That was different. That was just a job.

SO YOU WERE NOT LOYAL TO THE TERRAN WOLF?

I—my job was palace security. I performed it to the best of my ability.

AND DO NOT THESE MEN PERFORM THE JOB THEY’RE PAID TO DO TO THE BEST OF THEIR ABILITIES?

That’s different. If Odin, or Teravainen, or Travail were to offer them more coin to do the same job, they would switch sides without a thought.

DID YOUR BELIEFS ALWAYS INTERSECT WITH KING GAARD’S? DID YOU SHARE MUTUAL RESPECT?

Roman sighed. He couldn’t lie. No. Rarely.

BUT YOU STAYED ANYWAY. FOR THE COIN.

No! I stayed for— He cut off sharply, realizing what this entire conversation had been—a ploy. Even more disturbing was how much the blade knew about his past. Did it know about—

THE CHILD? YES.

Roman’s entire body tensed, his fists tightening at his sides. He had half a mind to wrench the sword from the sheath, run to end of the dock and cast it into the canal.

STOP LYING TO YOURSELF.

Roman took several deep breaths. His fingers loosened. His jaw slackened. The blade was right. He wouldn’t throw the blade into the water, not when it would only be found by someone else, someone who might use it for evil or, gods forbid, carry it back to Sampson.

He froze. Something else struck him. If the blade knew about the child he’d lost all those years ago, then all his efforts to hide his mind behind a mental wall were surely in vain. Which meant the blade knew his intentions. You can’t stop me, he said now.

AND YOU CAN’T DESTROY ME.

I guess we’ll find out.

The blade said nothing, though he swore he could feel it vibrating against his hip.

They didn’t speak after that, watching the sun follow an arcing path across the sky, the day growing warmer and then colder once more as the shadows lengthened, the waters of the canal nestled directly behind the lock’s upper gate turning as black as spilled ink.

At least we understand each other now, Roman finally said, just as he’d resigned himself to spending the night on the wooden planks of the dock.

DO WE? I KNOW YOU THINK MY INTENTIONS TOWARD SAMPSON ILL, BUT THAT’S FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH THAN YOU COULD IMAGINE. I ONLY WISH FOR HIM TO REALIZE HIS FULL POTENTIAL, TO BECOME THE CONQUEROR HE WAS ALWAYS DESTINED TO BECOME. HE CAN’T DO THAT BLIND. HE CAN’T DO THAT WEAK. I CAN GIVE HIM HIS VISION BACK. I CAN MAKE HIM STRONG ONCE MORE. I WILL MAKE HIM A KING AMONGST KINGS.

You’re right, we don’t understand each other at all. Because Sampson has always been strong, something you should know if you’ve studied my memories. And his lack of sight was never his weakness. If anything, it made him stronger.

YOU WOULD STEAL HIS SIGHT FROM HIM?

Roman understood the blade’s words for what they were: a sign of growing desperation. No, and I didn’t. Lest you forget, it was he who discarded you like he was emptying the contents of his chamber pot. He chose to return to blindness. He understood that you were a poison slowly working its way through his blood until it stopped his heart. Casting you aside was just another show of how strong Sampson is without you.

The blade went silent, and Roman got the impression it was stewing. No, he thought. If anything, it’s scheming. Now that it knows where I’m taking it, it’ll grow more and more desperate. I must be on my guard at all times.

Just then, a shout rang out. The sellswords, many of whom had been napping, snapped awake immediately, falling into ranks, beautifully parallel lines that would’ve made even the strictest of battlefield commanders proud. Roman squinted, peering to the south first, seeing nothing but the ever-darkening waters of the Sacred Sea reflecting the purple sky, which was just beginning to twinkle with starry islands. He twisted his head around to gaze north, traveling along the length of the canal. His perspective made it appear as though the canal narrowed into a thin line, but he knew it was just as broad at its northernmost point as it was here at its southern tip.

A shadow was growing. At first it was just an indistinguishable lump of black against the gray backdrop, but it soon began to take shape, the twin sails rippling in the wind, the powerful bow bullying its way through the waters, which offered little to no resistance as the current flowed steadily southward.

Roman’s understanding of the Strangle system was that there was a cut off time for entering and exiting the canal. Given the late hour, the ship would be forced to moor here for the duration of the night. Assuming the captain agreed to pay the lock toll—and Roman had no reason to believe he wouldn’t—the ship would be permitted to exit the Strangle at first light.

Roman planned to be on that ship.

Roman didn’t sleep a wink. He didn’t need to, not with the blade in his possession.

Instead, he passed the time, watching and waiting. The ship’s sails were drawn in and tied, its anchors tossed over the side with a series of magnanimous splashes. Oars were extended like the spines of a porcupine, back-rowing to slow the massive vessel’s momentum, and then maneuvered expertly until it touched the dock’s bumpers. The seamen aboard the ship worked efficiently to toss lines across to the deck and then leap over to tie them off even before the gangway was extended and affixed to a gap in the ship’s railing.

The final touch was a lantern being lit and hung to reveal the ship’s name, painted in large, flowing letters across the ship’s bow: Queen of the Seas.

Once the ship was properly moored, the ship’s staff marched down the gangway and headed for the village. Many were rough-nosed seamen, while others were likely onboard for other purposes—cooking and cleaning and the like. They all wore uniforms—navy blue greatcoats over red vests and white shirts. Navy britches with red lines down the sides completed the ensemble. There was even a musician toting a fiddle case, the only passenger not in uniform. Roman guessed he’d bought his way onboard in exchange for providing cheery music on a nightly basis. They walked strangely, as though the land were moving. They must’ve been at sea for weeks, Roman thought. Little by little, however, they walked more confidently.

Roman watched for the captain to emerge, but he never did.

He stays with his ship at all times, Roman thought. He could respect that, especially considering the hospitality available a little more than a stone’s throw away in South Strangle.

Eventually, the hubbub died down and the sellswords returned to their rest or, for those assigned to night duty, the games of chance.

Though it had been many years since Roman provided security at Wolfsgaard’s harbor, he felt as home here as anywhere. Old habits returned, and he found himself listening to every creak of the wood, every small splash of water against the shore, every murmur of a voice or trod of a foot. The sounds fell into a rhythm, a music of sorts, as familiar to Roman as the most popular songs sung by the bards back in Teravainen.

Which meant he also noticed as soon as a foreign sound interrupted the rhythm, the first coming more than four hours later in the dead of night, the first of the moons having risen three quarters of the way overhead, its pale-green light painting a trail that extended from one side of the canal to the other. One thing about light: it provided illumination, but it also created shadows. It was at one of the shadows that Roman now stared, trying to detect movement through the darkness. At first he saw nothing, but he didn’t look away. After all, his ears hadn’t deceived him, the creak of a hidden foot on a plank too heavy to be that of a mouse scurrying through the night in search of crumbs.

Someone was doing some serious sneaking, dressed in dark clothes, almost invisible against the shadows. Almost, Roman thought, catching a fleeting glimpse of the someone as they moved silently past a lighter patch before ducking behind a series of wooden crates. The someone’s path was headed directly for the ship tethered to the dock.

The sellswords, as professional and capable as they clearly were, didn’t seem to notice the intruder in their midst, their laughter and murmurs drowning out any sound that might’ve reached their ears. Maybe it was because dock security wasn’t in their job description. Maybe it was because they didn’t care, so long as the ship paid the required toll.

If Roman were working this dock, he would already be in motion, apprehending the shadowy individual and threatening them with all manner of pain if they didn’t vacate the premises immediately and never return. Instead, he just continued to watch as the person stole up the unguarded gangway and disappeared over the side of the ship.

He smiled.

The rest of the night passed without event, the sun cracking the horizon and chasing away the shadows that had been used by the thief the night before. Well, maybe not a thief, Roman thought, as the individual that had slipped onto the ship had never disembarked, which meant he or she was still onboard. A stowaway, at the least.

Roman stood and stretched out his muscles. One of the sellswords eyed him, hand on hilt. Casually, Roman sauntered over to the man, whose eyes immediately narrowed. “State your business,” he said.

“I wish to speak to the ship’s captain.”

“We don’t make a habit of inviting beggars and vagabonds onboard the vessels that pass through the Strangle.”

“Do I look like a beggar or vagabond?”

The man looked him up and down. “Not particularly, but one can’t be too careful these days. These are queer times. Demons and Grizari attacking Kerr’s Crossing, dragons roaming the skies over Avadon…”

“From what I understand, it was only one dragon.”

“One dragon too many, if you ask me,” the man said. “Anyway, you get my point. Void, kings are getting killed in their own beds!”

That gave Roman pause. “What kings?”

“Well, it was just one, but still. Who’d have thought the Terran Wolf would be murdered by his own daughter, and the Crown Princess at that?”

“What?”

“Have you been living under a rock? The news has been traveling like wildfire. The warmongering bastard is dead.”

Roman didn’t know what to say, stunned into silence. From the moment he’d met King Cronus Gaard, he’d found the man to be cruel, meanspirited and without a single honorable bone in his body, and yet he was Sampson’s father and the ruler of a nation, so he’d swallowed his tongue and remained silent, focusing instead on giving his charge the best chance at a good, happy life. Warring emotions battled inside him. Relief to know the monster was gone. Sadness that Sampson had never had a father who loved him. Shock that Amari had been the one to kill him. How? Why?

While he’d been trying to make sense of the senseless, the man had continued talking. “Three Gaards gone in one fell swoop,” he said now. “Queer times indeed.”

“Wait,” Roman said. “What do you mean, ‘three Gaards gone’?”

“Like I said, Amari poisoned the queen just after she stabbed the king through the heart. Then she drank the poison herself. I guess because she’d gone mad, or out of regret. I dunno. All I know is that Jarrod Gaard is king now. There’s already talk that it could mean an end to the war.”

Roman’s knees felt weak as he took a step back. This man was clearly mistaken. When men were in their cups they liked to talk. To exaggerate. The story of catching a minnow transformed into a wild tale about landing a whale. Some fool with a big imagination looking to captivate an inebriated audience of even bigger fools spun a yarn none of them could possibly believe was false because of its sheer audacity. From there, it was passed from mouth to ear as though it was a truth shouted from the heavens by the gods themselves, when in fact it was utter rubbish.

“Honestly, I didn’t believe a word of it when I first heard it,” the sellsword continued. “But when the official news came from Glynn Kerr himself, what was I supposed to do? Call him a liar?”

“Glynn Kerr started this rumor?”

“Oh boy, I’d like to watch you call it a rumor to his face. I’ve never seen a man’s skin turned inside out before, so you’d be the first. Where have you been, anyway? Living in a cave?”

“Traveling across country,” Roman said absently, mind still reeling. What if it were true? Maybe not the details, which he knew could be falsehoods scripted from within the palace at Wolfsgaard, but the overall news. What if the king, the queen, and the crown princess were all dead and Jarrod was ruling in their stead?

The king was one thing. And the death of the queen was sad, but at the same time would be somewhat of a relief to those who’d seen her dwindling away by the day. But Amari was another thing entirely. Roman had been far too focused on Sampson to grow any real affection for the crown princess, but he also knew that Sampson loved her dearly. Her death would destroy him.

Which meant, now more than ever, he needed to complete his mission and then find Sampson to comfort him, to guide him through the myriad emotions that would surely assault him when he learned the news.

“I need to see the captain,” Roman said. “Please. I have information he will want to hear.”

The sellsword smirked. “He can decide for himself,” he said. Roman noticed the strange way he emphasized certain words. “Wait here.”

Roman watched the soldier cross the dock and then board the ship amongst a steady flow of sailors and ship staff returning from their night off in the village. They looked refreshed and happy, chatting and laughing gaily.

Roman felt like he was mired back in the Sucking Bog.

I CAN HELP SAMPSON THROUGH THIS, the blade said. I CAN GIVE HIM THE PERSPECTIVE OF HISTORY.

He needs someone who cares about him, Roman fired back.

I DO CARE ABOUT HIM. MORE THAN YOU CAN EVER UNDERSTAND.

Only because you think he’ll wield you in battle.

WE DID HAVE SOME GOOD TIMES STABBING AND SLASHING, DIDN’T WE? the blade said. It sounded almost like an old man reminiscing about his glory days.

Roman ignored him, focusing on the returning sellsword, who made his way against the flow of bodies. “Well?” Roman said.

“You’re in luck. The captain is in a good mood. You may board the vessel.”

Roman didn’t need further invitation, joining the stream and making his way up the gangway. On deck, seamen were already performing their various duties, preparing the ship to set sail. Apparently the captain had already paid the toll, leaving the ship free to enter the lock, which was beginning to groan open.

Having worked on a major harbor for years, Roman knew a thing or two about ships, and The Queen of the Seas was a fine one, its decks clean and polished, its ropes and sails in good repair. Even the banisters and handrails surrounding the prow and the staircase leading up to it gleamed with fresh lacquer. Roman ran his hand along the wood, finding it free of the salty residue he expected to find, the surface sanded smooth. A figure stood at the wheel, tall and strong-looking, knuckles white on the wooden spokes.

Roman stopped a few paces away. I CAN HELP, the blade said. REMEMBER HOW SAMPSON PERSUADED THE GRIZARI LEADERS TO UNITE AND MARCH ON KERR’S CROSSING?

Of course Roman remembered. Sampson had referred to it as shadowbreath, one of the shadowblade’s unnatural powers. It twisted the minds of its victims, bending them to its will. He could feel the blade thrumming at his hip in anticipation. It desired more than anything to claim this captain.

No, Roman said. I will do this my way, without your help.

He opened his mouth, preparing to unveil the news about the stowaway that had boarded undetected, but the captain spoke first, turning. “I assume this isn’t about the little matter of the stowaway currently hiding behind a few crates in the ship’s cargo hold.”

Roman gawked at the captain. Not because the guess had been correct—although that had caught him rather off-guard—but because the captain’s face wasn’t the scarred, leathery, bearded face he’d expected to find.

“You’re—you’re a, well, you’re a—”

“A captain? Aye, I thought that much was obvious already. Unless you were going to say something as foolish as ‘I’m a woman’? Which, given the current circumstances, doesn’t seem to have much to do with anything.”

NICELY HANDLED, the blade said.

Stay out of it. “My apologies,” he said, bowing slightly. When he looked up, he found his eyes locking with hers, which were cerulean blue to match the ocean on a clear day like this one. If he had to guess her age, he would put her within a year or two of his own. This fact made it surprising his path had never crossed with hers back in Wolfsgaard, when he worked at the harbor. Perhaps her route is strictly Crimea to Avadon, he thought. “I’ve just never met a she-captain before.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s just captain, thank you. Now, if you’d stop gawking, I ask that you remove yourself from my ship. Whatever your game, I’ll have none of it. You may have stayed awake all night to catch the stowaway, but I fear you’ve wasted your time. I am the master of my ship, you see, and I knew the moment an intruder stepped on deck. I will deal with him my way.”

Roman frowned. He hadn’t expected the news of the stowaway to be met with such disinterest, shrugged off like a few drops of rain on an otherwise sunny day. Luckily, he had more to tell. “And what of the second stowaway?” he asked. “Given how clever you appear to be, surely you know of the second one as well?”

“You’re bluffing,” the captain said. “I would know—”

“The moment an intruder stepped on deck?” Roman finished. She stared daggers at him, her eyes as deadly as they were beautiful. Did I just think about her as ‘beautiful’? Roman thought, surprised. He hadn’t looked upon a woman in that way in many, many years.

WELL, ACTUALLY IT WAS JUST HER EYES YOU WERE THINKING ABOUT AS BEAUTIFUL.

Thanks for the clarification.

I’M HERE TO HELP, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.

Not.

“Get off my ship,” the captain said.

Roman raised his hands. “Fine. Suit yourself. Good luck finding that second stowaway. I suspect they’re well-hidden.” He started back down the steps, holding his breath.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING? ALL YOU MUST DO IS BREATHE ON HER AND CLAIM HER AND—

“Wait.”

Roman stopped, the edges of his lips curling into a smile. He let the smile fall away just before he turned around. “Something I can do for you, Captain?”

“Let’s pretend for a moment there is a second stowaway.”

“There is.”

“How did they board without my knowledge?”

“A simple distraction,” Roman said.

The captain’s thin, dark brows knit together. He swore he could see the cogs turning in her mind as she worked it out, could see the moment the torch sparked, flames dancing in understanding. “The first stowaway was a distraction.”

“Precisely.” He could tell she believed him now. “The second stowaway was already in the water off the starboard side. While the first distracted you to the port side, the second climbed onboard. Only a pretty poor stowaway would enter a vessel via the gangway. It was a dead giveaway of the ruse for one with experience in such things.”

“I have experience.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Captaining a ship is something I know little about, but I do understand the tactics of urchins and thieves. I’ve apprehended more than my fair share. Rarely did they ever try twice, and they always regretted the choice.”

The captain’s eyes seemed to look upon him differently, roaming up and down his form, lingering for a long second on the blade sheathed at his hip. Assessing. Calculating. “Let me get this straight. One stowaway is willing to get caught, and likely beaten quite badly, while the second sneaks off after stealing whatever he can get his grubby hands on?”

She was a shrewd woman. Realizing they weren’t stowaways at all wasn’t the most obvious conclusion. “Correct. They are common thieves. Nothing more. Working as a pair, they take turns being caught and beaten, sharing the spoils for their efforts.”

“Well, they are in for a surprise. Will you help me find the bastards?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Hmm, I guess we shall see, won’t we?”

She gestured for Roman to head down the stairs ahead of her. Is she being polite or abundantly cautious? What sort of woman would worry that a man would attack her from behind as she descended the steps of her own ship? There was only one answer: A woman who’d been hurt by a man before, he thought.

Roman ignored the curious stares from the sailors and ship staff as he made his way across the deck to the cargo hold. “After you,” the captain said again, and he slid into the darkness of the hold, pausing at the bottom to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, he found nothing out of the ordinary. Wooden crates were stacked neatly throughout the area. Rows of barrels stood against the far side, tight with the wall. The hold wasn’t full, which allowed it to double as storage for replacement equipment for the ship, including heavy canvas patches for the sails, iron nails, various tools, a stack of extra oars, and a hearty coil of thick rope piled up in one corner.

“Well?” the captain said. She stood on the second to last step, waiting for Roman to conduct the search.

Roman stepped forward between two rows of stacked crates, following the natural corridor through the cargo. He knew exactly where to look, for the first thief never expected to escape undetected. In fact, it was his goal to be caught. He would be sitting in the shadows waiting for the inevitable.

Roman turned the corner and there he was. He pretended to shrink back against the wall, his mouth opening in fear. No more than thirteen, the lad had probably executed this ruse dozens of times, perfecting his act. “Please, sir,” he squeaked. “I was only tryin’ to git to Armitage. Me family’s there. I was apprenticed to a bad man. I jest wanna go home. Please.”

“That’s a sad tale,” Roman said. “Get up.”

“Sir?”

It was time for a little act of his own. “I said, get up!” Roman reached down and grabbed the boy by the collar, hauling him to his feet as though he weighed nothing at all. He lifted him higher, pressing him against the wall.

“Please, sir! I meant no harm by it!” the boy wailed. Tears had begun to sprout from his eyes. Damn, he’s good, Roman thought.

“I should kill you,” Roman said, a low growl. He twisted his face into a snarl as he spoke. In the dark, he suspected he looked like a monster.

At that, the lad’s face paled. This time it was no act. Threatening death to a mere stowaway was beyond the point of harshness, and the boy was scared, having never faced an adversary like this before. “I—I’ll do anythin’ you want. Scrub the decks. Clean the salt from the bird’s nest. Scrape barnacles from the hull.”

The boy’s voice had changed. Gone was the act, the boy finally realizing he was up against a new type of adversary. “You think I care about any of that?” Roman said, clenching his teeth as he spoke. Maybe he was laying it on a little thick, but the lad was clearly buying what he was selling. “What I want is to know where your partner is hiding. Tell me now or you’re dead.”

Though it was fleeting, he saw the shock register in the boy’s expression. There and gone again, a flash of the truth before returning to the careful façade he’d likely practiced in front of the looking glass for months and months. “Partner? A partner fer what?” Though the boy tried to maintain eye contact with Roman, his gaze flicked away for a split-second. Just long enough, Roman thought.

Roman unclenched his teeth, loosening his hold on the boy as he lowered him back to the floor. Sighed. Laughed breathily. “Sorry, kid, can’t be too careful these days. I believe you. You know you’ll get a beating though, right? Have to send a message to others like you. Can’t have stowaways on The Queen of the Seas. We have a reputation to uphold.”

The boy’s lip quivered. Gods, Roman thought. This kid is a real piece of work. “I understand. It won’t happen again, sir. I’ll find another way to git home.”

“Good luck to you,” Roman said, clapping him on the back and forcing him forward. Except he steered the boy toward the opposite side of the hold rather than the staircase.

It was the direction the boy had glanced during that momentary lapse when he believed Roman capable of killing him where he stood. As they passed by the pile of rope coiled in the corner, Roman’s hand shot out, stabbing between the ropes and grabbing a handful of cloth. He pulled, dragging a kicking and screaming form out from the coils.

The lad’s demeanor changed in an instant. He squirmed away from Roman’s grasp, kicking at his leg. “Let her go!” he shrieked. Her, Roman thought, barely feeling the boy’s kick as it glanced off his leg. Interesting. A brother, sister partnership perhaps.

The pair of ruffians fought like cornered wildcats, shrieking and clawing and kicking with everything they had while Roman kept them at bay with his long arms and sheer size advantage, blocking their only escape route. Still, desperate people did desperate things, and the lad tried to dive through Roman’s outstretched legs. When Roman reached down to grab him, the boy opened his mouth wide and clamped down on his fingers, crunching hard. At the same time, the girl launched herself at his throat, piercing his skin with fingernails that were a good fortnight past needing a trim.

They’re not even a step above animals, Roman thought, ripping his hand free of the boy’s teeth and pinning him to the floor. He used his other hand to grab the back of the girl’s collar, holding her away from his throat, which was already warm with blood where her claws had punctured him. The pair continued flailing and scratching at him until—

Thunk!

Wood splintered a few feet away from Roman’s head as the captain buried her sword in one of the crates. “Enough,” she said, and though she spoke softly her voice seemed to carry the weight and fury of a roar.

Everyone froze, Roman included.

“Better,” she said, wrenching her sword out of the wood. “I am Captain Mirren. You are unlawfully on my vessel. On my ship, I am queen. Which makes your lives mine. Is this understood?”

The boy and girl looked at each other, something seeming to pass between them. When they turned back to the captain, they nodded in tandem.

“Good,” Captain Mirren said. “You may release them.”

Roman shrugged and let go, stepping back. Instinctively, he reached up to feel the blood welling from the punctures in his throat. They were shallow wounds and would soon clot on their own. He glanced at his hand and was able to make out the individual teeth marks where the boy had bitten him. Overall, he’d emerged from the encounter unscathed. More importantly, the captain now knew he’d been right.

“Wait here,” the captain said to the thieves.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Madam Captain, er, ma’am,” the boy started.

“Save your act for someone gullible enough to believe it,” the captain said. She gestured for Roman to depart with her, which he did. Gladly. Once they’d mounted the steps, she slammed the trap door closed over the cargo hold and turned toward him. “I’d say that I appreciate your help in catching the would-be thieves, but I suspect there’s something you want in return. What is it?”

Roman smiled. “Just a ride. I’m willing to work, too. Ship security. You can’t be in two places at once. Let me be another set of eyes and ears for you. Captain,” he added respectfully.

“I don’t know you. I prefer hiring those I know and trust. Most of my crew has been with me for years.”

Roman could respect that, but there was only one problem with her crew. He was suddenly aware that the sailors were only pretending to work, when in reality all eyes were staring in their direction, enjoying the respite from their toils. “I have something else to tell you. But not here. In private.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You expect me to go somewhere with you where I will be alone and unprotected?”

“You seem more than capable of protecting yourself,” Roman said.

“I haven’t survived this long because of my sword work. Being smart is just as important.”

Roman could appreciate that. He knew he wouldn’t hurt her, but she couldn’t know that. They’d only just met, after all, and he was a large man. “May I whisper in your ear then? Right here. Your men will be close at hand if I try anything untoward.”

She met his eyes unflinching, considering. “Very well,” she said. She leaned toward him.

He eased toward her as well, catching a whiff of oil, leather and, to his surprise, cinnamon. His lips were close enough to touch her ear if he pressed further forward. “The second thief climbed the starboard side using a rope ladder,” he whispered. “Even distracted by the first thief, you would’ve heard the clank of a grappling hook if she’d tossed one over the side. Plus, throwing a hook from the water to the railing would’ve been difficult even for a mighty man. For a young girl, as feisty as she is, it would’ve been next to impossible.”

The captain turned her head slightly, her own lips brushing his earlobe. A shiver ran through him. “What are you saying?”

Roman met her eyes once more. “I’m saying there’s a traitor in your midst. So much for the loyalty of your crew.”

Eight

Sampson Gaard

Dunadin, Avadon

IF YOUR LIFE IS LIKE A HORSE, WILL YOU BE THE RIDER, CONTENT TO BE CARRIED WHEREVER the beast chooses? Or will you be the horse, leaping chasms, galloping over hills and into valleys, making your own path?

It was a question Roman had asked him years ago, when Sampson had tripped over something his father had intentionally placed in his path. He lay there clutching his knee and crying. Rather than helping him up, Roman had asked him that question and then left.

Now, as he stood in the dank, musty tunnel, the question repeated itself again and again in his mind as sweat burned his eyes and aches assaulted every muscle in his body, some of which he didn’t even realize he had. He’d been pounding at the rock for hours without end, his only respite when an unknown hand shoved a ladle of water near to his lips and forced him to drink so fast that he choked every time.

He stopped swinging his hammer when he wasn’t supposed to, pondering Roman’s question. Am I the horse or the rider?

Something emerged from his throat, so foreign under the circumstances that it took him a moment to realize what it was: a laugh. He marveled at the sound. How can I laugh now? It was nonsensical. Absurd. Not the laughter, but how he’d gotten to this point in time, in this place in Kingfall. Let’s see…, he thought. Well, I found an ancient shadowblade, stabbed myself with it, cast away my blindness, defeated a Griz tribal leader in mortal combat, ensnared the minds of other tribal leaders and marched them to Kerr’s Crossing where I decided to throw the shadowblade into the waters of a raging river and then jump in after it. This was followed by almost being eaten by a sucking bog, captured by flesh traders, and then bought by none other than Glynn Kerr who desperately wants the aforementioned shadowblade to use for his own nefarious purposes.

Another laugh slipped from the back of his throat. Then another. Soon he was laughing uncontrollably, considering the possibility that he’d crossed the line into madness somewhere along the way.

“Get back to work!” a harsh voice said. He recognized it as one of the task masters who liked to order the miners around like dogs.

Still he didn’t stop laughing, tickled by the absurdity of it all. Had he made any right choices over the last few months? Were there any right choices? Or was his life one big cosmic mistake, a rare error made by the gods, who, just after creating him, said, “Whoops,” like they’d just dropped a raw egg. “Should we fix him?” they considered. “Nay. Let’s just watch and see what happens.”

Something struck him at that ridiculous moment. Well, two somethings, actually:

First, something else Roman had once said to him, after he’d failed in one of the challenges that had been posed to him. ‘We are not defined by our mistakes, but by how we overcome them.’ At the time, Sampson had been frustrated, and it had taken him a solid two hours to really take those words to heart. He’d started the challenge over, completing it in half the time it had taken him to fail it the first time.

Second was the task master’s staff, hammering hard into the back of his knees, pain radiating from the blow up and down his legs. He stumbled but managed to grasp the rock wall with one hand to steady himself. “I said, get back to work. Now!”

Still clutching the wall, Sampson swung his hammer, hand trembling as the shockwave from the impact rattled from the iron into his fingers. He swung again, harder, hearing the satisfying chunk of a piece of rock breaking free and skittering across the tunnel’s hard floor. Again and again and again he battered the wall, even after the task master had instructed the miners to stop. He didn’t stop until one of them pried the hammer from his fingers, which were numb and aching and bloody.

“Come on, lad,” a voice said, “you can finish murdering the wall tomorrow.”

As he fell into line with the other exhausted slave miners, Sampson made a decision.

He wouldn’t let the mistakes of his past define him. He would overcome. And he would be the horse, not the rider.

Not even Glynn Kerr got to decide his future.

Months ago, when Sampson had first stepped foot in the mine in the Spine, gripping a hammer and pick and working alongside his men in search of magenum, he’d felt truly alive.

Now he wished he’d never held a hammer in his life.

After three days in Glynn Kerr’s mines, everything hurt. Life had become an eternal series of sleeping, eating, drinking and backbreaking work. Now, as he raised his hammer, Sampson was surprised his arm obeyed. The hammer felt as heavy as an anvil. Thunk. The sound of iron against rock was dull and muted, one in a million similar sounds resounding throughout the area, echoing hollowly.

“What’s the point?” Sampson muttered under his breath.

“Don’t speak, you’ll only draw attention to us,” a nearby voice hissed. It was the same one that had spoken a few days earlier, when Sampson had refused to stop battering the wall.

Sampson didn’t want to cause trouble for another slave, but he also needed something to distract him from the pain. He lowered his voice even further. “What’s your name?” he asked, continuing to hammer at the impenetrable wall of stone.

“I have no name. Not anymore.”

“I’m Sam. What was your name before?”

A sigh. “Jarry,” the man said.

“How long have you been—”

“Too long, son. Too long.”

Sampson wondered what it would feel like for this to be his life for months. For years. It could all be over in an instant if I help Kerr find the blade, he thought, but quickly discarded the notion. Even if he knew where the blade was, he couldn’t live with himself knowing he’d helped a man like Kerr gain even more power. Anyway… I deserve this, he thought. For what I did to the Grizari. They were content living their peaceful lives on the plains, and I used them like I’m using this hammer for my own purposes. He paused, considering. My purposes or the blade’s purposes? Even now, he couldn’t discern the difference, the line between him and the weapon having faded into nothingness.

Are you there, blade? he asked now.

Nothing. Wherever the blade was, it was beyond his reach.

“Hey,” he hissed under his breath, but then realized the hammering sounds had ceased.

“Are you blind and deaf, boy?” the harsh sound of the taskmaster barked.

“You know I’m not,” Sampson said, surprised he’d been so lost in his own thoughts he’d missed the order to stop working.

Crack! the wooden rod struck his hip hard enough to send shards of pain through him and driving him to one knee. He leaned on the head of his hammer to prevent himself from crumpling all the way to the ground. “Watch your damn mouth,” the taskmaster said. “Just for that, you can work a while longer. Up!”

As Sampson pushed to his feet, he cursed his loose lips. He had to be smarter than that. There was no reason to make his life any harder than it needed to be.

Crack!

He released a cry of pain as the taskmaster’s staff snapped against his other hip, driving him back to the ground. This time he was too slow to get his hammer under him and he slammed face first into the ground. “Ow,” he said wryly as he lay there, both hips throbbing out a staccato beat.

“Was I not clear, slave?” the taskmaster said. “Get up.”

Sampson knew what this was—a show of power. This man thrived on it, lived for it. He wanted nothing more than for Sampson to remain lying on the ground, weak and broken and scared. But he wasn’t weak, Roman had made sure of that. He wasn’t broken; the shadowblade, if nothing else, had taught him that. And he wasn’t scared—not of this man or pain or being blind in a foreign land.

He stood once more.

Crack!

This time he was ready for the blow, clenching his muscles and steeling himself as the staff smashed into his shoulder. Even still, it felt like a shockwave as it shivered through him. “A tough guy, huh? We’ll see about that.” Sampson knew what was coming, but the prior blow had dulled his senses and slowed his reaction time. He raised his hands to protect his head, but he was too slow, the staff cracking against his temple and spinning him around. Once more, he dropped to one knee, feeling the warm trickle of blood between his fingers.

“Get up.” The taskmaster’s command was like the growl of a wild animal just remembering it had a taste for blood.

Sampson stood. Again and again the staff collided with his flesh, punishing him, until his world was honed to a fine point of pain, which was his only companion, ever-present to remind him that he was alive, even if the current situation made him crave the mercy of unconsciousness. The taskmaster, as violent and sadistic as he was, knew this, landing the majority of the blows below the neck.

On hands and knees, Sampson tried to push to his feet, but his arms betrayed him, wobbling and then losing all strength as he collapsed on his stomach. “Get up.”

Sampson scrabbled around for the hammer, which he’d dropped somewhere during the course of the worst beating of his life by a wide margin. At first, he felt nothing but loose dirt and the rubble of rocks he’d chipped from the wall tirelessly for the last several hours. And then:

He felt smooth wood embedded in cool iron as his fingers closed around the hammer’s helve. “Oh ho, you want a fight, dog?” the taskmaster asked. He almost sounded excited by the prospect.

Sampson staggered to his feet. Raised the hammer. Swung. He felt the satisfying penetration of iron in rock. Chips sprayed outward, rattling around his torso. “You said I have to keep working,” he said. “So that’s what I’m going to do.”

Grating laughter. “I’ll leave you to it then. Step out of line again and I won’t be so nice.”

That was nice? Sampson thought. He said nothing, falling back into the familiar rhythm of mining, relishing the distraction provided by mind-numbing repetition. At the same time, he listened as the taskmaster’s steps receded into the distance. As soon as they were out of earshot, his entire body slumped, wracked with exhaustion and pain. Every part of him felt bruised and battered. He breathed deeply, gathering what strength he had left. To his surprise, he found a reserve deep inside his core. How long it had been there, he knew not. Now he tapped into that reserve, continuing his pounding. Though the taskmaster had retreated, he was certain he was listening for the sound of hammering, so Sampson was determined to give him exactly that.

Swing, scattering stone shrapnel at his feet, letting his hammer fall to his side.

Breathe, steady his stance, bring the hammer over his shoulder, swing again.

He repeated the process over and over until the seconds turned into minutes turned into hours immeasurable, until he was certain that each swing would be his last, his body finally betraying him as his fingers opened to let the hammer fall.

And with each swing, he was surprised to find the strength for another. And another. And another still.

Time had no meaning as it stretched beyond this place, affecting other people while leaving Sampson in a sort of suspended state, like an insect trapped in tree sap that had hardened into amber.

He didn’t stop when he heard footsteps returning. He didn’t stop when the footsteps grew silent close behind him. He didn’t stop when someone cleared their throat. He didn’t stop because he hadn’t been told to, and he was a slave, which meant he ate when he was told to eat, he pissed when he was told to piss, and he worked until he was told to stop.

“A new vein,” a familiar voice said. “Impressive.”

Though he was surprised both by the speaker—none other than Glynn Kerr—and the words themselves—a new vein?—Sampson continued to hammer at the rock.

“You may stop,” Kerr said.

Sampson stopped, chest heaving. His hammer dropped to his side. He was fairly certain that now that he’d stopped he wouldn’t be able to start again. He said nothing as he turned, small bits of stone crunching under his feet. The smell of pipeweed suddenly permeated the air, surrounding him.

“The gold from this vein has just made me a tidy profit from the pittance I paid for you,” Kerr said.

Congratulations, Sampson thought. He wisely kept the snide remark in his own head. He was determined to learn from the consequences of his loose tongue. Instead, he said only, “I am glad to serve.”

“No, you’re not,” Kerr said, chuckling. “And even if you discover a thousand more veins of gold, they will be nothing next to that which I covet.”

Sampson licked his dry lips, finding no moisture on his tongue. “The shadowblade,” he said.

“Yes. It became mine by rights when you failed to defeat me at Kerr’s Crossing.”

Sampson thought that was a rather delusional summary of what had happened during the battle. If not for the surprise appearance of Peony Normandian on dragonback wielding a brightblade, Sampson very well might’ve cut his way through the gate, thus beginning a demon and Grizari invasion into the heart of Avadon. And yet…

He was glad he hadn’t. He owed that to Peony. She’d more than saved Avadon. She’d given him the strength to do what needed to be done to save his own soul.

“The blade is lost to me,” Sampson said.

“I don’t believe you. I’ve studied the writings of Hyram Kerr.”

“Who?”

“Don’t play the fool with me, boy,” Kerr snapped. “As if you don’t know the names of the original wielders of the shadowblades.”

Sampson had never been much for history, though Roman included it as one of the subjects covered by his tutors. Just a bunch of wars and dates and begets. Still, he remembered nothing from his studies about who had wielded the godblades before they were lost.

His silence gave away his ignorance. “Pathetic,” Kerr said. “I knew your father was a coldhearted bastard—something I always respected about him—but this is sacrilege. My forefather, Hyram Kerr, was one of the original three to wield a shadowblade after they were forged. And your forefather, Jameson Gaard, was another of the three. Although he perished in the very first battle afterwards, the rights to his blade falling to his son, with whom you share a namesake, I might add.”

“What?” Sampson had never heard any of this. Why had it been kept from him? Did Roman know, or was he in on it?

“Your tutors should be ashamed of themselves. In any case, your lack of education isn’t important. What is important is that you understand that we have something in common: we were born to wield shadowblades. You wasted your opportunity, literally throwing it away. Now it’s my turn. I’ll give you another week to consider helping me.”

Sampson was almost afraid to ask his next question. “And if I refuse? Then what?”

“Then I’ll start cutting off pieces of you.”

Until this moment, Sampson had never known true weariness. His entire body seemed to melt into the ground, not caring that he was lying on stones or that several of them poked into his spine. His eyes closed immediately, his thoughts growing fuzzy.

He dreamed of his ancestors, Jameson Gaard and his son, Sampson. He dreamed of a shadowblade, the very same he once gripped, his eyes truly opening for the first time in his life.

DO YOU MISS ME? the blade said, its hissing, snakelike voice piercing the silence of his sleep.

He jolted upright, breath exploding from his mouth. Something grated against his exposed skin—a rough, threadbare blanket.

For a few moments he tried to remember where he was, but then remembered Glynn Kerr’s words from the day before: Then I’ll start cutting off pieces of you.

Blade? he said, wondering whether the sword’s voice had been real or an echo from another time.

There was no response except a shout and a heavy snort as something thumped heavily to the ground outside the small hovel in which the slaves slept. Sampson would know that snort anywhere. He cast aside the thin blanket and felt his way over toward the door—four steps to the wall, six steps to the exit, he’d memorized on the first day. The ‘door’ a slab of thin wood full of holes hung between the stone walls, allowing the icy wind to slide inside and keep them shivering all the night long. Today, however, the wind had ceased its blustery blowing entirely, as though holding its breath in anticipation.

Another shout was followed by the pounding of heavy footsteps and then a high-pitched shriek. “Stop!” Sampson shouted, racing recklessly in the direction of the commotion, arms extended to prevent him from crashing headfirst into something or someone. “Leave her alone!”

Wham! A heavy arm clubbed him in the stomach, stopping him cold and doubling him over. “This doesn’t concern you, slave,” a gruff voice said. The mine taskmaster. Sampson’s breath had been punched from his lungs by the blow, and now he wheezed as he tried to get some air. “The beast refuses to cooperate. None of the handlers have been able to rope or ride her. They have no choice but to put the nasty girl down. On my count, end her. One, two…”

He could barely breathe, but this wasn’t about him, this was about Hmm. “Stop!” he tried to shout again, but it came out as little more than a gurgle.

“Got something to say, dog? Just say it.” At least the taskmaster had stopped counting.

Sampson sucked in a thin breath, gathering his strength. “STOP!” This time the word was the roar of a lion, albeit one that sounded like it had a bad case of burning throat.

“Wait,” the taskmaster said. The command was clearly to whomever wielded the blade that would end the life of the only ally Sampson had at present. Then, to Sampson: “Why should we stop? We thought the big ol’ beast could be used to haul rocks from the mine, but if we can’t control her…”

“I can control her. And she has a name. Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes.”

“Odd name.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“Hmm.” Sampson couldn’t tell whether the taskmaster was simply mulling over the situation or repeating the grux’s name. He didn’t have the chance to clarify, because just then there was another shout, the pounding of hooves, and then the splintering of wood. “Holy—” The taskmaster’s own shout was cut off abruptly by a snort. Sampson could feel Hmm’s breath against his cheek. He reached out, the grux’s snout rising to nuzzle against his palm. “By the gods…,” the taskmaster murmured. His voice was further away now; he’d scrambled back several steps when Hmm bashed through whatever inadequate corral they’d attempted to confine her to.

Hmm pulled away from Sampson’s hand and snorted again, more loudly and derisively. “She doesn’t like you,” Sampson translated. “You should really be nicer to her.”

“I don’t care if she despises me,” the taskmaster said, though his voice was full of false bravado now. “I’ll have her put down the second she tries anything. Sooner if you can’t get her to work.”

“I can,” Sampson said. “I will. I swear it. She’ll put your own beasts of burden to shame.” He extended his hand again, and Hmm pressed her snout against him. He ran his hand over her cheek and then lifted onto his tiptoes to scratch behind her ear. He leaned in, whispering to her. “Play nice for now, ol’ girl,” he said. “This won’t be forever. I promise.”

The grux made a gentle humming sound. Almost like a purr.

Despite the pain radiating throughout the whole of his body, Sampson felt better than he’d felt in a while.

Nine

Grym son of Drynym

The Lost Plains, Avadon

THIS GOING WELL, GRYM THOUGHT, WATCHING THE CHAOS. The unified tribe that he now led was split into four groups, each of which were shouting at each other. He’d invited twenty or so of the most respected members of each of the prior four tribes to attend a meeting of the minds, a meeting that he hoped would bring them together in agreement on what the future looked like.

The only problem: none of them could agree on what the future looked like. Those from Shrz’s prior tribe wished to cross the southern end of the Roughwater, where its waters were calmer, and then march north on Dunadin. Previous members of Dyrm’s tribe wished to attack Kerr’s Crossing again in a show of strength, using the demons as temporary allies against the humans. Wyrt’s old tribe was content to fade back onto the Lost Plains, resuming their nomadic lifestyle, always in search of greener grass for their herds. And those from Grym’s own old tribe wanted something new, which was Grym’s own vision. A Grizari city where his people could build and live and survive without the constant wandering. Of course, some of them would still need to herd the cattle from place to place to feed them, but that would be a small portion of the overall population, and the responsibility could be taken in turns so no buck or doe was away from the home city for more than a year at a time.

Grizari curses flew between the various factions. Grym had to admit, some of them were rather creative. He met Eyrm’s eyes—she’d been one of those he’d invited from Dyrm’s old tribe. Somehow, her presence made all the chaos seem to fade into the background, as though they were alone on a wind-whipped day. She looked away and Grym shook his head, remembering his promise to her to keep their people safe.

Shrz stood beside him, looking uncomfortable. This was a new look on the buck, who was typically as confident a creature as Grym had ever met. He wore the shame of his defeat like a second skin. “This won’t do,” Grym said.

“What you mean?” Shrz said, ducking as something flew through the air, whistling past his ear. A grux bone, one of the larger ones, from a powerful hind leg. Thankfully, it fell short of its target or it might’ve knocked someone senseless, skidding to a stop at the feet of one of the most vocal Grizari among the bunch—Wyrt’s son, Hyrt. The buck snarled angrily, picking up the bone and hurling it back the other way.

“I mean, you cower like whipped dog. You are lieutenant now. Act like it!”

Shrz flinched. “Give me death. That’s all I want now.” The bone flew back the other way. Other objects joined it, thrown in wild arcs, some colliding in midair. Several of the Grizari had begun beating their chests with their fists—a challenge.

“You want death?” Grym snapped. “Fine.” He swung a mighty fist, connecting with the larger man’s jaw, snapping his head around. Then he leapt up and grabbed the bone from the air as it spun over his head. He landed with a thump and swung the bone, bashing Shrz in the ribs. The buck groaned and grabbed at his abdomen. “Fight back,” Grym commanded, swinging again.

Shrz took the blow on the arm, retreating another step. “I won’t.”

“No? How about now?” Grym used the bone like a spear, jabbing it into Shrz’s sternum, rocking him back even further. He was dimly aware that the shouting and throwing of random objects by the various factions had ceased. Which was exactly his objective. A distraction from their anger. Nothing like a good ol’ fight to unify a Grizari crowd.

“I won’t fight you.” Shrz extended his arms to either side, leaving himself vulnerable to another blow.

Grym obliged, punishing him with a shot to the gut and then an uppercut punch to the chin. Again and again he hammered at the muscled buck, warmth spreading to his own limbs, fire shooting through his veins. When Shrz continued to take the beating without protest, Grym grabbed one of his horns. “Care if I break? If want to die, don’t need horns, eh?”

Shrz’s eyes locked on his, horrified. To suffer a broken horn in battle brought great shame on one’s family, even in death. “You would dishonor me this way?”

“Aye, unless stop me.” Grym raised the bone, prepared to slam it down on the horn with all his strength.

Shrz froze, jaw tightening. Something flashed in his dark eyes, something that had disappeared the day he’d been defeated in the ring of fire. Grym swung. Shrz’s hand shot up, grabbing the opposite end of the bone. For several moments, the pair fought for dominance, locking horns as they circled each other. Finally, with a sharp crack! that cut through the silence, the bone snapped in half. Each buck stumbled back, gripping their half of the bone.

They stared at each other’s portion of the bone. More specifically, at the break in the bone, which was as clean and straight and smooth as if it had been cut through with a saw or an axe. “Bone Cleaver,” Shrz whispered, wonder in his voice.

The moment the words left Shrz’s mouth, Grym realized the truth in them. As long as Grym could remember, his people had believed in a time when the tribes would be reunified. Now that it had actually happened, he’d forgotten about the prophecy spoken fifty years earlier by a wizened old doe who was believed to be a Truthteller, one who could see into the Great Beyond and unveil that which was Not Yet Seen. She’d rose to prominence shortly after the Scattering, when the tribes had splintered into four factions and scattered across the Lost Plains like leaves carried on a blustery autumn wind. One of her most famous predictions was regarding the reunification of the tribes. And they who shall lead the Tribe shall wear many faces, and they shall be the Bone Cleaver.

The meaning behind the final two words of the prophecy had been the subject of much discussion over the years, some serious, some not. If enough ale had been drunk, a group of bucks would try their hand at Bone Cleaving—using a blade to sever the thickest grux bone with a single chop. No one ever succeeded.

And yet now, two bucks had done the very thing the prophecy had predicted, not with blade or hammer, but with their own bare hands and strength of will.

“And they who shall lead the Tribe shall wear many faces…,” Eyrm said, taking a step forward, head tilted to the side, eyes wide with awe. She bowed her head slightly, toward Grym. But not only. She turned and bowed to Shrz as well. “Our leaders,” she said, reverence in her tone.

“Nay,” Shrz said, shaking his head, something Grym happened to agree with. He hadn’t fought Shrz for this. He’d only wanted to give him a chance to regain his confidence through combat so he could serve as his lieutenant. The old prophecy hadn’t even crossed his mind as they fought over the grux bone. “Grym is leader.”

Grym said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. He’d won in the ring of fire, so his leadership shouldn’t be in question. And it wasn’t, only whether he would lead alone or together with Shrz.

Eyrm’s eyes found Grym’s again, and this time the world didn’t fade around her. Instead, everything seemed to grow brighter, the dozens of faces staring at him. “What say you, Grym?” she asked.

“I—” Words eluded him. He saw the Grizari future so clearly he could almost touch it, taste it. A city where they could live without the constant tearing down and rebuilding of their camps. A safe place to play for their children. Peace and unity amongst the tribes. But what if Shrz saw something different? What if they disagreed on the future and were unable to compromise? Would the tribes splinter once more? Eyrm nodded. Speak, she mouthed.

He looked at the many faces gathered around him, and suddenly the full meaning of the prophecy was as clear as a cloudless sky. “And they who shall lead the Tribe shall wear many faces,” he murmured, almost to himself. He felt Shrz’s gaze on him, and he turned toward the buck who’d once felt like his adversary, one who’d felt the shame of defeat, one who didn’t want to lead. And he knew. He didn’t know how, or why, but this partnership was meant to be. He realized he knew it even before now, which is why he’d never even considered giving Shrz the honorable death he so desperately wanted. As his eyes met Shrz’s, Grym smiled, the words he needed appearing in his mind like stars in the dark firmament of the night sky.

“We are Bone Cleavers,” Grym said. “Me. Shrz. We are Tribe leaders now. But not only. No more fighting. We’ve fought fer years. Filthy human led us to death’s door, but we survived. We always survive.” Murmurs of agreement, along with several barks of, ‘Human bastard!’ followed. “I understand anger at human,” Grym continued. “But human did one good thing.” Frowns of confusion appeared as the bucks and does looked at each other. “Did what we were too stubborn or proud to do ourselves. Brought us together. United, we stronger. United, we safer. Don’t let differences tear us apart. Not ever again. One cannot lead Tribe on own. Nor two. If Shrz agrees, this group will be first Grizari Council. And they who shall lead the Tribe shall wear many faces,” he repeated.

All eyes fell on Shrz, who still looked shocked as he gripped his half of the broken bone. His broad lips opened, closed. He shook his head slightly, but it wasn’t a rejection. “Aye, I agree,” he said.

Someone’s fist beat against their chest. Thump, thump, thump! Another fist joined in, thumping in time with the first. Then another, and another. More fists joined until every buck and doe in attendance were pounding their chests. This time it wasn’t a challenge. This time it was belief in something bigger than themselves.

I did it, Father, Grym thought, basking in the beautiful sound. Brought Griz together. Are you proud?

His pride was short-lived, however, a shout arising from somewhere outside of their circle on the outskirts of the camp. More shouts followed. Grym took off at a full run.

“Humans,” Shrz said, speaking the word like a curse.

A crowd had gathered behind them as they’d watched the approach of the small band of riders galloping across the plains. Six men, six horses. For a while it appeared as though the riders were intent on passing them by well to the west, but then abruptly they turned their course until there was no doubt as to their destination: the Grizari encampment.

Grym ignored the murmurs amongst the crowd, eyes narrowed as the riders slowly came into focus. They wore the colors of Avadon—gold uniforms with silver embroidery. He thought they looked ridiculous, but he suspected they thought the same of the Grizari with their coarse, thick clothing and leather armor.

“Let’s go,” Grym said, gesturing for Shrz to follow as he emerged from the edge of camp onto the vast plains.

Together, they tromped forward. “What’s the plan?” Shrz asked.

Grym shrugged. “You bigger, so you take four, I take two. If it comes to a fight, that is. Otherwise, I do talking. You listen and look tough.”

Shrz shook his head. Grym knew why. Back when Shrz led the largest Grizari tribe, he’d meet a threat such as this by sending his toughest warriors to lay waste to his enemies. Grym understood that mentality, but that wasn’t how his father had taught him to lead.

“You disagree?” Grym asked. “If so, speak.”

“Nay. I’m just—everything has changed.”

Grym knew exactly what he meant. It felt like a moment ago that Shrz was begging for death and now he was co-leader of a united Tribe. “We will figure out together. Aye?”

“Aye.”

Astride their horses, the riders cut the distance between them much quicker than they could do on foot, but Grym was happy they’d at least managed to create a gap between the onlookers. There were some things better handled without several hundred ears listening.

When the riders drew within twenty feet, they brought their steeds to a halt, the horses stamping on dusty ground. Froth foamed from the beasts’ mouths—evidence of a long, hard ride across the plains. Grym stopped too, saying nothing, waiting for their visitors to make the first move.

The men before him looked uneasy, eyes flicking back and forth between them. Most of the glances landed on a man in the center, who was outfitted in full battle armor, including helm. It was painted gold and gleamed in the sun. On his left breast he wore the Avadonian sigil, a trio of gold blocks, one stacked on top of the other two. A blade hung from a hip scabbard. “Do…you…speak…the common…tongue?” the man asked, enunciating each word slowly, as though speaking to a halfwit.

“Do…you…speak…Grizari?” Grym responded in perfect common tongue, mimicking the man’s exaggerated way of speaking.

“I’m afraid not,” the man said. “I am Zenith Killorn, but most know me simply as General Zen. I am responsible for Avadon’s security.”

“What can I do fer you, General Zen?” Grym asked.

“I seem to recall that it was your kind who attacked us…”

“Grym, son of Drynym. And this is Shrz, son of Thrz.”

“Charming,” the man said. “Anyway, I would not be here if not for your heinous acts against the great nation of Avadon. I’ve been sent by Glynn Kerr to seek restitution.”

“Afraid you come long way fer nothing,” Grym said. “It was one of yer kind who used dark magic to force Griz into war. You ask him fer restitution.”

That seemed to get Zen’s attention. “Dark magic, you say? Can you elaborate?”

“Aye, he bore a dark blade. ’Twas unnatural, it was. Was like it made of shadow. Had strange powers.”

“And where is the blade now?”

Grym shrugged. There was no reason to keep this information from the man. He probably already knew, Sampson’s final act witnessed by hundreds of his own men atop the walls at Kerr’s Crossing. Grym got the distinct impression that this was a man who rarely asked a question he didn’t already know the answer to. Grym found men like that to be the cousins of snakes. “Yer guess as good as mine. Find the human, maybe you find sword.”

“We already found the human, but alas, no sword.”

Grym tried to hold back his surprise, but apparently he failed, because Zen smiled. “Where is human now?” Grym asked. If he ever saw Sampson again…

“That is not your concern. He’s alive, that’s all I can say. So you don’t have the blade?”

Grym shook his head. “If I did, I would risk entering Beggar’s Canyon to throw into Rift. Blade made of shadow is evil.”

“Then you won’t mind if we enter your camp to have a look around?”

“You may enter if you have death wish.”

Zen raised his eyebrows. “You’re threatening me after what your kind did at the Battle of Kerr’s Crossing?”

“Not threat. Promise. Look, our people have no feud with yers. Will travel eastward to distant plains and never return to Kerr’s Crossing.”

“Then you will be hunted to extinction.” Zen spoke the words without anger, as though reading a rather mundane line from a letter.

Grym’s eyes narrowed. “I should kill you right now.” He took a step forward, fists balling at his sides.

All at once, every rider drew his sword. Every rider save for General Zen, who met Grym’s eyes without fear. “There’s no need for that. Anyway, killing me will only guarantee Master Kerr doesn’t forget about your people anytime soon. He had hoped to settle things by retrieving the blade from your possession, but if you don’t have it…”

“We don’t. Swear on bones of father.”

“I’ll take that to be a serious oath amongst your people,” Zen said. He didn’t try to hide his sarcasm. “In any case, Master Kerr authorized me to negotiate a different arrangement in regards to restitution.” He paused as though for dramatic effect. Grym just stared at him. “As you know, we have a little demon problem.”

“Aye, we noticed a few of the buggers scurrying around,” Grym said. “Damn shame.”

“A problem that could eventually become your problem if we can’t regain control of the Rift.”

Grym knew stemming the tide of demons was only part of the reason they were having this conversation. What Kerr was really after was the gold at Gold Rock. He had the feeling even a few days without being able to mine the area would grate on the greedy man’s nerves. “Let them come,” Grym said. “We do not fear demons.”

General Zen tsked several times. “I was hoping to settle this rationally, but I see now that is impossible.”

“You are one who threatened extinction of my people,” Grym said. He was growing tired of this conversation. More and more it was seeming like a good idea to kill the lot of them and face the consequences later.

“Because that is what will happen if we do not reach a reasonable accord. Our numbers are insufficient now, but Master Kerr has informed me he’s in the process of procuring another ten thousand Pentockian-trained soldiers, which he will use to hunt down every last Grizari on the face of these lands. Or—” he let the word hang in the air “—you can help us push the demons back and regain control of the Rift. We will consider your restitution paid and you can go on your merry way, beating your chests and wrestling in the mud and doing whatever else your kind like to do to entertain yourselves.”

Grym ignored his ignorance, trying to understand one thing. “Why not use ten thousand sellswords to exterminate demons yerselves?” he asked.

Zen smiled. “Because Master Kerr doesn’t like wasting coin. Each sellsword he loses in battle requires a lump sum payment to Pentock. He’d rather lose Grizari lives than sellsword lives. They’re worth a lot less.”

General Zen had departed shortly thereafter, giving them a week to decide, at which time he would return for his answer.

Questions followed Grym and Shrz as they walked through camp, but they ignored them, making their way directly to Grym’s tent, which he shared with his daughter. Shrym was outside, playing with rocks in the dirt. “Father, entire tribe is talkin’ about—”

“Not now,” he growled, slapping the thick flap aside as he led Shrz inside the large structure. As soon as the flap was closed and tied off, Grym whirled on Shrz. “The nerve of humans!” he spat. “Threaten us because of failed attack on Kerr’s Crossing? It was our blood spilled, not theirs. Our lives lost. Shadowblade was used to control us, and now we should make restitution? Don’t need week to decide. Answer is nay!”

As Grym finally slammed his mouth shut, he realized Shrz had listened to him calmly, giving away nothing with his expression. “Are you finished?” he asked. Grym nodded. “Good. You may have forgotten, but you named me co-leader and formed Grizari Council. Decision is not solely yers to make.”

Grym found his teeth grinding together. “You will not support me on this?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Then you agree?”

“Didn’t say that either.”

Grym was growing tired of Shrz’s games. “Just tell me what you think.”

Shrz hesitated before answering. “Is true that demons are threat to us all. But humans are bigger threat. Their numbers grow while ours diminish. Kerr’s threat has teeth. Avadon has ignored us this long because we no threat. But now we unified. And we attacked once, so we might again.”

“We won’t.”

“The Council may disagree. I might disagree.”

Grym growled his frustration, turning away. Everything was changing too fast. The unification of the tribes had always felt like the ultimate goal to strive for, which was the main reason why he’d gone along with Sampson’s plans at first, but now it seemed like just another negative event in a series of negative events in Grizari history. He turned back. “Are you suggesting we go to war?”

“Not yet. But it may come to that.”

“Cannot let humans decide Grizari actions,” Shrym said, smacking her fist against her palm. She shook her head, tossing her tiny horns. Grym watched his daughter, marveling at the power of creation. It seemed impossible that he’d played a role in making this strong, resilient, adaptable creature. Especially when he felt frustrated and confused. He cast aside the thought and refocused on his daughter, who was pacing back and forth in their tent. Shrz had left hours ago, promising to arrange a meeting of the Grizari Council for first thing the next morning.

“When did Daughter grow so wise?” Grym said.

Shrym stopped, hands on hips. “Always been wise. Father just too busy to notice.”

Grym chuckled. That much was probably true. “Well, you need not concern yerself with such matters. Too young.”

“I’m old enough,” Shrym said defiantly.

“Old enough to wrestle with yer father?”

Her overly stern expression vanished in an instant, replaced by a smile. Grym was glad she could still smile like that after everything she’d endured in her short life so far. He vowed to draw such happiness from her as often as possible. Still smiling, she lowered herself into a fighting stance. “If beat you, am I Grizari leader?” Shrym asked.

“Aye, co-leader with Shrz,” Grym said, settling into his own stance. “But you will not beat me. Too small and skinny. Like reed stalk, you are.”

“I am not!” Shrym protested, launching herself forward. Grym expected the reaction, rolling quickly to one side, reaching out to grab one of his daughter’s legs as she flew past. What he didn’t expect was her to swing that same leg upward, kicking out with her foot. It caught him in the jaw, snapping his mouth shut. Her leg slipped free of his grasp as he winced.

He was impressed by her agility and speed, as well as her instincts. She was a born fighter, something that scared him as much as it thrilled him. Once more, she dropped into her stance, teeth bared. Grym did the same, pretending to be in pain where she’d kicked him. It had hurt, but only for a moment, the pain fading swiftly. It was time to teach his daughter a hard lesson.

He exploded off his haunches, not bothering with trickery this time. Shrym’s eyes widened but then she boldly lowered her head to lock horns. Grym ignored her horns, roping his arms around her. She protested as he picked her up, tossing her onto his head, arms and legs splayed out as he draped her over his horns. She kicked and screamed, beating at his face with her fists. It was fruitless. She was a single stone on a mountain of rock. Finally, she seemed to realize this and stopped. “Put me down,” she demanded.

“Daughter is strong. Daughter is courageous. Daughter is foolish.”

“Take it back.” Anger radiated from her every word.

“Can’t take back truth,” Grym said.

“You said I was wise.”

“You are. Also foolish. As am I. One wise statement doesn’t erase foolish one. Just as one foolish act doesn’t erase wise one.”

“A riddle?” she asked, as he placed her back on the ground. This time she didn’t drop back into her stance.

“A lesson, one yer grandfather taught me when I was youth, like you. Not every battle must be fought. And some are won without a single blow being dealt.”

“Coward’s words,” Shrym spat.

Anger swelled inside him, but he tempered the feeling as quickly as it had arisen. He might’ve said the same thing, once. “Yer grandfather was no coward. Was not perfect leader, but only because there no such thing.”

“You will be perfect, Father.”

The belief in her eyes sent a thrill through him. Complete. Unflinching. Unapologetically honest. And yet her words were as far from the truth as the world from the sun. “No, I will not,” Grym said. “I will make mistakes. I will fail. Shrz too.”

“I don’t understand,” Shrym said. “Then what will become of Grizari?”

“We will pick ourselves up. We will persevere. We will survive.” He spoke the words with such certainty—a certainty he didn’t feel in his heart. His own pride refused to let him linger on such doubts. “Now time fer sleep.”

“Just a little longer?”

“Bed. Now.”

“Yer right,” Shrym said, flopping onto the ground and dragging a blanket over her form. “A perfect leader would’ve let me stay up a little longer.”

“You can make argument to Council,” Grym said. He bent down and nuzzled her with his forehead, horns clinking gently against hers.

She closed her eyes, and within moments was asleep.

Grym sighed, considering taking his own rest, but didn’t feel tired. Instead, he opened the tent flap and stepped out into the night.

He’d walked the camp for a couple hours, interacting occasionally with those night owls eating and drinking around the various fires still burning. There were more than usual, which was likely a symptom of the excitement of the day—both what had happened with the grux bone and the sudden appearance of the Avadonian riders.

He didn’t linger in any one place long, however, as he felt anxious about tomorrow’s meeting. He even stopped briefly at Shrz’s tent, though he found the buck sound asleep. At least one of us getting rest, Grym thought. Finally, he realized he was back at his own tent, and was about to poke his head inside to check on Shrym and make another attempt at sleep, when a voice arose from behind. “Can’t sleep either?”

He turned, already smiling. Eyrm stood close at hand, watching him. “Aye, but I’m not sneaking up on anyone,” he said.

“Yer own stomps were so loud they masked my own,” she said, the edge of her lip curling. Her twin horns were like knives aimed at the stars.

“Fair enough. Did I wake you?”

She shook her head. “Sleep will elude many on this night.” She stepped closer, her long stride erasing the distance between them in an instant. He could see her breath in the cool air as it kissed his own in a swirl of white vapors. “Mate with me,” she said, voice husky.

Grym wasn’t surprised to feel a stirring within him. He’d been drawn to Eyrm since the moment he met her—her strength, her beauty, her confidence. “You would go against yer father’s and brother’s will?” he said.

“Bucks,” she said. “Always forgetting does have their own minds. It is my will and mine alone that matters here.”

“Then I gladly yield to yer will.”

“Damn right you do, Bone Cleaver,” she said, grasping his hand and leading him toward her tent. She kicked the flap inward and dragged him inside, spinning to grab his leathers and pull him to her. Their lips met hungrily, and Grym relished her taste. She pulled away, smiling, still gripping his leathers. “Down,” she said, shoving him in the direction of the makeshift bed. Lanterns were lit on either side, casting their shadows on the tent walls.

He eased onto the bed and she pounced on him, slamming his shoulders against the thin mattress. And then she was all around him, kissing and biting his skin, though she was careful not to impale him on her horns.

Grym’s anxiety over what was to come fell away, his entire world reduced to Eyrm. For a while, they were the only thing each other needed.

Though the hour grew late, Grym remained with Eyrm, who lay beside him, breathing deeply, contentedly. That was different than how things had been with Shrym’s mother. After they mated, she was always quick to ask him to leave, and he was always happy to oblige. They’d shared moments of desire, of course, but they’d been fleeting and nothing more than physical in nature. A necessary act devoid of any real passion. Up until now, that’s what Grym thought mating was.

Now everything had changed. Unless… “Eyrm?” Grym said.

“Mmm?”

“Should I leave?”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

“You don’t want me to?”

“If I did, I’d have said so.”

Of course she would have, Grym thought. Eyrm had never been one to hold her tongue. That was something that attracted him to her.

“Are you ready fer tomorrow?” Eyrm asked. She propped her head on her hand to look at him.

He was supposed to a be strong and sure, the kind of leader the Grizari would follow no matter what. But he couldn’t pretend, not in front of this doe. “No,” he admitted. “Grizari path not clear to me.”

Instead of scolding him for being weak, she nodded. “That because you have not grieved.”

“Grieved?” Grym said, taken aback by the sudden change in the conversation. “Grief is human emotion. Grizari understand death part of cycle of life. Nothing more.”

“I grieved fer my father when he died,” Eyrm said, surprising him once more. “I still feel made of clay sometimes, forced to be molded into what expected of me. Hate that the most. Hate being statue person.”

Grym was shocked by her words. Watching her from afar, he’d always thought of Eyrm as an immovable rock. And she was, in many ways. But to learn that there were softer edges to that rock… “Have felt like statue since Father died,” he admitted. “Hate this feeling. Father taught me to be strong, certain. I am not. Not now, if ever was.”

Eyrm met his eyes, and he didn’t feel embarrassed despite having told her something he’d never planned to tell anyone. Void, he even tried to keep it a secret from himself, denying his feelings because of their utter wrongness. ‘Soft humans’ was a common refrain amongst his people. “We not so different than humans we pretend to despise,” Eyrm said. “I have found peace in Father’s death. Took time. Took effort.”

Not different than humans? Grym thought. He may not have met many humans, but none of them had been good, and all had wanted to hurt the Grizari. “I don’t have time. Already sing Drynym into the clouds. What else is required? Need to lead Griz now.”

“Need to care fer self before Griz,” Eyrm said.

No. No. He’d let himself get pulled into this conversation about feelings and emotions, but it needed to end. Strength was all that mattered. His father may not have been weak, but he also didn’t do more than survive, living a half life, his own tribe withering away until it was little more than a trembling leaf on the precipice of winter. Well, he didn’t want to be like that. He wanted to be more. He wanted the Grizari to thrive, to reclaim that which had always been theirs before the human invaders arrived on their shores. Of that, he agreed with Sampson, though the means with which it would be accomplished would be a different way. Grizari way.

“This was mistake,” Grym said. “Must go.”

“Wait,” Eyrm said, grabbing his shoulder with her hand. He shrugged her off, pulling on his leathers as he stood. “I thought you different to others,” she said.

This time he didn’t turn to look at her. “I am Grizari. Don’t know other way.”

With that, he strode out into the cold night, letting the tent’s flap glide shut behind him.

The final few members of the newly formed Grizari Council arrived just as the sun climbed over the horizon. Grym had been the first, having never returned home after leaving Eyrm’s tent. Shrz was the second. They’d stood side by side in the center, unspeaking as they watched the rest of the group take up their positions around them. Grym was pleased to see more mixing amongst the prior tribe members than the day before. Still, most tended to cluster together with those they’d spent the majority of their lives with.

He met Eyrm’s eyes briefly when she arrived, but she gave nothing away with her expression, turning away to converse with someone else.

It’s better this way, Grym thought. Don’t have time fer distractions. The last thing he needed was someone trying to punch holes into his soul. Some things were better left hidden, unspoken.

He’d spent the rest of the night thinking, coming to a decision, one he was now more certain of than any choice he’d made in his life. A hard decision. A decision worthy of the proud history of strength his people had forgotten after being scattered on the plains.

Grym looked at Shrz, and the buck nodded for him to begin. “As you know, human filth gave Grizari ultimatum. Help destroy demons and regain control of Rift or be hunted to extinction. Choice seems obvious, eh? Join Avadon, kill a few demons, be free to live as we choose. Better than death. Better than being hunted like animals.” He paused, gauging the reactions of the various Council members. Shrz’s old tribe members were scowling and hissing. Grym’s tribe members were looking at Shrz’s tribe disapprovingly, making sounds to quiet them. Wyrt’s old tribe members seemed content to go whichever way the wind blew, their eyes dancing back and forth between the others. The strangest reaction, however, was from Dyrm’s old tribe members. They seemed to have changed their minds from the day before, nodding fervently in agreement with his speech. Eyrm, on the other hand, was watching Grym closely, expression veiled.

Though Grym hadn’t yet made any proposal, Shrz interrupted, determined to speak his mind. At least he’s regained his confidence, Grym thought. We will need a warrior such as him fer what is to come. “There is third option,” Shrz said. “We do not help humans, but we not wait fer their attack either.” His old tribe members began thumping their fists solidly against their chests. “We attack first. We teach filthy humans there are consequences fer threats against the Grizari, against our way of life, against our children. We kill them and take what was stolen from us. What say you?!”

A cheer went up from his supporters, as well as several of those who once followed Wyrt.

Shrz glanced at Grym, lips pursed. This was the part where everyone expected a fight. They will be disappointed, Grym thought. Once more, he caught Eyrm’s gaze. She was frowning at him now. “I agree,” he said. A hush fell over the crowd. He glanced at Shrz, whose lips had parted slightly in surprise. “As bone was broken, it is now restored!” he said, reaching down and uncovering the grux bone the two bucks had snapped in half while grappling the day before, thus fulfilling the soothsayer’s prophecy. After departing Eyrm’s tent, he’d located the two halves and used a sticky substance harvested from hides, horns and hooves—typically used for constructing tents—to rejoin the sections of bone together. Now, whole again, he lifted the large bone up, gripping one end while offering the other to Shrz. Shrz stared at it for a long moment and then grasped the bone. Together, the two bucks raised the bone over their heads to more thumping of chests and roars of approval.

At first, Grym’s old tribe appeared uncertain, but now they joined in with the majority. Only those standing in close proximity to Eyrm remained silent.

When the clamor finally died down, Grym said, “The proposal is war. If any object, do so now.”

There was silence for a long moment, most heads turning to look toward Eyrm and those close to her. “You have majority,” Eyrm finally said. “No point arguing what already decided.”

“Not true,” Grym said. “Council created fer discussion. Speak yer mind.”

Eyrm stepped forward, defiance in the outward jut of her chin. “What if warriors lose? Will Glynn Kerr leave Grizari alone then? Nay. Avadonians will send their thousands of sellswords to destroy all that is left of our kind. Is that better than licking wounded pride and coming to agreement? Kerr has no quarrel with Grizari, only wants his gold. If we help him, we live.”

“Living like rats no life at all,” Grym said. “Want more fer daughter. And, one day, fer daughter’s children.”

“Is that what yer father taught you?”

Grym froze, remembering their conversation in the early morning hours. When he’d foolishly let his walls down and spoken that which should never be spoken. He raised his voice now, determined to chase away the memory. “My father taught me strength! Drynym believed Grizari would be reunited, and we have! He taught me to never run from fight, and, aye, it cost him life, but earned him place of honor in clouds! He would never succumb to vile human threats!”

Eyrm refused to back down, taking another step forward. “So now you speak fer Drynym?”

Grym met her eyes without flinching. “Aye. When he died in combat, I earned right to speak fer him, fer he cannot speak fer self anymore. Will you speak fer yer father? Yer brother?”

Eyrm flinched, and Grym could see that he’d struck a nerve. Finally, she stepped back, lowering her head in submission. “You are right, of course,” she said. “If Thrm and Dyrm were here, they would agree with war.” Though outwardly her words were respectful, Grym could sense the stiffness to them. The anger. The pain. Regret swirled inside him. He’d wanted to defeat her with the rest of the Grizari Council, not wound her. After all, she’d opened her soul to him, too.

And now he’d trampled all over it.

Grym tried to catch her gaze, to apologize with his expression, but Eyrm refused to look at him.

Shrz, still gripping the other end of the bone, said, “War!”

A chant was taken up amongst a clear majority of those present, shouting that single word again and again and again, until the entire camp could hear their decision. Grym scanned the faces of those chanting, seeing nothing but strength, courage, determination, and the will to defeat their enemies so the rest of their people could live in peace once more.

But when he searched the throng for Eyrm again, she was already gone.

Ten

Roman Leary

Onboard Queen of the Seas, Sacred Sea

THE YOUNG BOY AND GIRL WERE TIED TO THE RAILING AS THE ANCHORS WERE RAISED.

Captain Mirren continued barking out orders with a throaty sort of growl Roman would typically associate with a grizzled, grey-haired sea captain wearing an eye patch and missing at least three teeth. He followed her as she sprung lithely up the staircase leading to the starboard side of Queen of the Seas’ bridge, where the helm was located. Her gait was so sprightly he swore her feet barely touched the pristine wood decking.

“Captain Mirren!” Roman shouted.

She ignored him, grasping the wheel firmly and spinning it about just as the sails unfurled, hit broadside by a stiff and unrelenting westerly breeze. Men with corded muscles rippling up their arms manned the ropes, swinging the sails in position to capture the wind with the greatest efficiency. With a lurch, the ship began pulling away from the docks.

“Captain Mirren,” Roman said again, somewhat out of breath from chasing her up the staircase to the bridge.

“Your name,” she demanded, not turning to look at him. The sea breeze whipped her dark curls around the nape of her neck. Her captain’s hat didn’t so much as quiver, as though pinned to her head.

“Roman Leary,” he said, not even considering lying to her. Unlike the name of the royal family he served, his name wasn’t well known outside of Teravainen.

“Mister Leary, you are here on a trial basis as my head of ship security, a position I previously fulfilled myself. I will take you as far as Armitage. If I am satisfied with your work, you may stay on longer if you wish.”

ARMITAGE. WHY ARMITAGE?

It had been a while since the blade had spoken, apparently content to merely be a spectator as things played out. The sword’s question gave Roman a sense of relief because though it knew his intentions—to destroy it—it didn’t yet know how. If I take you far enough away from Sampson and sink you to the bottom of the ocean, then he’ll have lived his life and passed on long before you are ever recovered.

I’M TELLING YOU THAT WON’T WORK.

I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?

YOU’RE WASTING TIME.

And you’re testing my patience!

Even as the mental words flowed free in his mind, he blinked, realizing Captain Mirren had turned, her eyes arrow-focused on him, a slight frown tugging at the corners of her eyes. “Do you accept the trial position or not? Because if not, you’d better start swimming.”

Roman inwardly cursed himself for letting the shadowblade distract him from the task at hand. “Apologies, Captain. Thank you, I accept.” The ship was approaching the first of the gates, which was already being cranked open.

“Good. Then your first task is identifying the godsdamn traitor who helped the thieves infiltrate my ship.”

Roman nodded. “Understood. What’s to become of the thieves? Shouldn’t we send them back to shore? They’re only street rats.”

“I don’t care if they’re street rats, pigeons or cockroaches,” the captain said. “They must be taught a lesson.”

“What lesson?”

“The lesson of consequences for one’s actions.”

“What do you have in mind?” Roman asked as the ship rode the current into the lock.

“REVERSE COURSE!” Captain Mirren shouted. The rope men immediately dropped the sails while oars sprung from the sides of the ship, hidden sailors pulling them in the opposite direction to slow the ship’s forward progress to a crawl. Though the bridge was located at the rear of the vessel, Roman’s eyes grew big as the second gate loomed in front of them, an impenetrable wall of iron.

“Are we going to—”

“PULL!” the captain shouted, cutting off his question. “PULL! PULL! PULL!”

The ship slowed further, until it was limping along. They had already cleared the first gate, which now began to close in their wake. The second gate was dangerously close now, and Roman took a step back, wishing he had something to hang onto now that a collision was imminent.

Bump.

Roman’s eyebrows shot up. That was it? A small bump? The captain had stopped shouting orders and was looking at him again, her eyes dancing from his outstretched arms to his bent legs to his surprised expression. “If this is going to work, we’re going to have to trust each other.”

Roman let the tension melt away. The water level had begun to subside as the lower sluices were opened. “You’re right. But I’ve learned over the years that I can’t do my job without information. Which means I need to know what you’re planning to do with the thieves.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought she might reject his demand outright, but then she said, “I agree, so long as you understand that on my ship, I am the queen. I will not be disobeyed, is that clear?”

“Of course,” Roman said.

“Fine. Once we are well out into the waters of the Sacred Sea, the urchins will be tossed overboard. At least one of them, the girl, must be a strong swimmer, to have boarded my vessel from the water. We’ll see how far she can swim with the boy hanging on her neck.” A small smile played on her lips, as though this thought amused her greatly.

THAT SOUNDS FUN, the blade hissed.

“The Sacred Seas’ currents are known to be strong in these parts,” Roman said. “And there are deadly predators. They won’t stand a fool’s chance of making it back to shore.”

“Are you simply stating facts, or arguing with my decision?”

Roman locked his jaw. “Stating facts. Your ship, your decision.”

“Right you are, Mister Leary. Now, I believe you have work to do. Also, make sure you check in with Barney, the ship’s quartermaster, at some point. He’ll get you set up in your cabin.”

“Aye, Captain,” Roman said. As he turned away, his hands clenched into fists.

The lower gate began to groan open.

Roman started his investigation into the treachery amongst Captain Mirren’s crewmen by getting a lay of the ship, walking the decks, poking his head below decks. Besides being maintained to a spotless shine, the ship was rather ordinary, and could’ve been any one of a hundred other ships he’d been onboard while working dock security at Wolfsgaard. It was, however, a rather large ship. Roman estimated its length at a full eighty feet with a main mast rising to at least twenty-five feet if it was an inch. This only made it more impressive how well the captain and her oarsmen had maneuvered the bulky vessel in the tight space between the gates at South Strangle.

When off duty, most of the seamen slept on hammocks in tight quarters, while the oarsmen simply curled up between their benches on thin mattresses. The captain’s quarters, as expected, were locked up tight. There were several other locked rooms that Roman assumed were for rare occasions when wealthy passengers hired passage on the vessel.

As Roman explored, he ignored the pair of thieves, one of whom flinched each time he passed—the boy—while the other—the girl—glowered at him with undisguised loathing. And as he walked, the ship moved further and further away from Avadon until the captain barked out an order and the ship turned parallel to the angle of the coastline, which meandered in a southeasterly direction. Eventually, Roman knew, following the coast would ensure they reached their next stop, Armitage, which was the last major Kingfall port before passing over into Crimean territory.

Roman needed to convince the captain to head south well before they reached Armitage.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have a plan. Yet. In the meantime, he would do his job and try to earn her trust by identifying the traitor amongst her loyal men.

“Well?” the captain said, having locked the wheel in place and abandoned her post at the helm now that they were sailing steadily along the planned route. There were fair skies overhead and a favorable wind at their backs.

“Your ship is in impressive nick,” Roman said.

“I know that,” the captain said, as though such a conclusion was as obvious as the answer to whether water was wet. “What is the status of your investigation?”

“Ongoing,” Roman said.

The captain didn’t look impressed. “Inform me as soon as you make any progress.”

“Aye, Captain,” he said with a slight bow. He headed straight for the thieves, acutely aware that the captain’s eyes continued to bore into his back.

The boy, as usual, flinched as he approached. The girl, also as usual, glowered at him. “Hello,” Roman said.

The boy’s eyes widened. Gone was the confidence he’d displayed when he’d first been discovered, when he believed the worst that could happen was him getting a beating and thrown back onto solid, Avadonian soil. The girl said, “This be kidnappin’, plain an’ simple.”

“Under Kingfall law, a ship is not part of any kingdom or nation,” Roman said. “Thus, by boarding Queen of the Seas, you crossed the border into a floating country all its own. Which means the only law here is the one Captain Mirren decides.”

“An’ what has the captain decided?” the boy said, voice shaking.

“To throw you overboard.”

The boy gasped while the girl sneered. “Yer bluffin’. Ye think if ye scare us we’ll crack.”

Roman smiled. The cocky girl had all but confirmed they had an accomplice. He ignored her, focusing on the boy, who was clearly the weak link in this chain. “Suit yourselves. Then there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

He started to turn away, dimly conscious that he was using the same tactic he’d employed with the captain. At their core, people were people, whether a commander of a mighty vessel or a ruler of a nation or a street rat picking pockets for a bit of coin.

“Wait,” the boy said, as expected.

And, also as expected, the girl said, “Shut yer damn fool trap, Arto.”

Roman turned. “Let Arto speak,” he said.

“I’ll kill ye meself,” the girl warned the boy.

“We’re gonna die anyway,” Arto said, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. His cheeks had grown rather ruddy.

“I’m tellin’ ye, he won’ do it. He don’ have it in him, do he?”

The girl was right, of course, Roman would never throw a child off a moving vessel, especially not this far from shore, but he couldn’t let the boy know that. Instead, he crossed the distance between them in two long strides, grabbed the boy by the collar and slung him over the railing. Arto’s feet dangled beneath him and he made a choking sound from the back of his throat, though Roman wasn’t cutting off his airway. It was the pinch of fear.

YOUR FEAR OR HIS? the blade asked.

Roman ignored the question, trying to focus on the boy who he realized had just pissed his britches, the stain growing across his front. “Will you stake your life on your friend’s belief that I’m bluffing?”

The boy shook his head, tears leaking from his eyes, dripping down his cheeks. “Not friend,” he croaked. “Sister. Ginny’s me sister.”

Great, Roman thought, wishing his initial guess had been wrong. He knew the thieves being siblings would likely only make his job harder. Whether a brother and sister loved or hated each other, they still shared a bond that could only be created through shared blood. Bonds such as those were fickle, as they didn’t always cooperate with logic or practicality.

Roman tossed Arto roughly back on deck, where Ginny promptly kicked him between the ribs. “Fool! Ye didn’t hafta tell him me name, did ye? Plus, what were ye worried about? Ye couldn’t have fallen far—he didn’t even untie ye!” She kicked him again and he groaned.

He had to hand it to her—the girl, Ginny, was no fool.

In any case, the commotion would’ve drawn plenty of eyes from around the ship, especially now that the ship was cruising. He pretended not to notice the seamen staring his way, raising his voice loud enough to carry to at least a few dozen ears. The rest would hear his words eventually; long days at sea meant sailors liked to talk. “Stubborn curs! I’ll give you one day to reconsider! But when I return, if you won’t tell me who helped you sneak onboard, I’ll throw you in the drink myself!”

With that, he turned and stomped away, brushing past the captain as though he was so angry he hadn’t even known she was still there, watching the spectacle.

The ship’s quartermaster, Barney, was short, bald and roundish. Had moss been growing atop his head and shoulders, Roman may have mistaken him for a stone weathered by wind and the continuous rush of a river. He wore a pair of round spectacles, which tended to slide down to the very tip of his button nose, clinging to the very edge but never falling.

Finding him had been easy enough, the man sticking out like a sore thumb with his roll of parchment and long-feathered quill always in hand as he ambled about, taking inventory of the ship’s stores.

“Captain Mirren said I should speak to you about a cabin,” Roman said when he reached him.

If the man heard him, he gave no outward signs, inspecting the contents of several crates before stabbing at the parchment with his quill as though trying to impale it with his notes. Only once he’d nodded at the page, apparently satisfied with whatever he’d written, did he look up. He peered over his spectacles at Roman, which gave him the rather disturbing appearance of having two sets of eyes.

“Name?” Barney asked, without preamble.

“Roman Leary.”

Barney picked through his sheaves of parchment, located the one he wanted, and then peered down his nose through his spectacles as he jotted something down. Roman’s name, presumably. “Position?”

“Master of security.”

More scrawling on the paper. “Size?”

That one caught Roman by surprise, and he raised his eyebrows. “Er, about twice your size?”

The man looked him up and down, pursing his lips, and then said, “Aye, you’re a big one alright. I’ll have the ship’s tailor take measurements. One of the uniforms will need to be altered to fit.”

Roman was impressed. Most captains didn’t require their staff to wear uniforms at all—mostly because they didn’t want to spend their hard-earned coin to pay for them. Captain Mirren was clearly not most captains. Everything onboard Queen of the Seas was cared for, kept track of, and in its proper place, including those who toiled on its flanks. The captains he’d been acquainted with also were quick to leave their vessels when they made landfall, off to spend a few gold coins on strong drink, hearty fare, a soft bed, and, more often than not, someone to occupy it with. At South Strangle, Captain Mirren hadn’t left her ship at all, as though the only lover she needed was eighty feet of wood planking.

“Very well. And my cabin?” Roman asked.

“Ah, yes. We haven’t had a master of security in some time…”

“Let me guess, not since the last one?” Roman said.

The quartermaster didn’t so much as crack a smile, staring at Roman as though he were something nasty he’d stepped in. “Quite,” he said. “Anyway, none of the others lasted very long. Captain Mirren has a particular way of doing things, and most are unable, or unwilling, to adapt. Right this way.”

Roman followed Barney down a set of steps and into the ship’s underbelly. From his previous exploring, he knew that turning left would take him to the hammocks provided for most of the men. They went right. There were two doors on either side—all locked, which he knew because he’d tried to open them. Straight ahead were the captain’s quarters—also locked. Barney plodded straight to the last door on the left, extracting a key from an inner pocket of his coat. His hand was steady as he fitted it to the lock and turned. There was a distinct clicking sound as the key turned with ease. Of course the locks would be kept well-oiled, Roman thought. Even those rarely used.

Barney pushed gently and the door swung open inward without so much as a creak or groan. The quartermaster stepped back, waving for Roman to go ahead of him. “Thank you,” Roman said, immediately realizing why the quartermaster hadn’t entered ahead of him. The space was small, especially for a man as large as he was. The bed, which was about as half as long as he needed, occupied about three quarters of the cabin. The other quarter of the space was empty, and he stood in it now, inspecting the contents pinned to the walls: nautical maps displayed ship routes represented by dashed lines; a painting depicted tranquil waters on one side and a dark, foreboding, lightning-streaked scene on the other side; and a poem Roman had never heard before written in graceful, looping letters:

When the storm doth chase,

And, it seems, the gods remove Their grace,

Know Their light still shines,

And o’er the mount will climb.

The captain is a gods fearing woman, Roman thought, reading the verse a second time. Or the previous master of security had been. Though the poem worked as a standalone piece, he suspected it was but a small part of a much longer work.

Outside in the cramped corridor, Barney cleared his throat. “This will do nicely,” Roman said, turning back toward him.

“Excellent. I am right across the hall. The captain’s quarters are between us. If you need anything, disturb me. Not her. Never her, not unless the ship itself is aflame. Understood?”

Roman nodded, thinking it odd that he should be required to go through the quartermaster rather than directly to Captain Mirren. No matter, he thought. If required, he would circumvent the man, consequences be damned. At some point on this voyage a standoff with the captain would be necessary anyway.

INDEED, the blade said. BUT WHY?

He closed the door, obliterating the light cast by the hallway lanterns, listening to the sound of Barney’s departure, his footsteps fading as he mounted the staircase. Roman, who suddenly felt exhausted after staying awake all night to catch the thieves, sank onto the bed, which was too soft for his liking, his feet hanging off the end. It’s better than a hammock or sleeping on the floor. It was his last thought before sleep pulled him under.

Roman awoke to the gentle rolling of waves beneath him. Entombed in complete darkness, a jolt of fear shook him alert and he sat up, frantic. I’ve overslept, he thought, reaching for the door to fling it open and charge out into the corridor.

Tapping on the door stopped him. To his relief, it wasn’t the harried pounding that would’ve accompanied a complete disaster. Rather, it was the tentative tap, tap, tap of someone rather nervous at the prospect of waking a sleeping bear.

Roman grasped the doorknob, turned, and pulled it open a crack. The someone jumped back a full step, almost crashing into the opposite door—Barney’s cabin. “I’m s-sorry to disturb, s-sir. I’m the M-Master of Uniform. Here to t-take measurements.”

GODS HELP US FROM THIS SNIVELING IMBECILE, the blade said.

“What time is it?” Roman asked.

“Excuse m-me?”

“The approximate time, if you please.”

“Mid-afternoon,” the man said. Half-three, if I were to hazard a guess. Should I come back later?”

YES, PLEASE, the blade intoned.

For once, Roman wasn’t entirely in disagreement with the blade. He wanted badly to say ‘yes’ and slam the door in the man’s face, but he was worried he would once more fall into a deep sleep that would persist for the remainder of the day and night. This would be disastrous, given his plans. Instead, he grudgingly dragged the door open the rest of the way and said, “Come inside if you can fit.”

It turned out to be a challenge, and he was forced to bend his knees and tuck his legs against his chin so that the tailor could squeeze inside. Once he’d closed the door again there was more room, and Roman was able to press his boots back to the floor. “Thank you,” the uniform master said, hooking a lantern on a bare nail that had been pounded halfway into the wall. Given the small size of the cabin, the single lantern provided sufficient light. “M-my name is Slim.”

“You don’t say,” Roman said, wondering whether it was a nickname or the name given to him by his mother. He was a tall, wiry fellow with a hawkish nose and ears that appeared too big for his narrow head.

He didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, instead fumbling for a measuring tape conveniently strung to his leather belt. “M-measurements, yes,” he said, like he needed to remind himself as to his purpose for being here.

“Should I stand up?” Roman asked.

“Yes, and, er, this is rather sensitive, but, well, you also need to, what I’m trying to say is—”

“I should strip down to my skivvies?” Roman was no stranger to being fitted for a uniform. He’d been required to wear one when he worked the docks at Wolfsgaard and then again when he’d been granted employment within the castle grounds.

“Er, yes, precisely.”

Roman stood, filling so much of the empty space that Slim was forced to shrink back against the far wall to avoid being elbowed in the throat or kneed in the groin as Roman removed his outer clothing. If it wasn’t so laughable, it might’ve been awkward. Roman tossed the clothing on the bed and then waited.

The man sprang into action, fumbling his measuring tape twice before getting a good grip on it, stringing it around various parts of Roman’s body, rattling off measurements as he went, not writing a single damn thing down. Assuming it resulted in britches, a shirt and a greatcoat that fit properly, Roman would be quite impressed by his memory.

Apparently finished, Slim rolled the tape up by winding it around his finger, and then reattached it to his belt. “Your uniform will be ready on the morrow.”

“That quickly?” Roman said.

“Aye. You’re in luck. The captain’s brother was of similar size and build. The alterations will be minor.”

As Roman chewed on that information, particularly the word ‘was’, the next few moments proved awkward as the men contorted themselves so the tailor could pass and get to the door. If Slim hadn’t been so, well, slim, Roman might’ve been forced to curl up in a ball on the bed to make it work. As it was, Slim managed to grab the lantern and then slide past and through the opening to the hall. “Leave the door open,” Roman instructed as the man left with a small bow. He didn’t care that he was still in his undergarments as he’d be able to dress more quickly with the assistance of the corridor’s lighting.

That he did, garbing himself in the clothing he’d worn for months now. His trousers and shirt were in desperate need of a good wash—or a good burning, if he was being honest—but it wasn’t like he had any other options until his uniform was ready. Then he headed above decks in search of something to fill the empty void that was his stomach.

The warm aroma of a hearty stew reached his nose the second he emerged onto the decks. Steam curled from a large pot, and he joined a line of uniformed men that had queued in an orderly fashion to receive the evening meal. When he’d fallen into line, they’d been talking and bantering, but as soon as his presence was near, they clammed up. Just as well, he thought. I’m not here to make friends. Not yet, anyway.

I CAN HELP WITH THAT WHEN YOU ARE READY, the blade said. I CAN BE VERY FRIENDLY…AND PERSUASIVE.

I’ll let you know if I need you, Roman said, which he knew would be never. After several minutes of silence, the sailors went back to their conversations. He casually listened to them tell stories that were likely highly exaggerated. He was certain the time he’d spent napping had been time well spent, the news of his ultimatum to the two thieves spreading like wildfire to all ears on the ship. Speaking of which…

He glanced over at the thieves. The boy, hands still tied tightly together, was slurping the last dregs from the bottom of his bowl as though it might be his last meal. At least Captain Mirren is feeding them, he thought. He wouldn’t put it past her to starve them in the spirit of “teaching them a lesson.” The girl, on the other hand, was ignoring her bowl of soup, which rested untouched on the deck between her legs. She was staring directly at him. He smiled and offered a small wave before turning away.

The queue moved quickly, and soon he was at the front where a dwarf stood with a ladle, filling bowls as quickly as they were handed to him by another dwarf, who was also responsible for washing the bowls that were returned to him. The pair worked like two parts of a greater whole, never fumbling the bowls during the handover or spilling even a drop of the stew. Both were clean-shaven, which, from Roman’s limited experience, was unusual, the small-statured people generally wearing thick, drooping facial hair down to their waists. Nets covered the hair on their heads, ensuring nothing slipped free and found its way into the pot.

“Yer new,” the dwarf with the ladle grunted.

HE MUST BE THE OBSERVANT ONE, the blade said.

“Aye. Master of Security,” Roman said loudly, ensuring any within earshot heard him. “First day on the job.”

“Ye missed the noonday meal.”

“Was going over some notes in my cabin,” he lied. The last thing he wanted was for the seamen to know he’d been napping during the day.

“Notes about what?”

“Thieves,” Roman said, nodding to the pair of urchins tethered to the railing.

The dwarf shrugged as if the matter of stolen goods was but a minor thing compared to providing three square meals a day to a hundred or so workers. It probably was. “Don’t miss the noon meal,” the dwarf instructed, ladling one scoop of stew into his bowl, filling it approximately halfway to the top. “It’s the largest of the three, and also includes a lump of hard tack. You only get half at supper, and no roll, but I’ll make an exception this time.” He ladled a second time, filling the bowl just shy of the brim.

“Much obliged,” Roman said, accepting the bowl and hard tack with steady hands, focusing on each step to avoid spilling. He considered it a real feat when he made it to a crate and sat down without losing any, especially because the ship’s deck was moving the entire time, climbing one wave only to slide smoothly down the opposite side before starting up the next. I’d best get my sea legs under me quickly, he thought as he brought the first spoon to his mouth. The stew was everything its smell had promised—rich, flavorful and warm. It was fairly thick, too, all things considered, although it could’ve done with a bit more salted meat—what was there had been chopped into small cubes.

For a few blissful moments, he dunked the hard tack into the stew to soften it, chewing each bite until it was small and soft enough to swallow. Then he finished the stew by drinking rather than spooning it. He could’ve easily polished off another two bowls but was smart enough not to ask.

“Where’s the captain?” he wondered aloud.

A familiar voice responded. “She takes her meals alone in her quarters.” The quartermaster, Barney, sat down on a nearby crate, inspecting his half-bowl of soup with a sour expression.

“How would I go about requesting to join her? In the future, I mean.”

“I would advise against it.”

“Why?”

“The captain enjoys her moments of peace while she dines.”

“Fair enough. Will you pass on the request?”

OR YOU COULD GO POUND ON HER DOOR AND DEMAND ADMITTANCE RIGHT NOW, the blade suggested.

“If you insist,” Barney said, oblivious to the other conversation in Roman’s head.

“I do.”

“Fine. I shall do so first thing on the morrow.”

Roman nodded and there were a few minutes of silence as the quartermaster daintily sipped his soup from his spoon. When he finished, he opened his mouth and sighed, and then said, “You know, the men are taking bets on how long you’ll last.”

“Oh?” Roman wasn’t really surprised. Sailors would bet on the date of their own mother’s death if someone were willing to gamble against them.

“Most are betting you’ll be gone as soon as Armitage, so it’s really a matter of predicting the winds and currents to determine when we’ll arrive in port.”

“And you? Did you place a bet?” Roman said.

“Yes. I guessed you’d be swimming for the south Avadon coast three days hence.”

Roman snorted out a laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“I’ve been with Captain Mirren from the beginning, back when she was an optimist, when she believed the seas would obey her very will and her vessel would be the pride of the waters from the Endless Ocean to the Sacred Sea to the Frozen Passage and everywhere in between.”

“And?”

“She’s no longer an optimist. The realities of this life beat that right out of her a long time ago.”

“What realities?”

“Now that’s a story only she can tell,” the quartermaster said, standing. He reached out a hand, and it took a moment for Roman to realize he was offering to take his empty bowl. He handed it over and the man returned both bowls to the dwarves, one of whom immediately took to washing it, the line of men waiting to be served dwindling down to less than a handful.

Roman sat for a long time, thinking about his own past and what it had beaten out of him. Then, when most of the day crew had gone below decks to play games of chance or take their rest, he stood and moved toward the shadows, disappearing inside their darkness as though wearing them like a cloak.

For a man his size, he’d learned how to disappear when he wanted to.

It was a simple trick, as easy as tossing a baited hook in the water and waiting for the fish to rise to bite it. Sometimes the fish got lucky, slipping the bait from the hook and, with a splash, swimming away, belly full and happy.

Most of the time, however, the fish got a hook through the lip and ended up in a pan over a fire.

Nestled in the shadows, Roman hadn’t made a sound for hours. Even as a child, he’d been patient. You had to be, living on the streets. Waiting outside a tavern owned by a kindly proprietor until the late hours when his last patrons had their fill. The alleyway door would creak open and he would poke his head out. “Anyone hungry?” he would say. By that point, Roman was always beyond the point of hunger, but he said ‘yes’ all the same, stuffing half-eaten bread rolls into his mouth as though they were manna from the gods themselves. If he were lucky, the bread rolls had soaked up a little of the sauce from whatever meat they’d been served with. Aye, his patience had always paid off, and that patience had stuck with him until he was a man grown. It had always served him well.

The pair of thieves were asleep, or at least pretending to be. It was a gentle night, the skies clear and full of starlight. Both moons occupied opposite corners of the sky, painting paths of green and red across the ocean. The green path fell on the sleeping pair, their backs propped against the railing, their heads propped against each other. The boy had fallen asleep first, while the girl had fought exhaustion with the same tenacity she seemed to fight everything in life. Eventually, the lullaby of the waves and the cradlelike rocking of the ship had won, her eyelids drooping and then slamming shut.

And yet still Roman watched, listening to the creaking ship and the sound of the hull cutting through the water. Despite the lateness of the hour, he was alert, his nap during the day serving him well.

THERE IS NO NEED FOR THIS, the blade said.

No? Then I guess I’ll turn in for the night.

SARCASM, the blade said, disdain heavy in its tone.

I already told you, I’m doing this my way.

YOU KNOW, SAMPSON WAS STUBBORN TOO. FOR A WHILE.

Roman breathed softly though his nose. He knew he should just ignore the blade, but it was so hard when the thing’s voice emerged directly into his mind.

Laughter, soft and hissing.

Something amusing, blade?

YOU HUMANS ARE ALL THE SAME. OVERCONFIDENT. QUICK TO ANGER.

You haven’t met many humans, have you? Our temperaments are as different as the number of grains of sand on the shores.

MAYBE SO. BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN WE MUST PLAY THE SAME GAME I PLAYED WITH SAMPSON.

What game?

THE ONE WHERE I BROKE HIM.

He’s not broken.

HAVE IT YOUR WAY. ONCE THIS CHARADE IS OVER, AND YOU’VE FAILED TO GET WHAT YOU WANT, I WILL BE WAITING TO HELP YOU.

I don’t need your help.

The blade didn’t answer, which was almost worse. Why do I always feel the need to have the last word with it? Roman wondered to himself.

A sound drew his attention back to the current task at hand. It was just a creak—of which there were many on the ship at all times of day—except this one sounded more purposeful, resolute. Almost like the ship was sounding an alarm to say, “Someone’s coming!”

Roman remained absolutely still, staring into the green swathe of moonlight falling across the portion of the deck where the bound thieves lay sleeping. Another creak, this one louder than the first, and a figure stepped into the light. The man was tall and wiry, garbed in all black with a cap pulled low on his brow to cast his face in shadow. His head twisted one way and then the other. Furtive. Nervous.

Roman, who was sitting with his back against a crate in the deepest shadows, legs splayed out before him, tensed, preparing to leap to his feet and launch himself forward at the first indication of violent intent. From what he could tell, the man’s hands were empty, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a blade secreted away in some pocket in the man’s thick coat.

He eased forward another step, this one silent. Then another. He was four long paces away from the thieves now—six if he measured his steps for silence.

Another step—a long stride that failed to disturb the ship’s slumber.

Roman pulled his knees to his chest, getting his feet beneath him as he eased into a crouch.

Another long, soundless step, moving so quietly he might’ve been the ghost of a long-dead seaman in denial about his own demise as he continued to go about his nightly duties, swabbing decks and tying off sails.

Slowly, cautiously, Roman stood. As he straightened his legs, his knees crackled. To his ears, the sound was like sticks filled with magepowder exploding, and he froze, teeth clenched together as he inwardly cursed himself for not waiting a few seconds longer.

The dark shape of the man didn’t turn; the sound hadn’t carried to him. Instead, he took another step forward, hands reaching for the girl. This time, his trod was less careful and the board creaked loudly as his weight pressed upon it. The girl’s eyes flashed open, her mouth too, releasing a cry that was almost immediately muffled by the man’s hand.

His other hand grabbed at her legs. This was a mistake, as the girl kicked out at him sharply, catching him in the jaw. He recoiled for a brief moment, long enough to say, “Bloody bitch! This is what happens when you get caught!” and then lunged for her again.

Roman was already on the move, skirting the edge of a crate. He didn’t run, striding toward the man calmly.

The disturbance caused the boy to awaken next. He shrank back, mouth opening to release a scream. The man shoved the girl aside momentarily, backhanding the boy across the face to stifle his cry.

Then he grabbed the boy under the arms, lifted him, and tossed him over the railing.

Still Roman didn’t quicken his speed, striding purposefully toward his target. The man had resumed the fight with the girl, who might’ve been an even match if not for her bound hands and feet. He growled from the effort as he lifted her writhing, squirming body. As a last-ditch effort to prevent the inevitable, she clawed at his eyes, but he jammed them shut just before shoving her over the railing.

Roman was five strides away now, four.

Three.

The man drew a knife from his pocket, the cold steel flashing in the green moonlight. “I’m sorry it has to be this way,” the man said, and this time Roman recognized his voice. It was the same voice he’d heard earlier that day, and yet different. The stuttering nervousness had vanished, replaced by a cool certainty. “You shouldn’t have gotten caught. I couldn’t risk you revealing my identity and ruining everything.”

Two steps.

One.

The man, who Roman now knew was none other than the nervous tailor named Slim, drew back the knife, preparing to slash through the first of the ropes preventing the girl thief from tumbling into the water below.

Roman grabbed his arm with one hand. Slim turned, shock written all over his face. “Got you,” Roman said, twisting his arm hard to the side. The tailor cried out in pain and dropped the knife.

END HIM END HIM END HIM! An expected surge of fury burst through the aura of calm that Roman had exuded up to this point. He grabbed the front of the tailor’s shirt and lifted him in the air. It would be so easy to throw him overboard. He deserved no less—it was exactly what he’d tried to do to the boy and girl.

“Unhand me at once!” Slim shouted.

The vehemence with his demand caught Roman off-guard. If anything, he thought a weasel such as this might attempt to reason with him, offering to cut him in on whatever scheme he’d been running for who knew how long, skimming a portion of Captain Mirren’s profits off the top for himself. He probably had a thief or two in every port of call, leaving a rope ladder dangling over the railing so they could sneak onboard and pilfer the cargo hold. And if any got caught, all he had to do was toss them overboard before they revealed his identity, protecting him from detection.

Until now.

END HIM! Roman felt himself take a step toward the edge of the railing, though he hadn’t planned to do so. He stopped, willing his feet to remain rooted in place. Thankfully, they did. Whatever force the shadowblade had exerted upon him seemed to lose its grip.

“It’s over,” Roman said, his iron fingers still clamped on the man’s arm.

“We’ll see about that,” Slim hissed. And then: “HELP!” He shouted that single word with such force that Roman almost released him.

Footsteps resounded from various parts of the ship, closing in on their location. Seamen on night duty, along with those who’d been sleeping below decks. Soon they arrived from all sides, forming a ring around the pair. Just staring, frowns knitted on their brows. The captain was the last to arrive, flanked by her quartermaster, Barney.

Her sharp eyes darted from Roman to Slim to the empty space where the thieves should’ve been, and finally to the pair of taut ropes curling over the railing. Assessing the situation. “Speak,” she said.

Roman opened his mouth to explain, but the sharp-tongued tailor beat him to it. “I caught this ruffian attempting to toss the thieves overboard. He would have, too, if I hadn’t stopped him.” He gestured to the blade lying on the deck. “When I confronted him, he told me everything. How he fooled you into giving him a position as your Master of Security. He was in on it the entire time, having paid the children to pretend to be thieves. He thought you’d leave them in South Strangle, but you forced his hand.”

Roman said nothing. To contradict the captain’s loyal tailor, who’d likely been with her for years, would only come across as defensive. And only a guilty man was defensive.

The captain’s eyes darted back to Roman. “Is this true?” she asked.

Roman offered only a single word. “No.”

“Why should I believe you over my own man? Slim has been nothing but loyal for years.”

There was another reason Roman refused to defend himself, besides making himself appear guilty. He had someone else to defend him. Two someones, actually. He released Slim, shoving him aside, before moving toward the railing. He reached over and grasped the first of the ropes in both hands, pressing his toes into the base of the railing and then pulling, hand over hand. The girl wasn’t particularly heavy, but gravity fought him until he managed to sling her over the railing, dumping her back on deck. He made shorter work of the boy, whose bones weren’t much heavier than those of a bird’s.

Once the thieves were settled on deck, they looked at him. The boy looked visibly shaken from his near-death experience, while the girl watched him curiously. At least she’s not glaring at me anymore, he thought. “Tell the captain what happened,” he said.

The boy looked at the girl, lips pressed tightly together. The girl looked directly at the captain. “This ogre tried to off us. The tailor saved us.”

Roman shook his head. He should’ve known the girl wouldn’t reveal the tailor’s treachery, even after what he’d done. This was a chance to prove herself to him, to show him she was no snitch. YOU SHOULD’VE ENDED HIM WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE. THE BRATS TOO. This time, Roman thought the blade might have a valid point.

The captain nodded. “As I suspected.” Roman waited for her to lay down her sentence, which she did, unmercifully. “Tailor Slim, you are hereby found guilty of theft and the attempted murder of two prisoners.”

The tailor’s smug smile fell away as his head snapped toward the captain. His nervous stutter, which had previously been faked, returned with a vengeance now. “C-C-Captain, I d-d-don’t understand. I’ve d-d-done n-nothing but s-serve you to the b-best of m-m-my ability.”

“Aye,” the captain said. “That you have. All while sticking my coin in your pocket. Stern, Gaithers—toss him into the drink.”

“N-No! W-wait! I c-can explain!” The tailor’s protests fell on deaf ears as two burly sailors stepped forward, grabbing him under the arms and dragging him to the railing. The man began to sob, fat tears blooming in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. “P-please! P-please!”

The men had their orders, and unlike Slim, were unflinchingly loyal to their captain, shoving him over the railing, his arms and legs flailing like a paper version of a man whipped by the wind. The splash was far softer than Roman expected.

YES, the blade said, excitement in its slithery voice. I AM BEGINNING TO LIKE THIS CAPTAIN.

“Show’s over,” the captain said. “Return to your bunks or your posts. Except you.” She was looking right at Roman.

One by one, the men turned and retreated. The last to go was the quartermaster, who offered Roman a long look and a single nod, which he returned. The pair of young thieves, of course, also remained—the ropes binding their arms and legs ensured their continued presence. “How did you know?” Roman asked the captain.

She smiled without mirth. “Never trust a thief,” she said simply. Then she asked a question of her own. “Do you think my sentence was too harsh?”

“It’s not my place to—”

“I’m ordering you to express your opinion, without fear of consequence.”

Roman considered the question. “Slim may be a snake, but he’s not dangerous. If the children weren’t bound, it’s more likely Slim would’ve ended up in the water than them. He’s not a strong man—he won’t survive long in the water.”

“I can’t abide disloyalty. If I show mercy to one crook, it may embolden others. At any given time, a ship’s crew is just one step away from mutiny.”

“Something you read in a book?” Roman said. He wasn’t trying to be condescending, genuinely curious what had made this woman so mistrustful of those who carried out her commands.

“Something someone with experience told me,” Captain Mirren said. When Roman raised an eyebrow, she explained. “My father. He was a ship’s captain until the day he died. This was his ship before it became mine. Named after my mother, who he’d treated like a queen until the day she died.”

Roman remembered the tidbit the tailor had let slip after taking his measurements, about how the captain’s brother was of similar size and build to him. “Why didn’t your brother inherit Queen of the Seas when your father passed?” Though he wasn’t aware of any law governing the goings on in the waters around Kingfall and Crimea, typically a shipping business would pass to the eldest son. The rigors and harshness of living an entire life at sea were generally considered too much for those born female.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Who have you been speaking to?”

“When he took my measurements, Slim mentioned something about my build resembling that of your brother’s.”

“Shite,” the captain said. “Now I’m in need of a new tailor.” She said it like losing a tailor was the worst part about having to toss a man overboard. “I suppose your uniform will have to wait until we reach Armitage. Go to bed, Mister Leary, you’ve done your duty on this night.”

With that, she turned and crossed the deck before descending into the gloom below decks without ever answering his question about her brother.

After a moment, he started to follow her, but stopped when a voice arose from behind. “What’s gonna happen to us now?”

He turned to find the young thieves looking at him. He’d almost forgotten they were there. To his surprise, it was the meeker of the two, the boy, who had voiced the question. Every word was filled with hollow fear. He didn’t blame the lad considering his near demise followed by his would-be murderer’s tragic end. “I was planning to help you. To try to persuade the captain to let you go with a beating to remind you of the consequences of your actions. But now…” He glanced over at the girl, who continued to look anything but scared of him. He wouldn’t be surprised if, faced with Death himself come to claim her, she spat in his skinless face and aimed a kick at his groin. “…your sister lied to the captain and tried to have me killed. You’ve burned your very last bridge, I’m afraid to say.”

“Please,” the boy said, bound hands clasped together as though in supplication to a god. “We’re sorry. Fer ever’thin’. I swear it. We learnt our lesson.”

“Pathetic,” the girl scoffed. “Actin’ like an ordinary beggar on the street, ye are.”

“Shut yer trap, Sister!” the boy said, showing a bit of spirit for the first time. “This is yer fault. When ma an’ pa died, we shoulda tried to make an honest livin’ instead of turnin’ to the thief’s life.”

This hit Roman in the chest and he was transported back to another time, another place, when he was but a boy of seven, his chest aching like he was being stepped on by a horse. The siblings continued arguing, until Roman finally said, “Silence.” They stopped their bickering and looked at him. “I will do what I can for you, but I make no promises.”

“Thank you,” the boy said.

“Yes, thank you sooo much,” the girl said.

Roman almost changed his mind about helping them right then and there. But he didn’t. For both their sakes. He knew what a small act of kindness meant to a street urchin. He knew how such an act could change a person, shape them into something better. He knew because he’d once been just like them.

Eleven

Sampson Gaard

Dunadin, Avadon

“I LIKE YOUR COW,” A SPRIGHTLY VOICE SAID. Sampson started. He’d been daydreaming, his mind a million miles away in another place, another time, when lessons and dueling and Roman’s never ending challenges dominated his daily life.

Now his days were dominated by pain. When it wasn’t the taskmaster’s staff it was the radiating shockwaves from the point where hammer met solid stone. After being the slave to discover the massive vein of gold running through the mine, he’d been relocated to another exploratory shaft filled with tons of rock and little else. Day by day he marched up the tunnel with the other slaves, forced to spend his every waking hour pounding away at the stone in the hopes of discovering another vein that would make the richest man in the world even richer.

Now were his several minutes of respite, where he ate the tasteless mush they were fed and drank the brackish water they were provided and daydreamed of better times, before going to sleep only to wake up and do it all over again. Which is why he was instantly irritated at the interruption. “She’s a grux, not a cow,” Sampson said. “See her horns?”

“Some cows have horns,” the girl pointed out.

“These ones are different. She’s bigger than a cow, too.”

“Not much bigger. My da once had a prize bull that weighed more than two hundred stone.”

“I’m calling bull on that one.”

“That’s not funny.”

“What?” Sampson said, innocently. He stroked Hmm under the chin.

“What’d you do to end up a slave?”

The question caught Sampson off guard. Do? What does anyone do? “I exist,” he said.

“That’s not how it works.”

“No? Fine. Tell me how it works.”

“Slaves are criminals. They are dragged from the dungeons and given the opportunity to work rather than rotting away in a dark cell for the rest of their days.”

Opportunity, Sampson thought. Right. “I was never in any cell,” he said.

“Now it’s my turn to call bull,” the girl said.

“I wasn’t. I was riding my grux along the southern Roughwater when I came upon two men who offered to help guide me to South Strangle.”

“Why were you running away?” the girl asked.

“Did I say I was running away? No, I didn’t. I was on a journey, hoping to find work on a merchant ship.”

“To flee Avadon because of some heinous crime you committed?”

She had him there. Well, now that you mention it, I did try to use an ancient godblade to lead an army of Grizari and demon invaders over Kerr’s Crossing, he thought. “No, nothing like that,” Sampson said. “I didn’t do anything wrong, and yet here I am. Slave traders capture folks minding their own business and then Glynn Kerr buys them and forces them to work in his mines. Who told you all slaves are criminals, anyway?”

“My father.”

“And your father knows this how?”

“Because he’s Glynn Kerr and he knows everything.”

Sampson thought about his unexpected conversation with Charlotte Kerr late into the night. Though there was no ‘king’ in Avadon, Glynn Kerr ruled much the same as one, which made his daughter the equivalent of a princess, the heir to an entire nation—and the wealthiest of all the nations in Kingfall at that. So why had she been traipsing around in the mud and muck near the slave barracks? He would’ve asked her, but before he could shuck off his surprise and gather up his wits she was already gone.

It’s probably for the best, he thought, just before his mind grew too fuzzy to form another cohesive thought.

Still, when Sampson awoke the next day, his first thought was of her and why she’d deigned to climb off her high throne to exchange words with him, a mere slave. She knows who I am, he thought. It made perfect sense. Her father revealed who he was, boasting of his new slave, who just happened to be an enemy prince. She’d visited him to gloat about their superiority, to show how free she was to do as she pleased while he was forced to work. Aye, he thought. That makes perfect sense. Except, as he ticked over the words they’d traded, nothing had indicated that she knew who he was. Either she was an exceptionally subtle young woman or she didn’t know. The former seemed unlikely, which meant the latter was the correct conclusion.

A harsh bark from outside the barracks reminded him that he no longer had the luxury of lazing about in bed thinking. He snapped upright and scampered from bed, counting off the steps to the door as he went. He didn’t bump into any of the other slaves as he usually did—they were all already outside.

“Getting your beauty sleep, Bat?” the taskmaster said.

‘Bat’ was the new nickname he’d been given. It didn’t take a wise man to understand why. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Did you say something?” The taskmaster’s question was punctuated by a sharp crack of his staff across Sampson’s shins.

Sampson staggered but didn’t fall. He was growing stronger by the day. The blow was rather minor, just a reminder that he was at the horrid man’s mercy. The taskmaster wouldn’t risk hurting him badly enough that he couldn’t work. Not this early in the day anyway.

“Sorry, sir!” Sampson said, louder this time.

“You’ll work through lunch to make up for it.”

“Yes, sir!” Sampson was tempted to mock salute, but he was getting better at resisting such childish temptations.

After a too-quick breakfast of hard tack and bland porridge, they were marched along the same path they’d taken the last few days, ever since Sampson broke through to the gold. The new tunnel was well-established, having burrowed several miles into the mountain that flanked Dunadin. From Sampson’s perspective, this was the best part of the day. His legs were already strong from his travels, and the daily march only made them stronger. Though the air was thick and humid, he had no trouble keeping his breath, each step clearing his head more than the last. He’d counted the number of steps the last few days, something that would require significant concentration for most people, but which for him was just a normal thing to do, the counter ticking ever upward in the back of his mind. Though the count had been slightly different each day, the journey averaged twelve thousand three hundred and forty two steps. By his estimation, the distance was just over six miles, though it could’ve been more or less—it was difficult to know for certain.

He did know for certain that the tunnel was wide—at least twenty feet across. He knew this because they marched ten slaves to a row, the scuff and scrape of tired boots like ghostly whispers echoing all around them, joining the cacophony of ragged breaths and coughs that made up the only sound other than the occasional bark of the taskmaster.

The taskmaster didn’t have to walk like the rest of them. Instead, he rode in the back of a wagon pulled by Hmm. The grux had resisted wearing the leather girdle attached to the wagon on the first day, but after the taskmaster threatened to have her butchered and put into their evening stew, Sampson had stepped in and coaxed the beast into acquiescing.

On the first day, Hmm had amazed everyone by the load of rocks she was able to haul from the mine. On day two they’d hitched a larger wagon to her and still she pulled it with no complaint, even after it had been piled high with stones. This is good, he thought now. As long as we prove our value as a pair, they won’t kill us.

This wasn’t strictly true, he knew, the ultimatum given by Glynn Kerr ever present. He had a week to help the Avadonian leader find the shadowblade before he, in his own words, ‘started cutting off pieces’ of Sampson. That had been four days ago. Or was it five? Sampson usually never lost count of anything, but now he realized the days were beginning to blend together. Which meant he only had two or three days to figure out how to help Kerr.

Today, when the taskmaster called for a halt to their march, the background counter in Sampson’s mind had just reached twelve thousand three hundred and forty nine steps—six higher than the average. Either the slaves’ strides were growing slightly shorter or they’d made a few feet of progress in lengthening the tunnel the day prior. It was probably a combination of both.

In any case, they weren’t given a moment’s respite before hammers and picks were shoved into their hands. Sampson, as usual, was positioned at one of the far sides, well clear of any of the other miners so he wouldn’t accidentally impale them on the blade of his pick. Soon he fell into a rhythm, his body already more accustomed to the task at hand. Still, every so often one of the blows would hit awkwardly and he’d feel a jolt of pain shoot up his arms. Just a few days earlier he would’ve cried out and earned himself a rap from the taskmaster’s staff, but now he just gritted his teeth and bore it in silence.

The day wore on until they reached lunchtime, when, as promised, the other miners took a break to eat while he was given only a ladle of water and then forced to keep working. He wondered how much of the decision was from the taskmaster versus something that came from Kerr himself, the punishment for being a Gaard prince.

He was pounding away when he heard a change in the taskmaster’s tone. He could almost picture the man straightening up, rising to attention when, just a moment earlier, he’d been slouching lazily against the wagon. “Lady Kerr, I wasn’t informed you’d be visiting the mines today,” the taskmaster said.

Sampson had been about to launch another blow at the wall, but now hesitated. The only Lady Kerr he knew of was Charlotte Kerr, the same woman he’d spoken to the evening before. Know your enemies was one of his father’s favorite mantras, and thus Sampson and his siblings had been tutored on the history of Avadon leading all the way up to the present. Much of the focus of their studies had been on Glynn Kerr, but he remembered a whole day spent discussing his heir, none other than Charlotte Kerr. He couldn’t recall everything, but one thing that had stood out to him was the mystery around her birth. Glynn Kerr had no wife, and if he had a mistress her identity was a well-kept secret. There was speculation that Charlotte Kerr had been born to a whore, paid a small fortune to buy her silence. But Sampson understood all too well the monstrous nature of rumors, how quickly they mutated, growing extra limbs and teeth sharp enough to bite those audacious enough to refute their claims.

One ear cocked and listening, he swung his pick. “Am I required to inform you of my visit?” Charlotte asked the taskmaster. There was an edge to her tone that spoke of limitless power and authority. He knew that edge well—Amari had mastered it quite young, using it to get what she wanted, much to their father’s delight.

“Of course not,” the taskmaster said. “But had I known I could’ve prepared a midday meal for you worthy of your station. All I have for the slaves are gruel, water and a bit of hard tack.”

“What about your meal?” Charlotte said.

Sampson might’ve choked on his own spittle were his mouth not so dry. He’d been mid-swing when she’d spoken, and his inner laughter had changed the trajectory of the blow, which glanced awkwardly off the side of the wall without making firm contact.

“My meal? Well, I’ve already started on it, but—”

“Thank you. That will do nicely,” Charlotte interrupted. Her next words were muffled and it sounded like she was chewing. “Mmm, not bad. Spiced bacon on rye bread, is it? A delightful combination. Is that horseradish? Oh I do adore horseradish.”

“I’m pleased you’re enjoying it,” the taskmaster said, sounding anything but pleased to have his lunch snatched from in front of his mouth. Sampson wished he had his shadowblade and, consequently, his sight, if only to see the expression on the taskmaster’s face. He suspected it would appear as though he’d accidentally swallowed a minnow whole.

“What of this slave?” Charlotte asked, as though the taskmaster hadn’t spoken at all. “Has he already finished his lunch and returned to work? If so, I admire his work ethic.”

Now that she’d turned the taskmaster’s attention back to him, Sampson focused on chopping at the wall as though it were a tree he was trying to fell. “No, that slave is being punished for his tardiness this morning.”

“Tardiness?” Charlotte asked.

“Bat overslept.”

“Bat? An odd name if I ever heard one. In any case, if oversleeping is a crime worthy of being forced to go hungry while his fellow slaves fill their bellies, then I fear I would’ve died of starvation a long time ago.”

“With all due respect, you are not a slave, my lady. The rules are different for the dogs that toil under their master’s command.”

“Dogs? I see only men. They are rather skinny and malnourished but are men nonetheless.”

“As you say, madam.”

“I do. Anyway, I’ve decided to share my lunch with this poor slave who is guilty of nothing but gaining a few extra winks of sleep, which he no doubt needed. Would that be all right?”

“Madam, I must strongly suggest that you don’t—”

“Good. Slave!” Sampson froze, shocked by the turn the day had taken. “Yes, you. The blind one. They call you Bat, yes? Because you are as blind as one, right? Oh, the imagination of those without one. Are you hungry?”

At the question, Sampson’s stomach grumbled fiercely. Hunger had been gnawing at his gut for a few hours now. This felt like a trap. Tell the truth and there was a good chance he would pay the price of the taskmaster’s wrath after this woman was gone. Lie and Glynn Kerr’s daughter would know it.

In the end, Charlotte Kerr herself saved him from having to answer. “Of course you are,” she said. “You’re probably half-starved.” Footsteps approached. “Here. Open your hand.”

Memories of being fooled by her father on his first night in Dunadin cycled through his mind, forced to eat foul creatures rather than the feast that was promised. Would she shove a snake into his hand? A rock? A dead bat? Something worse? He released the haft of his pick and extended his hand, palm up. His fingers ached as they unclenched, having been wrapped around the tool’s handle for hours.

Something soft was placed upon them and he felt the brush of gentle fingers on his own calloused ones. “There. Please, rest from your toils and eat. I insist.”

“Thank you,” Sampson said, mouth watering just from the smell of the meat’s spices. “Has my grux been fed and watered?”

“The big horny cow?” she said. Sampson raised his eyebrows. “What? That’s what she is, by your own words, if I remember correctly.” He thought her memory might be a little off, but he didn’t argue. “Not yet, but I will be sure she’s well taken care of.”

“She can have the rye bread,” Sampson said. “I’ll eat the bacon.”

“Though I admire your chivalry toward the beast, that simply won’t do. There is a big pile of hay ready for her. Mister Ormand will be happy to fill her trough, won’t you, Mister Ormand?”

“Of course,” the taskmaster said. It sounded like his teeth were locked together as he spoke.

So the taskmaster has a name, Sampson thought. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, finally taking a bite of the food. The bacon was just the right amount of crispy, the spices generous. The bread was flavorful and soft, the antithesis to the hard tack they tried to avoid chipping a tooth on during most meals. He wished he could chew that one bite all day without swallowing, but his belly was demanding the food now, aching pains radiating through his abdomen. He finished chewing and swallowed before taking another bite.

“You’re welcome. And you may call me Charlotte. I refuse to call you Bat, however. Your name, slave?”

Her tone gave away no hint of mockery. Her father hasn’t told her who I am. “Sampson,” he said. It wasn’t the most common name, but it also wasn’t so uncommon that she would immediately associate it with him being a Terran prince, especially given the nature of their meeting.

“Well, Sampson, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Charlotte said loudly. Sampson thought it an odd thing for a woman of her station to say to a slave, but then again it was even odder for her to steal a taskmaster’s lunch and give it to him in the first place. Under her breath, she said, “There is a dark aura about you, Bat, and I intend to discover its origin. Mark my words.”

And then she was gone, chatting gaily to the taskmaster and the other slaves about the glorious snowfall that had begun falling outside and leaving Sampson to wonder what the void she had meant.

Charlotte Kerr had not been lying about the ‘glorious snowfall’, though Sampson didn’t think there was anything glorious about slogging through cold, wet snow up to his knees with drifts up to his hips. Nor did he think there was anything glorious about shivering in the thin-walled slave hut, clothes sodden without hope of drying, waiting hours upon hours before fresh clothes were brought, along with a meal that might’ve once been warm, but which was now as cold as the snow outside.

And yet, like the others, he shoveled the food down as fast as he could swallow, trying to fill the aching holes in his belly. When he finished, he had only one plan: sleep. Thus, he shoved his empty bowl aside and slid into bed, pulling the threadbare blanket up over his head until he was in a cocoon of sorts, one that did little to stop the march of the cold air but at least provided some barrier against it.

He heard sounds indicating the other slaves had taken a similar approach to the evening when the door slammed open, bringing with it an icy breeze that seemed to cut right through his blanket and clothes, penetrating even his skin to cover his bones in a layer of frost. This was most unusual at this time, which was the only time of day when the slaves were left alone. Even their taskmasters understood that slaves needed rest in order to carry out their duties.

Please let it be about anything that doesn’t involve me, Sampson thought. Please…

“Bat!” a voice shouted, and Sampson’s heart sank. He pulled the blanket tighter and scarcely dared to breathe. “Don’t make me ask again!”

He sighed, poking his head out and immediately regretting it as the cold assaulted his nose and cheeks. “I’m here,” he said.

He could feel the taskmaster’s stare on him. Most likely, he wore a sneer, his eyes gleaming darkly in the weak lighting. Something about it felt like revenge for Sampson eating the man’s bacon earlier—not that he’d had any say in the matter. He was a slave; he didn’t have a say in anything except his own thoughts. “You’re wanted up at the Great House, though only the gods know why. And be quick about it!”

Sampson didn’t waste time asking questions to which he would receive no answer but the lash of the rod the taskmaster seemed to always be carrying. Instead, he steeled himself, thrusting the blanket away and sliding from bed. He’d been planning to sleep in his boots and socks, so they were already on. Thus, all he had to do was count his steps as he followed the taskmaster out into what felt like the coldest night in history.

He immediately heard Hmm, who would be standing beneath a rickety lean-to that barely provided any shelter from the elements. She sounded miserable as she made a pitiful snuffling sound. It felt like a plea. Take me with you.

“How are w-we t-t-traveling?” he said, teeth chattering violently.

“On foot. I won’t risk the horses in this weather.”

“Hmm c-can t-take us.”

“What?”

Sampson realized his error. “The horned G-Grizari beast,” he said, nodding in Hmm’s direction. “She c-could get through s-snow twice this d-deep.”

The crunch of the taskmaster’s boots through the snow stopped. Sampson pictured him staring ahead at the snow-filled street leading from the slave barracks into the heart of Dunadin. He wouldn’t be pleased at the prospect of trudging along at a snail’s pace. Sampson heard him turn and then mutter something about a ‘death trap’. “I’ve ridden her m-miles and m-miles,” Sampson said. “We’ll b-be p-perfectly safe.”

Still the taskmaster hesitated. Finally, while Sampson stamped his feet shivering in place, the man said, “Fine. But if you try anything, I assure you there will be consequences far graver than working through lunch.”

“Understood,” Sampson said, heart soaring just a little at the thought of riding Hmm again. He knew if he wanted to try something, he could. Hmm would obey his command and toss the taskmaster off her back and then trample him underfoot. The man deserved as much. But Sampson immediately discarded the plan. He had no food, ill clothing for the weather, and little knowledge of the geography in these parts. Such an escape would only lead to his death and the death of the grux, neither of which he was willing to abide.

Instead he found himself riding on Hmm’s back with the taskmaster clutching him so hard he thought the man’s fingers might pierce his clothing. “It’s no different than riding a horse,” Sampson said as he gripped the beast’s horns.

The man only grunted and continued clutching him like his very life depended on it.

From time to time, the taskmaster commanded him to turn right or left down yet another snow-sheathed road. Sampson gave the commands to Hmm in Grizari and she obeyed without question. She seemed entirely too pleased just to be moving rather than stuck in her makeshift shelter being slashed to ribbons by wintry swords.

This time around, Sampson was able to memorize the turns, though he wasn’t certain what good it would do him. Still, he filed the information away in the annals of his memory in case he ever needed it. After what felt like hours, the taskmaster called for a halt and Sampson issued the command in Grizari. Hmm stopped, breathing heavily from the exertion of walking through thick snow climbing uphill most of the way.

Finally, the taskmaster released him. “Tell anyone…”

There were so many possible responses to the man’s unfinished threat, most of which would earn him the business end of the taskmaster’s staff, but in the end he simply nodded and dismounted, boots crunching deep into the dense folds of snow. He patted Hmm’s side softly and said, “Wait here. Good girl.” Then, slowly, feeling ahead of himself for any dangers, he made his way over to the structure on the righthand side of the street. His fingers brushed against rough stone and mortar-filled cracks and then—a door.

He knocked firmly three times, pain lancing through his knuckles because of the cold.

The door creaked open. “You’re the slave they call Bat?” a woman’s voice said.

Sampson nodded.

“You are expected. Here.”

Sampson felt something thin and hard shoved into his hands—a tray. “What is…”

“You will serve Lady Kerr her dinner. She tells me you are blind. Head down the hall approximately twenty paces. Turn left and climb the stairs to the second floor. Turn left again. First door on the right.”

Interesting, he thought. The last time he’d been here he’d stayed on the bottom floor, entering Glynn Kerr’s chambers by walking straight down this very corridor until it reached its end. Did Glynn Kerr even know his daughter had sent for him? Or was this all Charlotte’s doing? There is a dark aura about you…I intend to discover its origin. Mark my words.

Sampson shook away the memory of the woman’s words, focusing on what he’d been told to do. The woman’s instructions were relatively detailed and yet not as specific as Sampson would like. Not that he was surprised. One didn’t truly understand the importance of details unless they were blind. He nodded and started forward cautiously, balancing the tray on one palm so he could extend his left hand to the side, running his fingers along the wall. He counted his steps and had just reached twenty-six—‘approximately twenty’—when the wall ended. As instructed, he turned left, tapping one foot forward against the base of the bottom step. He located a handrail and used it to climb each step one at a time. The staircase was a switchback, something that was important to know but which the woman at the door had failed to inform him of. He easily curled around and started up the second flight of stairs. Upon reaching the top, he turned left again. This part would be trickier, as the door he was told to enter was on the right. He could switch the tray from his right hand to his left hand, but he didn’t trust his ability to balance it with his clumsier, weaker hand. Instead, he walked backwards, running his left hand along the wall on what would’ve been the right side if he were walking forward.

He didn’t have to go far before he felt the bump of the doorframe. He felt his way over to the door and was about to knock when he realized the door was already open. A vertical line of gray light played along the edge of the wall of dark that typically blanketed Sampson’s vision. I can see, he thought, in wonder.

He placed the tray down silently on the floor and then reached for the line of light, squeezing through the open gap between door and frame.

He froze, not only because of what he saw but because he saw at all, his vision restored to him, uncovering a scene that sent tingles up his spine. Menacing shadows ringed the edges of the room, while the interior was illuminated by columns of magenum. The glowing turquoise liquid was trapped within large glass canisters that rose from floor to ceiling—a fortune’s worth of the magical substance. Sampson counted them—seven. They encircled the direct center of the space, upon which a form kneeled, head downcast, long curling hair drooping to veil her face.

Though this was the first time Sampson had seen her—how can I see her?—he knew it was none other than Charlotte Kerr. Strange circles and lines were etched into the floorboards on which she kneeled, like a diagram of sorts.

In her hands was clutched a small object, like a child’s doll.

Charlotte was murmuring something under her breath. Sampson might’ve mistaken it for a prayer given her kneeling position and the way her hands were clasped together around the doll-like object, except her voice began to grow louder and louder. “Un etra kaan staara. Seez naarus un vohs! Un etra kaan staara! Seez naarus un vohs!”

Again and again she repeated the two phrases, her voice growing louder with each iteration until it was a shout. Though the words were nonsensical to Sampson, as foreign as Grizari had once been, something about the language curdled his blood.

As she chanted, wisps of light curled from the columns to her form, snaking around her until she was bathed in a turquoise glow. Sampson barely noticed as the door slammed behind him. Still her chanting grew louder, until it seemed to echo all around him, those words repeated from every corner of the room, bouncing off the walls and crashing into each other, the words jumbling into a tangled mess as they reached a crescendo, coalescing into—

Calm filled Sampson’s mind with a suddenness that stole his breath. First came meaning, the words translated inside him: In me are the stars! Open your eyes and see! Next came true understanding:

She gave me my sight back. How? Why? Oh gods please let this be real, not a dream conjured in the throes of a fitful sleep.

Sampson couldn’t see Charlotte anymore, her form lost amidst the twisting, snaking tendrils of magenum vapors. He realized the glass cylinders once filled with magenum had drained, their contents gone. Little by little, the vapors began to dissipate, and when they did, Charlotte was gone.

So was everything else, Sampson’s world returning to one filled with a void of darkness once more.

His mouth opened and he gasped, feeling utterly spent, though he’d done nothing but stand there and watch.

“I have always been drawn to the darkness,” Charlotte said. “I was never afraid of the dark, like other children.”

“How did you…” Sampson’s question trailed away as he was forced to suck in another breath, heart still pounding.

“You saw me.” A statement, not a question.

“I—I saw everything. How? Are you a mage?”

She laughed. “Depends on the definition. Those at Aeromand believe only those selected to study on their floating isle worthy of the title. But is not commanding magenum to bend to one’s will the very definition of magic? And is not one who wields such power a mage? Either way, I don’t care about such titles, which are created only to stroke the egos of the weak-minded.”

She’s mad, Sampson thought.

“Tell me about your darkness,” she said. “My father refuses to tell me anything. He thinks I’m too erratic.”

Sampson was beginning to understand why. Requesting that he deliver her supper had been nothing but a ruse. But his darkness? Where to begin? And how could she know? She doesn’t, he thought. She’s only guessing. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Then tell me what was once sheathed at your hip, slave. And don’t feign ignorance, for it has left the echo of a shadow as dark and solid as I have ever seen.”

Sampson’s mind raced, trying to make sense of her last statement. How could she see an echo of a shadow? Then again, what difference would it make if he told her about the shadowblade? Her father already knew anyway. Plus, the blade was lost to him. Even if he wanted to retrieve it—which he didn’t—he wouldn’t know where to begin. “I once wielded a sword of power,” he said.

“A shadowblade,” she said, reverence in her tone. “I saw it in a vision. You wielded it, or it wielded you?”

“Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference,” he admitted. Did she just say she saw my sword in a vision? “Your father wants me to help him recover it. I only have two more days to help him before he tortures me.”

“Self-serving bastard,” Charlotte spat, surprising him with the vehemence of her distaste for her father. Previously she’d spoken of him with a sort of reverence. “I should’ve known.”

“Known what?” Sampson was getting more lost by the second.

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t help him, no matter what he does to you.” She said it with the certainty of one reciting a fact from a book.

“I wasn’t planning to. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able. The sword is lost to me.”

“Good. Listen, I’m going to help you escape.”

“What? Why?”

“I can’t explain. Not yet. Do you trust me?”

“I only just met you.”

Another laugh. “That’s fair, though I did give you bacon on rye bread.”

Sampson shook his head. “I should trust you because you gave me bacon?”

“And rye bread. It’s as good a reason as any.” Again, she spoke with the conviction of a learned scholar who’d studied in Normandian Hall.

“I don’t know about that…”

“If I help you escape, I only ask one thing in return.”

Sampson was almost afraid to ask, but he was also curious. “What’s that?”

Lady Kerr paused for a long breath before answering. “That you take me with you.”

Twelve

Grym son of Drynym

The Southern Roughwater, Avadon

FIVE DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE THE GRIZARI COUNCIL HAD MADE THE DECISION TO GO TO WAR. That left a single day until Glynn Kerr’s force was scheduled to return seeking the Griz’s decision. Except they wouldn’t find the Grizari where they left them, the non-warriors and children traveling far to the east, driving their herds of cattle, and hauling their tents and supplies on wagons and on their own shoulders. General Zen hadn’t come across as someone who would give up easily, but if he were foolish enough to pursue the tribe, a small fighting force would be waiting for him.

As for the war strategy, on the first day options had been discussed, details ironed out. While crossing the southern Roughwater with the full strength of the Grizari armies was considered, eventually the plan was scrapped. Hauling enough supplies across the frigid waters to support a push north to Dunadin would be difficult even at the river’s calmest point. And if a siege on the capital city were required, they would starve long before Kerr with his fully stocked larders would. An assault on Kerr’s Crossing was the only real option but battering down the gate was all but impossible.

That left a strategic thrust from the rear by a smaller, dauntless force under the cover of darkness as the best option. The bridge’s rear gate wouldn’t be kept closed at all times, opened regularly to receive deliveries of supplies to support the Crossing’s staunch defenders. If they infiltrated the bridge and fought their way to the eastern side, it would be as easy as opening the door for the rest of the Grizari army. Once the bridge was secured, hauling supplies to the battlefront would be a simple matter of driving grux-pulled wagons. Even the worst of the season’s snowstorms wouldn’t be able to stop their formidable steeds from reaching the warriors.

Eyrm and her allies had been notably absent from the war council. Grym knew it was a purposeful slight, but he’d chosen not to rise to the bait, ignoring her absence completely. Still, the empty spot where Eyrm had once sat had weighed on him during their deliberations.

Finally, on the day before the small force was scheduled to depart, he’d swallowed his pride and made his way to her tent. “She’s not takin’ visitors,” a strong buck who’d previously been a guard for Thrm and then Dyrm had said as he approached.

“I’m no ordinary visitor,” Grym had replied, feeling a pulse of anger. How dare she shut him out! To disagree with him was one thing, but to squirrel herself away in her tent and refuse to speak to him bordered on insolence.

“She won’t see you,” the guard insisted.

“Rut that,” Grym had said, shoving the guard aside and reaching for the sealed tent flap. The guard grabbed his other arm and tried to pull him away, but Grym fought forward, wrenching the thick fabric apart and shoving inside.

He’d stood there for a moment, head cocked to the side, trying to make sense of the senseless. The space inside had been empty. The mattress looked unslept in. The guard outside the tent had no answer as to Eyrm’s whereabouts, and eventually Grym had been forced to turn his attention back to his men and their plans to depart on the morrow.

Now, crouching under the cover of night on the banks of the Roughwater as the current slid darkly past, Grym wondered whether he would ever see her again. Worse, he wondered if he would ever see his daughter, Shrym, again. He could still feel her small arms around him as they said farewell before he’d departed. She was growing stronger by the day. More full of personality. He longed to spend days without end with her, wrestling and trading quips and just existing. He jammed his eyes shut for a long moment, banishing the thought. When did I get so soft? he wondered. His daughter and some doe he’d shared one lost night with should be the least of his concerns when he was about to cross into enemy territory. He owed the other warriors his complete and undivided focus on the mission.

Shrz was miles and miles away at this point, having led the rest of the Grizari forces, numbering well into the thousands, directly northward toward Beggar’s Canyon. From there they would march due west on Kerr’s Crossing. This would have the dual benefit of moving the Grizari armies into position and providing a distraction for the Avadonian defenders, who would be caught unawares as the true threat struck from the rear. The only unknown was how the demons would react to finding the horned warriors amongst them again as they swarmed the wall and gate. The last time they’d been in this position, the demons had ignored the Grizari entirely, but that was when Sampson Gaard, with his shadowblade, had led them. Was it his godblade that had turned the demons’ attention away from them or something else? In any case, it was a necessary risk if the plan were to have even half a chance of success.

Thoughts of Shrz and the main army faded as Grym refocused on the night surrounding him. He listened for any out of place sounds. The water burbled. The crickets chirped. There was a splash as a trout surfaced, nabbing an insect that had the misfortune of landing on the water, before descending back into the depths. Other than that, all was quiet, all was calm, the Grizari warriors like shadows in the night, only the whites of their eyes visible as they blinked, awaiting his signal.

He gave it, offering the hoot of an owl warning other predators to steer clear of his territory.

One by one they slid silently into the frigid waters, fifty Griz strong, weapons sheathed and small packs nestled between their horns to keep the contents dry.

This far south, the Roughwater was relatively calm and only reached chest-high, but the sheer breadth of the river remained a deterrent for most attempting to cross to the opposite side. The river was so wide one could barely make out the opposite side during the day. In the night, the waters might as well have been infinite, stretching all the way to the other side of the world. As the seconds turned into minutes stretched into well over an hour of slogging across the rocky bottom, Grym began to wonder whether they’d managed to walk themselves in circles.

Most of the warriors, as hardened and capable as they were, were beginning to look concerned, their teeth chattering against the cold. Several packs had been dropped with a splash. Before they could be recovered, the deceptively strong current had pulled them under and whisked them away. That, however, was the least of their concerns; the rest of them could reduce their rations to provide for those who’d lost their sustenance, and they could always hunt for fresh game if they became desperate.

The bigger problem was the men themselves. The icy waters were beginning to take a toll on them. One buck, a fearsome warrior from what had once been Shrz’s tribe, cried out as his legs failed him, buckling at the knees as his head went beneath the river’s surface. Grym, who was nearest to him, reacted quickly, hand shooting out and grabbing blindly beneath the water. He happened to get hold of the buck’s horns, growling from the strain as he dragged him out, spluttering and gasping.

“Can’t go…further,” the buck said.

“Well you can’t go back either,” Grym barked. He slapped the buck hard across the face and then clamped his hands tightly on each side of his face. “You will fight on, do you understand me?”

The buck’s jaw tightened in the moonslight. “I will do this thing.”

“Good.”

True to his word, the buck persevered for the next several minutes, muttering something to himself as he went, but then began to falter once more. Thrice Grym was forced to haul him out from the dark, chilly waters. The third time the buck was incapable of keeping his head free of the water on his own, so Grym was forced to sling the buck’s arm over his shoulder and assist him, teeth clenched from the effort and to stop them from chattering.

The buck wasn’t the only one struggling.

At least a dozen other bucks had fallen victim to the bone-penetrating cold, tumbling into the river where they were fortunate enough to be pulled back out by their swift-acting comrades. One hadn’t been so fortunate, disappearing beneath the inky waters and never seen again.

We’re all going to die on this fool’s errand, Grym thought as his own foot slipped on a stone and he almost went under along with the buck’s dead weight on his shoulders. What was I thinking? There is reason Kerr’s Crossing called Window to West. There is no other way to cross Roughwater. Should’ve listened to Eyrm. Could’ve been happy with her. Shouldn’t have been so damn stubborn and—

A cry ahead cut into his dark thoughts.

It took his frosted, muddled mind a few seconds to make sense of the cry, which was taken up by the rest of the warriors who were still sharp enough to hear it and repeat it. “Land!” they shouted, none of them caring whether they were heard by the fish and crickets and other creatures that lived in the night.

“Land!” Grym himself shouted, elation filling his chest. Strength returned to his legs and a few minutes later he hauled the buck onto the shore, setting him down on his back with a grunt before flopping down himself. All around him, others were doing the same. Grym knew they needed to get a fire started as soon as possible to warm themselves and their clothes, but for now they’d all earned a few minutes respite from their toils.

They wouldn’t even get that.

Torches blazed in the darkness. Not a few, but hundreds, gripped by the Avadonian soldiers that had been waiting patiently for them to arrive. They were in no state for an outnumbered fight; even if they’d held the advantage in numbers, it wouldn’t have mattered.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, the soldiers descending on them like flies, stripping them of the weapons their fingers were too numb to grip anyway, shackling their wrists and ankles together in heavy irons.

Grym didn’t even protest—what were words amidst this hurricane-like ambush?—as they were forced to their feet and half-dragged, half-marched through the fiery darkness. A dense, overgrown wood met them, but the Avadonian warriors seemed to know the way, winding along a well-beaten path that meandered around the bramblebushes, knots of tree roots and other hazards. As exhausted and frozen as they all were, it was almost a relief when they emerged from the darkness and spilled into a large clearing blazing with light from a dozen fires that promised to provide warmth from the winter cold.

They were shoved to the ground before the largest of the fires. Grym craned his head toward the crackling flames, eyes closing as he bathed in its warmth. As he thawed, he wracked his brain for what had gone wrong. How could the Avadonians have known they would cross the Roughwater at this exact point along the miles and miles of river that stretched from Dunadin all the way to the Sacred Sea? It was almost as if they’d had a set of ears listening during the Grizari war council.

A voice drew him from his thoughts. “I’m sorry.”

He scoffed out a laugh. The cold had penetrated even deeper than he thought. Now he was hearing her very voice in his mind, apologizing for disagreeing with him, for not even bothering to attend the council when her presence alone might’ve provided a sense of solidarity amongst the united tribes.

“Grym, I know you will not understand today, but maybe someday you will. I did what was necessary to protect tribes. To protect yer daughter.”

Grym’s eyes flashed open. This was no dream, whether waking or otherwise. His head snapped back to find her standing before him

Eyrm. Unlike the rest of the Grizari, she was no prisoner, her wrists and ankles unshackled.

Worse, she stood beside General Zen like they were partners.

“What have you done?” Grym snarled. The rest of the Grizari prisoners were slowly pulling themselves back to life, their eyes taking in the same scene as him, which was impossible—or at least it should have been. Who would betray their own kind to the humans? Never in a thousand—no, a million—years would he have thought any of his own kind capable of such treachery, but for it to be Eyrm…yes, they’d disagreed about certain things, but he’d shared a bed with her, an act that had meant something to him even if he would never admit it, not even to her.

Eyrm’s unblinking eyes met his with steel. “I did what you could not. I made the hard decision that your pride and arrogance would not allow. I couldn’t allow your stubborn Grizari skin destroy what’s left of our people.”

“Traitor,” he spat. “You think our people will welcome you back with open arms after what you did?”

“They will never know,” Eyrm said. “Only my allies know truth, and they will take secret to funeral pyres. Hate me if you must, but it is I, not you, who saved Shrym. I will care fer her like own daughter.”

“Stay away from her,” Grym growled.

“If I may…,” General Zen said, his voice seeming to smash through the rock tunnel that, a moment ago, Grym thought was only occupied by him and Eyrm. “Grym, is it? Quite a name, with the surly disposition to accompany it, if I may be so bold.” Grym glared at him. “Look, Grym, you can bark and threaten and rattle your shackles until your face turns purple, but it won’t change anything. If I were Eyrm”—he stumbled over her name, struggling to pronounce it—“I wouldn’t have insisted on being here at all. You would never have known that she was the one who betrayed you. You might have even thought that we’d discovered your intentions on our own.”

“That’s because you are human coward,” Grym said.

“Exactly!” General Zen said, as if Grym had made his point for him. “Such an act is quite brave, in my book. One of Eyrm’s requirements of our agreement was that she would be here when you were captured, so she could look you in the eyes and tell you what she did.”

“Her mistake,” Grym said. His eyes met Eyrm’s once more. For the first time, he allowed his true feelings to seep into that stare. The anger was still there, but it was dwarfed by a heavier, deeper emotion. Sadness.

Finally, her own steely stare faltered and she was forced to look away. “I wish things could’ve been different,” she said. “Farewell, Grym.” With that, she turned and walked away.

He turned, too, ignoring the stares of his comrades, eyes burning into the flames.

Whether Grym had wanted to hear it or not, General Zen had explained the agreement he’d reached with Eyrm in painstaking detail, though, in reality, it boiled down to two significant tenets. First, the captured Grizari warriors would be forced to assist the Avadonian soldiers in sending the demons back to the Void from whence they came. And second, the Avadonians would allow the rest of the Grizari to retreat onto the Lost Plains, where they would be permitted to live as they chose.

When Grym stripped away his pride and anger, he swiftly realized that it was a rather favorable agreement for the Grizari, and would ensure the longevity of their existence and the continuation of the peace they’d enjoyed for decades. Without fear of attack by the Avadonians, generations could live out their years on the plains. Aye, scratching and clawing out a shadow’s version of an existence while Glynn Kerr enjoys the finest the world has to offer in his stone city, Grym thought darkly.

But…Shrym would be safe. Grym might despise Eyrm for everything she’d done, but not that. Shrym’s safety meant more to him than he could put into words. He just hated that it came at the hefty cost of him never seeing her again. For that was the third key part of the agreement: the captured Grizari warriors could never return to their people, forced to live out their lives in service to Avadon. ‘Service’ was the word General Zen had used, as though it was some kind of an honor. Grym had snorted at that but didn’t say anything. After all, he was nothing more than a slave now, and everyone knew slaves’ voices were meaningless.

It was now late on day three of their march through the heavily wooded area flanking the western bank of the Roughwater. Sometimes they were able to walk at full stride upon narrow but well-trod hunter’s paths, but other times they were forced to pick their way along the rocky embankment when the forest grew too thick.

As they progressed further and further north, the waters of the river grew ever more turbulent, as though a mirrored reflection of Grym’s own mind.

Just as the final rays of sunlight that managed to sneak through the forest’s canopy began to disappear, they emerged from the wood at Kerr’s Crossing. At any time of day, the massive walled bridge would be impressive, but in the waning light the stone behemoth looked as impenetrable as the weathered ramparts of a castle that had been besieged hundreds of times but never breached, protecting those garrisoned far better than shield or spear ever could. The fiercest portion of the Roughwater cascaded between columns thicker than the broadest trees in the nearby forest, and Grym was briefly reminded of watching Sampson tumble headlong into the rapids. He immediately shook away the thought because to dwell on that dark time would only distract him from the present situation.

He’d already begun hatching a plan to escape. At some point, the Avadonians would need to arm them and remove their shackles so they could fight the demons. Yes, they would be outnumbered, but if their timing were right, when the demon threat was at its most dangerous, death being meted out like stones at a quarry, there would be an opportunity to flee. He and his comrades could make their way back to the tribe, illuminate Eyrm’s treachery and allow the razor-edged sword of justice to fall.

This spark of a plan had continued to grow over the miles under his feet, until it was an inferno of hope sustaining every beat of his heart. At its core sat that feeling of Shrym’s arms around him before he’d left her side.

His plan was shot by a thousand arrows when they reached the Crossing’s rear gate and his comrades were ushered forward onto the bridge. “Not you,” General Zen said, grabbing his elbow.

Grym frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Glynn Kerr has other plans for you and your strong back. Anyway, he’d have to be a fool to arm a bunch of a Grizari warriors with their leader at their helm. Leaderless, they’re less likely to rebel.”

Grym was unable to hold back his frustration as his window of hope shattered into a thousand, painful shards. “I will kill you,” he said through clenched teeth.

Zen only laughed. “No, you won’t. You will die in Kerr’s mines, just another slave. Your people, your daughter, will forget you soon enough. Especially once they’ve been rounded up and penned like the mongrels they are.”

It was like someone had thrown a bucket of water on the fires of Grym’s anger. “You lied to Eyrm,” he said. “Your agreement with her was nothing but a farce.”

“Not exactly. Glynn Kerr is a man of his word. Both sides will get what was agreed. But there was no time limit on the agreement. The Grizari army will be permitted to return to the plains to rejoin your tribe. They’ll be safe for a few months, long enough for the demon threat to be contained and the Rift secured. After that, hunting season will be open.”

Grym’s eyes bore into the vile human with undisguised hatred.

“If looks could kill…,” Zen said, laughing through his nose. “Did you really think Master Kerr would permit your kind”—he spat the last two words with the disgust of one referring to unwanted vermin in their bed—“to roam unchecked after attacking a major Avadonian stronghold?”

Grym felt like a fool, because he’d thought just that. Though he’d hated the agreement Eyrm had made with Kerr, at least he thought his people would be safe, that the humans would have a shred of honor in them, upholding their end of the bargain. Not…this.

A few of his men had noticed he wasn’t with them any longer, their heads turning to look back at him, frowns creasing their brows. He didn’t want their parting to be like this, confused and uncertain. So he raised his shackled hands, chains clinking as he pounded his fists against his chest.

And then they were gone, the gate closing behind the last of them.

Darkness fell like a stone being rolled over the mouth of a tomb.

Thirteen

Roman Leary

Onboard Queen of the Seas, Sacred Sea

TO ROMAN’S SURPRISE, CAPTAIN MIRREN INVITED HIM TO DINE WITH HER THE NIGHT after the incident with her tailor and the young thieves. The invitation wasn’t given personally, but through the quartermaster, Barney, who also provided Roman with a perfectly tailored uniform that had supposedly belonged to Captain Mirren’s brother. Evidently the tailor had completed his work—out of habit or a strange sense of duty to the same woman he’d cheated and stolen from—before stealing out into the night to try to murder his coconspirators.

In the small, cramped cabin, Roman fought the uniform until the dark blue pants were pulled up and buttoned, the white shirt was dragged onto each arm and tied up the center, and the brass-buttoned navy greatcoat was added to complete the ensemble.

The captain’s brother must’ve been a large man, indeed, for there to be enough material to fit the likes of me, Roman thought, standing just inside his cabin. He placed his hand on the doorknob and was about to open it when he hesitated, feeling the slight tug of the blade at his hip. He glanced down, watching the shadows that surrounded it move and change shape, almost like they were a living, breathing creature. And he made a decision:

Stay here, Roman said, sliding his sheath from his belt and slotting it beneath his bed before fitting the clasp back into place across his waist.

SHOULDN’T BE TOO DIFFICULT, the blade said, CONSIDERING I DON’T HAVE LEGS.

Roman ignored the blade, feeling immediately lighter, and not just because its weight no longer hung from his belt. At the same time, he worried that leaving the blade was a mistake. Sampson had felt the blade’s wrath on more than one occasion. DON’T WORRY, I WON’T HOLD A GRUDGE, the blade said, having invaded his thoughts. THIS TIME…, it added ominously. He exited his cramped quarters, turned left, and knocked on the captain’s door at precisely the moment the six o’clock bell chimed above deck. “You may enter,” the captain’s voice came, as stiff as a board.

He turned the knob and pushed inside. On land, the space wouldn’t be considered large, but at sea it might as well have been a mansion. It was like three rooms mashed into one, set side by side. In the direct center was an oak desk covered with papers and objects. Despite the sheer quantity of items on the surface, it didn’t have the appearance of being messy, the papers stacked in neat columns, each object placed very precisely and brushed free of dust. To the left was a bed twice as wide and half again as long as his own. The sheets were made up so tightly one could’ve bounced a coin off their taut surface. The accompanying blanket was folded with crisp corners and placed at the foot of the bed. His gaze wandered to the right, where the dining nook occupied the remaining portion of the room. A small, rectangular table sat between two high-backed chairs of the same mahogany finish. Square, flat cushions rested on the seat of each chair for added comfort. The table was already set with silverware for two and a pair of plates crowned by rounded metal covers designed to keep food warm and the flies off it.

Captain Mirren was watching him, standing with a hand resting casually on the back of her chair. For the first time in his presence, she didn’t wear her captain’s hat, her dark curls permitted to roam free, dusting her shoulders. Wisps of gray and white streaked the curls like falling stars against the night sky. The subtle signs of aging didn’t detract from her beauty. If anything, they only enhanced it, markers of her wisdom and experience. And yet there was something off about her mannerisms. She looked visibly shaken, like a woman who’d seen a ghost. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her.

“Thank you,” Roman said, easing onto the chair slowly. He was somewhat worried what his large frame would do to the cushion beneath him, though it only seemed to sink a half-inch before firming up under his weight.

Was it his imagination or had the captain winced as he sat?

NOT YOUR IMAGINATION, the blade said.

I left you behind for a reason.

YES, A FOOLISH ONE.

Roman tried his best to block out the blade’s whispery voice as the captain sat as well, creaking her chair forward twice before being apparently satisfied with its positioning. There was something different about her mannerisms here in the dining nook of her personal cabin. If anything, she was less at ease than she was on deck, when she always seemed to be in control of the world that was her ship. “Do you have a taste for seabass?” she asked, eyes fixed on the covered plate resting before her. One of her hands was gripping the table as though to steady herself, her knuckles turning white.

Roman’s mouth watered. Though being Sampson’s personal attendant didn’t permit him to dine with the royals, he was fed the leftovers. Seabass had been one of his favorites. “I adore it,” he said.

Her eyes finally returned to his and a small smile creased her lips. “Then you’re in luck. Cook makes a phenomenal seaman’s version of the dish, crusted with crushed cashew nuts. His secret is to flour the fish after filleting but before dipping it in the egg mixture. This allows the crushed nuts to adhere to the…” She trailed away and then breathed in a heavy breath. “I’m rambling. You probably don’t give two wooden coins about the fish’s preparation.”

Roman was still trying to figure out what was happening. The captain was not herself, that much was clear. “Actually, I find the art of cooking quite interesting. I’m far from being an expert, but I’ve dabbled. Years ago, I did most of the cooking in my own household.” Now it was his turn to clamp his mouth shut, realizing he’d revealed more about his past than intended.

“Your household?” the captain said. “You have a wife and children?”

A knife twisted in his gut. “I—I had a wife. Once. Long ago.” And a child. I had a child. Brennan.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the captain said, assuming his wife had died and not left him.

He managed to pry his clenched teeth apart. He didn’t correct her error, as to do so would require a whole other conversation, one he wasn’t prepared for. “Thank you. Shall we?” He started to reach for the covering on his plate.

“What was her name?” His stare darted back up to hers. “If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

ANNALIESSSSE, the blade hissed.

Get out of my head.

AS YOU WISH.

Roman pretended to adjust his chair when its current position was already ideal. “I—I—no, it’s fine. Her name was Annaliese.” Her name is Annaliese, he qualified in his own mind. Occasionally he paid a man to inquire as to his wife’s well-being. In fact, he’d done so just before they’d departed on the very journey that had led him to this point. He’d been told her health seemed good and that she continued to live a simple life under her father’s roof. He was an old man now, and she cared for him. She’d never remarried and never had any more children after Brennan. For some reason, that made Roman deeply sad. He may not have had any children of his own, but he’d had Sampson.

“A beautiful name,” the captain said, lifting the covering from her plate and indicating that Roman should do the same. He did, placing it on the side of the table where it clinked against the captain’s covering. The rich, savory aroma of the cashews and seabass filled his nostrils, chasing away the ghosts of his past.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke as they cut into the seabass and ate blissfully. The fish was cooked to perfection, just the right amount of buttery and flaky to accompany the crunch and nuttiness of the cashews. Truth be told, it was far better than the seabass the royal chef had prepared in Wolfsgaard.

“What do you think?” the captain finally asked after she’d polished off her piece of fish and used a cloth serviette to dab away any oil from the corners of her mouth.

“It’s…perfection,” Roman said, using the only word that seemed to do the fish justice. “Is that a hint of orange zest?”

ORANGE ZEST? REALLY? the blade said.

The captain laughed lightly. “Indeed. You have a refined palette. Unusual for a man of your talents. Most men who board my ships have never even seen an orange.” She didn’t specifically ask where he’d had the opportunity to taste an orange but had clearly implied she wanted to know.

“I’ve lived several lives before this one,” Roman said cryptically. Let her wonder, he thought. “Might I ask how you came to have oranges in your stores?”

“Ahh, one of the benefits of a moving home. Occasionally I’m paid to make port in Loslandia. Their oranges grow all year round, did you know that?”

Roman did. Wolfsgaard had obtained its oranges from a place called Clarys near the southern tip of the great southern continent. The shipments arrived in winter just as in summer or spring. “Truly?” he said, feigning astonishment.

“You already knew,” the captain said. “Why lie?”

“Do you have the uncanny ability to smell a lie in addition to your many other talents?” Roman asked.

“Just answer the question.”

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“I have no thunder. I am as much a slave to the wills and whims of the storms as the planks of wood beneath my feet. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Once,” Roman said. He offered nothing more.

“Unlike the cashews in this dish, you are a hard nut to crack,” the captain said.

“We’ve only just met. My shell is for both our benefit. And you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with me.”

The captain nodded contemplatively. As she did, she maneuvered her knife and fork until they crossed in the center of her plate, which was now empty save for a few fragments of cashews soaked in oil. “You’re right. I cannot expect you to be an open book when my own book is slammed shut and locked in a chest. Dinner is finished. You can go now.”

The relatively lighthearted mood they’d enjoyed thus far had suddenly disappeared, the light of the room seeming to darken despite the lantern burning as brightly as ever. While the abrupt end to their meal had taken Roman by surprise, he gave away nothing as he stood, bowing slightly. “Thank you. I enjoyed myself immensely. Sleep well, Captain Mirren.”

He moved toward the door. “Lila,” the captain said just as his hand touched the doorknob. He turned, a question in his eyes. “My familiar name is Lila. You may call me that in private, but never above decks and never when we’re on duty. And you may tell no one. Is that understood?”

“Aye, of course,” Roman said. “Goodnight, Lila.”

“Goodnight, Roman.”

He dined with Lila every night after that. She always watched him as he sat, tiny lines appearing across her forehead. When she sat and looked up, they disappeared.

He never brought the shadowblade, relishing the couple of hours of freedom from its pull at his hip.

The first couple of nights they eased into light topics, like food or the weather. The blade interrupted from time to time, but soon grew bored and remained quiet. The third night Roman knew he needed to move things along or miss his opportunity. But first, he had other business to attend to, a promise to keep. “The children…,” he started, letting the words linger in the silence while he sipped wine from a goblet. The wine-filled goblets had appeared the night before, fresh and fruity. According to the captain, they were a fine Solarii vintage.

“The thieves, you mean,” Lila said, clasping her hands in front of her. They’d finished their meals a while ago and had since been chatting and sipping their wine.

“Yes, the children thieves,” Roman hedged, hoping to earn him a smile.

He didn’t get one. “What of them?”

“Have you considered your plans for them?”

“You think it’s time to toss them overboard?”

“No,” Roman said quickly. “I think you should reconsider tossing them from the deck at all. They’ve had a hard life.”

“All the more reason they must learn that one’s choices have consequences. Sometimes, hard ones.”

“I agree. But if they die in the water, what will that teach them?”

“If they make it to shore, they will be stronger for it.”

“They won’t,” Roman said. “Not both of them.”

“You’re referring to the boy,” Lila said.

Roman nodded. “He is weaker. This life will never be kind to him. His sister will survive.”

“Yes, and she will learn from this experience. She will make something of herself.”

“She reminds you of yourself,” Roman said.

The captain’s eyes sparkled in the lanternlight. “Mayhaps. Does her brother remind you of yourself?”

Roman sighed. The boy was the opposite to him. Roman had always been larger, stronger than the other boys around him. While life on the streets had been harsh, it was as though he’d been born to handle it, much more so than most of the others around him. But the boy currently tied to the railing above decks…he wasn’t made for it at all.

“No,” he finally said. “He doesn’t. But I knew kids like him, once. Rarely were they offered a kind hand to pull them up.” He let his point lie there. He sensed the captain wouldn’t respond well to pleading anyway.

She swirled her wine in the goblet, scenting it briefly before taking her next sip. “What would you have me do?” she said after she’d swallowed.

“Hire them,” Roman said.

Fortunately she didn’t have any wine in her mouth or she might’ve spat it across the table. “Hire the urchins that tried to rob me?” she said, incredulous. “There’s a fine line between being charitable and being a godsdamn fool, Roman. I fear you’ve taken up residence on the wrong side.”

“Hear me out. They will start at the bottom, scrubbing decks and dangling from ropes to clean the outside of your hulls. They will receive no compensation until they’ve worked off what you feel is a fair debt for their attempted crime against you. Then you will pay them the same wage you would pay another to do their job.”

She sighed. “You are a strange man, Roman Leary. An enigma. You carry a sword that literally carries the shadows on its back and yet you are as full of light as any I’ve ever met. The only problem is that most lights are eventually snuffed out.”

“I know this hard truth as well as any. But why not allow a light to shine uncovered for as long as it’s still possible?”

Another sigh, though Roman sensed it wasn’t as heavy as the first. “Fine.” Roman’s lips curled into a smile, one that quickly faded when the captain said, “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Tell me why you are really here.” Roman opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke over him. “None of that nonsense about working for a ride. The truth—all of it.”

Roman respected her directness. “I wasn’t lying about wanting to work in exchange for passage. But I haven’t been forthcoming about my true destination.”

“Which is?”

“Firestone.”

The captain stared at him. “Surely you jest. There is nothing on Firestone but a mountain that spews fire and ash and the natives who worship it like a god. To go there would carry us a hundred miles off course.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I’m not taking you there unless you can explain your exact purpose.”

DO YOU WANT TO TELL HER OR SHALL I? the blade said, finally speaking after hours of silence.

“The blade I carry, the one that, in your words, ‘literally carries the shadows on its back’, is no ordinary sword.”

“I’m no fool. I gathered that much the moment I laid eyes on it. I feared the repercussions of not allowing you onboard would be worse than if I acquiesced.”

“Wait.” Roman frowned. “You’re saying you only accepted my offer because you thought I might do something to hurt you?”

“Like I said, I’m no fool.”

Roman shook his head. “I never meant you any harm. I would never use the blade against you.”

“Yes, I understand that now, but we’d only just met. You don’t exactly give off the warmest first impressions. Especially when you’re wearing that blade on your hip. I’ve noticed you never bring it with you when you dine, by the way.”

“I didn’t expect to need to duel during dinner.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

Something about the conversation had taken a strange turn, like an accidental right down an alleyway that turned out to be much less shadowy than it had appeared from the outside. Roman realized he was enjoying their banter. Maybe he’d drunk too much wine or maybe it was the fullness of his belly from the delicious food—whatever the case, he felt warm and happy, bordering on giddy. Suddenly he stood, pushing the chair back. The captain had stood, too, at the exact same moment, dark curls bouncing.

“We shouldn’t do this,” Roman said.

“No, we shouldn’t,” the captain said.

The first moment passed in frozen silence, their eyes burning into each other.

But not the second. The space between them vanished in an instant. In their haste, both their goblets of wine were knocked over, but thankfully they’d nearly finished them and only the smallest amount of the red liquid spilled out.

Not that they noticed.

Their lips locked, hungry, and Roman had the uncanny feeling that the only way he could breathe in this moment was through Captain Lila Mirren. One of his hands threaded through her curls, pulling her harder to him. The other found her hip, thumb teasing the gap between the red vest she wore over a white shirt that buttoned in the front and her trousers. Thankfully, she never wore her greatcoat to dinner, which allowed him to easily feel her body beneath the fabric.

He moved to her throat, nipping her skin as he went and drawing a low sound from her that only made him want to breathe more of her in, every part of her. She leapt up lightly into his arms and he caught her easily, her ankles locking behind his back as she pressed against him.

MY, MY, the blade said, but Roman clamped his mind shut hard on its words. If the blade tried to speak again, he didn’t hear it, his entire focus on this woman as he walked her backwards, past the methodically organized desk to the perfectly made bed, spilling her onto its taut sheets, which immediately crumpled and creased.

He paused momentarily, drinking her form in as her eyes burned into him with desire. “It’s now or never, Roman,” she said.

Ever since he’d lost Annaliese to tragedy and grief, he’d never looked upon a woman the way he looked upon Lila now. He’d been so caught up in fulfilling his duty to Sampson that he hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed the feeling of yearning for another the way he now yearned for this woman.

She’d given him a simple choice: Now or never.

He chose now.

“I should have said it before, on the first night,” she said as they lay abed. Their fingers were intertwined, Roman’s thumb drawing circles on her skin.

“Said what?” Roman asked.

“My brother’s old uniform suits you.”

It was the first she’d spoken of her brother—even if it was an indirect reference—since he’d questioned her about him on the night he’d caught the tailor in the middle of a treacherous act. “The tailor kept the fabric in good repair,” Roman said. “I am thankful to trade it for my travelworn clothes.”

“My brother…” She trailed away. Roman considered pushing her to continue but felt such pressure might scare her off the topic entirely. He said nothing, continuing to trace circles across the back of her hand. She gulped in a deep breath and said, “My father didn’t trust Elliot to run the family business. That’s the answer to the question you asked before, about why I inherited my father’s shipping business rather than my brother. He didn’t take it well.”

“Who would?” Roman said. “He was probably embarrassed more than anything.”

Lila nodded, her curls brushing against his shoulder, which she was leaning against. “Indeed. That he was. His pride was wounded. His ego too. I considered giving the business to him to smooth things over, I really did, but…”

Roman understood that which she’d left unsaid. “You didn’t trust him either.”

She sighed. “No. Not as far as I could throw him. Just like me, Elliot had worked my father’s ships from the time he was a youngster. Unlike me, he hadn’t taken naturally to the life of a sailor, blundering his way through. By the time I was twelve, I could tie a bowline on a bight with my eyes closed, a sheepshank with one hand behind my back. He struggled to tie a slipknot without someone there to hold one of the threads. He blundered about, causing disasters that had to be fixed by the rest of the crew. Several had even begged my father to send him away, but I think my father always believed that one day something would click in Elliot’s mind and he would become a seaman overnight. It wasn’t until death stood on his cabin’s very threshold that he realized his son could never command the ship he’d spent his life on, lest she be run aground or smashed to bits in some storm he sailed unwittingly into.

“So I came up with a solution, which Elliot agreed to swallow even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth. I made him my full partner in the shipping business, which gave him half of all profits. The only caveat was that I would remain the captain of Queen of the Seas. If he wanted, he could literally lounge about in some fancy villa all day and reap the benefits of my hard work, counting and spending his coin.”

“But he didn’t,” Roman said. He wasn’t guessing—the very uniform the captain had helped him out of an hour or so ago was proof of that.

She laughed, though it was a regretful sound, devoid of any mirth. “I wish he had. At first, I thought he was trying to make a change, to work hard to learn that which he’d failed to grasp during his youth. But I swiftly realized he had other intentions.

“As you know, I always remain onboard the ship while at port, something my father had always done. Elliot carried no such habit, often mocking me for being ‘chained to the boat’. He loved calling Queen of the Seas a ‘boat’, as though the ship that provided us with our livelihood was as ordinary as some small fishing vessel paddled into the shallows. My father would’ve turned in his grave if he’d heard such rot, but I was trying to keep the peace, so I ignored it, chalking it up to my brother’s ignorance.

“Elliot would always return the next morning, half-dragged by a couple of the seamen, stinking of ale and a tavern’s privy pot. So one night I broke my father’s code and left the ship overnight in the care of one of my most trusted men. I followed Elliot ashore, keeping my distance in case he suspected. He never looked behind him, thinking his acts were impervious to detection. His first stop was a common brothel, where he paid in advance for the services of no fewer than three women. It was an extravagant sum, but he’d just received his share of the profits from our previous port of call, so I figured he was a grown man and could spend his coin wherever and however he desired. I almost returned to the ship then and there, laughing at my own foolishness. My brother was a sluggard and a fool, but a harmless one.

“Just as I was about to leave, he emerged, not of his own accord but shoved by a firm hand. He was staggering and cursing, already drunken. I felt the urge to go to him, to take his hand and guide him home, where I could tuck him into a warm bed so he could sleep it off. But something, some instinct, drove me to remain silent where I hid in the shadows.”

Up until this point, Lila had spoken in monotone, as though speaking of something as mundane as updating her ship’s logs, but now her voice grew more strained, her throat tightening on the words.

“I followed him to his next stop. Unsurprisingly, it was a tavern. I assumed a similar course of events would follow, with him being booted out an hour or so later falling all over himself. An hour passed. Patrons came and went. Then two hours. I grew concerned, so finally I pushed through the door myself. He wasn’t inside. I searched the privy unsuccessfully. I inquired with the barkeep, describing my brother’s appearance. He frowned and rattled off a lie about my brother sneaking out the back way, into the alley behind the tavern. I’d been watching the alleyway, too, so I knew it was a blatant falsehood.

“In most ports of call, gold speaks louder than a shout, so I showed him the heavy sack I’d been hauling inside my coat for just this purpose. His demeanor immediately changed and he gestured to a door behind the bar. I flipped him a gold coin for his troubles and slipped through the door.

“My brother was inside, along with five other men playing cards. High stakes, a pile of gold in the center of the table. It was down to Elliot and one other, a weaselly-looking fellow with a patch over one eye. Squig, the other men were calling him as they egged him on. He bet another stack of gold coins and then it was over to Elliot to fold or call the bet. The men turned their attention to my brother, calling him by a nickname I’d never heard before—‘Eels’. He barely had enough coin remaining to match Squig’s bet, but he did, going all in.

“When the cards were revealed, he’d lost. He’d been bluffing the entire time, his hand less than worthless. He was still drunk, barely able to stand, knocking his chair over in the process. Before he could spot me, I was gone, slipping away and returning to the ship.

“I spent the rest of the night combing through the ship’s records. Because I knew. I knew. My brother had gambled and lost far more coin than he should’ve had. It took me six hours, just as dawn was creeping over the horizon, to find the discrepancy. Once I located the first one and knew what to look for, uncovering the rest of them was simple. A simple matter of recording fewer barrels of ale on the inventory intake records. When they were sold at port, he’d record the same smaller number and then pocket the proceeds from the unrecorded barrels. I identified twelve instances, each larger than the previous.

“Needless to say, I was furious.”

Roman hated that she’d been cheated by her own brother, and it certainly explained the harshness and swiftness with which she’d tossed the tailor overboard after learning of his own treachery. “I’m guessing his return to the ship wasn’t a pleasant one.”

“I—” It was the first time during the story that Lila had hesitated. “I pretended nothing was amiss, welcoming him back with open arms.”

Roman closed his eyes, remembering when he’d questioned the captain about why the young would-be thieves were still onboard after they left South Strangle. “You waited until you were at sea to confront him.”

“Yes.” The single word sounded like a confession, guilt hanging heavy in the silence that followed.

Roman’s heart ached for her. “He wronged you, took advantage of your kindness, stole from you.”

“He was my brother!” she said. “And I…I…” Tears dripped from her eyes, wetting her cheeks.

Roman knew in that moment there was nothing he could do to comfort her, just as there was nothing anyone could do to take away the pain of the loss of his son, his wife. Such pain would haunt his footsteps every second of every day for the rest of his life, whether he stood in the darkest shadows or the brightest sunlight. So instead he just held her, allowing her tears to moisten his skin too.

Time passed with the swaying of the ship. After a while, Lila tilted her head back to look at him. Her cheeks were dry now but stained with tear tracks, each containing the memory of what her brother had done to her and she to him. “We never finished our previous conversation,” she said.

“Aye, we got a little distracted with…other matters,” Roman said.

He had meant the reply as a bit of light banter, but she was all business again. “Tell me why you want to go to Firestone.”

Roman nodded. “You’re right. You have shared much with me, and now it’s my turn to reciprocate. I have only one purpose for attending the volcano. I must destroy the blade I wear at my hip, throw it into the fiery heart of the mountain.”

The captain blinked. “That’s…madness,” she said.

“When you said you knew it wasn’t an ordinary blade, you were thinking what? That it’s a darkblade?”

“It crossed my mind,” she admitted. “Though I haven’t the slightest clue how such a blade would come into your possession. They’re supposed to be locked up, never to be used.”

“You’ve read The Kingfall Histories?”

“Of course. My father insisted our education be well-rounded.”

“It’s not a darkblade. Think bigger, more powerful.”

“A…a godblade?”

Roman nodded, saying nothing to give her time to process the revelation.

“But that’s impossible. They were lost centuries ago.”

“Not anymore. At least not two of them. One shadowblade and one brightblade, to be precise. More may have been found, but I have only seen the two with my own eyes.”

“Why do you wish to destroy the shadowblade?” Lila asked.

Roman liked the way she got right to the point, not asking him to recount the gritty details of how the sword came to be in his possession. “It’s dangerous. It tries to twist the mind of its wielder to wreak havoc and destruction.”

“You’re speaking of the Grizari assault on Kerr’s Crossing, aren’t you?” When Roman looked a question at her, she said, “I received word of the battle twelve days hence, when I made landfall at Westport. Rumors were galloping across Kingfall like wild stallions. I didn’t know what to believe, but I refused to pay the toll at North Strangle until I received assurances that the Strangle continues to be a safe passage for ships. I wasn’t willing to risk my ship and men to the squabbles of land dwellers.”

Roman thought ‘squabble’ was a rather understated way of describing the battle in which he’d nearly died. YOU WOULD HAVE, the blade said now. I SAVED YOUR LIFE AND YOU WISH TO REPAY ME BY CASTING ME INTO THE HEART OF FIRESTONE? FUNNY WAY OF SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE.

It’s not personal, Roman said. The blade remained silent, which was almost worse than one of its hissed responses.

“Where did you go just now?” Lila said. His eyes darted to meet hers. “You were still here physically, but mentally…it’s like you’d vanished.”

Roman considered how much to reveal. She was a shrewd woman. If he lied, she would know it. But if he told the full truth she might very well think him mad. She’d exposed her very soul to him. He felt he owed it to her to do the same. “I was conversing with the blade.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The sword…talks?”

“Yes, but only here.” He pointed to his head. “I can reply in my thoughts. It’s rather distracting, to be honest.”

“I can only imagine,” she said, stiffening. Her eyes roamed the room, from the table still full of dirty dishes to the stacks of papers on her desk, and finally to the rumpled bedclothes and their clothes scattered haphazardly across the floor of her cabin. “You need to go. It’s late.” She sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed, wrapping the blanket around her body.

“You don’t believe me,” Roman said. She was already dressing, pulling on her uniform one piece at a time.

She didn’t stop or look at him as she said, “I didn’t say that. But I cannot change course now. We’ll continue toward Armitage. Get up.” Roman stood, catching each piece of clothing as she threw them at him. “Dress.”

While he dressed, she moved to the bed, remaking it with stiff efficiency, smoothing out the wrinkles, folding the blanket neatly and placing it at the end of the bed. He watched her the entire time, wondering whether she was trying to erase the last hour they’d spent together, returning things to exactly how they’d been before their shadows had danced together on the cabin wall.

He’d finished dressing, but she didn’t look at him, moving to the table to begin piling the dirty dishes so they’d be ready for collection by the dwarves for scrubbing. Roman moved to help her. “What happens after we make port at Armitage?” he asked.

She stopped briefly. “What do you mean, Mister Leary?” She might’ve been speaking to a stranger, such was the formality in her tone.

“What happens to me after we make port at Armitage?” he clarified.

“Then you will disembark. I will pay you for your services, which you can use to try to convince another captain to give you passage to Firestone.”

“I don’t understand. This is important. If I don’t destroy the shadowblade—”

“My father didn’t involve himself in Kingfall politics, and I don’t plan to soil his legacy by doing anything different.”

Roman reached over and grasped her hand. “Lila…”

She drew her hand free of his grip. “If you believe me the type of woman to swoon over a man and allow herself to be taken advantage of, then you have severely misjudged me.” The bite was back in her tone, all captain, no familiarity.

“And if you think me a man who would stoop to such a level to get what he wants, then you know me even less,” he said. “With respect, you seemed as enthusiastic about our activities as I did.” He moved toward the door, fully prepared to leave it at that for now. Then he remembered that his fate wasn’t the only one tied to this infuriating woman. He stopped, door halfway open.

“Is there something else, Mister Leary?” she asked.

He turned. “Aye, Captain. Do you still plan to offer employment to the boy and girl as we’d discussed?”

She paused, lips pursed. They opened: “I always keep my promises. Now go, you are letting in a draft.”

Roman stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back. The boy looked ready to pee himself; the girl looked as feral as a cat wanting nothing more than to scratch someone’s eyes out.

The captain said, “As restitution for your attempt to steal from me, I would like to offer you employment on Queen of the Seas.”

“Oh gods, thank ye so much,” the boy gushed, hands clasping together as though the captain had answered his prayers. The girl glared at him like he was a fish born with three eyes and no fins.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Captain Mirren said. “You will be expected to work hard and obey my command without question, is that understood?”

The boy nodded rapidly while the girl replied with a sneer, “What’s this job pay?”

The captain smiled broadly, as though enjoying this immensely. “Considering you trespassed on my ship without invitation, you will be paid nothing for your work from here to Armitage. After that, pay’s three coppers a week plus full room and board, and you’ll be provided a uniform just as soon as I hire a new tailor.” Though she said the last part matter of factly, Roman thought it was a subtle reminder that their fates could be far worse than working for her.

“Aye,” the boy said without hesitation.

“Good. Our quartermaster, Barney”—she gestured to the frumpy man standing nearby, watching—“will add your name to the records and show you to your hammock.” All the air seemed to go out of the boy’s chest as he released a monumental sigh of release. Roman cut him loose and he stood, wobbly at first, but quickly gaining his balance as he rubbed at the chafe marks on his wrists. He turned back toward his sister, a bright smile on his face. “Come on, Ginny, yer turn!”

The girl, Ginny, didn’t look at the boy, but at the captain. “Arto may be willin’ to accept slave pay, but I won’t work fer less than two silvers a week,” she said. “That’s what we earned ’fore ye kidnapped us.”

Roman cringed. Oh no.

“Earned?” the captain said. “A thief doesn’t earn—a thief takes what isn’t theirs. You haven’t earned a cent in your entire miserable life. You will accept, with gratitude, my offer of three coppers a week, or you will accept nothing.”

“Five coppers, take it or leave it.”

Roman realized what was happening. Ginny, despite her situation, was a proud girl. All she wanted, all she needed, was that feeling of having won, of having fought hard and come out on top. All the captain had to do was give an inch, just one single inch, meeting her in the middle at four coppers, and the girl would accept with a smug smile on her face. An extra copper a week would mean nothing to the captain but would mean everything to the girl.

And yet the captain would never negotiate with a thief. Nor would she bend the principles that had shaped the entirety of her life to date, the same principles that had driven her to throw her own brother from the ship’s deck while out at sea. Void, just offering the children employment and the opportunity to build a better life for themselves was a concession of such magnitude that if Roman were a betting man he’d go all in on a single hand of cards, just as Elliot Mirren, also known as Eels, had done all those years ago.

“Three coppers,” the captain said. “I won’t offer again.”

“Four coppers,” the girl said. Her teeth were clenched together, like a snarling dog, but Roman could see what was behind the façade. She’s on the verge of tears, he realized. A life on the street had made her as tough as nails, but she was still just a child pretending to be a rough-nosed ruffian twice her age. And all she wanted was this one thing, because life had never given her anything else to call her own.

“Cut her loose,” the captain said.

Roman looked at her, head cocking slightly to the side. Was she saying… The captain’s face was a statue, frozen in the expression of indifference that she’d perfected. “Mister Leary, you will assist Miss Ginny over the railing and then you will cut her loose, do I make myself clear?”

“No!” the boy, Arto, said, mouth twisting with fear.

OH, I LIKE THIS WOMAN, the blade said.

“I won’t do it,” Roman said. “I won’t send a child to her death.”

“I can swim,” the girl said defiantly, though there was a tremor in her voice now. She was clever enough to know that swimming in the vast expanse of the Sacred Sea with its unpredictable currents and blood-scenting predators was nothing like splashing about in the calm waters of the Strangle, but hid her fear behind the false bravado she’d used like a shield her entire life.

“Are you disobeying a direct order, Mister Leary?” the captain said. “If so, you can join her in the drink.”

TAKE HER, the blade said. Roman, despite himself, suddenly found his hand had moved to the sword’s hilt. He couldn’t remember having moved it there. The captain’s eyes flicked to his hand and then back up, narrowing slightly. “You are vastly outnumbered, Mister Leary. Do we have a problem?”

Roman knew that numbers meant little if he were to wield the shadowblade. YESSSS, it hissed, thrumming at his side. USE ME. THERE IS NO SHAME IN DEFENDING YOURSELF. USING ME ONE TIME WON’T HURT ANYONE…WELL, EXCEPT FOR YOUR ENEMIES. THEY WILL HURT. OH YES, HOW THEY WILL HURT, THE SHIP’S DECKS RUNNING RED WITH RIVERS OF THEIR—

“Stop!” Roman shouted, the outburst springing from him so quickly he never had the chance to even consider holding it in. His hand resisted as he pried it from the sword’s hilt.

COWARD! SAMPSON WAS A LION! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A MOUSE TO BE SQUISHED UNDER A BOOT!

The captain seemed shocked by his explosion, backing away a step, eyes dancing between his face and the sword.

Though there were dozens of men watching the scene unfold, Roman felt like they all disappeared, the world spinning them away until the only two people who existed were him and her. He took a halting step forward. “Lila…”

For a second, her entire demeanor seemed to soften, and she was the woman he’d shared food and laughter and secrets and himself with and he longed to be in her arms again. It was there and then gone again, like the green flash of light you had to be lucky to catch a glimpse of just before the sun sank into the waters of the Endless Ocean. If you blinked you might miss it.

Roman didn’t blink.

Eyes burning, he watched as the moment vanished and she was once again the stern captain who, as a woman amongst men on a ship, had to fight for every bit of the respect and loyalty she now commanded. And he understood now why she was such a private woman.

She feared she could lose it all in an instant, everything she’d inherited and then built upon over the years. Anyone who threatened that was her enemy, and by placing him at odds with her now, he too was her enemy. Unless…

“Apologies, Captain,” he said, once more rising to attention, formality and respect in every inch of his body and every word that he spoke. “I spoke out of turn. While I wish to obey your command, I cannot send this girl into the drink on a matter of principle. She is an ill-tongued ruffian and a thief to boot, but she is still just a child to me. I respectfully offer an alternative option for your consideration. That we take her as far as Armitage and then send her on her way. If she continues her life of crime, sooner or later she will be caught by someone far less merciful than you.”

The captain’s brows narrowed. “Mister Leary, you will wait in your cabin.”

Roman blinked. He wanted so badly to ask what she was planning to do but knew it would be a mistake. So instead, he said, “Aye, Captain,” bowed, and strode toward the steps, ignoring the stares of those watching.

Once inside his cabin, Roman pressed his back to the door, steadying himself.

YOU ARE MAKING THIS HARDER THAN IT NEEDS TO BE, the blade said.

Roman took a deep breath and then unbuckled his belt, sliding the sheath away. It seemed to fight him every inch of the way. He growled, using every bit of his strength and will until it broke free from the belt. He tried to drop the sheath and blade, but his fingers refused to open. He remembered the times Sampson struggled to do the same. In one instance he’d managed to toss the blade from off a cliff only to leap after it wildly. The prince had done the same when he’d thrown the sword into the Roughwater.

EVERYTHING WILL BECOME EASIER IF WE WORK TOGETHER, the blade said. STOP RESISTING AND—

“No,” Roman snarled, letting the sheath slip from his fingers. It clattered to the cabin floor at his feet and he swiftly kicked it beneath the bed, vowing silently to leave it there until he disembarked the ship.

Despite the oath, he couldn’t stop staring at the spot where the shadowblade had vanished beneath the bed. All he wanted to do was throw himself after it, scrabbling around in the small space until his fingers closed around its cool steel, until he could feel the energy thrumming from—

A hard knock at the door startled him. He turned and grabbed the knob, pulling the door open. The captain stood before him wearing an expression he couldn’t decipher. “Lila, I’m sor—”

“You will call me captain.”

“Of course. Captain, I—”

“Stop speaking.” Roman clamped his mouth shut. “I didn’t throw her overboard.”

Roman felt a swell of relief, but he didn’t say anything because he hadn’t been asked to speak.

“You were right. She is a child. An uncouth, ill-tempered brat who’s never had anyone to show her another way. And she doesn’t deserve to die because the world gave her an unfortunate beginning. You will speak to her daily, counsel her, try to give her a measure of the goodness that you’ve managed to keep despite the tragedies you’ve endured.”

Roman could hold his tongue no longer, not when she continued to see him through the false lens he’d given her. “My wife isn’t dead,” he blurted out.

She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Close the door,” he said. When she hesitated, he said, “Lila, please.” She stepped inside, the cramped space bringing her close enough that he could feel the heat of her body. She eased the door shut behind her. “It’s best if you sit.”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

Roman nodded. “As you wish. When I said I ‘lost’ my wife, it wasn’t because she died. And yet she is lost to me all the same. Shortly after we were wed, a child grew within her.” Silence fell. Even the ocean seemed to stop its constant churning against the hull, as though out of respect for the truth being told on its surface. “We lost the child. My son, Brennan, was stillborn.” An emptiness filled him at the thought of the boy, as light as a feather, nestled in the bundle of cloth in his arms. He hadn’t spoken his son’s name in years. He’d never planned to tell this tale, not to anyone, and now he regretted that decision. Because, for the first time in two decades, his son felt alive to him. Alive in his memory. “We were broken inside, both of us. I thought it was just her, but the years have shown me I was just as broken. Rather than piecing ourselves together hand in hand, the tragedy drove us apart.”

“Annaliese,” Lila said, reaching up and tenderly wiping away a tear Roman hadn’t even realized had slipped from his eye.

Roman nodded. “When I met her, I knew I would never need anyone else. After…I was nothing.”

Lila shook her head. “You are not nothing, Mister Leary.”

“And what you did to your brother does not define you.”

“He did that to himself,” she said, jaw tightening.

“Lila…” Roman extended his hand.

She stared at it. Bit by bit, the tightness in her body, like a bowstring pulled taut just before its arrow was loosed, fell away. She took his hand, the warmth of her fingers immediately leaching into his own. “Mister Leary, I can barely live with myself sometimes,” she breathed.

“I know.”

“The only way I can survive is by controlling everything and everyone around me. Everything must have its place. Every task must be done properly, with efficiency. Otherwise I feel like I’m drowning. I can barely breathe. It’s like I’m clinging to a precipice all the time. I just want to feel solid land beneath my boots again.”

“But you won’t. Because you’re punishing yourself.”

“It’s not like there’s anyone else to punish me. I’m the queen of my ship. My punishment is that I can never leave her.”

“That’s why you pushed me away after…”

“After I allowed myself to be happy for a few stolen moments? Aye, Mister Leary, you have that much correct.”

“Roman. Not Mister Leary. Not when we’re alone.”

She withdrew her hand, shaking her head. “No, I can’t. Not when you might disappoint me. Not when I might lose you.”

“We have both lost, but that doesn’t mean we must fear losing again, does it? After my son died, after Annaliese left me, I felt like my entire life was out of control, falling apart at the seams. I threw myself into duty with everything I had, every waking hour. It was the only way to stop remembering. Only a connection with a blind child gave me hope again. You can’t keep people out forever. Now, it’s time I told you the truth. All of it. Please sit, this will take a while.”

This time, she sat, with him beside her, hands resting gently on his as he spoke, recounting a story of a journey with a blind prince from a faraway land, a journey that had brought him to her very ship. When he’d finished, he said, “I cannot allow the shadowblade to fall back into Sampson’s hands. If it does, I fear it will destroy what is left of his goodness. That is why I must go to Firestone, why I must climb to the mount’s very precipice, and why I must destroy the blade.” After he spoke those words, they sat in silence for a long time, both lost in their thoughts.

Finally, she said, “Okay.”

He looked at her. “Okay?”

“Aye. I will reroute the ship to Firestone. After you complete your task, I will take you anywhere you wish to go.”

“What about your shipping schedule? The goods you must deliver to Armitage?” he asked, simultaneously wondering why in the void he was asking when he’d just received the very answer he wanted, he needed.

“They can wait. You say the fate of Kingfall may very well hang in the balance, right?”

“I believe this in the depths of my soul, yes.”

“Then what choice do we have?” She said the last lightly before standing and opening the door.

“Where are you going?” Roman asked, head spinning from the change the day had taken.

“To be the captain,” she said, and then she was gone.

Roman charged after her, emerging onto the deck just as the captain shouted, “All hands on deck! There’s been a change of plans! Reroute toward Firestone! Full wind ahead!”

Roman closed his eyes. When he opened them, he realized how odd it was that the shadowblade had been silent ever since he shoved it beneath the bed.

Fourteen

Sampson Gaard

Dunadin, Avadon

FOUR DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE CHARLOTTE KERR TOLD SAMPSON SHE WOULD HELP HIM ESCAPE.

Since that strange night, he hadn’t heard any sign of the young woman, and he was almost beginning to wonder whether he’d dreamt the whole thing. Nor had Glynn Kerr appeared to carry out his threat, though the deadline he’d mandated had come and gone. The fifth day started out rather ordinary, the bark from the taskmaster awakening the slaves from their fitful slumber. Sampson wished he were home in Wolfsgaard where he could simply ignore the world and pull his covers up to his chin to stave off the winter’s cold. Or he could call for a servant to add wood to his hearth. He’d taken such things for granted over the years, and yet he’d wanted nothing more than to charge into the world to prove himself. Now such a desire seemed childish and foolish.

He knew if he lingered in bed any longer he would earn himself extra work or a sharp blow from the taskmaster’s staff, so he did what he did every cold morning—he whipped off the blanket in one swift motion and then marched outside amongst the other slaves, shivering and breathing hot breaths into his hands. He didn’t even need to count the steps anymore or feel for the edge of the doorway, his body knowing the distance, the angles, and where each obstacle was.

He stepped into line with the other slaves for inspection. His stomach had growled every other morning, but not today. Finally, the small meals had done their job, his stomach shrinking to a size that allowed him some peace from its constant grumbles. He hoped it would last until they completed the long march to the end of the mine shaft, which is where their meager breakfast would be provided.

The sound of a horse’s hooves padding over snow-packed cobblestones drew Sampson’s attention. The other slaves began murmuring amongst themselves. “What’s happening?” Sampson asked whoever was close enough to hear his voice.

“Looks like we got a new slave joinin’ the crew,” a man said, voice low. “One of the Griz. Musta been caught durin’ their attack on the Crossing.”

Sampson’s heart skipped a beat. One of the Grizari had been captured and brought to Dunadin? He was surprised the Avadonians would even bother capturing one of their eastern neighbors. He expected their mantra to be ‘kill now, ask questions later.’ Regardless, a Griz was here, and there was a good possibility whoever it was would recognize him, even if he didn’t recognize the buck or doe. He shrank back a little, using the line of slaves to hide him. Until he determined the Griz’s identity, it was better to stay out of sight.

The horse stopped, the beast’s breathing heavy after its travels. Heavy feet thumped as the rider dismounted. “This one should make a good miner,” a new voice said. “Strong, broad shoulders.”

“General? I didn’t realize you were back in Dunadin,” the taskmaster said. He sounded rather flustered.

“Just arrived. I wanted to deliver this one myself.”

A Griz?” the taskmaster said. “I don’t like the looks of those horns.”

“Nothing you can’t handle. Just need to show it who’s master like you do with all of them.”

It, Sampson thought, shaking his head at the ignorance of the rider, a general apparently, that had brought his prize to this point. The Griz hadn’t said anything yet, so the best Sampson could do was picture an undetailed horned creature standing in the snow blowing out ghostly breaths.

“Can I take it on the march today?”

“Course. Why wait?”

“It looks dead on its feet.”

“I thought the same miles ago, but its feet will keep moving forward so long as you make them. These creatures are made of stronger stuff than you might think. They might’ve made formidable adversaries on the battlefield.”

“Do you think it will come to that?”

“Nay. Their pathetic uprising has been stomped out. Other than this one, those we captured will be forced to fight the demons.”

Sampson hated these men with a passion.

“Fine. Join the line, slave!” the taskmaster barked.

Sampson listened intently for the tromping steps that would indicate a heavy body shuffling into line. Instead there was no sound except the horse’s blustery exhalations. The poor beast was anxious to be fed and watered after a long, cold march. And soon it would be, which was more than could be said about the Griz who’d been forced to stumble along beside it and who would now be shoved into yet another trek without sustenance to sustain him or her.

“Does it understand the common tongue?” the taskmaster asked after his command went unheeded.

“Aye. Just stubborn as a damn mule.”

“Ah, that I can deal with. Thank you, General Zen.”

General Zen? Sampson thought. The man wasn’t just one of Glynn Kerr’s many generals, he was the general of generals, the number one officer in the Avadonian military. The fact that he had hand-delivered a captured Griz to the taskmaster was strange, to say the least. Surely he had more important matters to attend to considering the continued demon threat and the aftermath of the attempted Grizari invasion.

I’ve really made a mess of things, Sampson thought. The most frustrating thing was that he still didn’t truly know how much of his actions had been his own versus the shadowblade’s influence.

The thought of the shadowblade gripped him for a long moment, his teeth clenched tightly together, his hands fisted at his sides. Oh how he yearned to feel its hilt in his palm, fingers wrapped around its cool steel! No, he thought. That feeling, that yearning, it’s not real, a hissed lie from the mouth of a serpent. He breathed deeply until the feeling passed, his teeth unclenching, his fingers uncurling.

He returned to himself only to hear the vicious sound of a hard wooden staff meeting thick Grizari skin. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! “Gods, you’re like a small boulder made of flesh and bone,” the taskmaster said. “But you will fall into line, if you like having two eyes that can see.”

That threat in particular made Sampson flinch. He wouldn’t wish blindness on his worst enemy, especially now that he’d experienced what it was like to see the world, with its vibrant colors and kaleidoscope of visual delights. He expected the Griz to acquiesce, but not so. The new slave said nothing, as unmoving as the boulder the taskmaster had compared the Griz to.

“Hmm, should I start with the left or right eye?” the taskmaster said. “Last chance, slave.”

Sampson only realized he’d begun moving after he’d already stepped forward, clear of the line of slaves, turning to the right toward the taskmaster’s voice. “Leave him alone,” he said. He didn’t know for certain the Griz was a buck, but he also wasn’t about to use the demeaning ‘it’ like General Zen and the taskmaster.

“Sampson?”

Sampson froze, mouth opening slightly, the cold, dry air swarming inside. It couldn’t be. What were the chances? “Grym?” he said.

“You two know each other?” the taskmaster said, sounding incredulous.

“Aye,” Grym said. “And I’m gonna keel him!”

Finally, finally, the Grizari moved, stomping feet moving so fast it sounded like a stampede headed in Sampson’s direction, short and quick due to the chains that tethered Grym’s feet together, clinking and clanking as he charged.

This is it, he thought. The real consequence for my sins.

What I deserve.

He didn’t move, didn’t try to defend himself, just stood and waited for the inevitable.

Grym

When Grym saw Sampson, his vision turned red. Everything that had happened over the last few months had been caused by this cretin of a human and his shadowy blade. A blade which he no longer wore, leaving him as defenseless as a mouse.

Even the strange, growing pull to the north that had returned during the trek to Dunadin was momentarily forgotten.

He had to admit, he lost himself in that moment, the world around him darkening, a tunnel seeming to open before him with Sampson at the end. As he charged, straining at the limits set by the chains clanking around his ankles, all he wanted was to kill him, to break his body in half, to feel his bones shattering on the hard bone of his horns. This was the entirety of his focus, the only thing he wanted in the world before he could die a satisfied buck.

Thus it was that Grym didn’t see the figure who’d appeared around the corner, striding for the point where the two would meet, eyes narrowing slightly as he drew a sword from a sheath. He didn’t notice as the figure spun the blade around in reverse, jabbing out with the hilt.

But he did feel the hilt’s steely impact as it crashed into the side of his face with the force of a battering ram, his own forward momentum multiplying the force of the blow tenfold, causing stars to dance before his eyes as blood exploded from his nose.

He staggered back, reeling, tasting copper in his mouth as he shook away the stars flashing before his eyes. He turned his head slightly, a form materializing before him as though the man had been invisible only a moment ago. “This…between…me…and him,” Grym said to the man. He gestured toward Sampson, who’d flinched back the moment Grym had been struck. There was something off about him, Grym now noticed. Sampson’s eyes were tracking the action, but not with exactness, always aimed a bit to the left or right of center, as though he was—

“Revenge is such a foolish desire,” the man said, interrupting his thoughts. “Men waste lifetimes on it, when turning that same fiery focus toward other more practical pursuits would lead to wealth and prosperity and true power. Would killing this man bring you true happiness? I argue that it would not, only dump shovelfuls of dirt on the grave you’ve been slowly digging with your own two hands.”

Grym’s wits were beginning to return to him now, his new adversary’s features coming into focus. He wore fine clothing, a greatcoat without smudge or tatter over a high-necked shirt with sleeves extended beyond the length of the outerwear, gold clasps fitted into buttonholes. He had an air of superiority that permeated every aspect of him, from the way he stood to the way he spoke to the way his lips curled into a smile. “I am Glynn Kerr,” he said. “And you are Grym, son of Drynym, recent leader of the united Grizari tribes, captured by General Zen and now my slave.”

Grym spat a glob of blood into the snow. “You drove us to cross Roughwater. You demanded restitution.”

“And you attacked me. I’d say restitution was in order.”

“My people were coerced by filthy human. Him.”

“There’s no need for name-calling,” Glynn Kerr said calmly. “And I find it hard to believe a blind man could coerce anyone into a war, much less a people as strong and proud and fragmented as the Grizari.”

Blind? Grym thought. That was exactly what he’d been about to think before Kerr had begun his monologue. “He wielded a sword of darkness,” Grym said. “And he wasn’t blind, not when I knew him. Tell them, blind man, tell them what you are!”

Sampson tried to speak, but Kerr’s voice rose above it, drowning it out. “You are mistaken. And you will not attempt to harm him again, is that clear?”

“I do not fear what you will do to me,” Grym said, taking a chain-rattling step forward. He was prepared to feel the cold steel of this man’s blade inside him. It wouldn’t stop him, not until he’d torn Sampson apart piece by piece. And then he would do the same to Kerr.

“Do you not fear what I could do to your daughter? Shrym, is it?”

Grym froze, feeling a slash of cold fear sever his spine. “Choose next words wisely, human,” he growled.

“I always choose my words wisely, and I suggest you listen to these carefully. If you so much as pluck a hair from this man’s head, I will have General Zen and my army of sellswords hunt your people to the ends of the earth. I will find your daughter. And I will personally skin her alive while you watch. Do we have an understanding?”

Grym’s eyes felt like hot coals as they burned into the stare of the foul man standing before him, making a threat that cut to the core of his very world. Except what he saw in Kerr’s eyes was not a threat—it was a promise. Eyrm’s betrayal had cut him to the bone, but this…it was a hand clamped around his heart, squeezing. Because there was only one way Glynn Kerr could know about his daughter.

If Sampson or Eyrm told him.

“I will not harm him,” Grym said. “But I swear on Drynym’s funeral pyre that I will keel you. Mark words.”

Glynn Kerr smiled. “I’d like to see that,” he said, as though the prospect of his own demise was akin to something as beautiful as a rainbow arching over a waterfall. Then, turning to Sampson, he said, “A word, slave.” He grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him inside a nearby structure, calling back over his shoulder, “Taskmaster, this slave will catch up. Do not wait for him.”

Sampson

As Sampson was steered back inside the slave barracks, his mind was still trying to make sense of how Grym had been captured. The Grizari buck had said something about being driven to cross the Roughwater because Kerr had demanded restitution. And how had Kerr known about Grym’s daughter? None of it made any sense.

“Sit,” Kerr commanded.

Sampson sat, using his hand to guide him onto the nearest bed.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Kerr asked.

The deadline, Sampson thought. He said nothing.

“Did you visit my daughter five days ago in the dark of night?”

That caught Sampson by surprise. Not that he’d forgotten the event. Void, it was burned into his mind forever, Charlotte Kerr’s words repeating themselves over and over again in his consciousness: I’m going to help you escape…I’m going to help you escape…

What was more surprising that it seemed like her father had only just learned of the visit. Perhaps one of his servants had mentioned it offhand, thinking nothing of it, probably assuming their master knew of everything that occurred under his own roof. In any case, there was no point in lying. “Visit? Not exactly. I can’t pick and choose who I go see. I’m a slave, remember? No, Master Kerr, I was summoned by your daughter, dragged from bed in the night by your own taskmaster and forced to deliver her supper to her very bedroom door.”

“Why?” Kerr asked. “And answer without all the sarcasm this time.”

Sampson shrugged. “You should ask her. I’ve been wondering the same thing. It was an awfully long way for me to travel just to deliver a plate of food that had probably grown cold while waiting for me to arrive. Not to mention the army of servants who’d been available to deliver it in my stead.”

“Did Charlotte say anything to you?”

Sampson knew this was a crucial point in the inquiry. Thus far, the lies had been easy enough to mask. But this man likely knew his daughter well enough to sniff out a lie when it came to the way she spoke. Sampson could say she’d said nothing, but the girl clearly liked to talk, so that would raise suspicions. She had a unique way of speaking, which meant her saying something as boring and expected as ‘Thank you’ wouldn’t work either. He also wondered whether the man knew about her previous visit to the mines. He hadn’t mentioned it, but he also might be testing him to see how forthcoming he was. All these thoughts passed through Sampson’s mind in the blink of an eye before he answered. “She thanked me for playing her little game,” Sampson said, “and told me to leave the food on her doorstep so it could grow properly cold.”

Kerr said nothing for a moment, but Sampson could feel the man’s eyes on him. Judging. Assessing. Concluding. He snorted. “That sounds like Charlotte. She must’ve noticed the interest I’ve taken in you and wanted to get a look for herself.” Sampson said nothing. The less he spoke the better. “On to the matter of the sword…have you changed your mind about helping me recover it?”

“It’s not a matter of changing my mind,” Sampson said. “My connection to the blade has been lost. I don’t know if the connection is based on time or distance, but I can’t feel it anymore. The blade hasn’t spoken to me in days. You can do anything you want to me; it won’t change anything.”

“Hmm.” Kerr sounded thoughtful. “I think it’s possible you’re telling the truth.”

“I am.”

“But I’ve also learned over the years that most men will lie through their teeth to save themselves. Void, some men will lie just to save their pride from being wounded. It’s always best and prudent to put a man’s—or woman’s, I don’t like to discriminate—claim to the test, don’t you think?”

Sampson said nothing, not liking the turn the conversation had taken. Then I’ll start cutting off pieces of you.

“I’ll let you decide the first one. I would normally take an eye, but that wouldn’t mean much to you, would it? A finger or toe perhaps… On second thought, most men don’t mind losing something so small and insignificant. How about a hand or a foot? Can’t decide? No matter, I can choose for you. You should at least choose right or left, it’s only fair.” The cruelty in the man’s tone told Sampson everything he needed to know about him. He measured himself on how much coin he extracted from each second of each day, regardless of the acts he took to gain that wealth. Which meant he was willing to do whatever it took to get his hands on the shadowblade, which could be valued at nothing less than priceless.

“Left hand,” Sampson said quickly, the words emerging oddly hollow, like someone else had spoken them from inside a distant cave. His mouth felt as dry as sand left baking in the hot sun. Did I seriously just choose which limb I wanted cut off?

Kerr’s laughter was harsh and grating. “So you value your feet above your hands, and you favor your right side. Fair enough. Right foot it is!”

Sampson hated that he’d fallen into the man’s trap, but this situation was like something out of a nightmare. He didn’t even have time to get his bound hands up before Kerr was upon him, shoving him backwards onto the bed and driving his knees into Sampson’s chest, pinning him flat. He tried to kick, but Kerr was a big, strong man, and he easily subdued them, drawing one of his trouser legs up past his knee, ripping off his boot in a single motion. The edge of steel pressed against his skin, cold and biting. “If you fight it, you’ll be slashed to ribbons and lose a foot. Better to just let me do it. Or better yet, help me find the shadowblade. Last chance.”

Sampson knew he couldn’t actually help him find the blade, but he would say anything to stop what was about to happen. “Fine. Fine!” he screamed. “You’re right. I can help you. Even now, I can sense the blade. It’s lodged between the stones, somewhere on the Roughwater. I can guide you to it.”

Silence hung for a moment, Sampson’s breath lodged in his throat. Then Kerr said, “You’re lying. Perhaps you’ll be more reasonable once you’re a little lighter, say by the weight of a foot?” He pressed down hard with the blade and Sampson felt a blaze of pain shoot through him. He screamed.

“Master Kerr!” a voice shouted. Sampson was barely aware of the shout, such was the pain of the blade’s teeth gnawing deeper into his flesh. Soon they would taste bone…

“Not now,” Kerr growled.

“Master Kerr!” came the voice again, closer this time. Whoever was shouting sounded like they were just outside the barracks.

Sampson screamed again, the pain fierce. The blade seemed to meet some resistance. My bone, he thought wildly. The blade is pressing against my bone!

“Master Kerr? Oh gods, I didn’t know. Oh. I’m—I’m—”

“Get. Out,” Kerr snarled.

Don’t go, Sampson begged in his mind. Anything to delay this. Please, please, please…

“I—yes, of course. It’s just, the message is one of urgency. You asked to be informed the moment there was even a hint of a rumor, a shred of offhand gossip, or—”

“Get to the point before I turn this blade on you, messenger,” Kerr said.

“Someone sighted a blade sheathed with shadows!” the messenger said quickly, voice rising just shy of a scream.

Kerr stopped pushing the blade further into Sampson. “Where?” His tone was firm, but almost peaceful now.

“South Strangle. A large man wore the blade at his hip. His clothes were well-worn, like he’d been traveling for some time. There were bloodstained holes across his chest. The circumstances of his appearance were…unusual. The sellswords kept an eye on him, but he was never violent.”

“Where is he now?”

“Er, he boarded a ship.”

“What ship?” The growl had returned to Kerr’s voice.

“Queen of the Seas, sir. A Captain Mirren commands her. A woman, by all accounts.”

“I don’t give two shites if the captain is a three-headed dreadbeast. Tell me the sellswords had the sense to keep her anchored in the Strangle.”

“I—I—I—she paid the toll and passed through the gate into the Sacred Sea. Her next port of call is Armitage.”

“Ready my horse and horses for my entire guard! Now!”

“Yessir!”

“And send those fool sellswords back to Pentock. I won’t pay for them to be on Avadonian soil for a moment longer than is necessary.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

The weight lifted from Sampson’s chest. His leg ached and the liquid feel of warm blood sat his skin, but the blade had been withdrawn. “It seems you weren’t lying, prince,” Kerr said. “The shadowblade has traveled out of reach. But not for long. I will be there to kill its bearer and collect it myself when it arrives in Armitage. Any idea who may have it, this large man with the bloodstained holes in his chest?”

Oh Roman, Sampson thought. Are you trying to save me from the blade? Is that what you’re doing with it? “Not the slightest idea,” he said aloud.

Only the sound of Kerr’s fading footsteps told him the man had gone.

He lay there for a while, wincing at the throbbing pain in his leg. Even that eventually faded to a dull pounding. Had he been forgotten in Kerr’s haste? The taskmaster was gone, leading the other slaves into the mineshaft. Kerr was gone on his expedition to Armitage. He would likely ride hard west until he reached the Strangle. From there he would commandeer the swiftest seaworthy vessel he could find, relieve it of any unnecessary weight, and then sail hard south and then east for Armitage, the ship’s oarsmen working around the clock to catch their prey.

There was nothing Sampson could do for Roman now—just knowing with certainty the man still lived was more than he could’ve hoped for—but could he do something for himself?

First, he felt down the length of his leg until his fingers felt the smooth slickness of blood and the roughness of his rent skin. The wound was deep but not wide, still pumping blood. The first order of business was to apply pressure to stem the tide. He felt for the nearest blanket, dragging it closer. Then he tore at the fabric, which was so threadbare it required the smallest amount of pressure before ripping along a seam, a long strip pulling loose. Wincing against the pain, Sampson wrapped the cloth around his injured leg several times and then tied it off. It took him three attempts to get the knot right, his shaking fingers fumbling at the cloth.

He took a deep breath, hoping the cold would help the blood to clot quicker, at least before it saturated the poor man’s tourniquet.

Then, slowly, quietly, he located his boot, slipped it on, and eased from bed. He padded across the room to the door, listening every few steps. Everything was as quiet as it had ever been.

He slipped out the door, boots crunching on the hard-packed snow. He froze, listening again. No one was about, not that he could hear anyway. He could sneak away behind the barracks and then feel his way from structure to structure until he’d quit this dreadful place. Maybe he’d be able to wander south, continuing his original plan to find work on a ship that would eventually carry him back to Wolfsgaard. The thought of home felt like the very air that now filled his lungs as he drew another deep breath through cold lips.

His plans crumbled like a pillar made entirely of snow when he remembered Grym. He’d wronged the Grizari man. Had wronged his people. Had used them. Had killed them and their cattle. Had controlled them. It didn’t matter that he’d been coerced by the blade that had once felt like the greatest gift in the world, but which was now nothing but a curse.

They were still his sins to bear. And leaving Grym here to suffer alone was something he simply could not abide, not if he were to ever become the type of man that Roman could be proud of again.

“Hello! Is anyone there!” he shouted.

There was a surprised grunt and then the sound of hurried footfalls padding through the snow. “What are you doing, slave?” a voice said. “Where is your taskmaster?”

“I was left behind,” Sampson said. “I know the way.”

“You’re the blind one, aren’t you? I’ll be skinned alive if I send you off alone and you fall into a ditch or disappear. No, I’ll escort you myself. I hope you’re ready for a long, hard march, you’ve ruined my day off.”

The relief his shrunken stomach had provided thus far disappeared, an ache clenching his gut. “I’m ready,” he said.

Fifteen

Roman Leary

Onboard Queen of the Seas, Sacred Sea

THE WIND AT HER BACK, THE QUEEN OF THE SEAS CUT SOUTHWARD ACROSS THE WATERS TOWARD FIRESTONE. Roman gripped the railing, staring out toward the horizon, where the beginnings of a lonely mountain were beginning to take shape, threatening clouds haloing its precipice like a dark crown.

“You’re blocking my view,” a voice said from behind.

He turned, a smile already forming on his face. “Good morning, Captain Mirren. I was just taking in my first glimpse of Firestone.”

The captain returned his smile, her fingers lightly brushing against the spokes of the ship’s wheel, like a lover’s caress. He’d felt the tenderness of those fingers himself. He longed to be the wheel that she now grasped, making subtle corrections to their course. “And yet you are the mountain blocking my view of Firestone.”

“Apologies, Captain,” Roman said, stepping aside to open her view.

She squinted, releasing one hand from the wheel to shade her eyes. “Doesn’t look like much from here, does it?”

“Shall we go below decks and refuse to come up until we’re closer?”

Her head turned to either side to ensure no one was within earshot. “You forget yourself, Mister Leary,” she said. “Duty requires our presence above decks. Have you visited the children today?”

Roman wished they were in her cabin where they could be themselves, where he could speak the words of his heart to her. “Not yet, Captain,” he said. “I will make my rounds now.” He walked past her close enough that he could feel her presence without brushing against her.

“Later, Roman,” she said under her breath.

Roman smiled, those two simple words carrying him down the steps to the quarterdeck with a lightness in his strides that he hadn’t felt since… Since Annaliese, he thought. The joyful feelings he’d allowed to penetrate his heart vanished in an instant. Since Annaliese had left him, the only thing that had truly inspired him had been protecting Sampson, teaching him the ways of the world and where he fit into it. But now his feelings for Lila were distracting him from that, he realized. He hadn’t even thought of Sampson or the shadowblade since he arose this morning. The blade hadn’t broken its silence since he’d told Lila everything and she’d agreed to transport him to Firestone. He’d enjoyed the respite from its hissing retorts and unwanted comments. Three days later, however, he wondered whether its silence was truly a gift or an ill omen.

He paused, focusing his mind on the blade he knew was tucked safely beneath his bed. Blade, he said. No response. I know you are angry, he tried again.

WHY WOULD I BE ANGRY? the blade said. YOU ACT AS THOUGH NO ONE HAS EVER THREATENED TO THROW ME INTO THE FIRES OF A VOLCANO BEFORE.

I have no choice. You aren’t good for Sampson. He is my priority.

AND I DON’T FAULT YOU FOR CARING ABOUT SAMPSON. I CARE ABOUT HIM TOO. HE’S MY TRUE WIELDER, AFTER ALL.

Roman hated the way the blade still said that, like it was an unalienable truth that couldn’t be disputed. I’m your wielder now, he said.

ARE YOU? WHEN HAVE YOU WIELDED ME? LEST YOU FORGET, YOU WIELDED A DIFFERENT SWORD TO FOOL THE CAPTAIN INTO HELPING YOU.

Roman suddenly remembered why he’d enjoyed the respite from the sword’s hissing. It was damn irritating. It’s not like that, he said, immediately cursing himself for even feeling the need to justify his actions to the shadowblade.

AHH, NOW I UNDERSTAND. IT’S LOVE, ISN’T IT? THAT FOOLISH HUMAN EMOTION THAT CLOUDS THE MIND AND PUSHES YOUR KIND TO MAKE IDIOTIC DECISIONS.

Don’t be ridiculous.

DENIAL IS ONE OF THE SYMPTOMS OF LOVE.

Forget it. I was only trying to say… What was he trying to say? I’m sorry I left you under the bed. I’ll return you to my hip when I next go below decks.

DON’T BOTHER. I LIKE IT HERE. IT’S DARK AND WARM.

Roman frowned, unable to discern whether the blade was being serious or flippant. He decided on the latter, continuing on his way, scouring the deck for the meeker of the two thieving siblings, the boy named Arto. He found him on the starboard side of the quarterdeck with a brush in his hand and a bucket at his side. He was scrubbing salt from the decks as though accomplishing this one task meant the difference between life and death. The portion he’d already finished gleamed in the morning sun. Roman couldn’t help but to admire the boy’s work ethic and resolve.

“Good morning, sailor,” Roman said. The boy flinched, as though he expected to be kicked. Roman wondered how many times he had been kicked like that. He also wondered how many times his sister, Ginny, had come to his rescue, fighting off her brother’s attackers. This lad was clearly willing to seek an honest future, but he needed to learn to stand on his own two feet before he could. Roman hoped he could help him in that regard.

“Good m-mornin’, M-mister Leary,” the boy said. He pushed to his feet, almost slipping on a wet patch, righted himself and then saluted clumsily. He realized too late that the hand he’d saluted with still gripped the brush, drops of water dripping onto Roman’s boots. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—”

“At ease,” Roman said. “Think nothing of it. These boots have seen far worse than a bit of dirty water.” Memories of blood splashing up around his footfalls flashed through his mind. Most of it had been his, a stark reminder that he was fortunate enough to be counted amongst the living.

“Er, s-sir, can I ask you somethin’?” Arto said.

“Of course.”

“Ginny…” Roman waited patiently for the boy to collect his thoughts. “Do you think she’ll ever speak to me again?”

Roman wasn’t aware that the girl had been punishing her brother’s choice with silence. “I must admit, I don’t have much experience with siblings,” Roman said. “But I have experience with people. You can’t force them to do something they aren’t ready to do. I won’t promise she’ll come around, but I can promise you’ll regret not speaking your heart when you have the chance.”

“That’s…hard for me, especially when it comes to my sister.”

“I can understand that. Your sister reminds me of the offspring of a hurricane and a tornado.”

A laugh burst from the boy’s mouth and he tried to stifle it, rather unsuccessfully, with a hand. “That describes Ginny,” he said. “I’ve always felt like a drop of rain next to her downpour.”

Roman nodded thoughtfully. As a man who appreciated a bit of poetry, he found himself impressed with the lad’s choice of words. “Have you told her that?”

“With respect, I prefer keepin’ all my fingers, sir.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Well, don’t miss your chance now. She’s tied to the railing. Just be sure to stay out of reach of her tether.”

The boy’s face paled. “I—I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Then be prepared to live with the regret. I’ve found that unsaid words that should be said sit heavy as stones in your gut.”

“Thank ye, sir. I will think on yer advice.”

“Just don’t think too long. A scholar can think his whole life without accomplishing anything.”

“I’m no scholar, sir.”

Roman smiled. “Neither am I. As you were, sailor.”

The boy saluted again, this time without the brush, and then resumed his work with the same vigor as before. Roman turned his gaze to the port-side, where Ginny sat with her back against the railing, eyes fixed on him like an archer sighting her target. He made his way over to her before twisting his way down to sit beside her.

“Good morning, Ginny.”

No response. Ever since the captain agreed to carry her to Armitage and then release her, they’d been playing this game a few times each day—him speaking, her silent. Now he knew that her silence wasn’t just for him, but for her brother as well. “It’s not nice to shut your brother out like that,” he said.

She glared at him, lips opening. Then she seemed to catch herself, clamping them shut as tight as the walls of a blacksmith’s vice.

“Feel free to speak your mind, lass,” Roman said. “My skin’s as thick as it looks.”

She looked away. The sea breeze blustered her hair around her face, and she used a hand to tuck it behind one ear. He caught a glimpse of the red rings encircling her wrist from the rope’s constant chafing against her skin. It had to be painful, but the girl never seemed to show any sign of discomfort.

“Your brother is scared.”

“Arto’s always been scared.” The words emerged from her mouth before she could stop them, and she muttered a curse under her breath at having been drawn from her shell.

“Aye, for himself,” Roman said. “But he’s not scared for himself anymore. He’s scared for you.”

“That makes one of us.”

“I don’t believe you. What will you do when we let you loose in Armitage?”

The girl offered a scornful stare. “What I’ve always done—survived.”

“Until you get caught stealing again. Someone less merciful will take a hand—or your life.”

“Less merciful,” the girl scoffed. Roman found it interesting that those were the two words she’d latched onto out of the set. “Mercy is a thing for the cruel to use to feel better about themselves.”

While the streets had made her brother more grateful for the kindness of strangers, they had made Ginny cynical and misanthropic. “That may be true in your experience, but it’s not true in all experiences. Captain Mirren has a good heart and she is a fair woman.”

Ginny snorted.

“The tailor was a bad man who was using you and your brother for his own gain.”

“He wasn’t using us. I’m not a child. I knew what I was doing.”

And what percent of the take was he going to give you? Thirty percent?” The girl looked away. “Twenty?” Her jaw tightened. “Ten?”

“We wouldn’t have even been able to sneak onto the ship without his help.”

“I’m sure that’s what he told you.”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“Don’t I? I grew up on the streets, same as you. No parents. No one to look after me but myself. I knew hunger. I knew cold. I knew despair and anger and fear. A word of advice: The next time you steal, keep all the profits for yourself. At least then when you’re caught, you’ll know you acted in your own best interests.”

With that, Roman used the railing to pull himself to his feet. His typical morning routine was to walk the rest of the ship to ensure nothing was amiss and remind the sailors that someone was watching them, but instead he headed for the staircase below decks. Something about the last thing the shadowblade had said was continuing to bother him. Because he no longer believed its response to be flippant.

Since the blade had entered his life, he’d never known it to want anything but to be flashed about in the heat of the action. Hiding beneath a bed was simply not in its nature.

By the time he hit the cramped corridor at the bottom of the stairs, Roman had broken into a run, wooden floorboards creaking under his heavy trod. He reached the end of the hallway to find nothing amiss, the three doors—his and the quartermaster’s across from each other with Lila’s bookending them both—closed up tight.

He fished his key from his pocket, wondering whether the blade had wanted this, toying with him until he became paranoid. Just before he inserted the key into the lock, however, he had a thought that gave him pause. He returned the key to his pocket and reached out to grasp the doorknob, which should’ve been fixed in place, locked.

Except it wasn’t, the knob twisting to the right as he turned it quietly. He took a deep breath and counted to three in his head, and then smashed the door open with his shoulder, bursting inside the small cabin. In the darkness, he saw a small, round form go tumbling to the floor, having been hit first by the door and then Roman.

Roman was on him in a second, hauling the form to its feet and slamming it against the wall. A blade of light slipped through the door and fell on the form’s face. “Barney?” Roman said, brow wrinkling as he took in the quartermaster’s face. Typically the man’s cheeks had a rather rosy complexion, but now they were as white as polished moonstone.

“The shadows call to me. I must answer.” He spoke the words in a monotone voice, his eyes searching for something over Roman’s shoulder, not seeming to care that a man twice his size had caught him where he shouldn’t be. Roman twisted his head around, shocked to find the shadowblade resting on the foot of the bed, free of its sheath, shadows twisting and curling restlessly like whorls of mist around tombstones on a foggy morn in the barrowlands.

I GUESS YOU CAUGHT ME, the blade said.

What did you do to him?

NOTHING HE DIDN’T WANT TO DO. I GROW TIRED OF YOU AS MY TEMPORARY WIELDER. I’M IN THE MARKET FOR A REPLACEMENT.

Roman shook his head, disgusted at himself for being so careless and assuming the shadowblade was safe as long as it was locked in his cabin under his bed. Of course it wouldn’t go quietly to its doom. Of course it would try to bait and capture another unwitting prey. The quartermaster had been a wise choice—the man had keys to every cabin, save for the captain’s quarters.

Just as Roman turned his head back around to face the quartermaster, the man bucked forward, crashing his forehead into the bridge of Roman’s nose. He stumbled back, pain shooting through his face. Barney, who Roman had easily lifted off his feet, dropped with a thump, lunging for the blade. Roman barely had the presence of mind to throw an arm to the side to block him, but the small-statured man ducked under it and dove, hitting the bed with a flop.

Roman was about to go after him, to grab him by the shoulders and drag him back, wrenching the blade from his grasp if the man had already managed to clamp his plump fingers around its hilt. Instead, he stopped, eyes watering from the blow he’d taken. Blood leaking from his nose. Face numb.

He stopped because of what he saw.

Shadows streamed from Barney’s back, from the bloody wound where the blade had skewered him all the way through. Mouth opening in horror, Roman manhandled Barney into his arms, the blade easily slipping free and sliding back to the bedclothes, shadows pulsing frenetically, their excitement at having tasted blood palpable in the air itself.

HIS BLOOD’S ON YOUR HANDS, NOT MINE, the blade said. NEITHER OF US EVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN ON THIS SHIP.

Seething, Roman placed Barney’s body gently on the floor. There was no life in his boneless form. Blood had filled his mouth and poured down his chin. The shadowblade had pierced him in the left breast, and Roman had no doubt that it had found his heart. How it was possible, he knew not. The blade had been on its side, not pointed up like a spear planted in the ground. The man could only have landed on the sword’s broadside. It should’ve been harmless.

Roman hated the blade with every ounce of his being. All he wanted to do was grab it now, rush above deck, and hurl it over the side, watching it sink to the bottom of the Sacred Sea where it would be lost forever.

He might’ve if that were true. But he knew the shadowblade would not be lost, not forever. One day—a week from now, a month, a year, perhaps years—the currents or a sea creature would carry it back to shore, where it would be found. Until it had been melted down to slag, death would always follow the blade like a hungry hound.

OR…, the blade said, YOU COULD LISTEN TO REASON AND TELL CAPTAIN MIRREN YOU’VE CHANGED YOUR MIND, THAT YOU WISH TO RETURN TO SOUTH STRANGLE. IT’S NOT TOO LATE. THE QUARTERMASTER WAS ONLY A WARNING.

A warning of what? Roman asked.

YOU DISAPPOINT ME, the blade said.

Whether conjured by the shadowblade or by Roman’s own mind, he knew not, but at that moment Lila’s face appeared in his mind. Not as she stood stoic at the ship’s wheel, but how she’d looked as they lay abed, her face slightly flushed, her hair askew. Like that, she’d been the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

You won’t go anywhere near her, Roman said. Even as he said it, he knew it was an empty threat, for what else could he do to the blade? He was already seeking to destroy it. Like any other cornered animal being threatened with the knife, it was prepared to claw and bite its way to freedom.

I SUPPOSE THE CHOICE IS YOURS, ISN’T IT?

Roman gritted his teeth. Squeezing between Barney’s corpse and the bed, he reached beneath to retrieve the sheath. He stood and fitted it back onto his belt. He’d made the mistake of thinking the blade was better off out of sight and mind, forgetting the old adage that enemies were less of a threat when kept close at hand, within sight at the least. Thus it was that he picked up the blade, cleaned the blood from its steel with the small towel he’d been afforded to wash his face, and slid it back into the sheath.

And then he left to tell the captain what he’d done.

Lila had immediately ushered him below decks when she’d seen his face. He hadn’t exactly had the chance to look in a mirror to inspect the damage from the quartermaster’s headbutt.

Only once they were alone within the confines of her cabin’s walls and door did she say, “What happened?”

There was no easy way to say what needed to be said. “Barney is dead.”

“What? Where? How?” The captain looked ready to rush off and find whatever or whoever had harmed the quartermaster and mete out her vengeance with the same preciseness with which she managed her ship.

“He’s in my cabin,” Roman said. “Stabbed through the heart with the shadowblade. I caught him sneaking about.”

Lila sank back a step, eyeing Roman in a way that pained him. “I don’t understand. Why was he in your cabin? Why did you have to kill him?”

“I didn’t.” He rethought his response. The shadowblade had been right about one thing—Barney would still be alive if not for Roman’s decisions. The man’s blood stained his hands, something he would have to find a way to live with, at least until he’d completed his mission. “At least, not directly.”

“Tell me everything, now,” the captain said.

Roman recounted the brief story in detail, leaving nothing out, reciting every word the blade had spoken to him from memory.

When he’d finished, the captain’s eyes bore into the shadowblade at his hip. “I don’t understand how…doesn’t the blade require a hand to wield it? If you refuse to, then it’s harmless, right?”

Roman wanted nothing more than to comfort this woman, to rope his arms around her and tell her that yes, he could protect her from the blade. But that would be a lie, and he wouldn’t patronize this woman by speaking words he knew were untrue. “Not necessarily. The magic inside the blade is ancient, beyond either of our understanding. It is wily and unpredictable. As long as the blade and I are on this ship, everyone is in danger, yourself included. I am willing to leave, preferably aboard one of your rowboats.”

YOU EMBARRASS ME, ROMAN. THOUGH EVERY WORD IS TRUE, OF COURSE.

Roman bit back a retort, refocusing on Lila, a woman who’d stolen a corner of the heart he thought was beyond reach for anyone but Sampson. He saw emotions do battle across her face. Fear. Anger. Sadness. Regret. And, finally, determination, her chin lifting, her jaw tightening. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let that sword deter me from helping you. But I cannot speak for my men and I won’t keep them in the dark when their lives are at risk. If any are unwilling to risk their lives, then we must return our course to Armitage so they can leave. Then we will sail for Firestone.”

Roman nodded. He knew this was the right choice even if the stay of execution was exactly what the blade was probably hoping for by reaping chaos. “I understand,” he said.

CHAOS? the blade said. I LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT.

The men were gathered on deck, their duties temporarily forgotten, the ship drifting along the chain that tethered it to the anchor they’d dropped half an hour earlier. Murmurs rolled across the men like the waves churning beneath the ship.

They stopped when Captain Mirren stepped forward and raised her hands; the creaking planks of the unsettled vessel became the only sound until she spoke. “I have news of the worst kind,” she said. All eyes were on her, and for a moment even the ship went quiet. “Quartermaster Barney has passed on.” The murmurs arose once more, the men’s curious expressions turning to frowns of sorrow. Lila had informed Roman that Barney had been on her staff for nigh on twenty years and was well-liked and respected amongst the men, both old and new. In private, she’d shed tears, though now her cheeks were dry.

“How?” someone shouted from the throng of seamen.

“That is why I have Mister Leary here with me. He will explain everything. Much of it will be…difficult to believe. Just know that I believe every word. Mister Leary is a man of honor who can be trusted. After he is finished, I will pose a question to each and every one of you, one you must answer with a yay or nay. You will not be judged for your answer, whatever it may be. Mister Leary?”

Roman, who had been standing off to one side watching the men for their reactions, stepped forward while the captain stepped back. He’d given this moment a lot of thought in the few hours since he’d shared the sad news of Barney’s death with the captain. He’d rehearsed words over and over again. Now he threw all that over the ship’s railing. This wasn’t a moment for rehearsed lines; this was a moment for raw truth spoken from the soul.

“Barney was a good man,” he started, drawing nodding heads and rumbles of agreement from the men. “I didn’t know him as well as any of you, but he was kind to me in the short time we were acquainted and wished I could’ve known him longer.” More nodding, more agreement. Roman went to move his hand to the shadowblade’s hilt, but found it was already there.

Somewhere deep inside the annals of his mind he heard the blade’s vicious laugh. With the shriek of metal, he drew the blade. “This blade is responsible for Barney’s death.” The frowns amongst the men grew deeper, more furrowed. They were angrier now, a sea of glares all aimed at him. “But I am also at fault. The blade is my responsibility, and though my hand didn’t wield it when it landed the killing blow, I also wasn’t able to stop it.”

Confusion rumbled through the men. If Roman, whose blade it was, didn’t kill Barney, then who had wielded the sword when the man was killed? Roman took a deep breath and then explained everything, from the beginning, offering the only thing he had to give—truth—to them without excuse or blame. He would be judged on his choices, those that in hindsight were good, and those that fell short. Anything less was unacceptable.

When he finished his tale, the men were no longer staring at him, but at the blade he continued to grip in his hand. Their looks ranged from fear to anger to awe and everything in between. For a shadowblade, one of the ancient godblades of myth and legend was in their presence, on the very ship they toiled day in and day out. And it had killed one of their own, something even the most openminded of them couldn’t quite wrap their heads around.

“This sword is beautiful and powerful and dangerous,” he continued. “That is why I am on a quest to destroy it in the fiery bowels of Firestone.” Before the barrage of questions began, Roman posed the question the captain had alluded to almost an hour earlier, before he’d begun the telling of his story. “Are you willing to go with me to the island knowing that every second you spend with me on this ship risks your very lives?”

Heads bobbed, the men looking at each other as though another’s response might serve as their own. The captain stepped forward and Roman took a half-step back so she was now at the head, where she belonged. “Before you answer, know that precautions will be taken. Mister Leary will wear the blade at his hip at all times and will not leave his cabin for the duration of our voyage. Five men will be posted outside his cabin at all times to ensure no one else is lured by the blade. They will be rotated every four hours. Other than that, you will all simply go about your regular duties, for which you will be paid double during the period in which we are sailing outside of our normal course.” The latter idea had been the captain’s. He’d readily agreed and vowed to pay her back one day, when he returned to Wolfsgaard and was able to access his life savings, which was held in a locked box within the palace bounds.

The captain fell silent once more, waiting patiently for the information to be digested, considered. For a long time, no one spoke up, though their whispers could be heard indistinctly passed from man to man behind cupped hands. “I’d like to say sumthin’,” one of the men said, looking up at Roman and the captain. Roman had seen him around the ship. He was an oarsman, his shoulders broad, his chest like a barrel, his arms as thick as Grizari clubs.

“Of course, Oarman Sweeney,” the captain said. “Say your piece.”

Instead of continuing to look up at Roman and the captain, he turned his gaze toward his fellow seamen, eyes roaming across them. “I’s not a learned man,” he said, “but I work hard—ye all know that. I earn me coin. When we make landfall, I drink more’n most. I curse more’n most. I blow ever’ copper, eh?”

“An’ borrow more’n ye have to boot!” someone shouted, drawing raucous laughter amongst the men.

“’Tis true,” Oarman Sweeney said. “I’s owe ever’ last one o’ ye coin, I do. But…” Here he paused, his face growing deadly serious. “…I also count ever’ one o’ ye me brothers, e’en the dwarves!” This earned him another round of laughter, while the pair of dwarves offered low sweeping bows, their chins nearly touching the deck. “What I’s sayin’ is we’s a family o’ sorts, don’ ye think? An’ we should make this decision t’gether. ’Ere’s my take. We give our lives to this ship, transportin’ supplies from place to place. A noble pursuit, eh?”

A general air of agreement arose from the men gathered around Sweeney, and one shout of, “Aye, we’re godsdamned saints, we are!” More laughter from the crew.

“What I’s sayin’ is this be a chance to do sumthin’ important. Sumthin’ really important that could save a bunch o’ lives. Sumthin’ that matters outside o’ the railings o’ this ship. An’ I say I’s in, all the way. What say the rest o’ ye no-good lubbers?”

“I won’t be outdone by the likes of Sweeney,” another man said. He was a wiry character who kept lookout in the bird’s nest, which was considered to be one of the most dangerous jobs on the ship. “Count me in.”

“Me too,” another piped up. His hands and forearms were twice as thick as Roman’s from days spent working the winches to position the sails as needed to capture the wind and maintain the desired course. “Though I’ll admit I’m doin’ it for the extra coin.”

“Greedy bastard,” another said. “I’m innit fer the glory. Heroes we’ll be, all o’ us!” Others echoed the cries in the affirmative, either agreeing with one man’s reasoning or another’s. When it was all said and done, there was not a single ‘nay’ amongst them. Roman shook his head, slightly bewildered. He’d fully expected at least half to request the chance to disembark at Armitage. Instead, they would be full wind ahead for Firestone, the perfect possible outcome. Besides the tailor, the crew of Queen of the Seas truly was constructed of good, loyal men, a testament to Captain Mirren’s leadership.

That said, even the captain, who knew her men far better than Roman, seemed shocked by their unified response. “Today I stand humbled by you all,” she said, emotion pinching her throat, the words emerging raspy and rough. “We will now honor Quartermaster Barney with the burial at sea he deserves.”

All comments fell away as hats and caps were removed and placed over the men’s chests. Roman had already helped the captain secure Barney within a wooden coffin weighted by stones kept on board for just this sort of a tragedy. Now Sweeney and a few other men clambered up the steps to haul the box over the railing. They hesitated for only a moment before letting gravity take hold, the coffin sliding free of their hands and landing in the water with a splash. The men swarmed to the starboard side of the vessel, craning their heads to get a final glimpse of the coffin before it sank out of sight into the depths.

All was still and silent save for the lapping of waves against the hull and snapping of sails in the wind.

Roman sheathed the blade and headed below decks, where he would be confined until they reached Firestone.

The first day of Roman’s confinement passed by without event. His bedclothes had been changed out for clean ones, though the mattress would forever be stained with Barney’s blood. The floor, too, held a darker patch where the man’s body had lain. Roman had scrubbed for several hours to try to remove it, but in the end was forced to admit defeat.

The entire time, the shadowblade, still sheathed at his hip, was silent. Not once did it pulse or thrum or hiss, but Roman could feel its awareness, prodding and probing within his mind, searching for weaknesses. Is this how Sampson felt all the time? he wondered. If so, he wished he’d understood it better when the lad had wielded the blade. Maybe then he could’ve advised him better, helped him through it.

The worst part of the confinement within the cabin was the isolation. He’d grown used to his interactions with the men as he walked the decks of the ships. He even missed his talks with Ginny. She may have a chip on her shoulder the size and weight of an anchor, but she was a sharp-witted girl with the potential to do great things if she was only willing to try.

Roman lived for the ten-second periods three times a day when his meals were delivered to his cabin. He didn’t actually need the food, his blade able to sustain him if required, but he wouldn’t tell anyone that for fear his door would remain locked for days without end.

The worst was not seeing Lila. His evening meals with her had become breath to a choking man. Now he ached to lay eyes on her, to hear her laugh, to feel her touch. Such a thing was impossible. This they had both agreed. He wouldn’t put her at risk any more than he already had.

From time to time, he heard footsteps outside of his cabin. Usually it was just the changing of the guard—the five men posted outside his door—but sometimes he could discern more graceful footfalls along the corridor planking, the captain’s lighter steps. He would feel a draft of cool air rush in as the door was opened. Every time, she would hesitate on the threshold—had she stopped to look at his door? was she yearning for him as he yearned for her?—and then with a dull finality, her door would click closed.

Though Roman didn’t need to sleep, he passed much of the time lying on his back in quiet meditation. Preparing himself for the battle that was surely to come on Firestone’s precipice, when his blade fought edge and tip for its very existence. He needed to be ready.

He would be ready.

The attack came without warning, in the middle of the night. Roman wasn’t asleep, but his hours of meditation found him in a fuguelike state, his mind miles and miles away, in other places, other times.

The jolt that ran through him was like being struck by lightning and he had the sensation of falling backwards down a dark shaft without end. Lying in bed, his arms flopped at his sides as he tried to gain purchase on anything to arrest his fall.

There was only empty air.

He landed on his back, his entire body going as rigid as a corpse, teeth locked together, arms straight on each side. Stop…..please……stop… He thought the futile words toward the shadowblade, but knew the sword had no reason to heed them. He’d planned and plotted the blade’s demise, and now it was fighting back. As the blade had said, Quartermaster Barney’s death was a warning shot, the first drop of rain spreading whispers of the deluge to come. He remembered a fateful night when Sampson had fallen into a deep and impenetrable unconsciousness while encamped on the Lost Plains. Initially, Roman had thought Sampson was dead. He’d wept over his body until he’d felt the thump of a heartbeat in the prince’s chest. The next thump came more than a minute later, his heartbeat so slow he’d mistaken the condition for death.

It had happened after Sampson had gone against the will of the blade. Sampson had slaughtered an entire herd of cattle that night before he’d fallen into the enduring sleep that had persisted until the light of morning had finally chased it away. They hadn’t spoken about where Sampson had gone, what he had felt—Sampson hadn’t wanted to, and Roman had respected that—but now Roman wished they had.

Because he was sure this was the place Sampson had been imprisoned, this tomb of darkness and shadows without end or beginning.

Finally, Roman’s body slackened, and he found himself in a place without walls, without floors or ceilings, without planes or edges or smooth places or rough. There was no light and yet he could see the darkness, the shadows.

He stood, searching the impermeable blackness for something, anything to tell him where he was and how he could escape. From far away he heard a voice that was his and yet not, hissing out words he would never speak. The lies and deceptions of a serpent slithering through the undergrowth.

He heard himself say, “I just need a bit of air, and then I’ll return to my cabin.” The words were spoken with such calmness the guards would be sure to take them at face value. But if they did…

Roman shouted at the top of his lungs.

None save the blade could hear his cries.

Captain Lila Mirren

A disturbance outside her quarters drew the captain from her sleep. As she often did, she’d been dreaming of the sea breeze in her hair, the ocean frolicking playfully beneath Queen of the Seas as it scythed gracefully through the water. She wasn’t a captain, but a girl of no more than nine. Her father was at the wheel, looking like a man who belonged there, his years of experience at the helm making it difficult to discern where the ship ended and he began.

Lila longed to grip that wheel as he did, not with his assistance like she sometimes did, but on her own.

A sound drew her away from her reminiscing. Her brother, Elliot, retching over the side of the ship, staining the Queen’s hull. At the next port, any vomit that had dried and crusted would need to be scrubbed away. She didn’t understand why her brother’s stomach rebelled against him whenever they set sail. Her stomach flipped somersaults and gave her the uncanny sensation of growing wings and flying. Life at sea was her happy place. For Elliot, it had always been misery and torment.

There was more to this dream—so much more—but now it faded, her groggy eyes blinking away the past in the darkness.

Shouts, the shouts of men outside her cabin, and then several thumps—one against her door—chased any remaining sleep from her eyes. Roman! she thought. She flung her feet over the side of her bed, grabbed her sword from where it hung on a hook on the wall, and then charged for the door, flinging it open just as a man came crashing through.

The man was Oarman Sweeney, his identity revealed by his muscled form, which bashed hard against her shoulder and collided with her desk before flopping to the ground. Despite his size, the oarman was no match for the desk, which was built of solid hickory by a master Loslandian carpenter. Its joints were rigid, its base wide and balanced. The thump did, however, disturb a pile of papers, which fluttered in all directions, snatches of parchment cascading over the fallen man like leaves beneath an autumn tree.

Lila, though considerably smaller than Sweeney, was no delicate flower, her frame as solid as that of her desk, the muscles of her arms corded from years spent working on a ship. The collision spun her around and sent sharp pain shooting through her shoulder, but she didn’t fall. Cradling her injured arm, she rushed back to the open doorway and peered out.

Her mouth gaped open.

The door to Roman’s cabin was open, but the man was clearly not inside. Four men lay in various states of injury in the cramped corridor, their bodies twisted and contorted in a manner in which they shouldn’t be twisted and contorted. There was blood everywhere, sprayed on the walls, on the ceiling, on the door to what was once Quartermaster Barney’s cabin but was now vacant. The crimson liquid trickled down the walls and dripped from the ceiling, puddling on the planks of wood, running in streams between them. One such red river touched the tip of the largest toe on her right foot. She stared at it in horror, watching as it separated into two new streams and flowed around her foot.

Even knowing what he’d just done, the lives he’d taken—lives she cared for, deeply, these corpses once men who were loyal to her, good to her—her very next thought was one of concern for him, for Roman. Her experience with the man told her he was a man of honor, not of murder and mayhem. Anything he’d done on this night was caused by the shadowblade. Careful not to slip on the blood, she picked her way past and over the dead men, reaching the stairs a moment later.

Roman stood at the top, looking down at her. Her brother’s old uniform, which he wore so well, was spattered with blood. In his right hand he gripped the shadowblade, which seemed to pulse in his grasp, blood leaking from its tip.

“I’m…sorry,” he said in a voice that was his and yet also not, and then turned away into the night.

Roman

“I’m…sorry!” Roman screamed from the darkness. To his surprise, his voice echoed away from him. The image of Lila, barefoot and wearing her dressing gown at the bottom of the steps, faded from where it had suddenly appeared before him.

He heard her calling after him, which told him he’d turned away from her, off to wreak more havoc on her ship. Men’s shouts followed, and then the clanking of steel on steel. Their blades would be no match for his, he knew. Under the shadowblade’s control, he would rampage through the entire ship, killing at will, until, finally, Lila would have no choice but to comply with the sword’s command to turn the ship around and return to Avadon.

My fault, he thought. He’d been a fool for thinking he could control the blade just because he was a man of experience, while Sampson was still caught in that confusing time between childhood and manhood.

“Let me out!” he screamed, but he knew that this time his voice hadn’t carried beyond the walls of darkness that surrounded him. Staying in one place, helpless and alone and not knowing what horrors the blade was committing through him on the decks of the ship, was maddening, so he began to run. He knew not where he was going, or whether he could actually go anywhere in this strange prison into which he’d been confined, but he did know he couldn’t remain still or he might as well be a corpse himself.

As he ran, he screamed out a name. Just one name, over and over again:

“Lila!”

Captain Lila Mirren

Lila bolted up the stairs after the man who’d captured her heart, which, until she’d met him, hadn’t beat for anyone but herself in a long time. Years. Decades.

When he’d spoken those two words to her—I’m…sorry—it had given her a shred of hope that Roman was still in there somewhere, that the shadowblade didn’t control his every action. If so, there might still be a chance to stop him.

She reached the top, her head twisting around when she heard the clash of swords to the port side. A trio of men who’d been working the night shift had surrounded Roman and were now attacking him from all sides, their swords ringing out with each blow. Roman spun and deflected blades in quick succession, moving far faster than should’ve been possible for a man of his size.

And then, like a viper having lulled its victim into a false sense of security, Roman struck, bringing the shadowblade down on one man’s blade, shattering it in half. While the man stared, dumbfounded, at his broken sword, Roman spun in a full circle, shadows trailing behind the blade as it completed its arc at the man’s waist.

The night seemed to freeze as the man’s mouth gaped open, blood trickling from his lips.

Time leapt forward more rapidly as the man’s upper half slid away from his lower half, both parts of him thumping ominously to the decking. The remaining two challengers backed away, stumbling slightly, before turning and fleeing.

The man-who-was-not-really-Roman turned, shadows from the blade curling around his form like smoke from a forest fire around a lone tree left standing amidst the inferno. His eyes met hers and at first all she saw was hardened steel, dark and malevolent, but then…

There it was—a flash of sadness, of regret, there and gone again, a flickering star lost to some sinister force beyond comprehension. His lips opened. “Lila…,” he grunted.

“Roman?”

“Lila.”

“I’m here, Roman. Oh gods, I’m here. You’re not alone.”

“Alone?” Roman said the word in a confused tone. His lips opened wider and a rough laugh grated out. “We are together. We can never be alone.” His voice had changed, the soft edges giving way to coldness, to roughness, to hardness. And she knew she was no longer speaking to the man she now realized she loved.

She was speaking to the shadowblade.

Eyes gleaming, the Roman imposter charged, malicious blade pumping at his side.

Roman

She’d appeared to him again; he’d heard her voice. And he knew she’d heard his. But then a force more powerful than a pounding wave had grabbed him and shoved him downward, slamming him into the invisible ground and pinning him in place.

Wind gusted around him as he lay prone and helpless. And he knew.

He knew.

The shadowblade wasn’t planning to coerce Lila into bending to its will with threats and violence. No, its plans were far worse.

It was going to kill her.

He was going to kill her.

Lila

Lila’s feet were frozen as the man-who-was-not-Roman charged toward her, murder in his eyes. When he was halfway to her, her feet thawed and she sprang into action. There was no fighting one wielding a shadowblade in hand-to-hand combat, no chance of winning, and she didn’t want to win anyway—to win meant killing the man inside the shell, and that was something she knew her heart could never recover from. She would rather die.

Instead, she turned and ran. Not back down the stairs below decks where she would be trapped, but toward the steps leading up to the helm. Her feet betrayed her on the fifth step, their harried pace tripping her up and she pitched forward, chin slamming against the wood. She felt the thin skin burst open and blood pour from the wound. She ignored the pain and scrambled the rest of the way up on hands and knees. She only risked a glance back when she’d reached the top, finding Roman at the bottom, stopping momentarily to look up at her.

A vicious smile curled his lips.

The shadowblade knew: She was at a dead-end with nowhere else to run. Thus, Roman took his time as he started to climb, one slow step at a time, his heavy footfalls resonating through the planking. Lila was filled with the distinct impression that the shadowblade was enjoying this.

She fought to her feet and ran to the wheel, skidding around it and grabbing it with both hands, positioning it between her and Roman as he mounted the final step. She normally drew comfort from the familiar feel of the wheel under her control, but now she felt only dread as she watched the man she loved stalk toward her.

“Roman?” she said. “This isn’t you. The blade doesn’t command you. You are in control. You are strong. You don’t want to hurt me.”

The Roman imposter had nothing to offer but a harsh laugh. “Roman is weak,” the creature spat. “He was never meant to be my true wielder. Sampson may have tossed me aside, but he immediately regretted it. Only once I am back in his grip will truth be restored, and then the great work destined to come forth during this time can continue.”

None of the words were Roman’s, she knew. He reached the wheel, jabbing at her chest and forcing her to dance back to avoid being skewered. Though her words had begun to melt on her tongue, she forced herself to keep talking. “Roman! I’m here! You will not hurt me, do you hear me? You will not hurt me!”

“Enough!” the stranger shouted, leaping in one giant, impossible jump over the wheel and landing before her. She continued backing away until her backside hit the railing. There was nowhere else to retreat. “Roman doesn’t matter now. Your scheming with him against me is over. Now you die.”

The Roman imposter lunged at her with incredible speed, but she was ready, diving hard to the side and out of reach, his blade crashing through the railing, splintering chunks of wood away. “Roman, please!” she screamed. “I love you!”

He hissed at her and charged again.

Roman

Roman heard her voice, her pleading words to him, cutting through the silent darkness. He heard the shadowblade’s mockery through his own lips, somewhere distant. Dread filled his chest as he fought the force, a boulder atop his back. He shoved to his hands and knees, groaning under its weight. Straining, he pushed to his feet, staggering. His bones felt like they were being compressed, his muscles clenched so tightly they ached. His teeth ground together.

The shadowblade was speaking to her again, spouting vitriol that culminated in three words that sent a pang of fear through his chest: Now you die.

“No!” he tried to shout, but his words were lost amongst the sound of splintering wood. And then, Lila’s voice, rising above it all.

Roman, please! I love you!

“Lila!” he shouted, even as he was driven back to one knee. “Lila, I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t. I—I love you, too.”

Despite his weakness, despite his fear, his last four words carried outside of the darkness, where he heard them again, spoken from his real lips, to the very real woman they were meant for.

What? No! the shadowblade hissed.

But Roman was already falling, not down but up, wind rushing through his hair and around his clothes, the shadowy darkness fading until it was replaced with a star-smattered night and the face of the woman who loved him—who he loved with his entire being. “Lila?” he said.

Lila

The shadowblade clanked to the deck, Roman’s fingers releasing the wicked sword just after speaking her name. Shadows continued to roil around its form, but they seemed to lessen each time she blinked.

“Roman?” Lila said cautiously. Roman had warned her of the shadowblade’s wiles; this could very well be another of its tricks.

“Yes,” he said, and his voice was his own again, the hissing sound slipping from the edges. “I—I freed myself. But not alone. Your words…they saved me.”

Her heart melted at his words, her knees growing weak, all the fear and horror finally catching up to her. She started toward him, ready to fling herself into his arms, to squeeze him until her arms ached from the effort.

He backed away a step. “Don’t,” he said, the word stopping her short and sending pain through her chest.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You said you freed yourself.”

“I know,” he said. “But I can’t trust myself, my strength—not anymore. I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she said.

“Bind me to the mast with the blade. As tightly as you can. I will not walk free again until we reach Firestone.”

“Oh, Roman,” she said, heart sinking.

“Please, tell me you’ll do it.”

She firmed up her chin, lifted her jaw. Met his eyes with steel. “I will do it.”

Sixteen

Sampson Gaard

Dunadin, Avadon

THUS FAR, GRYM HAD IGNORED SAMPSON. At least, as far as he could tell without being able to actually see the buck. Thrice Sampson had tried to speak to him, and thrice he’d received nothing in response but a grunt. Once, Sampson had awoken in the night to the sounds of heavy breathing close at hand. He’d flinched back and tucked his knees up to his chest, but the heavy breathing faded, leaving him wondering if he’d imagined it.

He’s going to kill me in my sleep, he thought. The slaves were back in the barracks after a long, grueling day of mining. They’d eaten and settled into their uncomfortable beds for the night. He shook away the thought, because murdering a blind slave in his bed wasn’t something Grym would do. No, the buck he knew was a man of honor, of principles. The ‘Grizari Way’ he called it. If Grym were going to kill him, he would do it in a fair fight.

Sampson relaxed slightly, and soon the weariness of the day fell over him like a warm blanket. He drifted to another place…

He was on a ship, a cool wind ruffling his hair. I can see, was his first thought. He could see the men toiling on deck, the mighty ship’s hull cutting through whitecapped waters. Somewhere in the distance he could make out a lone mountain rising into a bank of gray and black clouds.

His vision twisted and there he was, a man who’d been nothing short of a father figure to him his entire life, filling the void that his real father, the king, had never had any intention of occupying.

Roman Leary was tethered to the ship’s mast like a prisoner. Like he was a danger to the rest of the ship, or to himself, or both. Though his face was lined with pain, his expression was stalwart, unshakeable. Heroic.

And then Sampson saw the shadows writhing across his chest, originating from the shadowblade corded to Roman’s sturdy frame. My shadowblade, he thought, but immediately discarded the notion. Not anymore. I cast it away. Good riddance.

The shadows darkened, pulsing under his scrutiny. Does it…see me? Sampson wondered. His question was answered a moment later.

HELLO, SAMPSON, the blade said, speaking directly into his head.

He tried to respond, but he didn’t have the words, didn’t know how to face the thing that had made him commit horrible acts that he would regret for the rest of his life.

It didn’t matter. Somehow, someway, their connection was restored for an instant, across the miles and miles that separated them, and he knew the blade could see into his soul, could feel the pain and hardship he’d been forced to suffer ever since their parting.

And, inexplicably, he could see into the blade’s core—its heart? its soul?—and see its greatest fear:

Obsolescence. Not mattering. Being forgotten while the world continued to turn without it.

And Sampson knew.

Roman was planning to destroy the shadowblade. The how didn’t matter so much as the why: Because of me, he thought. Roman had toiled his entire life to keep him safe, and he hadn’t stopped now. For some reason, that gave him hope, despite the hopelessness of his current situation.

The vision faded and Sampson was dragged from sleep with a jerk. He lay there, panting, heart hammering like the sledge he was forced to swing for long hours each day.

“Had nightmare, puny human?” Grym said, so close that even in a whisper the words were loud in his ear.

He flinched away, back pressing to the cold barracks’ wall. “What are you doing?” he said.

“Watchin’. Waitin’,” Grym said.

“For what?”

“Haven’t decided. Will tell you when I do.”

“Listen, Grym, I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m sorry. For everything. The blade…”

“Was evil? I know this. Doesn’t change what you did. What you took from me.”

“I know.”

“This changes nothing.”

“I know.”

“All actions have consequences,” Grym said. “This is truth.”

“I won’t fight you.”

“Yet you must bear consequences all the same.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Then nothing else to discuss. Get sleep. More work to be done tomorrow.”

The sound of the Grizari’s footfalls crossing the room were soft relative to the buck’s formidable size.

It was many hours before Sampson was able to sleep again, Grym’s words and what he’d seen onboard the ship rattling around in his brain.

When the next morning dawned, Sampson’s sightless eyes stung and he couldn’t stop yawning. At least my body doesn’t ache. It was true, his body had begun to adjust to harshness of life as a slave miner, his muscles corded, his back strong. There was still pain in his leg where Glynn Kerr’s knife had sliced into his skin, but even that seemed distant, naught but a dull throb now.

As he sat up in bed, still groggy, he listened for the distinct sound of Grym’s steps passing by but didn’t hear them. He must’ve already left the barracks, he thought. He made his way outside with the rest of the slaves, subconsciously counting his steps until he fell into line.

“Griz!” the taskmaster shouted.

He heard Grym grunt somewhere down the line.

“Someone is here to provide news of your kinfolk.”

Sampson’s ears perked up. Grym said, “What news?” Bootfalls crunched through the snow as someone else stepped out from whatever structure he’d been waiting inside. “You,” Grym said. Sampson could hear the anger in the single word.

“You will call me ‘General’ or ‘General Zen.’ Is that understood?”

“Aye, General,” Grym said. “You have news of Grizari?”

“Yes. Your fellow warriors have helped my soldiers push the demon horde back into the Void from whence they came. The Rift within Beggar’s Canyon has been secured at last.”

“Yet you won’t let them go.”

“Unfortunately not. You attempted to attack us…twice. You and your fellow warriors will live out your lives as prisoners of war.”

“You mean slaves.”

“If you mean you don’t have a choice in the matter, that is true.”

Grym snorted. “Then we sacrifice for good of our people,” he said. “There is honor in that. You can still uphold agreement with Eyrm. Let Grizari roam the Lost Plains, free.”

Sampson stiffened. What was Grym saying? That General Zen was planning to capture the rest of the Grizari?

Zen smiled thinly. “A noble plea, one I can respect, even if it’s spoken into the Void. Your people will be treated as well as any of the humans that labor in Master Kerr’s mines, though it is my opinion that they should be treated like the wild beasts that they are.”

“Choose next words wisely, human,” Grym said. His tone had a dangerous undercurrent now.

“As we speak, my sellsword army is marching on your people. Outnumbered and without their strongest warriors, I suspect the Grizari will be rounded up without too much trouble. With that many additional slaves, we will be able to double our mining operations in the Spine.”

There was the sound of heavy footfalls and then the grunts and shouts of a scuffle. Finally, Grym’s voice rose above it all. “I’ll keel you! I swear on smoke of Father’s pyre, I’ll keel you!” Though Sampson couldn’t see what had happened, he knew. General Zen expected this outcome and had several men ready to subdue the large Grizari warrior.

“Maybe,” General Zen said, voice calmer than expected given his life had just been threatened. “Taskmaster, get them out of my sight.”

The march into the mine had seemed longer than usual, but when they finally reached the wall of rock waiting for another day of abuse from their picks and hammers, breakfast was served. “Eat, dogs!” the taskmaster barked, making him sound more like one of the hounds that he accused them of being.

Sampson was handed a tin plate. His nose told him it was the usual, hard tack and tasteless gruel. It wasn’t satisfying, but so long as he didn’t break a tooth on the bread, it would fill his belly well enough. He hardly remembered what flavorful food tasted like.

When he sat down to rest and eat, he whispered, “Grym.” There was no response, so he said it again, slightly louder. “Grym!”

“Quiet or ye’ll get us all in trouble,” the slave sitting next to him said. It was Jarry, the aging man who seemed to be the only slave other than Grym willing to speak to him.

“Where’s the Grizari?” Sampson asked, lowering his voice again.

“The other side. He can’t hear ye.”

Sampson sighed. Honestly, he didn’t even know what he was going to say to the buck. Another apology would come across as insincere and pointless. No, actions spoke louder than words. He didn’t know if Glynn Kerr’s strange daughter, Charlotte, had been serious about trying to help him escape, but if she did, he would only go if she helped Grym too. It wouldn’t make up for all the ways he’d wronged him, but it would be a start.

When breakfast was over, the taskmaster smacked his staff against his palm and said, “Get to work, cockroaches!”

Cockroaches, Sampson thought. That’s a new one.

“Something amusing, Bat?” the taskmaster said. Shite. Sampson didn’t even realize he’d been smiling.

“Just excited at the prospect of another day of fulfilling work.”

Whack! The first blow struck him in the abdomen. Though it was well-struck and hurt like void, Sampson didn’t double over, a slight wince his only sign of discomfort. The muscles of his stomach and chest were substantially stronger than they’d been when he arrived. “That’s for being a wise ass,” the taskmaster said.

Whack! The second blow caught him in the face, twisting his head around. He fell to one knee, thoughts fuzzy. There’s something in my mouth, he thought, tasting blood. Why is there something in my mouth? He played with the something using his tongue and then spat it out into his hand, feeling it with his fingers. There was no doubt—it was a tooth. “And that’s just for my own amusement,” the taskmaster said.

Sampson spat out a wad of blood and tossed the tooth aside. It wasn’t like he needed it anymore. After exchanging a few words with the slaves on either side of him to ensure he was well clear of them, he threw himself into his work, determined to chase away the throbbing in his mouth with aches in the rest of his body. As he worked, his tongue pressed at the hole between his teeth.

“Slow down, lad,” Jarry said. “This wall will be waiting for us tomorrow and every day after that.”

Sampson knew the man was right but couldn’t help himself. He was angry. At the shadowblade for what it had enticed him to do to Grym and his people. At Glynn Kerr for breaking his deal with the Grizari. At himself for being a part of it all. He took out that anger on the wall, until he was breathless and numb. Still he hammered, relishing the sting of the broken rock shards that shot from the wall and lanced his skin. Still he hammered, after the taskmaster had called for a halt so the slaves could sip water from a ladle. Still he swung, even after the taskmaster had grabbed him, wrenching the hammer from his grasp. He beat at the wall with his fists, feeling his skin scrape open, the blood flow freely.

“Stop,” a heavy voice said. He stopped. The voice had been Grym’s; it had been the Grizari not the taskmaster who’d snatched the hammer away. “This won’t help anythin’.”

“I know,” Sampson said, his body finally relaxing. Grym released him and he sank to the ground.

He waited for the blow to come from the taskmaster’s staff, but it didn’t. “Out of my way,” the taskmaster said. Wait, Sampson thought. Is Grym blocking him from hitting me? It was unfathomable. The last thing he deserved was protection from the buck whose life he’d destroyed.

“No,” Grym said, voice full of warning.

“Yes,” the taskmaster said. Steel shrieked against steel as a sword was drawn.

“No,” Grym said. “Will have to keel me to get to him.”

Silence fell once more, so heavy and thick that even the taskmaster’s sword wasn’t able to cut through it. Finally, he laughed. “You’re lucky Zen wants the pair of you alive or you’d be dead already.” The taskmaster’s boots scraped harsh stone and his footfalls moved away.

Sampson wanted to weep, but he didn’t have the energy even for that. A ladle was pressed to his lips and he drank. The water helped clean the blood from his mouth. His knuckles still stung, but it was a distant, numb pain next to the sharp stab of the many regrets that continued to swirl near the surface. “Thank you,” he said, thinking it was Grym who’d brought the water after defending him.

“Welcome,” Jarry said.

Grym was already gone.

Half of the afternoon passed without event, the slaves working in silence save for the rhythmic pounding of their tools against stone. Sampson could always make out the hammer wielded by Grym, the booming sound of each powerful blow rising above all the others.

Thus it was that he noticed the second the Grizari stopped working. This made him pause in his own toils, listening for the sound to resume. It didn’t.

“No break,” the taskmaster said.

“Mine needs more supports,” Grym said.

“Oh?” the taskmaster said. Here it comes, Sampson thought. “Are you an expert on mining?”

“No but have eyes. Cracks on ceiling grow longer each hour. Not stable.”

“Get back to work. Now.”

“No.”

“I’m not permitted to kill you, but no one said maiming was off the table,” the taskmaster said, slapping his staff against his palm.

No, Sampson thought. Even though Grym was a large, strong warrior, with his arms and legs shackled together he would be no match for the taskmaster. This truth soon became clear as the sound of hard wood smashing into thick skin arose. With each blow, Grym refused to cry out; though, as the barrage continued, his grunts grew louder and louder. Sampson clenched his teeth against the sound, hoping it would stop.

It didn’t.

He could take it no longer. Chains rattling, he ran toward the sound with short, shuffling steps. Before he reached the fray, the taskmaster must’ve heard him coming and turned, because he said, “Bat wants to play too? Excellent.”

Sampson didn’t have eyes that could see, but he did have other senses and instincts that worked better than most. He heard the whistling of the staff, sensed its target and its speed and angle, ducking at the last moment, feeling the brush of the air from its passing wash over his hair. He hit the taskmaster waist-high, wrapping his arms around him as he drove him back, not stopping until he slammed him to the ground. Breath exploded from the man’s mouth, washing over his face.

From there, things might’ve gotten ugly. It was clear Grym was unable to come to his aid, and with his hands in manacles, Sampson couldn’t do much more than beat against the taskmaster’s chest and face with short, weak blows. The man quickly turned the tables on him, shoving him off and pinning him to the ground with his staff.

Sampson braced himself for the beating of his life.

That’s when it happened.

There was a cracking sound like the world’s largest egg being broken open, and then a rumbling like thunder, the ground beneath him quaking. Sampson felt small rock particles glance off his skin, followed by larger stones, pelting him like hail. “Got to move,” Grym’s voice grunted, and then he was there, hauling Sampson to his feet and shoving him forward as his feet thundered in Sampson’s wake.

The thunder and shaking intensified until, with a monumental crash, the ceiling caved in with the sound of a thousand storms colliding. Grym offered one final shove and they flew forward together, landing hard and skidding to a stop. Safe. Clear of the wreckage.

Somewhere nearby, someone cried out, agony in his voice. Others were grunting and groaning, presumably picking themselves back up or freeing themselves from being hit by heavier stones. The frightened bellow of Sampson’s grux, Hmm, resounded throughout the tunnel.

As though nothing had happened, the taskmaster said, “The rest of the day will be spent hauling the stones to the wagon. We need this shaft cleared and ready for work in two days. Is that understood?”

Murmurs of ascent followed. Sampson said to Grym, “You saved me.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” the Grizari grunted.

“Is anyone badly hurt?”

The Griz warrior didn’t respond immediately, presumably because he was scanning the wreckage. While he did, the same man’s cries they’d heard earlier continued. “Just one. Your friend. The skinny, old guy.”

Sampson didn’t consider the man his friend, though he’d exchanged more words with the old slave than anyone else thus far. “Taskmaster,” Sampson said.

“You don’t speak. You will be horse-whipped when we return to the barracks, along with your friend.”

“Human is not friend,” Grym said.

Sampson had nothing to lose. “Let me tend to the injured man. I can help him.”

The taskmaster snorted. “Fine, but you’ll have to share your rations with him until he recovers. Glynn Kerr won’t feed a body that can’t work.”

Sampson barely heard the last part, already turning away and feeling his way over to where Jarry continued to howl. When he was close, he knelt down and crawled until he felt the scuffed, cracked leather of a beat-up old boot.

“Jarry, I’m here to help you, but you’ll need to explain to me exactly what happened and what hurts.”

“The godsdamn roof caved in!” Jarry moaned. “Even a blind bat must know that. Jest leave me be so I can die in peace.”

“That’s not happening, so you might as well tell me.”

Jarry hissed through his teeth. “Big ol’ rock landed on the back of me leg. Got me pinned like a fly to a board. Felt somethin’ crack.”

“Good, I can work with that. Stay as still as possible—I’m going to try to roll the stone off your leg.”

Sampson felt around the man’s body until he felt the stone that had him pinned. ‘Big’ was an understatement. It was huge, a boulder. He tried not to think about what might be left of the man’s leg beneath its mass. “Okay, on three I’m going to push.”

“Please don’t.”

“One…”

“Jest leave me.”

“Two…”

The man cried out even before he got to three, when he dug his heels into the dirt, pressed his hands to the cool stone and pushed with everything he had. Without his slave-hardened body and the awkward positioning of the boulder balanced on Jarry’s leg, it probably wouldn’t have moved at all. As it was, the boulder shifted slightly, lifting free of Jarry’s leg. Groaning, Sampson drove harder, fighting gravity’s effort to drag the stone back down. The boulder bit deep into his shoulder and scraped at his palms.

And stopped moving.

It was as though someone were on the other side, pushing back against him, forcing him into a stalemate. And then the boulder slowly started to win, dropping bit by bit. “No,” Sampson growled. This was a mistake; if he let the boulder drop it would devastate what was left of the man’s leg.

He tried to grip the ground with the toes of his boots, but still they slid backwards, skittering on loose stones. He knew it was over, but he refused to stop fighting, refused to wave the white flag of defeat, and then—

The stone stopped its inevitable descent.

Teeth locked tight, muscles at their limits of strength, Sampson stood holding the boulder at bay. Then, to his utter shock and disbelief, the stone began moving forward once more, picking up speed, rolling. Gravity switched sides, an ally rather than an enemy now, the boulder bounding away and free of his hands until it smashed into something—the wall perhaps—with a thunderous crash that echoed throughout the mineshaft.

Sampson stood panting, chest heaving. “I…I…,” he stuttered.

“Arrogant human should’ve asked for help,” Grym said.

“It was you?”

“Aye. Jarry seems less bad than most humans. Didn’t want to see him hurt more.”

Sampson shook his head in wonderment. Grym despised him, or at least he should, and yet he kept coming to his aid. “Thank you.”

“Did it for Jarry, not you.”

“Understood. We need to stabilize his leg and get him into the cart.”

“You know how to do this thing?”

“I understand how it works. My sister explained it to me once. She saw someone else do it.” He realized that Jarry’s screaming had stopped at some point while they were moving the boulder. “Jarry?”

“Unconscious,” Grym said.

“That’s good. It will save him from the worst of the pain. Now I need you to be my eyes. Please describe the condition of his leg.”

Working in tandem, it took them the better part of an hour to stabilize and splint Jarry’s leg. The only available wood were the mining tools. The taskmaster complained when Grym tore the heads of two hammers from their hafts, but relaxed when the Grizari promised to work additional hours to pay for their cost. For the wrapping, Sampson tore strips from his own tattered trousers. Though their condition wasn’t ideal, the material was thick and sturdy.

When they finished, Grym carried Jarry’s unconscious form to the wagon, which was already heavy laden with stones. “The wagon is for stones,” Sampson heard the taskmaster say.

“This man cannot walk,” Grym said.

“But you can. Leave him on the ground and you can carry him out when the day’s work is done.”

Grym grunted, but apparently complied, because a few moments later he was back at Sampson’s side. “If take turns, we can each have rest from the load.”

“Agreed,” Sampson said.

For the next few hours, all the slaves save Jarry hauled stones from the cave-in to the wagon hitched to Hmm. For Sampson, this was a much more difficult task than usual, as he had to be aware of the position of the other slaves at all times to avoid any collisions. In the past, Jarry had been his eyes for such a task, but now he was forced to rely on his ears and the occasional grumble of, “Outta the way, Bat,” from his fellow slaves.

Once the wagon was full, Sampson patted Hmm gently on the neck and whispered in her ear. The beast chuffed and then started off, the wagon creaking under the weight of the load. “Slaves, fall in line!” the taskmaster barked. “March! March! March!”

“Will give you Jarry,” Grym said. “Across your shoulders?”

“Yes,” Sampson said, extending his arms to either side. He grunted as the man’s dead weight pressed upon his already aching body. Jarry was bony and thin, and yet as heavy as a crate filled with iron. Sampson staggered, but then found his feet. “I’ll walk behind you. Don’t stop or I may run into you.”

Grym grunted and then started off. Sampson waited a moment to ensure there was sufficient distance between them, and then followed. To distract himself from his burden, he counted his steps. He was well past one thousand when Grym said, “My turn.” Sampson stopped, so exhausted he was unable to speak, slumping as the weight was lifted from his shoulders.

They continued like that, transferring the weight back and forth. Sampson noticed that Grym bore Jarry’s body for longer each time, but Sampson didn’t say anything—he was spent. At some point, Grym stopped giving the man back at all, bearing the load fully on his own. When they finally emerged into the cool, open air, he almost dropped to his knees in relief. Instead, he marched on through the hard-packed snow.

When they reached the barracks, the last two slaves to arrive, water and the evening’s unappetizing meal was waiting. “Grym?” Sampson said.

“Hold on,” the Griz said. A moment later he said, “Jarry is in his bed. He’ll need food and water when he awakens if he’s to regain strength.”

Sampson nodded. “I’ll eat half my ration and save the rest for him.”

“Me too,” Grym said. “That way Jarry will get full ration.”

“I—I don’t know what to say,” Sampson said.

“Say nothing. Taskmaster is coming. He has whip.”

Grym

Grym felt strange. Up until he’d met the puny human standing beside him, life had been simple. Work hard, fight when challenged, defend his family’s honor, roam the Lost Plains. Eventually, die and return to the clouds. It was the life his father had lived, and his father’s father before that. It was the life he was supposed to live.

And then Sampson and his shadowblade entered their lives.

Now, for some reason, everything was complicated. He was still angry—the anger was always there, a snake made of fire, coiling and uncoiling, striking when provoked—but he was also sad. Sad for the loss of his father. Sad for being apart from his daughter. Sad for his people, who would soon join him, enslaved by the humans.

Eyrm had betrayed him, but she’d also been right. Not to make a deal with Kerr, but to try to avoid war. Maybe if he’d listened to her, his people could’ve fled so far across the Lost Plains that the humans would give up on chasing them. Grym buried his feelings deep inside. Life was easier that way. Now that it was out, the sadness was all he could feel. He felt weak at the knees, and not because of the long march or the burden he’d chosen to bear.

The pain of a beating would chase some of that sadness away, so he didn’t flinch from the taskmaster’s whip as he pointed it in his direction. “There are consequences for your actions,” the horrid human said. His teeth were stained brown from the tobacco he was constantly chewing.

Grym was about to step forward, but the puny, blind human beside him did first. “I will accept Grym’s lashes as well as my own,” Sampson said.

Grym was speechless. Since his path had been unfortunate enough to cross with Sampson’s, the human’s every act had been self-serving. Now, his every act seemed to serve only others. Could the blade’s influence really have changed him that much? It had given him sight, but maybe in exchange it had warped the man’s soul, twisted it until it was unrecognizable. Perhaps Sampson had been as much a victim of the blade as the Grizari.

While he’d been lost in his thoughts, the taskmaster had latched onto Sampson’s bold declaration. “Oh, ho, ho, I’m not one to deny a slave a wish such as this,” he said. His expression was full of the unbridled mirth of one who gained pleasure from inflicting pain on others. “I accept your offer.”

“I do not,” Grym said quickly.

Sampson turned in his direction, his eyes trying to land on his but missing by a few inches to the right. “I owe you and your people far more than a whipping.”

Grym shook his head, surprised by how quickly his anger for this man had vanished, replaced by the desire to protect him from harm. A desire that would not be satisfied on this day. The taskmaster grabbed Sampson and shoved him toward a pylon sticking up from the ground. Grinning, he tethered Sampson’s shackles to the pylon and then wrenched the back of his shirt forcefully, tearing the cloth down the center and exposing his back.

Grym fought the urge to charge the man, to tear him limb from limb. Because he knew he would fail. Other taskmasters had emerged from their hovels to watch the spectacle. They were already making bets on how many lashes it would take to drive ‘Bat’ to one knee. They would stop Grym before he got halfway to his target. He would be beaten anyway, which would make Sampson’s sacrifice meaningless.

He wouldn’t do that to him.

The taskmaster stepped back, raising the whip. “Fifty lashes for attacking your taskmaster,” he declared. “And fifty lashes for your friend’s disobedience.” This time Grym didn’t correct the taskmaster’s choice of words. A hundred lashes, he thought. Fifty would be enough to tear any man to pieces. A hundred could kill him.

The crack of the whip shuddered through him. Sampson’s body stiffened but he didn’t cry out. At first there didn’t appear to be any visible damage, but then a red line appeared, blood welling to the surface.

Crack!

Grym’s teeth ground together. Another line, intersecting the first.

Crack!

Grym wanted to look away, but to do so would make him the worst kind of coward. No, he would bear witness. With each crack of the whip, Sampson’s body sagged more and more, until his legs finally betrayed him. After twenty-five strikes, he collapsed to one knee, arms hanging from the pylon. Some of the taskmasters cheered while others groaned as coins exchanged hands amongst the bettors. New bets were cast, about whether the slave would regain his feet. The consensus was a solid nay.

“Get up,” the taskmaster said.

The skin of Sampson’s back had been sliced to ribbons. Blood oozed from each wound, coating what was left of his flesh. Stay down, Grym thought. Maybe if he did the taskmaster would decide he’d had enough.

Sampson groaned and fought back to both feet. It was the first sound he’d made since the whipping began. He turned his head slightly and spat. “Have you started yet?” he said.

Grym’s mouth opened and he almost laughed. It was something he might’ve said in the same position, words of mockery and defiance. Just as quickly, his amusement failed as the taskmaster’s fury was unleashed. Crack! Crack! Crack!

Over and over again the whip rose and fell, taking pieces of Sampson each time, until his back resembled a side of butchered meat, red and bloody. The count was sixty, and still Sampson remained on his feet, though his head had dropped to waist-level, his arms stretched awkwardly above him. Toward the end of the barrage, he’d begun making small sounds from the back of his throat, but he never fully cried out, never gave the taskmaster the satisfaction.

No more bets were being cast, the bettors’ predictions falling well short of reality.

“Damn you,” the taskmaster muttered, clearly angry his spectacle was being ruined by a slave who refused to squeal. Crack! Crack! Crack! With each blow the taskmaster snarled, black spit and wads of tobacco flying from his lips, marring the snow at his feet. Sampson’s upper body sagged further, but his legs remained as rigid as planks of wood, keeping him on his feet, half-propped against the pylon.

After twenty more lashes—eighty in total—the taskmaster abandoned the normal whipping, stomping forward and smashing the butt end of the whip’s stock against Sampson’s massacred flesh, pounding him down to one knee, then to both knees.

The last ten blows hammered through Grym as though they were dealt to him as much as Sampson. When it was finished, he felt something on his cheek and he lifted a hand to brush whatever it was away, surprised when his knuckles came away wet. He frowned, trying to determine the cause. It wasn’t raining or snowing. Perhaps a glob of the taskmaster’s projectile spit had caught the wind and splashed against him? It was impossible.

A tear, he thought. It was the first of his life. Rather than wiping the rest of the foreign liquid away from his face, he let it dry.

Two unexpected things happened then:

First, the taskmaster raised his hand for another blow. The hundred lashes were finished, but he didn’t care.

And second, a form raced across the snow, running at full speed toward the taskmaster. Her hair was as dark as night and as straight as a knife’s edge, trailing behind her like streamers. Just as the taskmaster’s next blow was about to fall, she grabbed his arm and said, “Enough.” He turned, rage twisting his face as he started to swing at the imbecile who would dare interrupt him.

He stopped, the rage falling away from his face in an instant, replaced by an expression of shock. “Lady Kerr, I didn’t realize you were here,” he said. His face had gone paler than before.

Rather than responding, the young woman, who Grym was just realizing was the daughter of the man responsible for enslaving him and double-crossing his people, threw herself into the taskmaster’s upraised hand.

Horrified, the taskmaster stared at her as she fell back, clutching her eye. “You hit me!” she shrieked.

“I—I—no, I didn’t mean to…it was an accident,” the man said, arm falling to his side. His fingers opened and he dropped the whip in bloody coils onto the snow.

“My father will hear of this,” Lady Kerr said. “Shackle him.” When none of the other taskmasters moved, clearly as shocked into inaction as Grym by the turn of events, she shrieked, “Shackle him or I shall have all your heads on pikes before the morning sun rises!”

This time, her demands were met with haste, the taskmasters springing into action, rushing forward to secure their comrade’s arms behind his back, slapping his wrists and ankles into irons like he was nothing but a common slave. He protested, but his words fell on deaf ears. Lady Kerr’s methods had been dishonest and deceptive, but also effective, Grym had to admit.

Next, she turned her attention to the slaves. She looked right at Grym. “Help him.”

Grym moved forward. Sampson wasn’t moving much, but Grym thought he could detect the slight rise and fall of his chest. He crouched down beside him. “Is over,” he said. “I’m going to free you. Will hurt.”

Sampson said something, but his words were too slurred to comprehend, lines of drool oozing from his lips.

Gingerly, so as to not press too hard against his mutilated skin, Grym reached around Sampson’s waist, offering his own strength to a man who had none left. Then he reached up with his other hand and unwound the chains from the pylon. The rest of Sampson’s weight pressed downward, but Grym managed to slide his other arm around his abdomen to prevent him from pitching face forward. “I’ve got you,” he said.

Sampson’s eyes had closed. If he was still awake, he gave no indication.

Lady Kerr stood nearby, still clutching her eye and observing him. “You’re coming with me,” she said. “Bring the injured slave with you.”

“You are Grizari,” Lady Kerr said. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, daintily, hands folded atop her knee. This made Grym uncomfortable. In fact, everything about the situation made him uncomfortable. He stood awkwardly before her. There was furniture large enough to hold his bulk, but he didn’t think his filthy, bloodstained form should touch any of the pristine couches or chairs.

“What gave away?” he said.

“Amazing.” The eye she’d shoved into the taskmaster’s hand was swollen, but not so much that she couldn’t aim her piercing gaze in his direction. She didn’t flinch when she looked upon him, a fact that surprised him more than he thought it would. If anything, she looked at him with sharp curiosity.

“Not really. Led stealth invasion into Avadon. Caught second stepped foot across Roughwater.” In the back of his mind, Grym realized he was skipping more and more words as he spoke, a sign of his discomfort. Though his father had taught him the common tongue at a young age, it didn’t come naturally to him. Too many words were required to say anything.

The young woman laughed, a sound that was rougher than he expected. He didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. “If you heard my father speak, you would think the Grizari were mindless beasts. In fact, you are quite delightful.”

The reminder of who her father was brought Grym back to reality. He glanced at Sampson’s unconscious form. He’d been placed on his side on a large bed in the corner. Grym had watched while Lady Kerr had shouted commands to servants who had scurried about, bringing snow to soothe Sampson’s many wounds and stop the bleeding, before using broad bandages to wrap him up tight. Now his chest rose and fell peacefully as he slept.

“You are worried about your friend,” Lady Kerr said.

“Not friend. Ruined my life.”

“And took your lashes.”

“After yer father enslaved me.” His tone had grown darker.

Lady Kerr nodded, as though his hands hadn’t fisted at his sides as he loomed over her. She looked completely unperturbed by the strangeness of their situation. Even shackled, he could easily stride forward and snap her spindly body in two. The temptation rose and fell like a wave. Grym sighed through his nose. Hurting Kerr’s daughter wouldn’t do anything to help his own. In fact, Kerr could very well seek out Shrym to get his revenge. Anyway, Lady Kerr had been nothing but kind to them so far. She’d stopped the beating and had their taskmaster shackled. But why?

“Ask it,” Lady Kerr said. “I see the wheels turning in your head.”

Grym grunted, understanding her meaning though he’d never heard such a saying. “No wheels, just rocks and dirt rattling around. Why you come to Sampson’s aid?”

She didn’t hesitate in her response. “Because I can feel the darkness in him. Even when there is no sunlight, the shadows trail him like lost pet hounds.”

Darkness, Grym thought. It was a good word to describe the Sampson he’d known on the Lost Plains. But now…nothing about the man had been dark since they’d been reunited within the bonds of slavery. It was like he was a different person entirely. “Doesn’t explain why you helped him,” Grym said.

Lady Kerr smiled. “Since I was a little girl, I always preferred the night to the day, the dark to the light. Even being near you makes me feel…out of sorts.”

Makes two of us, Grym thought, though he didn’t understand what she meant. “Why? I am neither light nor dark. I am just…Grym, son of Drynym.”

She shook her head. “Incredible,” she breathed. She scratched at a scroll that was set on the table in front of her using a quill with the largest feather he’d ever seen. For the most part, the feather was green, but in the center a circle comprised of various shades of blue reminded Grym of an eye. When she finished writing, she looked up. “You mean you don’t feel the brightness radiating from inside you?”

Brightness? Radiating? These words meant nothing to him, at least not in the context of himself. He didn’t know how to respond, so he simply shook his head.

“Let me explain. The art of magic requires forces of darkness and brightness. Everything is constructed of these two forces. You. Me. The chairs you refuse to sit on. Most things contain an equal measure of each. They are neutral. Mages learn to channel the dark and the light using magenum, which allows them to tap into the very essence of things. No one knows how it works, just that it does and can be mastered with sufficient practice and natural talent.”

He stared at her, wondering what she expected him to say.

Her eyes sparkled under the lanternlight. “I think a demonstration is in order.” She stood and went to a chest against the wall, cracking it open. She reached inside and withdrew what appeared to be a small doll made of straw. It was clothed in a tiny uniform—the clothing of a taskmaster. “This is your taskmaster,” she said.

If Grym wasn’t certain before, he was now: If this woman were a tent, she’d be missing more than one pole. “I thought taskmaster was shackled in slave barracks on your orders,” he said.

“He is. But he is also here.” She held up the doll. “Or at least he will be soon.” While Grym tried to make sense of that, she returned to the table where her fancy quill and parchment lay. Beside them was a small pouch, cinched at the top with a cord. He’d noticed one of the servants bringing it in while Sampson’s injuries were being tended to.

Now, she lifted the pouch, poking a finger inside its mouth to loosen the cord. From inside she extracted something so small Grym couldn’t make it out until she held it up to the lanternlight. A single hair, reddish-brown and wavy, about the length of a finger. She looked over at Grym, a small smile forming on her lips. “This is from your taskmaster’s head. I had one of my servants enter his quarters to find it on his pillow.”

“Why?” Grym grunted. “What use is a hair?”

“A connection,” she said cryptically, holding up both the hair and the straw doll. While he watched, she placed the hair on the doll’s head, tucking it beneath several of the stalks of straw. Satisfied, she placed the doll on the table with its back propped up against an empty vase resting in the center. Then, from inside the vase she retrieved a small vial of glowing liquid. Grym had never seen anything like it, the liquid seeming to create its own light, casting a small turquoise halo around itself. “This is magenum,” Lady Kerr said. “Father provides me with an abundant supply most mages would kill for. Mostly to keep me busy and distracted so I don’t bother him.”

Grym noticed she spoke about her father without a modicum of fondness, as though he was just another of her servants. “Are you a mage?” Grym asked. She seemed to know a lot about magic.

“If you’re asking whether I’ve trained at Aeromand, the answer is no.” Grym hadn’t been asking that. Now he wasn’t really sure what he had been asking. “But I know how to use magenum. I’ve been using it for years. I probably have a greater grasp of the substance than most of the acolytes training at this very moment. The Archmage Council knows all about it, but they look the other way because of Father’s…contributions.”

Grym hadn’t lived such a sheltered life that he didn’t understand her real meaning. “Bribes,” he grunted, the word sitting bitter on his tongue. The Grizari valued strength and truth, not treachery and underhanded dealings.

“A necessary evil so I can continue my training without their intervention,” Lady Kerr said. “Now, for the demonstration. She dropped to her knees and felt under the table. She stuck out her tongue as she did so, seeming to concentrate. “Ah, there you are.” When she slid back into her chair, she was gripping a dagger. “When I was seven, Father hid a dozen or so of these around my quarters. He even taught me how to use them.” She slashed the blade through the air, expression fierce. When she saw Grym’s frown, she said, “I know, not your typical father-daughter bonding, but I loved every second. Anyway, the only thing I’ll be cutting tonight is your taskmaster. Or perhaps I should say, previous taskmaster.” She grinned devilishly.

Now that he was amongst more of them, Grym realized humans were even queerer than he thought. “Er…” He considered pointing out that it was just a doll. Even plucking every hair from the taskmaster’s head and stuffing them into the straw creation couldn’t change that fact. He decided against saying anything, clamping his mouth shut once more.

“None of my father’s taskmasters are good men, but that one is the worst. He has a darkness in him, too, and not the good kind. Sadistic bastard.” Grym wondered what ‘the good kind’ of darkness would look like but didn’t ask. Instead, he watched as Lady Kerr uncapped the vial of glowing liquid. It sizzled as she sprinkled several drops onto the doll’s head, right where she’d inserted the taskmaster’s hair. Then she gripped the doll in one hand and proceeded to cut a line down one of its arms with her knife. Her lip curled as she worked. When she finished carving one arm, she looked up at Grym. “Shall I continue?”

Grym shrugged. What difference did it make if she slashed a straw doll to ribbons?

She seemed pleased by his indifferent expression, returning to her work. Next she carved the doll’s other arm, then both its legs. She teased its neck with the edge of the blade but didn’t cut. She finished by etching a series of smaller and smaller circles in the doll’s chest—like an archer’s target.

Apparently satisfied, she placed the doll back on the table, face down this time, and then sat back in her chair. “Now you’ve witnessed the way light and dark is connected,” she said. Grym wasn’t certain what he’d witnessed, but he didn’t feel any wiser because of it. Lady Kerr didn’t seem to notice his confusion. “Most people have an equal measure of the dark and light too. Sampson…he has the most dark I’ve ever witnessed. And you, Grym, son of Drynym, have the most light. You are…bright. Bright like the sun.”

The wagon bounced and bumped beneath Grym. Sampson stirred, but didn’t awaken. The bandages binding the human’s wounds were hidden beneath the massive shirt that now hung from his puny human frame like a second skin about to be shed. The shirt was Grym’s. Well, sort of. When he’d been forced into slavery, he’d been given the huge, blanketlike shirt and was told to wear it over his battle leathers. Grym understood why: they wanted him to look like any other slave, not the warrior he was. It would’ve been easier for them to strip him of the leathers, but none of the humans were willing to come close enough to him to remove them. Maybe they thought he had some contagious disease and they would grow horns. Now the shirt made of thick material would serve to prevent Sampson catching his death in the bitter Avadonian cold. Grym, on the other hand, barely felt the cold, even with his arms fully exposed and the rest of him covered by only his leathers, which provided little to no real warmth.

While Grym had been trapped in the room with the strange young woman who happened to be the daughter of his mortal enemy, night had fallen over Dunadin, giving the city’s structures the appearance of stone demons, their windows their many glowing eyes as they stared at him. Though his father had told him about how humans built structures the size of mountains out of stone, he never really believed it until now. These ones were constructed right up to the side of the cliff, making them appear almost like an extension of the Spine. No, he thought. More like the entrails, spilling from a slash through its abdomen.

He shook away the thought, ignoring the glowing demon eyes and remembering his encounter with Lady Kerr. Grym knew the common tongue well enough, but the words she’d spoken might as well have been meaningless garble. The ‘essence of things’? ‘Channel the dark and the light’? Calling him ‘Bright like the sun’? It made no sense. Neither had the glee with which she tormented the lifeless straw doll. Thus, he hadn’t asked anything more and she hadn’t offered, the pair staring at each other like two creatures so vastly different that they might’ve been born on different planets rather than opposite sides of a river.

She’d called for a servant shortly after, as she ‘had much to ponder,’ or so she’d said. Grym had carried Sampson’s sleeping form downstairs to where a wagon was waiting to transport them back to the slave barracks. The entire experience had been so surreal that if Grym hadn’t witnessed it himself he would’ve questioned the sanity of whoever told such a nonsensical tale.

Sampson stirred again, and this time his eyes opened. They rolled around aimlessly, but then darted toward him when Grym moved slightly, his boot scuffing the wood. Sampson flinched, then groaned as the pain hit him.

“Not going to eat you,” Grym said. “Not hungry anyway.”

“Sorry, I didn’t expect—” Sampson cut off, grimacing in pain as the wagon jolted over another bump in the road. “Why are we in a wagon?”

Grym didn’t know where to start. “Lady Kerr helped you,” was all he could think of to say.

“Charlotte?”

Grym frowned. “You use her name like that of friend.”

Sampson shook his head, trying to sit up. After another flinch, he seemed to think better of it and lay his head back onto a pile of hay. His hands patted at the thick material swimming around him. “Where did this come from? My shirt was ripped.”

At least he remembers that much, Grym thought. “Lady Kerr cut holes in blanket before sending us away,” he lied. The last thing he wanted the human to think was that he cared whether he was cold or not.

Sampson nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve had a couple of interactions with her. She is an…eccentric woman.”

Grym snorted. At least that was something they could agree on. “Aye. She murdered doll she claimed was taskmaster who whipped you. Made me watch.”

Sampson raised one eyebrow. “That’s…unusual…even for her. Not that I really know her. Except…”

“What?”

Sampson lowered his voice so that the driver wouldn’t be able to hear him. “She promised to help me escape. But I won’t leave unless she takes you too.”

Grym remembered what Lady Kerr said about the darkness inside Sampson. Is that why she wanted to free him—to unleash that darkness on the world once more? “Why would you do that for me? Why did you take lashes? Almost keeled you.”

Sampson cringed as another series of bumps rumbled beneath the wagon. When the road flattened out, he said, “I make no excuses for what I did to you, to the Grizari. But I will do everything in my power to make things right. I swear it.”

“Too late now,” Grym snarled. He didn’t want to be angry, but the reminder of what this man had done to his people, the danger his own daughter was in, brought a swell of fresh fury.

The driver twisted around in his seat. “Quiet, you two!”

“I know,” Sampson whispered. “But I have to try. I have nothing else left.”

Grym’s instinct was to feel sorry for him, but then he remembered the way he’d ensnared his fellow Grizari leaders. He remembered how his people were even now being rounded up and forced into a life of bondage. “Want to help me?”

“Yes, please,” Sampson said, a note of pleading in his voice.

“Then die.”

Grym turned away and stared back at the stone demons.

Neither of them said another word for the duration of the ride back to the slave barracks. When they arrived, Grym hopped down and strode inside, ready to be rid of this bizarre day. He expected to find all the slaves asleep, the gentle sounds of their breathing the only sound.

Instead, he found them standing and milling about in a pack near the door where he’d entered. Staring and pointing and murmuring to each other in low tones. Grym pushed them aside one by one until they parted for him and he could get to the front.

He stopped cold, mouth opening slightly. A blade of moonslight painted the far wall green. A figure was highlighted against it, curled up like a scared child. He was sobbing.

Grym took a step closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the details. Blood, soaking through his clothes. Lines of red down each arm and each leg.

He dislodged a loose stone by accident with his toe and it made a sound as it skittered across the ground. The form jolted, his arms unwrapping themselves as he turned, eyes wide and full of the kind of fear one might encounter if they’d stared into the face of Death itself. His chest was covered in blood, too, painted in a series of circles—like an archer’s target.

The form was the taskmaster.

Seventeen

Roman Leary

Onboard Queen of the Seas, Sacred Sea

THE HARDEST PART WAS SEEING HER PAIN. Even when Lila’s eyes weren’t looking upon him, Roman saw the ache in them as she went about her duties as the ship’s captain. The only time the ache had disappeared was when a small contingent of her men had demanded justice for their fallen comrades, those Roman had apparently slain while under the shadowblade’s control. Lila had cut that talk off at the knees and her men had slunk away.

The knowledge that he’d spilled innocent blood gnawed at Roman’s soul more savagely than the cords that bit into his arms, chest and legs, securing him to the mast. The shadowblade was flush with his chest, the tip aimed upward toward his throat. These were his requirements, which Lila had carried out herself without protest. At one point he’d growled against the pain of the bindings cutting into his flesh and tears had pooled in her eyes, but she hadn’t allowed a single tear to fall. Her men had silently watched her work until she’d finished and she sent them scrambling back to their posts or to help dress and clean the dead.

Now, Roman lived a shadow life, always aware of the world around him but unable to interact with it. He knew it was the only choice, but that didn’t make it pleasant. Still, knowing Lila and her men were safe made it worth the ceaseless pain from the cords’ many teeth.

Ten men guarded him around the clock, their weapons gripped pointed toward him. With each new shift, he commanded the men not to hesitate to kill him if he broke free of his bounds. Seeing their dark stares, he knew they wouldn’t think twice.

And all the while, the forlorn mountain crowned with smoke on the horizon grew closer.

Three days dragged past, but both Roman and his guards remained vigilant. The shadowblade hadn’t spoken since it had imprisoned him, and he hadn’t spoken to it either. Roman didn’t plan to engage with it again, not ever. Some instinct told him that if he did, he would allow its influence back inside him.

On day four, a storm blew in from the west. At first, Roman almost welcomed it, a distraction from the endless monotony of his situation. He opened his mouth to receive the light drizzle, tasting the cool wetness as it quickly drenched his hair and clothes. The wounds from the cords stung, but he didn’t even mind that so much, for it was a different sort of pain than the one he’d endured for the last few days.

Soon, however, the rainfall intensified, falling in sheets that soon covered the decking, settling in the low areas. The wind picked up, too, until the sails were snapping so hard it felt as though they were moments from being snatched from their moorings and taken by the storm.

Captain Mirren stormed across the deck, temporarily forgetting about Roman as she barked orders to Secure the sails! and Batten down the hatches! and Bail, godsdammit! Bail!

Her men acted as extensions of the woman herself, racing to and fro to carry out her orders with the efficiency she demanded of everyone who set foot on her ship. Soon the ship was secured to her satisfaction and all that was left to do was ride out the gale. The men hustled below decks, leaving only Lila remaining on deck.

Her eyes met his.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Roman, this is madness.” He heard the flutter in her voice, so foreign after the gruff bark of her orders.

“It is the only way. The blade won’t let me die; it still needs me to survive. Do you trust me?” Rainwater streaming down her face, Lila nodded. Then she leapt up onto the platform from which the main mast grew. “Lila,” Roman said. “You need to go.”

“Not yet,” she said, drawing closer.

“Lila,” Roman warned.

And then she leaned into him, lips parting. He closed his eyes and received her, drinking the taste of her in, memorizing the feel of her hands on the slickness of his cheeks, his throat, the way they threaded through his hair. For the long moment where his lips met hers, he forgot the world and the storm and the shadowblade pressed tight against his chest.

When she severed the kiss, the captain turned away quickly, as if she couldn’t look upon him for a second longer and still do what she knew she needed to do—leave.

“Ginny!” he called out, remembering the young girl still tethered to the railing.

Lila turned, meeting his eyes. She nodded once and then strode toward where the girl sat with her knees pulled up to her chin, arms covering her head against the storm. Lila drew her sword and quickly sawed through the appropriate rope. She sheathed her blade and then hauled the girl to her feet. Hunkering together, they ran across the decking.

Roman watched them go, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest until they disappeared down the steps below decks, pulling the hatch shut tight behind them.

Only once they were safe did the rhythm of his heart slow. And then the blade finally spoke:

I HOPE YOU’RE PREPARED TO DIE FOR HER.

Roman said nothing, for the sword didn’t understand anything. Though he cared about Lila more than he’d cared about any woman in decades, it wasn’t her that drove his actions now. No, everything he did was for Sampson.

Rain lashed at his cheeks, hurled so hard from the thick, black sea of clouds that they turned into pellets. Bright yellow icicles of lightning streaked across the sky. Soon after, a crack of thunder shook the ship. More lightning and thunder, the time between them lessening with each iteration as the fury of the storm drew closer, churning the waves beneath him, until they grew into hills that grew into mountains with precipitous cliffs, white, foamy stones breaking free and tumbling down their sides, filling the ship to brimming with icy water.

Anything the sailors hadn’t had time to secure began to move, sliding along the slick decks, crashing into each other, breaking, some becoming projectiles as gusts of wind scooped them up with invisible hands and sent them shooting through the air. Two barrels, one sliding along its bottom and the other rolling end over end, collided. The sliding one was apparently made of sturdier material and it survived the impact, while the rolling barrel shattered, spilling red wine that immediately made the surrounding water appear to be mixed with blood.

The splintered shards of wood shot in all directions. The heavier chunks sat on the water, floating like flotsam and jetsam from a shipwreck, while the lighter shards flew hither and thither. One daggerlike piece flew like an archer’s arrow for where Roman was bound to the mast. He closed his eyes and cringed and then heard a tinging sound. When he opened his eyes and looked down, his blade strapped to his chest was vibrating slightly and the wooden shard was sitting harmlessly at his feet.

YOU SHOULD SAY ‘THANK YOU’, the shadowblade said.

Because of a stroke of luck?

BECAUSE YOU’D HAVE BEEN DEAD LONG AGO IF NOT FOR ME. AND I COULD LET YOU SLIP AWAY NOW.

A snake who spares a bite only to hold his fangs over his victim deserves no thanks.

HUMAN SAYINGS ARE SO…UNIMAGINATIVE. SNAKES DON’T BITE BECAUSE THEY’RE EVIL. THEY BITE BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT THEY WERE BORN TO DO.

Roman remembered why he was grateful the blade hadn’t been speaking to him lately. Do what you must, he said. Whether you choose to bite or not, I will end you.

Just then the thunder boomed with such force the sound continued to ring in his ears for several seconds afterwards. Lightning struck so close he could smell burning in the air from the bolt’s passing. Rain hammered at his skin, so cold his entire body felt like it was trapped in a block of ice. More projectiles filled the air. Something hard slammed into his gut, narrowly missing the blade’s hilt. He grunted while the blade said, GUESS LUCK WASN’T WITH YOU THAT TIME.

Ropes sprang free from where the seamen had hurriedly tied them before the brunt of the storm hit. They snapped in the wind like a taskmaster’s whips. One lashed Roman in the face, splitting his cheek open. Warm blood oozed downward, melting his icy skin. Another snapped him in the shoulder, the ear, just above the eye. Something bulky that had no business being airborne cracked into his skull, painting stars across his vision.

His mind felt muddled, his skin on fire. Fire? he thought. No. It’s winter and I’m on a ship. It’s supposed to be cold. Wasn’t I just cold? Ahhh, but the warmth. The warmth is nice. I like the fire. The fire is…so………

good.

Darkness smothered the stars and chased away the fire.

The words were strange, bouncing around from place to place, forming over each other and around each other. Man-ro an-rom n-roma…

They were nonsensical, like another language, or a baby just learning how to use its tongue to babble. Llo-he? Roman? ROMAN!? HELLO!?

The words clarified all at once and he awoke with a start, eyes flashing open. Well, eye, to be more accurate. One of his eyes, the left one, refused to open. It felt puffy and strange, only the smallest sliver of light penetrating the darkness that covered its vision. From the right eye he saw a beautiful, powerful woman. She had a name, he knew, but it escaped him. He thought it best to ask her to remind him what she was called, so he did. “Urrr?” he said.

Why didn’t his tongue and mouth work the way it was supposed to? Was he a baby again?

“We need to cut him down,” the beautiful, powerful woman with the forgotten name said.

“No,” he said. “No!” Except that’s not what he said, the simple word that should’ve been so easy to speak mashing into a garbled groan.

The edge of a knife flashed in the sunlight. It moved closer, wielded by a strong hand that he’d once felt on his skin. Something thrummed against his chest and he squinted against the light to look.

Shadows swirled, pulsed—they were hungry, ready. Ravenous.

“NO!!” he shouted, and this time the word came out clear and loud and strong.

The hand stopped, the knife’s edge barely touching the first of the cords that bound him. “Roman?” Lila said, for that was the name of the beautiful, powerful woman.

“Lila…,” he said, voice rough and grating. “Don’t. The shadowblade is waiting. A trick. Just a trick.”

Lila frowned, a ridge appearing between her brows. “Are you saying the blade caused the storm?”

Roman hadn’t considered that, but he didn’t think so. It had powers he couldn’t comprehend, but it wasn’t all powerful. No, it was merely looking to take advantage of a situation. “No, but it won’t hesitate. I must remain bound.”

I SHOULD’VE LET YOU DIE, the blade said, venom in every hissed word.

Such a statement might’ve been true in the past, but now it was a lie. This time, Roman knew, it wasn’t the blade that had sustained him. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the blade would’ve let him die during the storm. But he hadn’t perished, not because of the blade’s will, but because of himself. It was his own strength that had carried him through the night.

There was power in survival, power in knowing one had faced the darkness and emerged again into the light.

He didn’t respond to the blade because he didn’t have to. It understood the difference between truth and lie as well as anyone.

“Oh, Roman,” Lila said. He could tell she wanted to touch him, to comfort him, to care for him.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Have your men tie blankets around me. I will warm quickly in the sun. Now, you have a ship to command. Our journey is almost complete.” He forced as much certainty and conviction into his tone. Inside, he felt on the verge of collapse.

She searched his eye for a moment, but then nodded. The second she turned away, his chin dropped, his eye closing. His strength depleted, he slept.

The next time Roman awoke, it was dark again. He felt warm. His chin brushed against something thick and soft. A blanket pulled all the way up to his neck. He wondered how many men had sacrificed their coverings to keep him warm. He wondered how many had given their blankets willingly and how many the captain had to command.

He shook away the thought because it was unimportant compared to what came next. A few men’s feet getting cold wouldn’t impact the future of Kingfall. YOU OVERESTIMATE YOUR OWN IMPORTANCE, the blade said.

And you overestimate how much I care what you think, Roman thought back.

He peered into the dark, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Though his left eye was still severely swollen, he managed to crack it open halfway, greatly improving his vision. The edge of the ship was just ahead, the outline of the railing rising waist high. He squinted, searching for Ginny’s slumped form. As far as he could tell, the deck was empty. Maybe she’d been moved to a different location after the storm?

His eyes roamed past the edge of the ship to the dark waters to—

There! His heart flipped in his chest as a wall of darkness climbed the night sky, each side angling toward each other until they met in a flat precipice. “Firestone,” he said.

“Yes,” Lila said, her form shifting where she’d been sitting motionless on the single step leading up to the main mast. She’d been so silent and still he hadn’t even noticed she was there. “We made it.”

“How long have you been sitting there?” Roman asked.

“Since you fell unconscious again,” she said, standing. She mounted the step, so close he could’ve touched her if his arms weren’t bound taut at his sides.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she interrupted. “One of the benefits of being captain of one’s ship. I wanted to stay with you. I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. Not on this night.”

“Where is Ginny?” Roman asked.

She sighed. “Why are you so concerned with the thief? While you’ve been trying to help her, she’s been nothing but mean-spirited and spiteful.”

“Because everyone deserves a second chance.” When Lila raised an eyebrow, he said, “Or third, or fourth, or tenth. At least everyone who has a good heart in their chest.”

“You’re a good man, Roman Leary. But how can you tell who has a good heart?”

“I can’t, not always,” he said. “But I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

“Always, though if I wince, it’s not because of you. It’s because everything hurts.”

She smiled and leaned in until their lips met. It didn’t hurt, a thrill running from his toes to the tip of his head as they moved against each other, connected at this single point of focus, like on those rare nights when the light of both moons crossed together. They kissed for a long time, and Roman understood the moment for what it was—a goodbye. Lila seemed to know, too, and they both refused to be the one to end it.

Thus, they only separated when they heard a cacophony of footfalls clomp across deck. Roman’s eyes opened slowly, widening when he realized the night had been chased away by dawn, an orange glow appearing on the horizon. The captain, for that’s what she needed to be now, pulled back sharply to face her men, mouth already opening to begin barking out orders.

“Ginny?” Roman said quickly, remembering she’d never answered his question.

Without turning back around, she said, “She escaped during the storm. We haven’t been able to find her.”

Firestone was ringed by a series of long, narrow reefs. As the sea approached the reefs, it swelled into waves that crashed in a spray of whitewater before flattening into calmer waters close to the island. Though there were gaps of deep sea from one reef to the next, they weren’t broad enough for a ship the size of Queen of the Seas to sail between them. Thus, they were forced to anchor a mile or so offshore from Firestone.

To reach the island, smaller rowboats would be required. In a way, it’s better this way, Roman thought as Lila approached him from across the deck. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes, but I’m going alone,” he said.

He’d expected her to fight him on the matter, but she nodded. “I understand. We’ll keep you bound until you’re in the boat. Then one of my men will cut you free and we’ll pull him back on deck.”

She spoke as the captain, not as the woman she’d been before the sun had arisen. No, Roman thought. That’s not right. Those are merely different facets to the same diamond. And yet, the way she spoke now was off somehow. Colder, more rigid and precise. She was protecting her heart.

“Once it is done, I will return,” Roman said. “I swear it. But if you do not spot me boarding my boat by the time the sun rises tomorrow, you must promise to leave without me.”

Her chin lifted. “I shall do no such thing.”

“Lila, please.”

“I remain Captain Mirren as long as you are on this ship. And you don’t give me orders.”

“Promise me.”

She lowered her voice. “Roman, no.”

“You have a life to live, a ship to manage. Men who rely on you. How long can you last anchored here?”

“We can ration. We will fish the waters and come ashore in search of fresh water if necessary. There are said to be natives living here. Mayhaps they will trade with us.”

“I cannot go if I know you will wait forever for me.”

“Not forever, just longer than tomorrow at dawn.”

“How long?”

“Five days.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Roman latched onto that number. Three. “Agreed. Promise me.”

“I promise.” She started to turn away.

“Lila.”

“Yes?”

“I…” I love you, he thought. “I will miss you,” he said.

“But only for three days,” she said.

No, I will love you forever. “Yes, only for three days.”

Harsh, red lines encircled his arms, his chest, his legs. The lacerations oozed and wept blood. As Roman worked the oars, the salt spray leapt up, causing his injuries to sting. If anything, it helped focus him.

The desire to turn back was there, to gaze upon her form standing stoic on the shoulders of her majestic vessel, but he ignored it, pushing ever forward. The blade was once more in its sheath, cold and quiet. Roman got the impression it was conserving its energy for one final battle to save itself.

Lila had her men fill the front of the boat with provisions, including a change of clothes, two thick blankets, several flasks of water, dried meat and hard tack. Roman didn’t plan to use any of it but hadn’t refused her kindness.

The water grew choppier as he approached the reefs. He angled for the largest of the gaps in front of him, dipping his oars and pulling, dipping and pulling, his muscles slowly loosening and stretching from the repetitive motion. The current was strong, fighting his every pull, trying to force him into the endless line of waves crashing on the reefs.

Soon he realized he wasn’t making any headway, the current between the reefs dragging everything, his boat included, back out to sea. There was only one way to reach the island. He pulled hard with his left oar to turn the boat and then shot forward across the current and into the swell. Once the waves began sloshing over the broadside, he turned the small vessel back toward the island and propelled himself forward. He moved much faster now, pushed from behind by the rising waves. Soon he stopped rowing completely, bringing the oars inside the boat and tucking them safely to each side. He gripped the bench with both hands, feeling a thrill as he rose higher and higher, the wave crumbling behind him, around him, beneath him. A blast of wind hit him as he shot down the face of the wave, which unleashed a violent, triumphant roar as it spat him out. Something scraped against the bottom of the boat—the reef’s fingers, piercing the surface of the sea.

Please hold, please hold, he thought glancing down.

The scraping stopped and then he was in open water once more, the surface as glassy as the face of a mirror, reflecting the sky. The backside of the reef brimmed with colorful fish, chasing each other in and out of bright structures of pink, purple, blue, green.

Roman released a sigh of relief; no water had penetrated the bottom of the boat. He was about to return the oars to their locks and begin rowing for shore when something in the front of the boat moved under the pile of blankets. Instincts kicked in and Roman immediately reached for his blade, but remembered himself at the last second, hand hovering inches from the hilt.

“Name yourself!” he demanded.

“Roman Leary, this be the ghost o’ Quartermaster Barney! I shall haunt ye fer the rest o’ yer miserable life!”

Roman relaxed, immediately recognizing the voice. “That’s not amusing,” he said. “It’s not respectful to speak lightly of the dead.”

Ginny’s head popped from the pile of blankets like a gopher emerging from its hole. “Not respectful to who? The dead don’ care—they’re dead.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Roman said.

“Fair enough. Row me back to the ship an’ I’ll gladly tie myself back to the railin’.” She smiled sweetly.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“’Cause ye hafta destroy that nasty blade o’ yers, right?”

“The sword is dangerous. Another reason you shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m not scared o’ a piece o’ steel.”

“It’s a shadowblade.”

She shrugged. “Superstitious nonsense. I’ve never believed in the gods. They ain’t done nothin’ fer me.”

She was infuriating, but Roman didn’t have time to deal with her. “When we make landfall, you will wait with the boat. There are enough provisions to last you until I return. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Da,” she said.

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Will ye be my da? I never really had one before.”

“If you are not with the boat when I return, I’m leaving without you.”

“That’s fair. Think I might enjoy island life fer a while anyway.”

He couldn’t tell whether it was a bluff, but he didn’t exactly care right now. He couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to be helped. He pushed harder for shore now, the boat skimming easily across the calm waters. He scanned the shoreline for any signs of the natives that supposedly called Firestone their home, but he saw nothing but sand and rocks and a thick jungle that started at sea level before climbing the flanks of the volcano itself. Maybe the volcano wiped out the natives a long time ago, he thought. He craned his head upward to take in the rocky peak. Though the mountain seemed peaceful at present, several wisps of smoke curled lazily from its precipice, feeding the dark cloud that never seemed to leave the sky above it.

With three more pulls of the oars it was done, the boat sliding smoothly onto the sandy beach until it ground to a stop halfway out of the water. “Cover yourself with the blankets,” Roman ordered.

“Come on, I’ve been under there fer ages,” Ginny complained.

“Do it or I’m not leaving.”

“Fine, Da,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Yes, Father,” she said solemnly.

Roman gritted his teeth and watched as she tucked herself back into the front of the boat and dragged the nest of thick blankets over her head. “Stay here,” he said.

“Yes, Papi,” she said, her voice muffled through the thick folds of fabric.

Roman threw his leg over the side of the boat, boot sinking deep into the wet sand. His eyes danced across the edge of the jungle as he made his way across the beach. If there were natives here, they must surely be a stalwart people to have survived under the shadow of Firestone all these years. If he weren’t careful, they could very well skewer him with arrows before he ever knew they were there.

He reached the cover of the trees without event, entering the dense canopy on feet as quiet as he could make them given the loose leaves and sticks that crunched underfoot. He crept step by step through the undergrowth, pushing away branches and brambles with one hand. More than once he was forced to stop to pick thorny stems from his clothes. Soon his hands were covered with pinpricks of blood, stinging as the breeze washed over them. They were beginning to itch, too, which likely meant the thorns released a bit of poison with each stab.

Great, he thought. Just what I need.

After what felt like an hour of hard labor, he stopped to rest. The day had grown warm, far warmer than any of the days spent aboard the Queen, and beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead broke free of their moorings, trickling down and dripping from his brows. At this rate, he’d be lucky to reach the mountain’s foothills in three days, much less make it to the top and back down to his boat.

Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped.

He spun around, instantly on high alert, eyes scanning the foliage for anything that didn’t belong. His hand rested on the shadowblade’s hilt. IT’S JUST THE GIRL, the shadowblade said.

He frowned. How could the blade possibly know that? “Ginny?” he called out.

“Yes, Da?” The girl’s voice pierced the silence just before she stepped out from behind a broad tree.

WHY NOT JUST KILL HER? PROBLEM SOLVED.

“Go back to the boat,” Roman said.

“No.”

“Go…back.” Roman used his hardest, most no-nonsense voice, the tone that had always sent street urchins scrambling for cover.

“Are ye hard o’ hearin’? I said, ‘Noooo.’” She exaggerated her enunciation of the word, as though teaching a foreigner the common tongue.

Roman took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. Perhaps a different tactic was required to get through to her. “Listen, Ginny. I am climbing to the top of the volcano to destroy this ancient shadowblade.” He gestured to the blade, which seemed excited by the attention, its shadows thickening. “I don’t know what might happen up there, but it’s not safe for a young girl.” He saw the dagger-filled look she gave him and said, “I mean, young woman. It’s not safe for anyone.”

“But yer goin’.”

“Someone has to. I’m doing it to protect someone. Someone who means a great deal to me.”

“Prince Sampson Gaard,” she said.

This was one negative of having come clean to the entire crew. Ginny, tethered to the railing, had been close enough to hear the entire story. “Yes,” he said. “He is my ward. If the blade comes into his possession again, I fear it may destroy him.” Speaking the words out loud only strengthened his resolve to complete his mission without delay. “Now I really must go. Please wait at the boat. Can you find your way back?”

Ginny’s head hung. “Yes,” she said. No joking, no arguing. Just acquiescence. Roman knew he should be shouting for joy, but instead he felt bad. This girl had probably been told no a thousand times in her short life, and here he was adding to the pile of rejection. If he made it back to the boat, deed done, he vowed to try to help her as best he could.

“I will return as soon as possible,” he said, but she was already gone, feet crunching through the undergrowth. He shook his head. It was a wonder she’d avoided detection as long as she had, moving as quietly as a wraith as she’d followed him.

As he turned away, the blade said, YOU ARE FAR TOO SOFT.

Roman had been determined not to engage with the blade during the final part of this journey, but now he could hold his tongue no longer. And you are a sadistic murderer who just suggested killing a young girl for no other reason than her wanting to stay by my side!

MAYBE SO, BUT I’M ALSO A SURVIVOR. I WAS ONCE PART OF A GREATER SWORD THAT WAS SHATTERED BEYOND RECOGNITION. AND YET HERE I AM, STRONGER THAN EVER.

That’s debatable. Despite his flippant response, Roman couldn’t help but to feel a small swell of awe at the truth of the shadowblade’s words. He had never really stopped to consider the magnitude of possessing a weapon forged from a shard of Erif Mirg’s Legacy Sword, the shattering of which had begun the downfall of the Thousands and their allies. All the more reason to destroy it as soon as possible.

SO UNIMAGINATIVE. SO SMALLMINDED.

Meaning?

MEANING WITH YOUR STRENGTH AND PROWESS AND MY GODS GIVEN ABILITIES, WE COULD’VE DONE GREAT THINGS, ROMAN LEARY.

Like what? As soon as the question passed his lips, Roman cursed himself for falling into the blade’s trap.

OVERTHROW AVADON, FOR STARTERS, WHICH IS WHAT SAMPSON SHOULD HAVE DONE.

He showed his strength when he rejected your plan and cast you away.

AND NOW HE’S PAYING THE PRICE FOR THAT DECISION.

Meaning?

GLYNN KERR HAS ENSLAVED HIM. HE’S BEEN BEATEN, ABUSED, FORCED TO WORK IN KERR’S MINES. WITHOUT ME, HE WILL DIE IN A TOMB OF STONE. NOT THAT HE KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE WHERE HE DIES, CONSIDERING HIS BLINDNESS…

You lie.

THAT HE’S BLIND? OF COURSE HE IS, HE HAS BEEN FROM BIRTH, DON’T YOU REMEMBER?

About the other stuff, Roman said, his patience wearing thin.

IT’S ALL TRUE.

You said your connection to him was lost.

IT WAS, UNTIL JUST LAST NIGHT.

How convenient. Your connection to Sampson was restored on the eve of your demise.

THE VISION WAS ONLY FLEETING, BUT I CAPTURED SAMPSON’S MIND IN AN EYEBLINK. AND HE SAW MINE. JUST A GLIMPSE. HE KNOWS WHAT YOU’RE TRYING TO DO, AND HE HATES YOU FOR IT.

Every instinct made Roman want to rip the blade from its sheath and hurl it into the jungle and then depart this island forever. Instead, he forced deep breaths through his nostrils until the urge had passed. He wouldn’t allow the blade to claim another victim. Too much blood had been spilled already on his watch.

Without another word, he started off again, picking his way through the undergrowth.

Roman almost cheered when he found the path. It wasn’t wide or paved with cobblestones, but it was enough, a much-needed respite from the closeness and entanglements of the jungle. Still, oddly shaped stones and gnarled roots made for precarious footing, so, while he picked up his pace a bit, he was careful not to turn an ankle. Given his mission, it was unlikely the blade would heal him if he did.

He also remained vigilant, because where there was a path there was life. Someone or something had created the path, either on purpose or by treading the same direction over the course of years, and now he was walking a path he didn’t belong on.

Soon the path began to climb upward, and when he gazed skyward through the jungle canopy, he glimpsed the mountain, which was closer now, looming like a stone behemoth capable of crushing him with one step of its foothills. Just ahead was a rise, the steepest hill he’d encountered yet. He was about to start up when his ears caught a sound. Rather than freezing in place in the middle of the path, he dove headlong into the jungle, tucking himself deep within a plant with leaves as big as his body.

He listened, frowning as he tried to make sense of the sound. At first, he thought it might be the bellow of some sort of a creature, but the more he listened the more he concluded the sound was being made by humans—more than one. The sound was low, and thus difficult to discern, but then rose and fell like the crashing of the waves on the reef. Some sort of a song, or a chant, perhaps. From what he could make out, the chanters weren’t speaking the common tongue, their words foreign to him, rounder toward the end and carrying a sort of tempo in the beginning and middle. The sounds seemed to be coming from just over the rise.

Roman considered the situation. He was clearly outnumbered. He could pick his way through the jungle and attempt to circumvent whoever was making the sound, working his way back to the path further up the slope. But that would cost him an hour, maybe two, the jungle’s natural growth impeding him every step of the way.

He made a decision, drawing himself free of the large-leafed plant and then stepping back onto the path. He ascended the rise slowly, pausing with each step to listen for any signs that his presence had been noticed.

The chanting grew louder.

When he neared the top, he gained his first view of the chanters. They wore red scraps of cloth that girded their loins and then angled up over one shoulder, leaving a portion of their chests bare. Five in total, they were all male, their heads shorn, their limbs not much thicker than the bones covered by their skin. They sat in a clearing of sorts with their legs crossed, facing away from him, staring up the face of the trail. Beyond were the flanks of the mountain, free of the jungle foliage at last, its knees and elbows made of massive boulders and stone outcroppings, its shoulders precipitous cliffs that rose to the volcano’s smoke-crowned peak.

Unless they were secreted somewhere within their thin clothing, Roman didn’t detect any weapons. Next to his bulk, they would appear as children. He took another step, then another, entering the clearing. Still they chanted in their strange tongue, eyes raised to the mountain, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

Roman was about to clear his throat, when one turned and said, “She is at peace today. Are you here to disturb Her?” His eyes sparkled as he spoke, deep brown pools that caught the sunlight filtering through the trees.

Roman was so startled, as much by the scrawny man’s calmness in the face of a giant stranger interrupting his group’s chant as the fact that he spoke the common tongue, that it took him a moment to respond. “Disturb who?”

“The goddess,” the man said, pointing up toward the mountain.

Of course, Roman thought. It was only natural that a people who lived in the shadow of a volcano would worship her as a deity. What was he to say? He considered a dozen lies, discarding each of them in an instant. He was the invader here, and he wouldn’t insult this man with falsehoods and deception. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I must climb her.”

The others had continued their chant, as though a conversation with a strange man wasn’t occurring in their midst. The man seemed to consider his words, a serious expression hardening his face. “I understand. We have anticipated your arrival ever since the Flamebearer perished.”

“Flamebearer?”

“A holy man. The one responsible for cooling the goddess’s fiery temper.”

It sounded like a dangerous duty, and Roman wasn’t surprised he’d perished. It was something else the man had said that bothered him. “How did you know I was coming?”

The man’s eyes lit up. “A vision appeared to us after the Flame carried the sword of shadow and light away in her boat.”

Roman’s head cocked to the side, stunned by the man’s words. “What sword?” he said.

“She carried it on her back, though it was a great burden for one of our kind. We couldn’t look upon it directly, the blade carrying the weight of a thousand shadows and the brilliance of the sun in equal measure.”

Roman’s heart pounded in his chest. Those two warring descriptions were exactly how he would describe the shadowblade that now hung from his hip and the brightblade that had been wielded by the dragonrider woman at Kerr’s Crossing. Had someone else found a blade like his on Firestone and then carried it away? If so, where was she and what did she plan to do with it? He realized the man’s eyes were fixed on his own blade. “I’m here to destroy it,” he blurted out.

The man nodded. “I understand. We will not stand in your way.”

Roman had a hundred more questions for this man, but had the feeling now was not the time. He’d already interrupted whatever ceremony the five men were in the middle of, and the day wouldn’t last forever, waiting for him to satisfy his curiosity. He did, however, have one final question. “Thank you. Might I ask, how do you know the common tongue?”

The man smiled. “Long ago, people from the mainland came to our shores seeking precious metals. They didn’t find any, but one of my kind took interest in them. He learned their language before they departed our island. With each generation, one is chosen to learn the common tongue, which is passed from ear to ear. I was chosen for my generation, and I am teaching another for the next. The Flame Bearer and his Flames also learn the common tongue, as it is their right.”

The answer was beautiful in its simplicity, though Roman marveled that the chain of knowledge had been unbroken over many generations. What if the common tongue speaker died in a tragic accident, or contracted a life-threatening disease? Again, he tempered his curiosity, remembering himself and why he was here. “I wish you safety and prosperity,” Roman said.

The man nodded. “May you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Roman picked his way up the steep incline, using his hands when necessary, clutching at the stones and small, gnarled bushes that grew from the hard, harsh terrain. After dragging himself up a particularly steep section, he flopped onto a flat rock and finally turned to look back. It took him a moment, but he spotted the pathway that led into the clearing.

The clearing was empty, the red-garbed natives gone.

He remembered what the man had said about the sword that was half-bright, half-shadow. IT’S A SIGN, his own blade said.

A sign of what?

WHAT IS FATED TO TRANSPIRE. WHAT HAS ALREADY BEEN SET IN MOTION. YOU CANNOT FIGHT IT.

Maybe not, Roman said. But I can ensure you are not part of that fate.

The sword went silent, much to Roman’s satisfaction. He continued his climb, ever upwards, the air growing thinner, his breaths coming faster now. He could scent the smoke on the air now.

He reached a set of uneven, rock-hewn steps. They were steep, requiring him to concentrate on each step. One misstep and he would tumble to his death. Had the man known to his people as the Flamebearer climbed these same steps before meeting his demise? And if so, how had he died? And what did the girl the other man had called the Flame have to do with it? Did she find a godblade and then go berserk, like when Foreman Shift had first clutched the shadowblade and killed all his miners? They were questions without answers, and Roman pushed them aside, hauling himself higher and higher.

Finally, he reached the top, sweat pouring down his cheeks. From this high, the view was nothing short of stunning. He could see the sparkling waters of the Sacred Sea surrounding Firestone. The sun had begun its long descent toward the water, but there were at least two hours of daylight left, by Roman’s estimation. He drew his gaze closer to the shoreline, searching…

There! The Queen of the Seas remained anchored right where he’d left her, sails down. He wondered what Lila was doing at this very moment. Was she distracting herself by ordering her men to complete minor repairs to the ship? Or was she leaning against the railing at this very moment, eyes gazing toward his exact position even as he gazed toward her, their eyes meeting without either of them knowing?

He latched onto that thought, willing it into truth. Then he turned and crept inside the darkness of the cave leading into the mountain.

Ahead, something glowed. The smell of smoke grew with each step, until he was forced to pull his shirt over his mouth to tolerate it. The edge of a cliff came into view, a dark line rimmed by that fiery glow. As he approached the edge, he expected the blade to begin to plead for its life, spewing lies and threats, or worse, attempting another assault on his mind, trying to trap him in that dark void of darkness and nothingness.

The blade remained still and silent.

Was it resigned to its fate? Roman wondered.

He moved to the edge, peering into the chasm, mouth opening when he saw the roiling lava below. Bubbles formed and popped. A plume of fire appeared and rocketed skyward, forcing Roman to take a step back lest he be singed. He stepped forward again, hand moving to the shadowblade’s hilt.

This was the moment. He steeled his mind against an attack by the blade, but none came, even as he drew it, a line of shadow against the volcano’s brightness. He closed his eyes.

Opened them.

And threw the blade.

He stared at his hand, despising the way his fingers gripped the hilt even tighter, knuckles turning white from the effort. He tried to pry them free one at a time, but they were clamped more tightly than his own strength should’ve allowed. But he hadn’t come all this way to be foiled on the very precipice of victory.

He lowered himself into a crouch, hesitating only slightly, and then smashing his hand into the stone ground, sending spikes of pain through his knuckles, radiating into his wrist and forearm. Again and again he pounded his own hand against the stone, until his knuckles were bloody and aching. And yet…

Still they refused to release their prize. “Godsdammit,” he muttered, smashing his hand down again. He thought he felt something break, but if so the damage did nothing to break his vicelike grip. Thump, thump, thump! The more he pounded his own hand against the ground, the more he felt distant from it, like the limb had been separated from his own body.

Blood streamed freely and his hand seemed to be hanging strangely from his wrist, but his grip didn’t diminish. Damn you, he said to the blade.

I’M NOT THE REASON WE’RE HERE.

That much was true. Roman had come here for one reason and one reason alone—to set Sampson free. As long as the shadowblade existed, it would find a way to return to the one it believed was its true wielder. Roman had witnessed what Sampson’s connection to the blade had done to him, what it had made him. When he’d pledged all those years ago to be the prince’s keeper, he’d not done so lightly. That was why he was here.

And he would not fail.

He stood slowly, focusing on his breaths until they were even, steady. “Lila, I love you. In another world, we might’ve had a beautiful life together. I’m sorry.” He paused, refocusing his mind. “Sampson, this is not your fault. Be the man you were always meant to be, one who can see beyond the limitations of his eyes, one who knows who he is and what he stands for. Be better than I ever was. I love you, my son.”

Roman stepped forward, ignoring the hissed protests of the blade gripped in his hand, and then threw himself over the edge.

Roman had heard about flashes of memories appearing to those on the verge of death.

His own experience was nothing like that. He saw nothing from his past, his present all-consuming, myriad colors flashing past as he tumbled into the abyss—brown rock walls, black shadows roiling around the blade, and everywhere else reds and oranges and yellows of fiery death.

The heat grew as he fell, until it was scalding. His skin burned, crackling like meat on a spit; even the very hair on his head, face and eyebrows shriveled up and burned away. He found himself screaming, though he wasn’t certain when he’d started.

And then he hit the lava. At first, he felt nothing but heat, but then came the pain. It was all around him, burning through him as he sank deeper and deeper. The pain was like nothing he’d ever experienced, a thousand torturers at work simultaneously, cutting and stabbing and plucking and tearing.

How am I alive? he wondered. Despite the agony, the answer presented itself as a hiss. The shadowblade. There was no other logical answer. How are you doing this? He knew the blade had healed Sampson in the past, but never from an inferno.

THE OTHER BLADES CAN HEAL, BUT NOT LIKE THIS. HEALING IS ONE OF MY CORE STRENGTHS, LIKE SHADOWBREATH. THE SHADOWS PRESERVE YOU.

Why won’t you let me die?

BECAUSE IF YOU DIE, I WILL BE LOST FOR YEARS.

The realization did nothing to quell the fires burning through him. And he understood what was happening. The blade was healing him enough to keep them both alive, but not enough to repel the pain, which arched his back and coursed through his core, a blinding, life-altering sort of pain he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

No! he said. Do your worst!

AS YOU WISH.

More pain swept in, a shockwave that should’ve forced him into unconsciousness, but he knew the blade wouldn’t allow it. He would receive no relief, no respite from the agony. Why isn’t the inferno melting you to slag!? he shouted, teeth shattering as he smashed them together against the pain.

Snakelike laughter. YOUR PLAN WAS ALWAYS FLAWED, FOR I CANNOT BE DESTROYED BY ANYONE BUT MY MAKER.

The pain was too much for anyone, even one as determined as Roman. He latched onto that information, casting his mind’s eye back to when he sat nearby while Sampson and his siblings were tutored in The Kingfall Histories. The origins of the godblades were unclear. There was talk of a powerful magician, but his or her identity was unknown. Who? Roman asked. His entire body was shaking now.

MIRG, the blade said.

Roman’s heart sank. If the original creator of the Legacy Sword was required to destroy the shards that had been forged into the godblades, then Kingfall would never be rid of them. One way or another, they would continue to find the light of day and poison the minds of those unfortunate enough to stumble across them. Mirg died a long time ago, Roman said. But you already knew that. You were there when it happened.

FOOLISH MAN. A MAN SUCH AS MY CREATOR COULD NEVER DIE. HIS LIFE FORCE WAS ALWAYS TIED TO OURS. AS LONG AS WE LIVE, SO DOES HE.

Roman was a learned man, but this line of thinking was beyond his comprehension. How could a person’s life be tied to that of a weapon, magical or otherwise? And how could a man who the Histories stated had been killed—in front of numerous witnesses—still be alive almost five centuries later? And yet, despite the pain and the unfathomable concept of immortality, Roman Leary knew the shadowblade was telling the truth.

Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? he asked.

AND GIVE YOU THE KEY TO MY DESTRUCTION? I’M NO FOOL. I WAS HOPING TO STEER YOU AWAY FROM THIS PATH FIRST.

And now?

NOW I NEED YOU TO CLIMB OUT OF THIS PIT.

Roman had two choices: Remain entombed in fire and pain, suffering Firestone’s eternal torment until it chose to spit him out, or climb out and find Erif Mirg, wherever he was.

Roman kicked for the surface.

He opened his eyes, shocked to find they still worked, in awe of the thick, viscous lava surrounding him, a substance that should’ve devoured him instantly. His fingers continued to grip the shadowblade, which, he now noticed, was pulsing in rhythm with the beat of his heart. Sustaining him. Keeping him alive.

His entire body in agony, he swam for the wall. He tried not to notice, but the skin on his arms was black and charred, pocked with red welts that grew and popped, over and over again.

He reached the wall, raising one arm to grasp a cleft in the rock. His other arm followed, still gripping the sword. He stabbed the blade deep into the stone, dragging himself up until his feet found purchase. They were bare, his boots burned away with the rest of his clothing. Fiery lava oozed off his body, burrowing scorching tracks into his blackened skin. Cracked flesh chafed free, instantly regenerating only to be burned again. How many layers of skin had he been through already? He tried not to think about it, focusing on the climb, his muscles aching from the effort. He reached for the next handhold, gripped it, wrenched the shadowblade from the wall, and then stabbed it in again, higher and higher.

The pain didn’t diminish as he climbed. If anything, it intensified, causing a ragged groan to tear itself free of his throat and out his mouth, a ceaseless animal, inhuman cry. Moisture slipped from his eyes, sizzling as it tracked down his hot skin.

He looked up to gauge the distance remaining. Two eyes stared back at him, but then they widened and vanished over the edge.

Oh gods, he thought. He should’ve known the girl, Ginny, wouldn’t obey his command. But how much had she seen? Did she hear him talking to himself? Did she see him leap into the chasm? Had she watched him flounder about and then resurface before starting his climb?

Doesn’t matter, he thought. I need to keep climbing.

So that’s what he did, until he finally reached the top, flopping over the edge and onto solid ground once more. He saw his own skin, smoking and burnt beyond recognition. He must appear a monster. How long will it take to fully heal? he asked the blade.

YOU TRIED TO DESTROY ME.

I can’t exactly walk around like this. And the pain… Even now, he felt it pressing in on the edges of his mind, trying to drag him under. Spots danced across his vision. Whatever the blade had been doing to keep him conscious had been taken away. He gave voice to the pain, the sound echoing in the chamber.

THERE ARE CONSEQUENCES FOR YOUR ACTIONS, ROMAN, the blade said.

His vision was growing blurry now, the pain all around him once more. Just before his eyes fluttered shut, he saw Ginny, crouching in the shadows, watching him with wide eyes. “Run far, far away,” he said. She stiffened and then leapt to her feet, running into the gloom, the sound of her footfalls growing softer and more distant.

Dark waves crashed upon the bleak and desolate cliffs of Roman’s mind.

The pain took him.

Roman felt something wet on his face. It was cool and soothing on his skin, which continued to radiate heat, almost as though he was made of fire, or had a fire burning deep within him, one that couldn’t be doused.

WELCOME BACK, the blade said.

How are you doing this? Roman asked.

DOING WHAT?

Making me feel like there’s a cool cloth on my cheek.

I’M NOT. THE GIRL IS FULL OF SURPRISES. SHE RETURNED SEVERAL HOURS AGO. SHE’S BEEN BATHING YOUR BURNS EVER SINCE.

Roman’s eyes opened sliver by sliver until the girl came into view. She flinched, surprised to find him awake, scurrying back a few feet. He blinked, trying to shift positions. He stopped when ripples of pain coursed through him. He groaned. “Mister Leary?” the girl said. Once more, she ventured closer. She held a wet piece of fabric in one hand and he noticed part of her shirt had been torn away. The missing section matched the size and shape of the wet fabric.

“Urgh,” was all he could respond.

“Don’t speak if it hurts,” she said. In her other hand, she gripped one of the canteens he recognized from the provisions that had been loaded into his rowboat. She tipped it over to add more water to the cloth and then set it aside. Gently, tenderly, she pressed the cloth to his cheek, patting his skin. The cool water helped to ease the tiniest bit of his pain. “I don’t understand how yer alive, mister, but ye are. I’ll do what I can fer ye, but it’s gonna take time.”

Unless you help me, Roman said to the blade.

WHERE’S THE FUN IN THAT? the blade replied.

Roman closed his eyes, body quivering from the pain as Ginny continued wetting his skin. Bit by bit. Face, arms, chest, legs. He knew she was a tough young woman, but the fact that she’d come back for him and didn’t shy away from his hideous condition showed a strength beyond what Roman could have predicted.

SO YOU PLAN TO HUNT DOWN MIRG NEXT? SO HE CAN DESTROY ME?

I don’t know. I wouldn’t even know how to find someone who’s been living in secret for all these years. I don’t even know if he’s still in Kingfall. And if he is, and by some miracle I find him, how do I know he’ll be willing to destroy you?

ALL GOOD POINTS, the blade said. Roman wasn’t sure if he was being mocked, but at the moment, japes at his expense were the least of his concerns.

He remembered his prior conversation with the blade, as he was making his way to the precipice. At the time, he’d thought the blade was spewing any lie it could think of to change his mind, but now… What you said about Sampson being enslaved by Glynn Kerr, you were telling the truth, weren’t you?

YES.

You were able to connect with him again? With his mind?

BRIEFLY. I DON’T KNOW HOW OR WHY. THE DISTANCE ALONE SHOULD’VE PREVENTED IT. BUT YES, I SPOKE TO HIM. HE KNOWS WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND WHY.

Roman cringed. Ginny apparently thought it was because of her cloth and said, “Sorry, mister. Yer skin is all kinds o’ tender. Like an infant, ye are.”

“Wasn’t you,” Roman managed to croak out. His mind was whirling. Sampson knew he was trying to destroy the blade. Would he hate him for it? Love him? Or was he too busy being mistreated at the hands of Glynn Kerr and his ilk to care one way or the other? The latter thought made anger rise within him. He wanted to find Kerr, to wrap his arms around him, to break him.

YES…ANGER. THAT I CAN WORK WITH.

I wouldn’t be doing it for you.

I DON’T CARE IF YOU DO IT FOR A STEAMING PILE OF DUNG, SO LONG AS YOU DO IT. KERR IS THE WORST KIND OF MAN. HE DESERVES TO DIE.

“Open yer mouth,” Ginny said.

Roman obeyed and he felt drips of water splash onto his tongue. Although he wasn’t thirsty, he lapped them up eagerly, relishing the feel of the cool liquid sliding down his throat. “Thank you,” he said when she was done.

“I was afeared when I first saw ye, but I couldn’t jest leave ye like that.” She hesitated, but he could tell she had more to say. “It was the blade that kept ye alive, wasn’t it?”

Roman started to nod, but it hurt too much, so instead he said, “Yes. It didn’t want either of us to die.”

“I won’t pretend to understand how a blade can choose what happens to a grown man, but I s’pose the truth is lyin’ right ’ere in front o’ me without a lick o’ clothin’.”

“Sorry about that.”

“’Tis okay. I’ve seen naked drunkards lyin’ in their own piss before.” Roman wasn’t sure he liked the comparison, but he didn’t argue. “Anyway, I covered ye with one o’ the blankets from the boat.”

Roman hadn’t even noticed that he was covered, but now he marveled at Ginny’s preparedness and overall grit. She may have been a pain in his arse since the moment he caught her trying to steal from the ship, but now she was nothing short of a godsend. “We need to go,” he said. “Now. Before Queen of the Seas raises anchor.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “No offense, mister, but yer not in any shape to climb down the mount. Ye need to rest.”

Blade, Roman said. Enough. If you won’t fully heal me, at least heal me so that I can stand on my own two feet.

NOT YET.

Damn you.

NO. DAMN YOU FOR FORCING US INTO THIS POSITION.

Roman cursed under his breath.

“Were ye talkin’ to that blade o’ yers?” Ginny asked.

Roman was surprised she could tell. “Yes. It has the power to heal me further, but it’s refusing.”

“Looks like we’ll hafta do things the ol’ fashioned way. Lots o’ rest.”

Roman knew she was right, even if it meant Lila would be gone before he could get back to the beach. He closed his eyes, exhaustion pressing in once more.

He slept.

He awoke to shaking beneath him.

“Mister!” Ginny cried, her eyes wild as she threw herself to the ground, clutching at it with both hands.

The volcano, Roman thought quickly. It’s going to erupt. Blade, we need to go…now.

FINE. BUT DON’T SAY I NEVER DID ANYTHING FOR YOU.

Immediately after the blade spoke, Roman felt a rush of strength flow into his limbs. He lifted the blanket and peeked beneath it only to find his skin still burned beyond recognition. And the rest? he said.

BE GRATEFUL FOR WHAT YOU’VE BEEN GIVEN.

This is the point where Roman would normally trade barbed words with the blade, but there was simply no time, the shaking beneath him intensifying. Rocks began to break free of the ceiling and shatter dangerously close to their position. He sprang to his feet, pulling the blanket around him.

Ginny gasped, looking up at him from where she continued to lie prone on the ground. “How?” she asked, wonder in her voice.

“The sword,” Roman said. He used the shadowblade to cut a long narrow strip from the bottom of the blanket, and then used it as a belt, cinching the blanket across his waist like a robe. Thankfully, the blanket was large. Not large enough to cover all his burnt skin, but it was better than nothing. “How long was I asleep?” Roman asked hurriedly.

“Through the day and most o’ the night. Dawn should be upon us soon.”

“We can still make it if we hurry.” He extended his charred, disfigured hand in her direction.

She stared at it for a long moment and then grabbed it, allowing him to haul her to her feet. Together, they ran for the cave’s mouth as the ground beneath them tried to buck them off their feet.

Lila

“Something’s happening, Captain,” one of her seamen said. Most of the men had gathered along the starboard side to stare at the plumes of smoke pouring from the mouth of the volcano.

He was right. She could feel it beneath her own feet, the ship’s deck quivering ever so slightly, like some giant sea creature had grabbed it and begun shaking. More dark smoke roiled from the mountain, filling the air, creating entire clouds of its own making. And then…

BOOM! A percussive explosion rent what felt like the entire world. Lila joined her men as they covered their ears but didn’t duck beneath the railing like they did. A few carved planks of wood were no protection from the wrath of Firestone. Fiery chunks of molten rock shot in every direction. For a moment, Lila just stared, mesmerized by the sight, which was beautiful in a way she couldn’t fully describe.

She snapped out of her fog when a boulder the size of a barrel landed a stone’s throw off the prow with a magnanimous splash that sent a spray of saltwater onto the ship’s deck. Dawn had arrived with thunder and explosions on the third day since Roman had departed. The anchor was already supposed to be raised, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. Not yet. She needed to give him more time.

But now…

“Raise the anchor!” she shouted as another boulder crashed into the water too close for comfort. She’d given a piece of her heart to Roman, maybe all of it, but her duty to her men would always be her priority and she wouldn’t risk their lives if she had the ability to do something.

The seamen didn’t need further urging, springing into action, preparing the vessel to sail, rushing about the deck as Lila made her way calmly to the wheel. She gripped it, casting her eyes back toward the mountain. Red streams of lava were now pouring down its sides; the sight sent her heart thudding into her throat as a swell of emotion hit her. Oh Roman. Heroic Roman. I will never forget you.

There was a thump as the anchor was hauled onto the deck and then a burst of flapping fabric as the sails unfurled, immediately catching the wind. Now was the most dangerous time, Lila knew. If one of the fiery projectiles were to rip through the sails, it would be hours before they could replace it, and by then more boulders might have punched holes through the ship. Still, she cast one final look back at Firestone, her gaze falling on the shoreline, where she could still see Roman’s rowboat on the beach, just a speck.

She turned away, twisting the wheel to slowly turn the ship. The wind did the rest, and soon they were pushing northward, back toward Avadon.

Roman

Dawn had lit up the world when they were halfway down the mountain, so now they were able to see the flaming chunks of rock before they landed, not that it made things any less terrifying. They flew so fast through the air that they wouldn’t be able to dodge them anyway. Ginny gripped his arm as they ran together, stumbling over rocks that skittered under their feet as the world around them seemed to be tearing itself apart.

When dawn had first arrived, Roman assumed they were too late, but then the light illuminated Queen of the Seas. She was still at anchor, sails still hanging limp and lifeless. But when a thunderous boom had crashed over them, he saw the sails unfurl. The ship began to turn.

They plunged into the jungle, flying down the path they’d discovered two days earlier. Not having to fight through bushes and undergrowth, the return to the beach was much faster, though they ended up well down the shore from where they’d originally made landfall in their small boat.

Roman stopped just before the jungle ended, breath heaving.

“What are ye doin’?” Ginny said, trying to pull him onto the beach. “They might be able to see us. We can wave our arms an’ shout. They’ll wait fer us.”

Roman stared at the ship, imagining Lila at the wheel. He could feel her eyes searching the beach. For a sign. For a reason. For him.

She’d done too much, risked too much, already. He couldn’t ask more of her, not when the path laid before his feet remained uncertain and shadowed by the blade he continued to grip in his hands.

How noble, he thought. If only that were your reason. His blade hissed out a laugh at his inner thoughts, but he ignored it. He wouldn’t delude himself. The truth was, he wanted more than anything to run to the rowboat and pull with everything he had until she noticed him. Until she waited. Until he could fall into her arms again.

But he couldn’t.

Not like this, a man who’d failed. Not wearing a blanket, scarred and disfigured.

Goodbye, my love, he thought, watching the ship sail away. Ginny continued to pull at him, to scream at him, but after a few minutes she gave up, slumping down and cowering beneath the volcano’s onslaught. He crouched beside her, holding her as she wept, but he never took his eyes away from the sea.

Only once the Queen of the Seas was a speck in the distance did Roman rise and step out from the jungle. He turned back to Ginny. “Coming?”

She looked at him, cheeks tearstained, eyes red and wet from crying. She stood and made her way over to him. He roped an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened, but then curled her own arm around his waist. Together, they walked back to the boat.

Eighteen

Sampson Gaard

Dunadin, Avadon

A SHOUT DREW SAMPSON FROM SLEEP THE NEXT DAY. More shouts followed, and he couldn’t do anything but add his own voice to the mix. “What’s happening?” he asked.

No one answered as a stampede of feet pounded past his bed. He could be wrong, but it felt too early for them to be called into line for the day’s march. He tried to sit up, but the ache in his back forced him back down with a groan. The previous day’s events came rushing back to him, and he remembered what Grym had told him as the wagon bumped beneath them, about how Charlotte Kerr had tortured a straw doll she claimed was the taskmaster, the same taskmaster who they then found slashed to ribbons on the floor of the barracks. Or at least that’s what Jarry had told him when he went to check on the injured man. He’d been in an almost cheerful mood, despite the late hour. Apparently the other slaves had each offered him a small amount of their evening’s rations so he could eat. That combined with watching the taskmaster’s torment had been enough to raise his spirits.

Now, Sampson called out for the man. “Jarry!”

“I’m here, lad,” the man called. “Not like I can go anywhere. It’s just you, me and the boulder.”

Boulder? Ohh. “Grym?”

The Grizari’s only response was a grunt.

“What’s happening? Why did everyone run out shouting?”

“The taskmaster is dead,” Jarry said. “They’re afraid of being found with the body and having his death blamed on them.”

“Dead? But you said last night his wounds weren’t life-threatening.”

“They weren’t, but the bloody slash across his throat turned out to be a different story.”

Sampson felt a throbbing in his neck. The taskmaster was dead. His abuser, his tormentor, the man who whipped him within an inch of his life and, according to Grym, would’ve finished him off if not for Charlotte Kerr’s intervention. He didn’t know how to feel. There was a sense of justice, sure, and also some relief in knowing he wouldn’t hurt anyone else. But he also felt a thread of fear begin to unspool itself, twisting and turning inside his gut until it was a tangled mess full of knots. Because of the other thing Grym had told him, about Charlotte’s doll and what she’d apparently done to torture the taskmaster despite being separated by more than a mile. What if, after they’d left, she decided to finish the job?

In a way, it would make her a hero. But it also made him all the warier of the woman and her intentions toward helping him.

“Find anything?” Jarry’s voice brought him back to their present situation.

“Aye,” Grym said. “A stone, filed to a sharp edge. It’s in taskmaster’s hand.”

“The craven bastard killed himself,” Jarry murmured. “We suffer day in and day out and he has one bad day—not even a whole day, just a few hours really—and he can’t take it. Pathetic.”

Sampson breathed quietly through his nose, surprised by the magnitude of his relief that it hadn’t been Charlotte who’d killed the man using her dark magic. Still, she had tortured him, which might’ve drove him to do something desperate. “We should get out of here, too,” he said.

“Do what ye hafta do, I’m stayin’,” Jarry said. “They can give me credit fer the murder if they want. Even if they kill me, I’ll go down as a hero and a martyr. I could do worse.”

Sampson was about to protest, but Grym beat him to it. “No one’s gonna keel you. And you don’t have choice. You’re coming.”

Jarry began shouting, “Unhand me, Boulder, or I’ll piss me britches with ye as the beneficiary!” Grym’s feet stomped past and swept out the door.

Sampson released a breathy laugh and then, gingerly, pulled himself up, his back screaming with every small movement. Whistling through his teeth, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Pain exploded through him and he felt like he needed to wretch. He bit his lip for a few seconds until the worst of the pain and nausea subsided. The blanket that Grym had told him Charlotte had cut holes in and garbed him in the night before hung heavy from his shoulders. It was huge, the thick folds of fabric bunching in all the wrong places. At least I’m warm, he thought. Then, step by step, he shuffled out of the barracks and into the cool morning air.

He could hear the low sound of the slaves murmuring to each other, while Jarry continued to rant and rave at Grym, calling him all sorts of nasty names aimed at the extraordinary thickness of his various body parts. Not knowing what else to do, Sampson just stood there, contemplating all that had transpired in the last few days since Grym’s unexpected arrival.

A few minutes later, a stern voice barked, “Slaves! Fall into line!” With a shuffling of feet, the slaves took up their positions. The crunching of boots told him their new taskmaster was walking the line, inspecting them. When he reached Sampson, he stopped. Sampson could feel his hot breath on his face. “Where is your old taskmaster? Lady Kerr gave strict orders that he join your crew.”

No one answered. Sampson found himself holding his breath. He released it only when the taskmaster moved on down the line. “Well? Someone had better answer me or you’ll toil an extra hour at the end of your shift.”

“He’s dead,” Grym grunted.

“By whose hand?” the taskmaster demanded.

“His own,” Grym said. “His hand grips the weapon.”

“Do any refute this claim?”

Silence fell like a dropped knife. Sampson heard himself swallow, heard every ragged breath scrape past his lips. Finally, the taskmaster spoke again. “He got what he deserved. Discipline is required in all things, both for slaves and taskmasters. His spiral was unfortunate, but it happens. Now, we march.”

Sampson could scarcely believe his own ears. A taskmaster was dead. They were slaves. And yet they weren’t being blamed or punished? Could it really be this easy? Simultaneously he wondered whether Charlotte’s hand was involved in this decision too. But if so, how could she know the taskmaster was dead unless she was responsible for his demise?

“Come on,” Grym grunted. “I’ll carry the ornery bastard. He can sit and break rocks.”

Jarry muttered something inaudible under his breath, while Sampson turned and began the long march into the mine.

Grym

Grym barely felt Jarry’s spindly weight, but he occasionally grunted and groaned just to remind the man that he was a burden on another’s shoulders. The man was unfazed. “Quit yer moanin’. I tol’ ye to leave me behind.”

“You have funny way of showing gratitude.”

“That’s because I’m not grateful. I was enjoyin’ the rest from my labors, havin’ men bring me my food in bed.”

“Wasn’t your food. Was their food. They won’t pamper you forever.”

“I’m not askin’ fer forever. Just a few days until I’m back on my feet.”

Sampson, who was marching in front of them, turned his head. “Jarry, your leg is shattered. It won’t be a few days. Your injury will take months to fully heal.”

“That won’t do,” Jarry said, as though he could speed up the healing process simply by the strength of his stubborn will.

The rest of the slaves had already reached the end of the tunnel and were now collecting their tools and fanning out across the width of the shaft, which was still full of rocks and debris from the prior day’s cave-in. With every step to this point, Grym had felt the strange pull to the north, just like he had during the aftermath of the Battle of Kerr’s Crossing. Now, he had the urge to grab a hammer and pound his way through anything in his path so he could get to whatever was behind it. He gritted his teeth and fought off the urge, and then set Jarry on the ground and said, “Don’t go running off.”

“Hilarious,” Jarry grumbled.

Grym caught a smile flash onto Sampson’s face as he felt his way over to the wagon that had been pulled the entire distance by Hmm. Grym still couldn’t believe Sampson had managed to tame the stubborn grux, which had been the most difficult of the lot. Before Sampson collected his tool, he thumped his palm against the beast’s side and gave her a scratch behind her horns. “You kept her,” Grym said, grabbing his own preferred tool, a sledge, along with a smaller hammer for Jarry to use to shatter medium-sized stones into smaller stones. At least it would keep the old man busy.

“She kept me,” Sampson said. “She found me when I wandered like a halfwit into the Sucking Bog. She saved my life, dragged me out by her horn.”

Grym nodded, not surprised. Grux were highly intelligent animals, though most wouldn’t guess it based on their blunt-faced appearance. And once one had gained their loyalty, it lasted a lifetime.

“Would you rather she hadn’t?” Sampson asked when Grym didn’t respond.

Grym cocked his head. Not because he hadn’t expected the question, though he hadn’t, but because the answer he thought would pop into his head, hadn’t. “No,” he said.

Before Sampson could respond or Grym could fathom how such a statement could be true, the taskmaster made his way over and stood, straight-backed, before them. “Hold out your weaker arm,” he said. “Both of you.” This new taskmaster spoke not with anger or passion or pleasure, but with the certainty of one who knew his place and the authority it gave him.

Grym’s instinct was to fight back, to deny this man his prize as he’d sought to do to their last taskmaster. But then he remembered how that story had concluded. He raised his weaker, left arm, as Sampson did the same.

Crack! Crack! The taskmaster’s staff came down hard on each of their arms in short succession. Grym grimaced but didn’t make a sound. He’d been hit harder by his own daughter. Then again, his arms were four times thicker than Sampson’s. He glanced over at him. Sampson’s lips were pursed as he clutched the arm that had been struck. He’d also held his cry inside, a fact that Grym couldn’t help but respect.

“Get to work,” the taskmaster said, turning away as though nothing had happened.

He struck our weaker arms so we could still work with our stronger arms, Grym realized. This taskmaster was as different to the other taskmaster as night was to day. And yet just as awful, Grym thought. A different flavor of same bitter drink.

With that in mind, he handed Jarry the hammer with the promise to return with some rocks for him to break, to which the man replied, “Gee, thanks,” and then Grym found an empty spot amongst the other slaves, who were already carrying the smaller stones away to the wagon and smashing the larger boulders into more manageable chunks.

Sampson was amongst them, doing his best not to get in anyone’s way. The taskmaster roamed back and forth like a predator just waiting for someone to stray from the pack.

Grym got to work and was soon sweating. Because of his brute strength, he was called upon often to haul those stones too heavy for the human slaves, propping them on his chest and muscling them across the space before slamming them into the wagon. The arm that had been struck was throbbing, a purple welt having already formed.

A few hours later, the rocks had been cleared. Grym had expected to find the sheer wall of rock they’d been chipping away at before the cave-in, but instead a column of the wall had collapsed, leaving a narrow gap into a hidden space behind. A cavern or a large tunnel, perhaps.

“This is fortuitous,” the taskmaster said. “Clear the rubble.”

Because of the narrowness of the space, the slaves were forced to queue up and enter the crawlspace one at a time, retrieving a stone and then hauling it free. They continued in this manner until it was Sampson’s turn, with Grym just behind him. He’d been eyeing the crawlspace with disdain; he wasn’t sure he would be able to fit his bulky body, even if he turned sideways.

The beginning portion of the gap had been cleared, so Sampson felt his way further in, thick shirt scraping against the sides until he disappeared into the gloom. Grym waited for him to emerge carrying a stone, but as the seconds ticked by without his reappearance, his brow began to furrow. Finally, the taskmaster said, “You, go find him.” Grym turned to find the man staring at him. “Yes, you. Carry him out if you must.”

Grym nodded once, twisted his body to the side and sucked in his gut to make himself as thin as possible—which wasn’t very thin at all—and then slid into the gap. Craggy rocks clawed at him, drawing harsh lines across his chest and back. He soldiered on, blinking to try to see into the darkness, but was met with a wall so black he might be looking into a bottomless pit. “Sampson?” he said.

No response.

He squeezed in further, probing ahead with one foot just in case there was a chasm and Sampson had already tumbled headlong into it. The ground remained solid beneath him. Rather than widening, the way forward grew even tighter, and soon he found himself wedged such that he couldn’t go any further. He was about to call out again when he saw a light through the gloom.

It started as just a wisp of purple, so dark it was almost indistinguishable in the abject darkness, but then it grew as it swirled, tendrils of white light curling around the edges. The light fell upon Sampson, who was all the way through the narrow gap and into the empty space beyond, standing unmoving, staring in the direction of the light. Almost as if he could…see it. Which was impossible, of course, on account of his blindness.

“Sampson?” Grym called again.

Sampson didn’t turn, but he did speak. “It’s her,” he said. “I can’t see her, but I can see the magenum. I’ve always been able to see magenum.”

As interesting a fact as that was, Grym felt fingers crawling down his spine. “We need to go back,” he said.

“We’re not going back,” Sampson said. “At least, not now.”

Grym didn’t understand what he was saying but knew if he didn’t shove his way through and carry Sampson out, he would face the whip again. “Stop talking nonsense. You’re coming out if I have to—”

The rest of his threat was obliterated by a cracking sound that was a hundred times louder than the precursors to yesterday’s cave-in. Grym looked up, eyes widening when he saw the size of the slab of stone hanging precariously from a cleft on the wall. It was lit by the growing purple and white wisps, which now seemed to be poking and prodding at the stone. At the center of the strange colors was a form, her arms raised at her sides, palms up, her eyes closed, her lips murmuring as she spoke, soft and whispery.

It was Lady Charlotte Kerr.

By the gods, how did she get back here? Grym wondered. Must be another way inside. If so… This was their chance. If Lady Kerr really wanted to help either of them, this was their opportunity to slip away undetected. Another horrendous cracking sound snapped Grym back to reality.

“Grym, I’m not leaving without you,” Sampson said, fully turning toward him now, eyes hitting him somewhere around his shoulder.

“Can’t squeeze through,” Grym said. “Is okay. Leave me. Live life. Do better.” Even as he said it, Grym felt the pull again, so strong he couldn’t deny it with logic or reason. The pull was encouraging, no demanding, that he moved forward not back. “Argh!” he shouted, trying to push his way through one final time. He would never know whether it was his own brute strength or the magical vapors that slashed at the stone, but at that moment the portions of stone on either side of the gap that had been blocking him shattered, tumbling away as he burst through, almost crashing into Sampson.

The ground beneath his feet was shaking now, pieces of rock tumbling from the ceiling, from the walls. He glanced up at the massive rock hanging on by nothing but sheer will, or so it seemed. And then he remembered. “Jarry!” he said. “Must go back for him.”

“There’s no time,” Sampson said. “And I’m not leaving without you. I made a promise to myself I wouldn’t wrong you again.”

This caught Grym by surprise, but he knew Sampson was right about one thing: There was no time to waste. “Be right back,” Grym said. And then he was gone, charging back through the gap, ignoring the pull to the north and the slashes of pain as the rock bit at his shoulders and hips.

Sampson

“Grym?” Sampson said. No response. The Grizari was already gone. “Charlotte?” he said next.

“A foul wind stiffens against us. We must go.”

As if to punctuate her statement, the ground bucked wildly under Sampson’s feet, forcing him to extend his arms to either side to maintain his balance. “Just give him time. He will return.”

“I cannot stop what I have unleashed.”

Another heavy shake—stone shrapnel rained down, clattering against his head and shoulders. He covered himself with his arms and looked up, where the magenum vapors had surrounded something. Sampson didn’t need eyes to know it was a massive stone. “Please,” he said. “Hold it back.”

Silence. And then: “I will do what I can for the Grizari.” Once more, Charlotte began to chant, words he couldn’t comprehend. Some of the vapors seemed to tighten and then strain upwards like a wild mustang feeling its first pull of a lasso tossed by a master horseman.

The respite was brief. The vapors shot forward harder, fighting whatever spell Charlotte was chanting to hold them back. She screamed, an agonized cry that tore through the cacophony of falling rocks. As Sampson watched helplessly, the magenum swarmed around the boulder that remained invisible to him, gnawing at its sides, breaking whichever of its fingers continued to grip the wall.

Crack-crack-crack!

Sampson watched in horror as the swarming vapors began to fall, still clinging to the stone they’d dragged from its perch. Time seemed to stand still as he shoved off from his toes, his mind whirling with the knowledge that he might have a second—two at the most—before he was crushed.

He dove, body slamming and rattling as he landed on the unforgiving cavern floor. There was a resounding crash as the slab of stone landed. He looked back, expecting to see the magenum vapors blocking the corridor Grym would need to get back to them, but instead finding them hovering higher than he expected. Even as he watched, there was a grinding sound and the vapors slipped a few inches lower.

Sampson realized what had happened. The slab had landed in the gap between the walls of stone, and had become wedged, unable to fall all the way to the floor. More grinding and another dip told Sampson the slab was determined to bully itself forward the rest of the way to its final resting place, which meant Grym only had a matter of moments to return. Unless…

Sampson didn’t think, just acted, fighting back to his feet and racing toward the slab rather than away from it, ducking beneath it until he could feel its deadly weight throbbing above him. He pressed his hands upwards, widening his stance. The stone shifted again and ground lower, settling onto his shoulders.

Grym

On the other side of the wall, it was chaos. After the cave-in from the previous day, the slaves knew what was coming. They crashed into each other as they fled, while the taskmaster ran back and forth, demanding that they “Stop!”

Grym barreled through the mob, shoving any who got in his way aside in his haste to reach Jarry, the one in more danger than any of them without use of his legs. He found him brandishing his hammer at anyone foolish enough to stampede close to him. In his mania, the prickly old man even took a swing at Grym, who easily caught the hammer’s head in his hand, wrenched it free of Jarry’s grasp and tossed it aside. “Geroff me!” Jarry howled as Grym threw him over his shoulder while he pounded on his back with his bony hands.

Grym ignored the man’s screaming and weak blows, running in the opposite direction to the rest of the slaves, who flowed around him as they raced to escape the falling rocks. Someone stepped directly in his path and Grym was barely able to stop in time without losing his grip on the loony, bony man slung over his shoulder.

It was the new taskmaster. Grym could see the fear in his eyes, but the man hid it well on the rest of his expression, which was determined and defiant. This man’s principles were warped, but that didn’t change the strength of them. What mattered was that he believed it was his duty to stop Grym from doing whatever he was doing.

Grym lowered his head and charged, leading with his powerful horns. The taskmaster swung his staff as hard as he could, the blow catching Grym in the side of his face.

The staff shattered as Grym plowed into the man, shoving him back and then stepping on his chest as he stampeded past. His instinct was that time was running out and that he needed to dive into the gap with reckless abandon, but it wouldn’t do to rescue Jarry only to have him die from an untimely crack to the head. Thus, he slowed as he approached, swinging the man off his shoulder and into his arms, cradling him like a babe in a mother’s arms.

Cautiously, he picked his way into the narrow corridor. Ahead, he couldn’t see the purple and white swirls from Lady Kerr’s magic. In fact, all he could see was darkness. He thought perhaps that Sampson and the woman had abandoned him. Everything was shaking harder, the crash of stones a roar in his ears; he wouldn’t blame them if they’d fled. But then he saw a light, lower to the ground and smaller than it had been before. In its direct center was a hunched over form, silhouetted against the lighter backdrop.

Sampson Gaard, pressing his hands and shoulders to the sky, as though carrying the very weight of the world on his back.

It took Grym a second to understand what he was seeing and why, but once he did, he picked his way forward faster, bashing his way through the narrowing gap, ignoring the flare of scrapes on his arms as he cradled Jarry’s head. A sound rose above the clatter of shattering stones: a growl of exertion, of an effort so complete it was resulting in a level of pain bordering on torture.

As Grym exploded into the broader cavern, he ducked his head; the massive stone that had clung to the wall so precariously hung over him with the weight of a hammer poised to crush an ant. He scrambled past Sampson and his blood-curdling scream and then out into the cavern lit by the magical whorls continuing to emanate from Lady Kerr as she stood with her arms raised at each side. Eyes darting about, he located a rock outcropping down a small hill that would provide a small measure of cover from the onslaught. He loped down the hill and then, gently, slid Jarry beneath a cleft before whirling around to find Sampson bent over even further; he was moments away from being crushed.

“We’re free!” Grym shouted, but if Sampson heard his voice over the tumult, he gave no sign. Anyway, the slab had him so pinned that even if he wanted to, it was unlikely he’d be able to scramble away before the giant stone came slamming down.

Grym knew what he had to do.

He raced back up the rise.

Sampson

Sampson knew something wasn’t right with his back. He’d heard the crunch, had felt the searing, stabbing pain in his spine, which radiated up into his neck and skull and down into his legs. He’d released a cry, and for some reason that sound had provided some small amount of relief, so he hadn’t stopped, the sound pouring out of him like water through a hole in a ruptured dam.

Each time the slab shifted and shuddered down another inch, the pain intensified and his scream grew louder until it was all he could hear, his entire world sharpening into that single, defiant sound.

The stone would win this battle, that much was certain, but Sampson refused to lose the war. He would hang on as long as possible, until Grym had returned. If this act allowed the Grizari to escape the bonds of slavery, maybe Sampson’s life—and death—would mean something.

The impact came sooner than expected, slamming into him on an odd angle—from directly behind. The pressure on his shoulders and back vanished instantly and he flew forward, landing hard on his chest and face, so taken by surprise that he was unable to get his hands down to help cushion the blow.

Not that it mattered. The crushing weight of the stone came thundering down a second later, mashing him further into the rock-hard cavern floor and punching the breath from his lungs.

This is it, he thought. What I deserve. What I earned.

And yet…there was no pain. I deserve pain, he thought. I can’t die until I suffer! Gods, please let me suffer as the Grizari have suffered!

Until that moment, he hadn’t even known that was what he wanted—the pain, the suffering—but now that the thought had screamed in his head, he realized that was the truth.

And then:

Stillness.

Am I dead?

He didn’t realize he’d spoken the question aloud until the response came. “Dead men don’t usually talk.”

He knew that voice, as rough as a knife scraped across a plate but not nearly as unpleasant. “Grym?” Sampson said.

“It is me.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“You saved us. Jarry is safe.”

“But…me?”

As vague as the question was, Grym seemed to understand what he was asking. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Understanding dawned like the radiant light of a winter’s dawn over a bleak and empty landscape. “How?”

“I tackled you. Wasn’t hard. You are small and puny like doll.”

He tried to shake his head, but he was still pinned. “I mean, how did you forgive me? I can’t even forgive myself.”

“Bah,” Grym said, as though the question were a foolish one. “Grudges are human thing. Grizari settle disputes with fists and horns.”

“But we haven’t fought.”

“You took my lashes. You held world on shoulders for me. All is forgiven.” Grym’s voice came from a different direction now, and Sampson was able to twist his head to the side. He couldn’t see anything—the light from Charlotte’s spell having faded away.

“I’m supposed to be dead.”

“Only the gods can decide that,” the Grizari warrior said. “Now come, we must leave before someone comes for us.”

Sampson knew he was right. It didn’t matter why or how he’d survived, only that he had. He’d been given another chance at redemption. Something struck him as odd:

I don’t feel any pain. Could there really be no lasting effects from what he’d done? He tried to roll over, tried to move, but it wasn’t just pain he couldn’t feel.

He couldn’t feel anything.

Oh gods. “I can’t move,” he said.

“Then I will carry you,” Grym said.

Carry him? No, he couldn’t be carried by the very man whose life he’d destroyed as easily as smashing a gnat. He felt movement, his head flopping about. That was all he could feel—his head. He’d been picked up. “No,” he said, tears slipping from his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. “I’m not worth it.”

“Not for me to decide,” Grym said.

“What about me?” Jarry said.

“You can find own way out,” Grym said.

“What? Ye horned bastard! Once I’m whole again I’ll hunt ye down and—”

“Was joking,” Grym said. “Amusing, no? I have two arms, strong ones, can carry you both.”

Sampson’s head flopped again as Grym dipped to collect the old man.

“This way,” Charlotte said. “We have a long journey ahead of us, and we will be hunted much of the way.”

“What you mean, ‘we’?” Grym asked.

“I’m coming with you.”

Sampson still felt strange, like he was in someone else’s body, a body that he couldn’t control, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Where are we going?”

“You want to tell him or should I?” Charlotte said.

“Tell me what?”

Grym grunted. “North. We’re going north.”

First Interlude: Roach

ROACH WATCHED THE TWO COMBATANTS WITH SHARP INTEREST.

Their hunched forms circled each other cautiously, their gnarled, useless wings scraping on the ground while the claws of their back-bent legs clicked with each step. They were surrounded by jeering, snarling spectators who wanted nothing more than to inhale the scent of spilled blood. One of the fighters, Grunnin was his name, was a regular in the bloodsport arena. He’d killed hundreds of his fellow Thousands over the years, working his way through the ranks of the elite warriors until, finally, he was forced into the ring with another fighter whose reputation preceded him.

There could be only one victor. The stakes were high.

Roach should’ve been riveted, like the others, but he wasn’t. For some reason, the smell of blood had grown stale somewhere between the endless days and nights imprisoned in the cold, dank network of caverns in gods knew where, guarded by the only three godbeasts left on the face of the planet.

Even the luster of combat to the death had faded over the course of four centuries. He knew the others longed for real combat, the opportunity to tear the human filth that covered Kingfall like a plague limb from limb.

He was, however, interested in Grunnin’s opponent. The combatant with the smooth, glasslike cheek struck first, one of his foreclaws slashing at his opponent’s neck with the speed of a striking snake. Reyals was his name, and he’d once been the leader of the Thousands and wielder of one of the famed shadowblades, back when winning the Godswar was still within their reach. He hadn’t been replaced exactly, but the centuries had faded titles and ranks until they meant nothing to a leaderless, purposeless race. Speaking of which, Roach hadn’t seen him in decades, which wasn’t exactly unusual given the sheer number of Thousands imprisoned in this stone coffin.

Roach despised Reyals.

Of course, Reyals drew first blood, his foe too slow by a hair to block the attack. When Reyals withdrew, a long, black slash ran from the base of Grunnin’s throat to his bony, pockmarked chest. It was only a flesh wound, and yet it was enough to send the rest of the Thousands who were watching into a frenzy, their snarls rising to a crescendo as they stood on each other’s shoulders and hung from clefts in the rock like bats to get a better view.

But Grunnin was no green warrior. He was an experienced fighter who’d once been feared amongst humans for his prowess in battle. He calmly, deliberately dabbed the wound with the back of his hand, smearing blood on his mottled flesh. Then he licked the blood, his eyes closing for a moment as though relishing the taste.

When his coal-black eyes flashed open, he stalked forward, Reyals tracking his every move with the eye set above his other cheek, which was scaled like the flesh of a dragon. Grunnin feinted left and then struck from the right, using not his foreclaw but one of his back-bent legs, which he kicked out just as he spun halfway around. It was a killing strike, the kind of blow he’d used to end countless opponents, his long, daggerlike claws punching through their throats or heads or chests.

Although the attack was executed with such speed and precision that Reyals couldn’t hope to dodge, he was ready for it all the same, turning his head at the last moment such that Grunnin’s claws glanced off the cheek bearing the thick scales, which were as hard as steel.

His counterattack was swift and brutal.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, Grunnin lying in pieces on the cavern floor while the Thousands swarmed from all sides, fighting each other over the scraps, giving into their carnal, cannibalistic nature with a wildness that had once sent shivers of fear through their human enemies. Roach hung back, swallowing the hunger that rose inside him at the promise of fresh meat before it consumed him. Instead, he watched Reyals as he slipped away, allowing the others to claim the kill that was rightfully his.

Where is he going? Roach wondered. Just as the thought presented itself in his head, he found his clawed feet clacking along the hard surface in pursuit. What am I doing? This is madness. Despite his thoughts, his feet kept moving, as though driven by an animalistic instinct that could not be denied. He had to move fast, because Reyals was like a wraith as he skittered past, between and around the hundreds of Thousands who continued to swarm toward the scent of fresh blood. Roach was less graceful, colliding with others of his kind on numerous occasions, sometimes drawing a snarl or a snap of teeth. He ignored them with a single-minded focus he hadn’t had in a long time, hastening his pace as Reyals passed the last of the crowd and curled around a large stalagmite that marked the northernmost point of the portion of the caverns to which his group was confined.

Roach didn’t know what he would do if he actually caught up to Reyals but pushed forward even more recklessly as he approached the end of the chase, bashing into one of the Thousands, then another. One of them hissed at him while the other slashed at him with a long, curving foreclaw. Roach hadn’t fought anyone in a long time, but his muscles remembered what to do, one hand darting out to capture the creature’s wrist while the other cut upward viciously. His claws punched through his foe’s throat and up through the bottom of his mouth.

He sighed, having forgotten how much he’d always enjoyed the killing, the power over life and death that he wielded. Ever so slowly, he drew his claws back out, relishing the way the creature’s body sagged as blood flowed freely down his chest. All Roach wanted to do was give into the bloodlust, pouncing upon the corpse and tearing into its flesh with his teeth.

But then a torch was lit in his mind, the heat and light cutting through the fog of self-preservation, and he remembered why he’d come to this place: Reyals.

He dumped the corpse unceremoniously on the ground and turned away just as the others in the vicinity began to feast on the unexpected gift. As he approached the large stalagmite he’d seen Reyals disappear behind, he slowed, feeling an unexpected burst of apprehension. What do I have to fear? he wondered. Death would be a relief if he were being honest with himself.

And yet something gave him pause. The muscles on his forehead worked their way into a frown, twisting his strange features even more than they were already twisted.

The moment passed and he snorted at his own foolishness.

And then he stepped around the spikelike stone, arms raised to defend himself if necessary.

His arms fell back to his sides as he stared at what he saw.

There was nothing but a wall of rock.

Reyals had disappeared, as though by magic.

PART II

424 A.W.

After the events of Dragonfall

Quill     Peony     Dane

Ando

Much of the godbeasts’ power resides in the fear of those they faithfully guard. Once that fear has been banished, so too does the power of Rain, Air and Iron. It is not a matter of if, but when. A year? A decade? A century? Every year is a blessing and a curse, for the end will, and must, come to Kingfall.

Kingfall Revelations (quote attributed to Mage Figmirre)

Nineteen

Peony Normandian

The Soullands, Travail

THE SOULLANDS WERE THE OPPOSITE TO WHAT THEIR NAME SUGGESTED, a soulless barren wasteland where a wrong step could result in death as boiling hot steam consumed you from one of the many hidden geysers that pocked the eerie landscape.

And yet, for Peony and her unexpected allies, it was the safest place they could hide—at least, for now.

“It smells like an entire legion of dragons and their riders passed wind,” Brute complained, curling his blunt nose. Dane’s childhood best friend was a hulking, barrel-chested man, his skin dyed a deep, rich brown to match the scales of his dragon, Brutus. Like his rider, Brutus was a large creature even amongst his own kind, his large yellow eyes surrounded by spikes, a feature Peony hadn’t seen on any of the other dragons. The massive dragon was perched on a stone that looked too small for his bulk by half, and yet he seemed perfectly comfortable, powerful wings tucked behind his back, chin lifted primly. For such a fearsome creature, Peony was beginning to learn that he was rather prissy at heart, avoiding the fine, red dirt that seemed to cover everything in the Soullands like the plague.

Hoom. It wasn’t me, Daneus said in response to Brute’s comment about the noxious smell permeating the air. The dragon’s voice was as deep as a bottomless chasm, though it resonated only within the confines of Peony’s mind. And anyway, my wind smells coppery, like blood. The blue-scaled dragon stretched out lazily on a large rock shelf nestled between two of the tower-like stone spires the Soullands were famous for. Unlike Brutus, Peony’s dragon didn’t seem to mind the dirt one bit.

That was more information than I needed, Peony said, responding in turn through their connected minds.

MY WIND SMELLS LIKE STEEL, her brightblade offered.

The joys of having a talking sword and a dragon, Peony mused. These days her mind felt rather crowded. Look at the pair of you, she said, joining forces to drive me mad.

Daneus yawned as his eyes fluttered shut. Time for a nap.

You just took one! Peony protested. She was growing anxious from all the waiting around. The truth was, she’d grown quite used to the endless march of storms across Dragonsmount, the sound of the thunder and rainfall almost comforting. Here in the Soullands, there was only wind, wind and more wind, ceaselessly blasting between the rock spires and canyon mazes.

I meant to say time for another nap, Daneus clarified.

Why do dragons sleep so much? she asked.

Because, Daneus said.

Peony waited for him to finish the thought. When he didn’t, she said, Because what?

No response. The dragon was already asleep. Peony sighed. Let me guess, she said to her hidden blade.

GUESS WHAT?

You’re going to take a nap too.

WHAT? DID YOU GET HIT IN THE HEAD OR SOMETHING? I’M A SWORD. SWORDS DON’T NEED NAPS.

Peony sighed again, even louder. She craned her head to look at the sky, which had turned an eerie shade of red, almost like an open wound that stretched from horizon to horizon. “Where is she?” she muttered aloud.

“Who?” Brute asked.

Peony stared daggers at him. “You know damn well I mean Star,” she said.

“Whoa,” Brute said. “Dane wasn’t lying.”

Hearing her missing-and-possibly-dead bondmate’s name spoken so casually stole her breath for a second. She knew of only one way to get it back, with fire. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she fired back, eyes narrowing. “Dane wasn’t lying about what?” I said it, she thought. I said his name. Without crying. Without breaking down.

Because he’s not dead, Daneus interjected.

You don’t know that. And I thought you were asleep.

I was. Your thoughts are loud enough to wake the dead. Peony froze. Sorry, poor choice of words. I told you, I would know if Dane were dead. I would sense it. I think. Maybe.

Your certainty soothes my fears. Then where is he?

I don’t know, but if he is somewhere, we will find him.

Despite her foul mood, Peony took heart from the dragon’s words. Truth be told, she knew she would be a wreck without Daneus. Even with him, she felt like she was clinging to an edge with little more than her fingernails. An edge that was shrinking the more time she spent in this godsforsaken place.

“Are you ready to hear my answer?” Brute said.

She blinked, the large dragonrider’s brown face coming into focus once more. “Was it that obvious?”

“I’ve lived amongst those with dragon bonds my entire life. I think I can tell when someone is lost in conversation with a scaly.”

“Scaly? I thought that term was an insult to Travailians?”

“When a non-Travailian says it, yes, the term is quite derogatory. But when we claim it for our own? There is power in that.”

Peony had never considered such a thing. “What did you mean about…Dane…not lying about me?”

“He told me you were tougher than he thought you would be.”

Peony laughed, surprised by his answer. “He said that? When? After I showed him my brightblade?”

“He said you showed him a lot more than that,” Brutus said.

Peony scowled. “Now that’s not fair. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“First of all, Dane is no kind of gentleman. And second, he didn’t tell me anything about the sweetness of your lips or the softness of your freckly skin. But now you’ve confirmed it.”

“We are bonded, you know?”

“Doesn’t make it any less scandalous that he bedded a rich Odinian princess.”

“That’s not me, not anymore. I’m the Dragonmistress of Travail now.”

“After seeing you when you first arrived at Dragonsmount in that ridiculous dress, I would’ve laughed at such a statement,” Brutus said.

“And now?” Peony asked.

“Now I believe it just might be the truth.”

Peony smiled. Though she still didn’t know Brute well, she was beginning to understand why Dane had been friends with him for so long. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For being here to pick up the pieces after…”

He didn’t make her finish the statement, which further proved her gratitude was well spent. “You’re welcome. And I did it for Dane, I’ll have you know. He’d never forgive me if I left his bondmate without a shoulder to cry on after losing her parents.”

The reminder of why they were here in this foul-smelling, horrid place hit her hard in the chest. She had no home. Chrysallis was destroyed, her parents dead. Even if she wanted to return to Odin, her brother, Osric, had made it crystal clear she wasn’t welcome. Ha! she thought. ‘Crystal’ clear. Get it? Aren’t I so clever?

The cleverest, Daneus said dryly.

I ALWAYS APPRECIATE A GOOD PLAY ON WORDS, her blade said.

Thank you, Peony thought, returning her mind to Osric. Given his recent ascension to the crystal throne, his opinion carried quite a lot of weight. And as for Dragonsmount…she considered it her real home now, and yet she couldn’t go there either, not with Dane’s uncle, Drudge, having killed his dragon and transformed into some winged, scaled monstrosity of nature. Not without an army, at least.

“Oi,” Brute said. “You all right? I was just japing around. Dane would forgive me no matter what I did. We’re Rift brothers, the next strongest connection to bonding.”

“Rift brothers?” Peony said. “What does that mean?”

“We completed our Rift Descension together,” Brute said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Peony stared at him blankly.

Brute shook his head and blew out a breath. “He didn’t tell you much about our customs, did he?”

“I didn’t know you chopped off your dragons’ heads and used dark magic to transform into them,” Peony said.

“Low blow,” Brute said.

Very low, Daneus said. The dragon lifted his head to show his very sharp-looking teeth.

“Sorry,” Peony said, feeling bad right away. “You’re right. What Drudge did is…unspeakable, unforgivable. Now back to this Rift Descension thingy.”

I don’t think that’s the technical term for the sacred dragonrider ritual, Daneus said.

She ignored the dragon, focusing on Brute, who said, “Considering you’re his bondmate, this is really more Dane’s story to tell than mine…”

“Come on,” Peony said. “Don’t make me beg. Dane isn’t here. These are extraordinary circumstances. I need something to take my mind off of…well…everything.”

“You’re a hard woman to say no to, you know that?” Peony gave him a pointed look and he laughed. “Fine, but you’ll take the heat if Dane gives me a hard time later, agreed?”

In a small way, Peony loved the gregarious man for talking about Dane as though he was just away on a short trip and might return any day. “Agreed. Now spill your guts.”

“Consider them spilled. Every young potential dragonrider must complete his or her Rift Descension before being deemed worthy of selecting and bonding with a dragon egg.”

“Rift as in the giant chasms from whence demons rise and continue to give children nightmares?” Peony asked.

Brute chuckled. “You Odinians are so sheltered. Odin never even had a Rift.”

“True, but don’t forget that Odin provided soldiers for many years to help Travail guard its Rift.”

“That they did. Sometimes I think that partnership was the only thing keeping our two nations from going to war. Regardless, at age ten, Dane and I descended the Soullands’ Rift together.”

“Why?” Peony asked, baffled.

“I told you, it’s a dragonrider tradition.”

“But why? For what purpose?” Peony asked, still trying to understand.

“To prove our courage and mettle,” Brute said, puffing his chest out defiantly.

“Did any children ever die during one of these Rift Descensions?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.”

“Children dying isn’t the point?”

“Of course, on the rare…” Brute paused to emphasize the word. “…instances where the initiate is killed, they are mourned. But for those who rise from the Rift scathed but not dead, they will never know true fear ever again.”

“And you descended into the Rift with Dane?”

“Aye, I did. And he saved my life. I…faltered. I let the fear get to me. It drove me to madness. He steadied me, cutting down the first demon on his own, staring into the very face of evil without blinking. A ten-year-old boy, can you imagine?”

Peony hadn’t been with Dane long, but it had been long enough to sense the steadfastness in the man every second of every day. The only time he’d seemed shaken was after Lei’s death, and even then it was a hardened kind of fear, slipping over the precipice into anger. “I can,” she murmured. “Then what happened?”

Brute smiled thinly. He looked away from her, staring at a large patch of bare ground set between the towering stone spires. A faraway look settled into his eyes. “By rights, he could’ve tugged on his rope to indicate that he’d completed the task. His father would’ve hauled him up, leaving me alone, still scared of my own shadow. I would’ve died, of that I have no doubt. Instead, Dane told me he’d done his part and it was my turn. He sheathed his blade and refused to fight, just dangling from the godsdamn rope like a marionette’s stuffed puppet. Another demon clambered from the chasm, a real nasty one with small, chitinous teeth—”

“Chitinous?” Peony said.

“Aye, you know, hard and translucent?”

“I know what it means, I just didn’t expect such a vivid description.”

“Why? Because I’m an uneducated dragon-riding barbarian?”

“No, my brother might think that, but not me. It just sounds like something I would’ve read in a book growing up. Dane doesn’t really read—or have—any books.”

“That’s because his attention span is that of a gnat,” Brute said. “I happen to be the more cultured one, and an avid reader.”

“And full of surprises,” Peony said, raising her eyebrows.

“Lei didn’t just bond with me for my battle-hardened body, though I’ll admit that was a boon in my favor.”

“Clearly,” Peony said, taking the comment in stride, especially because he was able to mention Lei without his face drooping as it usually did.

Brute waggled his eyebrows. “Where was I? Aye, the chitinous-toothed demon. The nasty bugger went for Dane on account of him having sheathed his weapon, but I kicked off the wall and got my arm in between them. It wasn’t courage exactly, just a raw instinct to protect my best friend, an instinct I didn’t even know I had until that moment. The bastard got a good taste of my flesh and then I stabbed him right through the eye, I did. Black blood as thick as sputum splattered all over my face and then I—”

“I get the picture. Again, very…vivid. You killed the demon and saved Dane’s life?”

“Aye. Rift brothers, we are.”

“Even after what happened with Lei? You don’t hate him? Or me?”

Brute chewed on his lip, something she noticed he did whenever she asked him a question he needed to think about for a minute before answering. Then he said, “I thought I did. After Lei was returned to the storms, I wanted so badly to hate someone. Dane was an easy target. You were an even easier one. But those emotions were driven by grief. I’m starting to understand that Dane made his choices by following his heart, and yours, and I can’t fault either of you for that. I’d give a toe just to see him again.”

Peony smirked. “Only a toe?”

“Maybe a finger too,” Brutus said. “One of the small ones. But I’m drawing the line there.”

I’d give my life if it meant he were alive, Daneus said, sucking all the frivolity from the conversation, at least on Peony’s end.

I know, big fella. So would I, Peony said.

WHY ARE CREATURES OF FLESH AND BLOOD SO DRAMATIC? her brightblade asked.

It’s called emotion, Peony said.

And loyalty, Daneus added.

IT’S CALLED FOOLISH, the blade said in a scoffing tone. GIVING UP ONE LIFE FOR ANOTHER SERVES NO PURPOSE.

Logically, perhaps, Peony understood where her blade was coming from, but the blade had never truly lived nor loved. At a fundamental level, its purpose was to end life, not save it.

THAT’S NOT TRUE, her blade said, having read her thoughts. I SAVE LIVES BY ENDING OTHERS. SHOULD A MAN WHO’S ABOUT TO KILL TEN OTHERS BE ALLOWED TO LIVE?

Peony thought of what it must’ve been like to be caught in the streets of Chrysallis as a sky full of dragons descended, streams of fire spouting from their maws. Yes, she would’ve killed those dragons and their riders to save those who had once been her people. But weren’t the dragons and their riders her real people now? Where should her true loyalty lie?

To humanity, she thought, hopping off the stone she was sitting on and beginning to pace. Just because one was born or lived in a place didn’t mean you looked the other way when those around you committed atrocities.

EXACTLY, her blade said.

Peony turned to Brute and said, “Where was the Rift anyway? It closed itself up not long ago, right?”

He gestured to her feet and she stopped. “You’re standing on it,” he said.

Peony looked down. She could almost picture the ground cracking beneath her, opening to reveal a dark, yawning maw ready to swallow her whole. She imagined Dane as a boy of only ten name days old gripping a rope as he was slowly lowered into the chasm known to be a conduit to the underworld. “There must be so many other things I don’t know about him,” she mused. “We were so caught up in the few moments we had together in between crises that we didn’t really have time to talk about much from the past. But there was this one night, our Bonding Night actually—”

“I know all about your Bonding Night,” Brute said, winking.

“I don’t mean that. I mean before. We talked for a long time. Told stories from our childhoods. It was rather wonderful, to be honest. I could’ve talked to him all night.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant. He told me all about your long conversation that night. What did you think I meant?”

“Go jump in a Rift,” Peony said playfully. “I just mean, I thought I had years, you know? If I’d known he was going to…”

“Take an extended holiday?” Brute finished.

“Yes. A holiday. That. If I had known, I would’ve used our time more wisely.”

“Bollocks.”

“Bollocks?”

“Aye, I’ve smelled dragon dung with more truth in its scent. You made Dane happier than I’ve ever seen him, and that’s saying something. Before you arrived, he was one of the saddest people I knew.”

“I—I didn’t know,” Peony said, somewhat flabbergasted. What she had with Dane felt good and right, but he’d been a difficult man to read sometimes. Though sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, she’d noticed a faraway look in his eyes, almost as though he’d gone somewhere else.

“Well now you do.” Brute suddenly squinted, his eyes scanning the sky. “You asked where Star was earlier. Now I have an answer. She’s there.” He pointed at a small black dot in the distance.

“How can you tell? That could be a bird.”

“There are no birds in the Soullands,” Brute said. “Anyway, Brutus already told me. He’s spent enough time with Starrus lately to sense when she is near.”

Did you sense her, too? Peony asked Daneus.

The dragon licked his chops but didn’t open his eyes. Maybe.

Then why didn’t you tell me?

You didn’t ask. Can I go back to sleep now?

Another half-hour passed before Star made her approach on Starrus’s back, the long, sinuous dragon’s orange-and-black-striped scales mirrored by the dyed skin of her rider, who looked every bit the capable warrior that Peony knew her to be.

They’d made the collective decision that Star should surveil the area alone, as Starrus was the smallest and fastest flyer, and would be able to maintain stealth. Her task was to determine whether there were any dangers in the area surrounding the Soullands.

Starrus is…disconcerted, Daneus said as Peony watched the dragon’s slim, serpentine body land on the flat piece of earth that had once been the Rift.

How can you tell? Peony asked. From what she could see, the tiger-striped dragon looked every bit the fierce beast she’d always seemed, fiery flames licking her maw as she showed two dagger-length fangs.

She passed over a herd of antelope on the western plains and never once considered eating one, Daneus said.

As Peony considered this, Star dismounted in rather spectacular fashion, throwing her leg over the ridge of her dragon’s back, and then using the roughness of her scales to slow her descent before landing in a crouch. When she turned and met Peony’s eyes, she immediately saw the same disconcerting expression Daneus had sensed in Starrus. “What happened?” Peony demanded.

“I’m going to cut off my father’s head.” Star’s words, blunt and brutal as usual, were also somewhat surprising; she hadn’t referred to her father as anything but ‘Drudge’ or ‘madman’ for several days now.

“What happened?” Peony repeated.

“Nothing here,” Star said. “At Dragonsmount.”

Peony cocked her head to the side. She was no expert on Travailian geography, but it was her understanding that even on dragonsback it would require a few days to reach the dragon capital. “How could you know that?” she asked.

“Starrus sensed something?” Brute said.

Star nodded, and Peony was surprised to find unshed tears sparkling in the stern woman’s eyes. She dashed them away with the back of her hand, her expression once more flashing with rage. She threw her head back and released a blood-curdling cry into the sky.

How could Starrus sense something all the way in Dragonsmount? Peony asked her dragon.

Hoom. Dragons that spend significant time with each other form minor bonds that carry over small distances. Given Star is Drudge’s daughter, Starrus spent much time with his dragon and Drudgea’s closest allies.

Oh no, Peony thought, just as Brute said, “By the storms. More dragons?”

Star grimaced. “Two more dead. Mortania and Ivanea. Like I said, I need to kill my father. We’re going to Dragonsmount. Now.”

Before Peony or Brute could answer, all three dragons released a roar, long and mournful, joining the wail of the wind as it slipped between the spires.

As Peony had thought, the flight from the Soullands to Dragonsmount wasn’t short, the broad, desolate plains stretching for miles and miles in every direction. Villages seemed to sprout from the hard, cracked earth like scrub grass, surviving only on grit and a refusal to be defeated. As they passed, the inhabitants emerged from their houses or stopped what they were doing to look skyward, lifting their fists to their mouths and then extending their fingers and fluttering them outwards in the dragonrider gesture of dragonfire.

Peony and the others returned the sign. In the wake of such connections over the empty air between her and these people, Peony felt foolish. These were the true Travailians. The dragonriders that ruled this nation were but a small subset of the population. So caught up in the newness of her surroundings at Dragonsmount, she’d not once asked Dane whether she could visit her new subjects. Now, regret stung her eyes as she blinked against the stiff wind.

They flew over the broad river that intersected the whole of Travail down its approximate center. Misery, it was called. Peony remembered vividly her conversation with Dane about the depressing naming conventions in these lands. Shortly thereafter they’d shared their first kiss. Peony had been filled with so many feelings then, but at the core of all of them was hope. Hope for a better, more fulfilling life, a life full of purpose and opportunity.

No, she thought. I won’t fall into a pit of despair. I reject it. I reject being consumed by sadness.

That’s the spirit, Daneus grunted. It was the first he’d spoken since releasing that mournful roar with his fellow dragons. Now you should get some sleep. It will be a long few days.

He was right, Peony knew, but for some reason she fought sleep, almost as if to fall asleep would allow her demons back inside. However, the gentle undulations of Daneus’s wings combined with the soothing thrum of his body beneath her eventually became too much for her heavy eyelids to fight.

She slept.

Hours later, she awoke to more of the same. The same, reddish-brown landscape beneath her, broken only by the occasional village, typically gathered around a lake or a stream that had branched off from the river Misery. The sky above was darker and more cloud-smothered than it had been over the Soullands. Not pregnant with rain, not yet, but more forlorn than the sky had ever been over Chrysallis. Something about this sky was comforting to her, as though the world had been tipped back into balance.

Onward they flew, the dragons’ stamina unrelenting as they pushed to the north and west, their human riders sleeping often to pass the time, rarely talking. Star had yet to reveal any more details of what Starrus had sensed, insisting that Peony and Brute needed to see it with their own eyes.

Finally, as the daylight waned over the third day, the stone tail, back and head resembling a dragon appeared on the horizon. “Dragonsmount,” Peony breathed, the sight never growing old. The last time she’d visited she’d been filled with hope and then disappointment as her long-awaited reunion with Dane had been ripped away. Now, she felt neither hope nor disappointment. Instead, she felt a steeling in her bones, a burning desire to take back the home that had been stolen from her and her bondmate and these two stalwart dragonriders beside her.

“We must leave our dragons here,” Star said, the first thing she’d said for hours. She gestured below, where there was a large rock outcropping that would serve as a hidden refuge while they made the rest of their approach on foot under the cover of darkness.

I will be ready to fly like the wind if I am needed, Daneus said.

Thank you. We will return with haste.

While the dragons enjoyed a well-earned rest from their labors, the three riders began their trek northward. To the west, the sky grew ever darker, a mighty storm gathering its strength before it inevitably slammed a thunderous fist down over the Stormlands and then Dragonsmount.

Now that the wind was no longer rushing in her ears and her companions were closer at hand, Peony found the silence that had fallen between them awkward. She prodded at its edges. “Star?” she said.

“I’m not in the mood, Dragonmistress,” Dane’s cousin replied.

“Please, call me Peony. And I understand that. I’m not asking you to speak about what you saw.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“If you are okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes,” Peony said.

Star offered her a narrow-eyed glance. As dusk fell, her black stripes seemed to melt into the darkness while her orange stripes shone strangely brighter. “Tell me this, Peony, are you okay?”

It was a fair question. In the matter of a very short time period, she’d been imprisoned by a mad undead king, witnessed the aftermath of her parents’ murders, and faced the uncertainty of her lost bondmate. Am I okay? she wondered inwardly.

You want my answer? Daneus asked.

Peony considered it, but then mentally shook her head. It’s a question only I can answer.

And your answer is?

“I will be,” Peony said aloud. “Not today, probably not tomorrow or a week from now or even a month from now. But every day I will be a little more okay than the day before, and one day, I’ll get there.”

“How do you know that?” Star asked, and there was something innocent in her tone now, the blades that typically edged her voice stripped away, leaving her naked, exposed. Her question was also the answer to Peony’s—Star was not okay, not by a longshot.

“Because no one is allowed to take my inner strength. That is mine to claim and claim it I do.”

Star met her eyes for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Aye. That is the truth. It better be, or we’ll all end up walking in circles muttering to ourselves.”

Peony smiled, the tense, serious moment broken. Brute shook his head. “That’s one way to look at it. Me? I’m going to drink a flagon of ale first chance I get and then sing bawdy songs until the sun comes up. Then I’ll be just fine.”

Peony and Star exchanged another look. Star said, “He’s all talk. He boasts of his ability to hold his ale, but the truth is he usually passes out after one drink, two at the most. He rarely makes it through even one bawdy song.”

“’Tis true,” Brute said. “Strong drink makes me sleep like a dragon, it does.”

The last of the light vanished, slowing their progress as they picked their way forward more cautiously to avoid twisting an ankle on a stone or in one of the frequent holes marring the hard, cracked terrain. As the miles fell away under their feet, the stone dragon that was Dragonsmount loomed larger. Something else appeared even closer, a snaking, shadowy form. “Is that…,” Peony said, frowning as she peered into the gloom.

“Yes,” Star said. “Drudgea. My uncle’s dragon. Or what is left of her.”

Peony had seen the remnants of the dragon’s headless form already, her entire body—other than her severed head—charred beyond recognition. It was horrendous, foul, evil, but not the reason Star had brought them to this place again. No, it got much, much worse. It reminded her of something that had been bothering her. “I thought dragon’s bodies were impervious to fire,” she said.

“In life, they are,” Star answered. “But as soon as they are dead their bodies can be burned so their souls can return to the storms.”

As they passed Drudgea’s remains, two more shadowy lumps came into view. Peony stopped short, staring at them, blinking furiously as she willed them to disappear. “Star?” she said, hearing the hollowness in her own voice. Even though this is what she’d expected to find, somehow her brain had maintained a small degree of hope that she wouldn’t.

“Mortania and Ivanea,” Star spat with disgust. “Same thing. Heads chopped off. Bodies burned. I’d hoped Starrus was wrong.”

Peony hadn’t known the dragons’ riders—an aging woman named Morticia and a grizzled man named Ivan—but remembered the pair had always appeared on Drudge’s sides. “Why?” Peony asked, knowing full well the question was as unanswerable as trying to fathom the mysteries of the oceans. How could someone kill a creature as beautiful and magnificent as a dragon, especially after bonding with it? It was inconceivable. She would die for Daneus. Always.

And I for you, Daneus murmured, apparently having awakened from his rest.

“They have a sickness of the head,” Peony said when no one offered a response to her question. “At least, that is the only answer I can come up with. Perhaps it started with your father, but now it’s spreading to others.”

“Yes,” Star said through clenched teeth. “We need to cut them into pieces and burn them to ash. A head for a head.”

“Aye,” Brute said. “I’ve got two fists willing to pound it out of the lot of them.”

“We can’t risk being captured or it’s all over,” Peony said. “We need to learn more about the origins of this ritual, try to understand it. Maybe then we can persuade the others that it is folly.”

“He’s my father…Dragonmistress,” Star said. “My decision. And I say this ends now.”

“I understand what it’s like to lose someone you love.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Peony knew they were the wrong ones, wishing she could snatch them back.

Star stared daggers at her. “Aye? You know me and my life so well, princess?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Your kind are all the same, thinking you know what’s best for everyone else. Thinking we would all want to cast aside our customs and traditions if we only understood your way, a better way.”

“I don’t think that.”

“No? Well, you seem to think that just because we share a common enemy that somehow makes us friends. It doesn’t. And you know nothing about what I’m feeling. You lost your father, your mother. Aye. Boo hoo. They loved you. They treated you with respect. My mother died when I was seven. And you know what? I was glad. She made my life a living void every day. Lei was perfection and I was a failure. She once said I would never become a dragonrider. My own mother, can you believe it? My only regret after she died was that she would never have to eat her words on my first Bonding Day.”

“I didn’t know,” Peony said.

“I wasn’t finished; we haven’t even gotten to my father yet. My father always defended me. He built me up, encouraged me when I struggled, when I played second fiddle to Lei’s first. Lei too. They were my rocks. Lei is dead, so there goes one rock. Did it crack me? Aye, in about a dozen places. Did it break me? Nay. I still had Father. I had Dane to hate. And you, if I’m being honest. But now? What am I left with? Lei’s death wasn’t your fault at all, but just one event in a greater sequence brought on by my own father’s lust for power and a madness I never saw coming. So aye, I want to cut off his head now. Not tomorrow. Not a week or a fortnight hence. Godsdamn now. Try to stop me.”

Star started to shove past Peony, as if she planned to march right by the burnt dragon remains and all the way to the edge of Dragonsmount. Peony didn’t move to stop her, but she did say, “You want all the dragons to end up dead?”

Star stopped, shoulders heaving. Turned, eyes shining with anger. “What did you say?”

“If we attack Dragonsmount now with our mighty army of three riders and dragons, we will die and—”

“You don’t know that,” Star interjected.

“—your father will continue his crusade, brainwashing or forcing all the other dragonriders to follow his lead, sacrificing their own dragons. I don’t care if you like me or hate me. The decisions I make now are for Travail. And I refuse to believe that all of the dragonriders who Dane once knew and loved would agree with Drudge’s ways.”

“They attacked Chrysallis, didn’t they?” Star countered.

At least she’s willing to discuss it, Peony thought. She’d considered this very question every day since her parents’ funeral. It was true that Chrysallis had been attacked and destroyed, but it wasn’t the work of a force of a hundred dragons, which would’ve left no one alive and not even a single structure upright. “Don’t you think I would stab Drudge through the heart if I had the chance? Because of him, my parents are dead. They weren’t perfect, but they were good. They deserved better than what they got. Ever since…it happened, I can’t stop wondering what they must’ve been thinking at the end, how scared they must’ve been, the terror of having everything they’d built over a lifetime come crashing down around them. It makes me sick to the stomach. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. They never got to see me for what I’ve become, the woman I was always meant to be.”

Peony paused, gathering her thoughts. A single tear slipped from her eye, hot enough to streak down her cheek before clinging to her chin, quivering slightly. Like it didn’t want to fall. Star was watching her intently, eyes slightly narrowed. “When I fled Dragonsmount, I had a choice to make. Initially, I chose to travel to Aeromand because it made the most sense. The mages there would be able to remove the warded cords from Daneus’s maw. Instead, they attacked us. From there, we could’ve traveled to either Chrysallis or Sunsei. Both cities had mages who would likely be able to help us. When given an opportunity to return home to see my family and help Daneus at the same time, I chose to go the other way, to a foreign land I’d never been before, where I knew no one.

“I made my choice from a place of fear. Fear of judgment. Fear of the shock I would see in my parents’ eyes. Fear of how they would avoid looking directly at me and my dyed skin. I let fear dictate my choices, and as a result, I missed a chance to see my parents before…” A sob rose so fast inside her she was unable to hold it back. “No,” she growled to herself. “I will not be undone. The point is, I made a poor choice then, one I will regret for the rest of my life. But that doesn’t mean my next decision has to be poor, too. I will do everything in my power to avenge my parents’ deaths and restore the dragon throne to its rightful dragonmaster. If Dane is alive, he will lead the dragonriders again. I swear it on the lives of those I’ve lost.”

Star’s eyes hadn’t left hers the entire time she’d been speaking. Now she nodded once and said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. You have my attention. I’m listening.”

Peony wiped away the tear still clinging to her jaw. “Before I left Chrysallis, I spoke to more than a dozen survivors,” she said. “You know, those who’d witnessed the attack firsthand. They spoke of no more than twenty dragons descending on the city. A fearsome and devastating force, no doubt, but only a fraction of the entire dragon legion.”

“Meaning?”

“There is dissension in the ranks. Mayhaps we still have allies within Dragonsmount. If we can learn more about the origins of your father’s beliefs, perhaps we will be able to persuade more dragonriders of the falseness of his ways. The wrongness. Maybe we can engineer a coup and retake the dragon throne. If so, maybe then I can restore the alliance with Odin. We can help them rebuild. My brother won’t risk another war if one can be prevented.” For all she knew, Chrysallis had been nothing but the first blow in a war that would leave all of Odin in ruin. She might not be Odinian anymore, but that didn’t mean she wanted Travail to be at war with her birth nation. She owed her father’s legacy more than that. So much more.

And once Drudge was thrown down and peace restored between the neighboring countries, she would be free to search for Dane.

“That’s a lot of ‘maybes’,” Star said. “And your brother? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but he despises you. I’d have more luck negotiating with him than you.”

The dragonrider’s words stung, but Peony also knew she was probably right. And she no longer had the luxury of considering her own feelings in matters impacting entire nations. Travail had to come first, just as she had put Odin first when agreeing to the marriage alliance with Dane what felt like millennia ago. “Then you will be the one to negotiate when the time comes.”

Star chewed her lip, considering. “How many more dragons must perish while we embark on this quest for knowledge?” she asked.

“Look, I want to stab your father through the heart as much as you do, but—”

“At least we agree on one thing,” Star interrupted.

Peony continued: “How many will perish if we charge into the unknown, alone and outnumbered? If we fail, there may not be any dragons left to save. Also, Quill promised to take our petition for assistance to the Archmage Council. For all we know, the mages are on their way to Travail right now. And when they find this field littered with dragon corpses, Drudge’s reign will be over. He may be powerful, but he can’t fight a legion of mages armed with magic.”

That thought seemed to weigh on the air. Finally, Star said, “Fine. You are the dragonmistress, after all. It’s your decision.” Peony hoped that her position in the Travailian hierarchy wasn’t the only reason the dragonrider was willing to go along with her, but she would take it for now.

“Brute?” she asked.

The large man grunted. “As long as I get to hit someone—preferably Drudge—eventually.”

“I promise. When we are prepared, you can hit whomever you wish.”

“Then I’m in agreement.”

“Good. Now where do we start? Have either of you ever heard stories about these…horrid rituals?”

In the darkness, Peony could just barely discern the shake of Star’s head. “No, but I know who might. There is a man who was once a dragonrider, a soothsayer named Pa Stormy. He supposedly knows everything there is to know about dragonrider lore.”

“Bah,” Brute said. “He’s little better than a lunatic. Lost his damn mind when his dragon grew a second head, then a third, and flew away, never to be seen again.”

“Exactly,” Star said. “What my father is doing is lunacy, I think we can all agree on that.”

“She’s right,” Peony said. “Another lunatic might be exactly the right person to shed light on these acts of lunacy. If anyone might understand the dark magic afoot, it is him. Where can we find this Pa Stormy?”

“Forlorn,” Star and Brute answered at the same time.

Before Peony could ask where that was, a dragon roared in the distance. Not from the direction they’d arrived from, but from Dragonsmount.

“Down!” Star hissed as they threw themselves to the ground behind the charred remains of what had once been Drudge’s crimson dragon. More roars followed the first, a chorus of powerful voices raised as one.

There was something odd about them. “They’re not coming from the air,” Peony said.

No, Daneus said. The dragons are protesting.

Protesting what?

Being confined.

“The dragons are imprisoned?” Peony said aloud.

“Brutus said the same thing,” Brute said.

“So did Starrus,” Star said.

“But why?” Peony asked. The answer came to her before either of the others could respond. “There’s been mutiny.”

“Aye,” Brute said. “Morticia and Ivan might’ve followed Drudge off the cliff’s edge, but not all the dragonriders are such sheep. After what he did to Drudgea, many would’ve been initially shocked into silence. Convincing some of the dragonriders to attack Chrysallis wouldn’t have been difficult given the strained relationship between our nations, but persuading them to murder their own dragons?”

“Most would die first,” Star said.

A fresh flower of hope bloomed within Peony. “If there is additional mutiny within Drudge’s own ranks, perhaps we can use that, sow seeds of doubt as to his ability to lead.”

Star nodded. “Turn enough dragonriders against him and in favor of another leader…”

Not for the last time, Peony wished Dane were here. He was the leader. Even if her bond to him made her the lawful dragonmistress, she was still an outsider. She’d barely scratched the surface of understanding dragonrider ways. Still, there was no one else. “I will be the dragonmistress you need me to be,” she said.

Heavy drums sounded, silencing the dragons. As they listened, the drums drew closer, followed by flashes of light, torches, marching in their direction. “Shite,” Brute muttered. “They’re coming back.”

A flood of fear washed through Peony. The only reason they would return to this place of death was if another dragonrider had decided to follow the example of their lunatic leader. “Who?” Peony said absently. She might not know many of the dragonriders as well as she would like, but Dane had spoken of many of them with the fondness one might describe a close sibling. In fact, he’d often described the other riders as his ‘brothers and sisters’, regardless of the lack of common blood.

“Shh,” Star urged, silencing her. The drumbeats were practically upon them now, each thump seeming to resonate inside her chest, shaking her heart. And then, suddenly, they stopped, an eerie silence filling the void in the wake of the raucous sound. Star eased her body higher, peeking over the top of the dragon’s dark skeleton. A moment later she ducked back down. She showed two fingers first, then made her fingers into a circle shape.

Twenty? Peony mouthed.

Star flattened out her hand and moved it back and forth.

Approximately twenty riders, Peony thought. This was a fraction of the full force of Travail’s winged military, perhaps even the exact same group that had attacked the defenseless citizens of Chrysallis. Drudge’s inner circle, those who were either contemplating completing the same ritual or who were at least comfortable watching others do so. It was a staggering number, but at least not a majority.

Peony started to rise to get a better view, but Star grabbed her arm. Something about her grip, firm and protective, told Peony the woman hadn’t stopped her because she worried about giving away their position. She didn’t want Peony to see what was on the other side of the dragon’s corpse. “It’s okay,” Peony whispered in her ear.

Star’s eyes met hers. Resignation settled on her face and she released her. Slowly, quietly, Peony peeked over the dead dragon. Dragonriders ringed an area only a stone’s throw away, their bodies and faces dyed various colors lit by torches set upon pikes. The flames also illuminated the massive form spread before them—a dragon, its scales the color of sunflowers in full bloom, brilliant and beautiful. The dragon was alive, that much Peony could tell from the rise and fall of its powerful chest and the gouts of steam puffing from its nostrils, but other than that it was still and silent. Its eyes were closed.

She recognized the dragon, though its name escaped her, along with the name of its rider. The yellow-dyed rider, a tall, wiry man with a solid frame wrapped in battle leathers, stood before the dragon. And next to him was a man who should’ve been familiar to Peony given he was Dane’s uncle, and yet nothing was familiar about him at all. Drudge was still painted blood-red, the color of his now-dead dragon, but there the similarities to his old self ended.

He stood with a sort of hunch to his back, whereas the man she’d known had seemed to enjoy looming over others with his ramrod straight posture. The torchlight reflected off his scaly, crimson skin. His back was humped with things that, from a distance, might’ve been mistaken for a pair of knapsacks slung over his shoulders. Wings, Peony thought, realizing she hadn’t fully believed Star’s account of the man’s transformation until this very moment.

Drudge turned toward her and she froze, thinking she had been spotted, but then his gaze wandered on, passing across the faces gathered to bear witness on this night. He spoke, his voice booming as it easily carried to Peony’s ears:

“Dragonriders of Travail! You have now witnessed the power of the True Bonding, that which has been withheld from our people for many years, too many years, the Blindness forced upon us by our foolish and misguided predecessors.” Peony was disturbed to find that, as he spoke, his teeth were visible. Teeth that were now filed to fine points, sharpened spikes capable of tearing through flesh. She was even more disturbed to detect the glow of flames licking the inside of his mouth, smoke curling in tendrils from his lips.

He continued. “Only by walking the Path of Storms can any of us become one with our dragons!” A cry of approval arose from the dragonriders. Many of them made the sign of dragonfire. As Peony scanned them, she noticed two others with the telltale twin humps on their backs and the hunched set to their shoulders. Morticia and Ivan, no doubt, having completed the so-called Path of Storms a few days earlier.

All of a sudden, Drudge’s leathery wings fanned out from his back and he rose skyward. Peony ducked quickly, pressing her back to one of the dead dragon’s ribs. Star looked at her, a question in her expression. He’s flying, Peony mouthed.

Star’s lips pursed, her mouth quivering. Not with disgust, with anger. This time, Peony placed her hand on Star’s arm to steady the woman before she shot from hiding, murder in her eyes. Craning her head, Peony hazarded another quick look, finding that Drudge had been joined by Morticia and Ivan as well, the trio’s wings beating in time as they hovered over the other riders.

Once again, Drudge’s voice rang out. “Semp and his dragon, Semporo, have decided to walk the Path of Storms and complete the Transformation, to finally achieve the True Bonding that our forefathers always intended. Watch and witness! Learn! Believe! One day it will be your time to walk the Path! Only then will you know what it means to truly be a Dragon of Travail! Semp, it is time! Speak the words you have been taught! Become one with your dragon as she will become one with you!”

More cheers and the thumping of fists on riding leathers, the raucous sounds chased away only by the shriek of steel as a weapon was drawn. A new voice spoke, Dragonrider Semp, presumably. The words he spoke were not the common tongue but reminded Peony of words she’d heard the ivory mages at Chrysallis speak, their lilting timbre and tone almost musical in quality. Back then, hearing the spells had been pleasing to her ears. Now, the words grated against her ears because of what they represented. Murder. Death. Blood sacrifice.

Peony started to crane her neck once more, but stopped when Daneus said, Don’t. Stay with me, Peony. Just stay with me. It might’ve been an odd thing to say given her dragon was secreted a distance away from where she sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, but she understood. Her dragon didn’t want her to watch, just as he didn’t want to bear witness through her eyes.

I will stay, she said.

There they stayed, three dragonriders communing with their distant dragons, comforting each other until long after the smoke had cleared from the sky and the sun had crested the horizon to usher in a new day.

Twenty

Dane

Unknown location

LIGHT PIERCED THE SHROUD OF DARKNESS, AS BRIGHT AS A LIGHTNING FLASH.

Dane slammed his eyes shut. Wait, do I still have eyes? He’d been able to see the light, but for all he knew his soul was eyeless, his sight operating very differently to when he’d had a body of flesh and blood. Am I in the storm now? he wondered. And if so, did that mean he would be able to see his parents? He tried to open his eyes again, but that stabbing light forced them shut once more.

“Slowly, child,” a woman’s voice said. “Your eyes will take time to adjust to the light, even one as dim as this.”

He frowned, the voice unfamiliar to him. And ‘child’? He’d been the dragonmaster for an entire nation, his childhood so long ago it felt like someone else’s memory. He was about to ask a question, but then stopped. He felt something pulling on him, not physically, but with enough force that his whole body seemed to quiver. He shook off the strange sensation, refocusing on the woman who had spoken. “Who are you?” he asked, squinting but unable to see much as a narrow band of light assaulted his vision.

“My name was lost many years ago.”

Dane thought that was a rather odd answer, but he let it go. “Where am I?”

“Mothswood, of course,” the woman said as though that was the most logical place in the world for him to end up. The only problem: he was supposed to be dead. He shifted slightly, groaning when pain originating in his shoulder radiated outward to his chest and arm. Pain? he thought. There wasn’t supposed to be pain for a dead man.

“Loslandia? I’m alive?”

“Would be hard to have this conversation if you weren’t,” the woman said.

“How did I get here?”

“A dragonrider, like yourself, brought you here. You were grievously injured. Still are. The injury inflicted to your shoulder is badly infected. It has moved to the blood.”

How does she know I’m a dragonrider? he wondered. His heart clenched as he remembered the last time he’d heard Daneus’s voice in his mind. By mortal reckoning, it had only been a few weeks—well, depending on how long he’d been unconscious—and yet it felt like several lifetimes ago. Focus, he thought. She’d known he was a dragonrider because of the blue hue of his dyed skin. But she’d said something about another dragonrider, hadn’t she? He wished his mind didn’t feel so muddled. Perhaps then he’d be able to make better sense of things. “What dragonrider?” he asked.

“The dragon’s scales are as dark as night. Its rider’s skin is the same color, like yours.”

That made no sense. His skin was dyed blue. How could the dragonrider’s skin be both the same color as his and also match a black-scaled dragon? “So the rider was dyed blue and the dragon was black?” He finally managed to pry his eyes open a crack without giving in to the brightness.

‘Brightness’ was the wrong word, he soon realized. The light he’d believed to be as sharp as flashes of lightning turned out to be pale and rather dim, cut into ribbons by the numerous trees in the background.

The woman watched him closely with eyes brighter than both the light and the rest of her countenance. Her skin was as old as faded parchment but powdery white, her hair the same pure-white color, pulled back and tethered with a bit of vine. He tried to sit up, but every bone, joint and muscle in his body seemed to rebel against him, screaming in pain. The pain in his shoulder was by far the worst, an all-consuming ache that made his head spin. Memories flashed: his uncle, Drudge, drawing a sword; the gleam in his eyes as he approached; the explosion of pain as the sword was shoved through his shoulder. An injury he continued to pay the price for. With another groan, he sank back onto something soft placed beneath him. It was the softest bed he’d ever experienced. Then again, his straw-stuffed mattress back at Dragonsmount had been rather…firm. The woman continued to watch him, not shying away when his stare landed on her. “You wear two sets of skin, do you not?” she said, finally answering his question. Well, sort of.

“Yes, but…” How could she know what his real skin looked like—that it was the color of night, as she’d described the black dragon and its rider who had brought him here. Doesn’t matter, he thought, straining to remember whether he’d ever heard of a black dragon before. Nothing came to mind. He’d seen dragons of myriad colors, but never black.

“Did the dragonrider say anything?”

“He didn’t need to,” the woman said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

At least she revealed that the rider was a man, he thought. A dark-skinned man. Of course, that could describe any number of the dragonriders he’d once commanded, at least before their skin had been dyed to match the hues of the dragons they’d bonded with. “When did the dragonrider leave?” he asked.

“He didn’t.”

Dane’s eyes narrowed, but this time not because of the muted light filtering down through the forest. The trees themselves were enormous, their trunks wider than a dragon’s hind legs. Their bark was also an odd color and shape, whitish and lumpy. Long, wispy vines hung from their boughs, almost like the white hair of an elder well past their prime. Something flashed on the edge of his vision, but when he turned toward it there was nothing but more trees. Another flash, this time from the opposite side. Again, by the time he turned, whatever he’d seen was already gone. It’s just your imagination, he thought. “Then where is he?” Dane asked, ignoring the flashes and trees to refocus on the woman.

She smiled and lifted a hand, one crooked finger pointing to the opposite side, where the light was unable to reach. Dane twisted his head to the side, body wracked with pain from even such a small movement.

At first a thick wall of shadows blocked his vision, but slowly, inch by inch, he adjusted to the gloom, penetrating to where a figure sat on a stump, just watching him with white eyes. There was something utterly familiar about the figure, though Dane couldn’t immediately place him; the years had taken a familiar person and transformed him into something older, stronger. The last time he’d seen this figure, they’d both been little more than children, the boy’s skin sheened with gold. Now, time had faded the golden dye, returning his face to its natural night-dark tone, the one that matched his own as they grew up together with dreams of one day ruling the sky. “Dom?” Dane said, surprised by how natural it felt to speak the name after so many years.

“Hello, Brother,” Dom said.

“I…we…thought you were dead,” Dane said, still questioning whether he was dead, or deep in the throes of unconsciousness. Perhaps the figure seated before him—his long-lost brother—was nothing more than a vivid hallucination.

“I’m sorry about that. Truly,” Dom said. Coming from anyone else it might’ve come across as a weak excuse. But Dane had never known his eldest brother to lie, and there was nothing but sincerity in his words now.

“Mother held onto hope for a long time,” Dane said. “I always thought she was just protecting her heart.”

“She probably was,” Dom said.

“Yes, but she was also right.”

As Dane’s eyes continued to adjust to the gloom, he spied the edges of Dom’s lips twisting into a smile, one that didn’t reach the rest of his face. “I guess she was.”

Dane cringed as he knew the topic of their parents needed to be faced sooner rather than later. “Dom, I’m sorry, but—”

“Mother and Father are one with the storms now,” Dom said. There was sadness in his tone.

“How did you…”

“News from Kingfall reaches far shores. Other nations are…concerned…about the unrest on this continent. There is fear that the strengthening Terran naval force could become a threat to other parts of the world.”

Dane shook his head. His brother was the same—serious, heavy—and yet different—confident and self-assured. “Gods,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“Finding myself,” Dom said.

Though the answer was rather cryptic as answers went, Dane thought he understood what his brother meant. Of all people, Dane’s future had been set in stone the moment Dom disappeared, opening a path to Dragonmaster that Dane never knew he wanted until it was his for the taking. He thought he knew everything there was to know about himself until he met Peony and his uncle stabbed him in the back to steal the dragon throne. Now he wondered if he ever knew himself at all. A bigger question than simply where his brother had been appeared suddenly, and he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner. The shock of seeing him again has addled my brain, he thought. Or perhaps it was the infection in his shoulder. “Where is Domino?” he finally asked.

The moment the question left his lips and his brother’s expression tightened, he knew the answer. Oh gods, he thought, realizing the answer to that question explained his brother reverting from his golden-dyed hue to his natural skin tone.

The beautiful, golden-scaled dragon his brother had bonded with as a boy was dead.

As his brother told the story of Domino’s death in the monotone of one who dared not give his emotions a chance to take hold, Dane raised his eyebrows several times, particularly when Dom spoke of his dragon’s second head conversing with him and then again when he was taken captive by godling warriors in Sonaria. He cringed and closed his eyes when Domino’s head was chopped off in a most brutal fashion. When he opened them again, a single tear was making its way down Dom’s cheek.

Something felt like it was missing from the story (how did Dom fight off so many godling warriors?) but he didn’t want to push his brother to reopen a wound that had clearly never fully healed. Instead, he marveled at the fact that his brother and one of his dragon’s two heads had survived. His brother had named the second head, which was now the only head, Dominance—or Domi for short. Now, Dane asked, “Where is Domi? Just before I lost consciousness, I remember seeing a black dragon diving toward me and then picking me up.”

“Hunting,” Dom said.

“Is there much game in the forest?”

“Yes, but most of the trees are too tightly grown for Domi to hunt here. He usually hunts on the plains to the east, between the Sacred Sea and the wood. There are strange creatures there, large enough to fill even a belly as large as his.”

More questions crowded into Dane’s mind, but one pushed to the front. So much time had passed, years, and yet here his brother was, by his side. “Why did you return to Kingfall?” he asked.

This time his brother smiled a genuine smile. “A friend persuaded me to return.”

A friend? “What friend?”

“You will meet her soon. Now, actually. Domi, too. They’re back.”

Right on cue, a powerful roar thundered from above, the rays of light temporarily eclipsed as a massive, dark form shot past overhead. Dane tried to get a fix on the dragon with his eyes, but its speed combined with the forest’s thick canopy made it all but impossible. “Your friend is riding your dragon? Did you bond with her? Did she bond with Domi?”

Dom laughed. “Yes. No. No,” he said quickly, answering each question in the order it was asked. “But Domi is rather fond of her. It doesn’t hurt that she helped save his life back in Sonaria.”

The final piece of the puzzle that was his brother’s story clicked into place. He hadn’t escaped from the godlings on his own; he’d had help, this mysterious ‘friend’. The dragon swooped past once more and this time Dane got a good glimpse of his sleek, black form. Mesmerizing wings glided past the narrow gap in the wood. Something glinted atop the dragon’s back—sunlight reflecting off metal.

Once the dragon was past, rays of sunlight darted once more into the small clearing. “How will he—” Dane started to ask but cut off when several of the trees shook as the dragon reappeared, tucking its wings behind him to narrow his body as he landed on one of the upper branches. From there, Domi hopped from tree to tree, like a small bird—a finch perhaps—flitting about. The only problem: the dragon was more than a thousand times larger. Entire branches snapped free from their joints, crashing to the forest floor around them, forcing them to hunker down and hope they weren’t bludgeoned.

Dane’s eyes naturally searched for the old woman who’d been sitting quietly while they’d been conversing, but she continued to sit, seemingly unperturbed by the falling debris. Just as he was about to fight the aches in his own body to try to protect her, the air around him was filled with the flutter of a thousand wings as the trees themselves seemed to come alive. Winged, powder-white forms slapped against his face and arms as he covered his head, trying to see through the madness.

When, after several long seconds, the flurry of beating wings ceased, he opened his eyes to find the world around him changed. The trees were no longer white and lumpy, but ramrod straight, their trunks skinned in red, thin-looking bark. The old woman was covered in the white, winged creatures, which clung to her arms, legs, torso and even her head, though her face was left mostly uncovered.

Moths, Dane thought. Thousands of them. Before the dragon had made his appearance, they must’ve been clinging to the surrounding trees, making them appear white and lumpy. The moths were various sizes, ranging from no larger than his fingertip to some boasting thick bodies the size of the woman’s skull. These larger moths didn’t cling to the woman, instead resting on the ground nearby.

Above, the debris had stopped falling, the dragon having settled on a thick branch that bent severely but seemed capable of holding the dragon’s formidable weight. Evidently Domi wasn’t planning on trying to squeeze any further into the clearing that was already rather full. The branch was low enough for Dane to get a good look at the dragon. From a distance, the dragon had been nothing more than a sleek, dark shape, without detail. Closer, he could now make out the shapes of his hexagonal scales, each larger than a man’s palm and covering the whole of his body, save for a small patch on his neck just beneath his broad chin. From the peak of Domi’s head grew a series of spikes, three of which were longer than the rest, almost like the blades of a dark crown. The parade of spikes marched down the creature’s neck, bristling in greater number on his back and culminating in a plume at the very end of his tail. Dane remembered these features from before, when the dragon had been the color of gold coins. How his hue had changed so drastically was beyond his comprehension. As the dragon shifted slightly, Dane caught a glimpse of a fat nub of flesh bulging from his shoulder. Dane bit his lip as he realized this was all that was left of the neck and head that had once been the majestic creature known as Domino. As his eyes darted back to the head that had survived, Domi’s dark eyes bore into him.

“Domi says it’s not nice to stare,” Dom said.

Dane looked away from the dragon, eyes reaching the strange, moth-covered woman before darting back to his brother. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just—”

“He also says he was joking,” Dom interrupted. “And he was staring at you too. He says you’ve grown from a fool-headed child into a strong man but are still as gullible as a chicken being coaxed toward the chopping block.”

Despite a fresh wave of pain from his shoulder, Dane managed a chuckle. “That’s fair,” he said. “Back then I was scared of what I didn’t understand.”

“And now?” Dom asked. Dane couldn’t tell whether the question was coming from his brother or his dragon.

“Now I’m beginning to realize there’s too much I don’t understand about the world to spend time fearing it.”

“And yet you are not fearless.”

“Is that a comment by you or Domi?” Dane asked, anger surging inside him. How dare his brother return after all this time with insults on his lips?

“Both. Do you deny it?”

“I deny nothing. Only a fool claims to be fearless.”

“Wise words,” Dom said. “Ones I happen to agree with. It’s good to see you haven’t lost the fire in your belly. I’m guessing it has served you well on the occasions you haven’t burned yourself.”

Dane sighed, the fire his brother spoke of dying down to a smolder. He felt too weary and achy to be angry. He’d forgotten how aloof his brother could come across. It was one of the reasons there had always been a gulf between him and his younger brothers. Dane almost laughed at that considering the similar rift that had formed between him and their youngest brother, Drake. Maybe I’ve been the problem this entire time, he thought. “I’ve made mistakes,” he admitted, folding his arms across his own chest. He suddenly felt cold, shivery, but only his body. His forehead felt like it was on fire. “Too many to count.”

“As have I. But I’ve counted all of them.”

“Is that why you’ve returned? To make amends? By rights, you should’ve been the dragonmaster, not me.”

His brother waved away the question. “Since when have you known me to care about any of that?”

Since they were being so honest… “I hated you for that, you know?” Dane said, teeth chattering against the shivers.

Dom nodded. “I know. It took me a long time to understand why. I will never have the same desire to command the dragonriders as you did, but I do understand why it meant so much to you. I wish I’d comprehended such truths sooner, but I’m a slow learner.”

“Still modest, I see,” Dane said. “You were a lot of things, but at the time and in all my years since, I’ve never seen anyone take to dragonriding as quickly or as naturally as you, Brother.”

“I may not have been born to lead, but I was born to fly,” Dom said, nodding.

From above, Domi offered a low growl of agreement, drawing Dane’s attention back to the dragon’s sinewy form. An armored figure separated from the dragon’s back, slinging itself over Domi’s side with a grace and confidence that would rival the most experienced dragonriders in Travail.

Except for the fact that the dragon was still positioned at least a hundred feet up. “What’s she doing?” Dane said quickly, the woman already falling too fast to have any hope of survival.

“Never fear, Dane,” Dom said calmly. “My friend has a few tricks up her armor.”

Despite his brother’s unconcerned tone, Dane’s breath caught in his throat as the streak of light plummeted at breakneck speed toward the ground. As she did, something flashed on her cheek, a blaze of fiery color that Dane mistook for a trick of the light.

At the last possible second, the woman’s hands shot out and she grabbed a low-hanging branch, arresting her fall and sending her into a swing until she released the branch, flipped once, and landed in a crouch as easily as a child hopping off a small stump. The fiery color Dane had mistaken for a trick of the sunlight blazed on her cheek for a few seconds longer before fading away like it had never been there in the first place. To Dane it had looked like some sort of an ‘X’ except squared with vertical lines at each corner rather than angled ones. Then again, his vision was growing fuzzy as he continued to shiver, harder now.

As the woman who’d just denied death its prize right before his very eyes stood to full height, armor gleaming, Dom said, “Dane, meet Gwendolyn Storm of the Four Kingdoms. Gwen, this is my brother, Dragonmaster of Travail.”

“Yes, yes, and I’m the Moth Queen of Mothswood,” the old woman interjected. “Now that introductions are finished and this moving family reunion is over, can we talk about how to prevent Dane here from dying a slow and agonizing death because of that infection?”

Yes, that, Dane thought, the world growing fuzzy around the edges. Another flash danced at the edge of his vision, but he hadn’t the energy to turn toward it. The infection took him.

Twenty-One

Andovier Helm

The Bay of Sighs

Two weeks since departing Sunsei

THE SHIP WAS NAMED MARIN’S TREASURE, WHICH TOLD ANDOVIER HELM EVERYTHING he needed to know about its captain, Martin Anders. The stern man valued life, which meant he valued all those aboard his vessel, a fact that made Ando instantly respect the captain. Ando’s mother had told him the story of Marin’s Treasure many times as a child. “What does it mean?” Tora asked. The tough-as-nails girl he’d helped rescue from fire and demons hung over the ship’s railing and pointed to where the name was painted in large, flowing letters. He hadn’t even noticed her arrival at his side, but now he gawked at her hair with undisguised shock. When he’d met her, it had been boy-short, but had grown out a fair bit since. Now it was back to being short, but rather than neatly trimmed it was sticking up all over the place.

“What happened to your hair?” he demanded, rather than answering her question.

“Gee Tora, your hair looks lovely. Why thank you, Da,” Tora said.

Ando frowned. “Don’t call me ‘Da’. And it doesn’t look lovely. Why would I say that when it looks like you chopped it with a dull dagger?”

Tora glared at him. “Because it’s how ye talk to a lady. Don’t roll yer eyes, I am a lady, even if the thought o’ me as anything other than a little girl makes ye uncomfortable. An’, fer yer information, I did chop me hair with a godsdamned dull dagger an’ I think the result is impressive. Besides, the folks in Loslandia are said to be strange, so I bet they’ll appreciate it even if ye don’t.”

Ando bit his tongue. “I didn’t mean to…” He struggled to find the right words, a condition common whenever he spoke to Tora. “You just caught me by surprise, is all. Will you accept my apology?”

“Grudgingly,” she said with a smirk. “Now who’s this Marin person whose name is on the side o’ the ship?”

“You’ve never heard the tale?”

She shook her head. “Ma told me stories until she…but never about anyone named Marin. What sort o’ name’s that anyway?”

“It’s a common Odinian name,” Ando said, realizing that as common as the tale of Marin’s Treasure had been in Odin, there was no reason for the story to make its way into Teravainen, where Tora had grown up.

“Will you tell me about her?”

Ando hesitated, because the last time he’d told the tale it had been to his own children, Celeste and Ollie. You’re okay, he said. And so are they. They are safe with Moira now. He began, “Marin was an Odinian farmer girl, blessed in all things…”

MARIN’S TREASURE

Marin had kindly, hardworking parents, shelter and clothing, good health, and several younger siblings whom she squabbled with but enjoyed the company of, but she wasn’t satisfied. For they didn’t have wealth, something she coveted above all else. For despite the love and happiness that surrounded their home, theirs was a humble life, tending various plants that grew leaves and seeds with medicinal properties that could be sold to the medicine woman. For every ten coppers they earned, they spent two on material to make new clothes, two to pay taxes to the crown, and three for food. Of the final three coppers, two were donated to their local ardent, whose sermons they listened to once a week without fail. Each time the plate slid past them, tinkling with the sound of loose coins, she cringed as her father, without fail, dropped his two coppers into the pile. The final copper was placed in a pouch that was hidden beneath a floorboard in their small house.

Marin always wanted more. She constantly pleaded with her parents to try to grow their plot of land by using some of their meager savings to purchase the neighboring properties. Most of the other farmers in the area spent their extra coin on strong drink or pipeweed, and they would likely consider an offer to buy their property a windfall.

But her parents always clucked distastefully at such a notion. “One never knows what may come in life,” her father patiently explained. “That pouch of coins may come in handy one day.”

Marin thought he was a small-minded fool, a kindly man, but a fool all the same. Once she was old enough to fend for herself, she determined herself to show him the error of his ways. So one day, in her fourteenth year, she arose well before dawn, shouldering a small satchel she’d prepacked with provisions—food, a waterskin, a few pieces of clothing, and other odds and ends. The last item she’d packed was a sealed jar with samples of the herbs from their farm. She padded silently across the room, avoiding the three creakiest floorboards until she reached the one that was slightly darker in color. Feeling around, she slid her fingers beneath the notch and pulled it up to reveal the hidden pouch. To her surprise, it was far bulkier than she remembered from the last time she’d seen it, which was several months earlier. Her parents’ small business had clearly been doing well, mostly owing to the increasing price of several of the medicinal herbs they grew.

This only strengthened her resolve to bring them further prosperity as she carefully withdrew the pouch and tucked it inside her shawl, holding it tight against her chest to prevent the coins from jingling and jangling, which would surely awaken her parents and siblings. Then she crept out the door and into the pre-dawn gloom, relying on her knowledge of the landscape to avoid stepping in any holes or running into a fencepost.

The moment she stepped across their property line, a euphoric sense of freedom had whirled within her, making her feet feel as light as the air itself. At long last, she was doing something more for her family than the boring, tedious work of trimming and tending to their crops.

Marin knew she couldn’t carry out her previous plan—to use their savings to purchase neighboring properties—as the landowners wouldn’t negotiate with anyone but her da or ma. Instead, she set her sights further afield, traveling southward, where she knew of a larger town with a sizeable daily market that she’d visited on several occasions with her da to hawk their wares. She remembered wandering the stalls, shocked by some of the dirt-poor prices that valuable herbs were being sold for. The owners didn’t even realize the value of what they had! Her father charged higher prices for many of the same items but could’ve increased the amount by ten or even twenty percent and still sell out of his supply, such was the level of demand from the healers who traveled far and wide to procure the raw materials for their life’s work. He never did though because he didn’t want to be greedy, or so he liked to say.

Is it greedy to want to better your family’s situation? Marin thought as she entered the town almost two weeks later. She’d walked much of the way, camping at night, but had managed to use two of her coppers to hitch a ride in a wagon for the last quarter of the distance, which she felt was a worthy investment. The wagon had been heavy laden with barrels of ale, which made her chuckle as she pictured the scowl that would’ve formed on her da’s face had he been there to witness it.

She thanked the driver and hopped down under the bright, single-eyed stare of the noonday sun. Locating the crowded marketplace would’ve been easy even if she wasn’t familiar with the town’s layout. All one had to do was follow the traffic. Though the seller of ale was planning to take a meandering route through town to sell to the various taverns and public houses, the majority of the wagons and pedestrians flowed in the same direction, funneling from the tangle of streets into a massive square near the city center.

It was just as she remembered. Tented stalls were set in parallel lines across the space, separated by narrow walkways filled to brimming with people shouting out orders and offers, hands gripping pouches of coins tethered with thick cords to their wrists to prevent theft by the numerous pickpockets known to roam the corridors.

Marin plunged into the mob, using her elbows to “swim” through the throb of bodies as her father had taught her the first time she’d made the trip with him. It didn’t take her long to come upon an apothecary. His stall was less crowded than most—such goods were specialized in nature and only those with skills in healing would show any interest. The man sitting behind the table didn’t seemed bothered by the lack of attention, biding his time by reading a worn-looking book. When Marin cleared her throat, he looked at her over his narrow spectacles. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked.

She reached into her satchel and withdrew the glass jar. “I’m looking for any of these herbs,” she said.

The seller stood, frowning as he took the jar from her and inspected the contents. “I have three of these in stock. The rest are out of season.” This was a lie, Marin knew, though she didn’t call him on it. All but one of her samples were currently in season. “Let me see…ah, yes.” The seller reached into a crate at his feet, rummaging through his stock. When he rose once more, he was holding three pouches. He opened them one at a time so she could see the contents—dried leaves of the herbs she’d requested, stacked neatly on top of each other and tied into bundles by their stems. Two of the three matched those she wanted, while the third was a fake, a leaf that, to the untrained eye, was identical to the one she wanted. It did not have the same medicinal properties as the one she was after and could be found growing wild in great abundance in the countryside.

Anger burned within Marin, but she hid it well, smiling excitedly. “I’ll take this one and, er, this one,” she said, pretending to think hard but then choose almost at random, selecting only the two genuine herbs.

She pretended not to watch him but noticed as the seller’s eyes narrowed at her choices. “I thought you were after all of these?” he said.

“I am, but alas, I fear I only have the coin for two of these three,” she said, bowing her head as though ashamed by this fact.

“Now, now, let’s not be hasty,” the seller said, licking his lips at the prospect of selling the fraud amongst the others. “I’m willing to bend on price if it will help you out. Might I ask what you’re planning to use these for?”

Marin’s head hung lower and she sniffed. “My mother is gravely ill. Our local healer says we need these herbs, but she didn’t have enough of them, so she sent me here. I’ve been walking for days and days.”

The seller clucked his tongue compassionately. “Poor child. What do you say I give you a discount for all three? Twelve coppers ought to do it. That will allow me to cover my costs and a modest profit.”

Marin had the urge to turn her back and walk away. The small amount of the two real herbs he had on hand weren’t worth more than ten coppers, which meant he was trying to milk an extra two coppers out of her for the worthless weeds. Beneath her shawl, she pinched the skin of her leg as hard as she could, until her eyes began to water. She looked up, vision blurring, a single tear tracking down her cheek. “I fear I only have six coppers, and I need two for room and board for the night.” She started to turn away, covering her face with her hands as though in great distress.

“Wait,” the seller said.

She stopped and turned, doing everything in her power to hide her smile. “Yes, kind sir?” she said.

“Eight coppers is my final offer, lest I lose money on the sale.”

“I am most grateful,” Marin said. “But I cannot turn six coins into eight no matter how hard I try.” She bit her lip, as though thinking hard. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it could save my mother’s life. If I camp tonight and scavenge for my dinner, then I can spend all six coppers. I would be forever in your debt.”

The man grimaced, but then said, “Very well. For your mother’s sake.”

“Oh, thank you!” Marin handed over the agreed number of coins, which she’d been holding tightly in her palm while keeping the full pouch hidden from sight. He handed her the three bags in return. Her eyes as dry as hot stone, she spun away and slipped back into the crowd, dropping the bag of worthless weeds to be trampled by the hundreds of feet.

From there, she played her little game for the duration of the day, moving from apothecary to apothecary, buying and selling herbs and reaping profits from the differences in prices and her ability to haggle using tricks, deceit and her secret knowledge of medicinal herbs. At the end of the day her coin pouch was bulging and about to split at the seams. She’d doubled her parents’ savings in a matter of a few hours!

The days passed so quickly she barely noticed them, her wealth growing rapidly until she was able to set up her own stall in the market, obtaining her wares from local herb growers with whom she’d formed a strong partnership. She rented a room in a building and splurged on lavish meals she’d only dreamed of eating. She hired some local muscle to provide security for her as many of the apothecaries she’d fooled had soon realized her game and grown angry, some of them forced out of business as she shed light on their attempts to take advantage of their buyers. Before long, her apothecary sold more herbs than any of the others, renowned for its quality and the fair prices charged.

Every day she expected to spot her father, mother and siblings riding into town and setting up their own temporary stall. She longed to smile at them and show them what she’d accomplished, giving them several pouches of coins with the promise of more. But every day she was disappointed. Seasons passed. A year. Two.

Finally, she decided she’d go to them instead, riding the whole way this time in the comfort of her own carriage pulled by her own two horses. It would be a grand entrance and she couldn’t wait to see the surprise on their faces when she arrived, showering them with the gifts she’d purchased before departing and returning their borrowed coin tenfold.

But as soon as the familiar farmstead came into view, all such thoughts disappeared. Something wasn’t right. The fences that surrounded the property, normally standing strong and firm, were in disrepair, missing planks, several of the posts falling down. Beyond the damaged fence, the fields of crops, typically lush with well-trimmed and cultivated plants, were empty. The dirt was hard and cracked, no longer tilled and kept soft by daily watering and care.

For the first time since she’d left home, she knew true fear, her moment of triumph crushed under the weight of what she saw.

Pulling up to the front of the house, she leapt from the carriage before it had fully stopped moving, running to the door, flinging it open…

And stopping short, covering her mouth and nose with the back of her fine shirt as the stench assaulted her. It was the stench of disease, of death, of a household gripped in the unrelenting hand of what was known as the creeping sickness. Her hand shook as she stepped further inside, closing the door behind her. “Ma? Da?” she called, eyes adjusting to the gloom. All the shutters were closed and none of the lanterns were lit. In fact, the lanterns were placed in a line along the floor, their oil wells empty and dry. Why hadn’t her father purchased more?

A groan drew her attention. Squinting, she made for the sound, finding her father lying shivering on the floor despite being wrapped in a thick blanket. “Da!” she said, throwing herself down beside him.

He turned to look at her, the light of recognition in his eyes. “Marin?” he said. “You’re…alive. We feared the worst when you disappeared.”

“Of course I am, Da,” she said, tears pricking at her eyes. “I left to improve our fortunes.”

“Ahh,” he murmured before being wracked with a fit of coughing that squeezed Marin’s heart. “I thought thieves had stolen the pouch of coins. It was you?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry. I only wanted you, us, to have more. I’ve multiplied that small pouch many times since. Now tell me what happened.”

“Florin and Sarra have left us to return to the gods,” he said. “The creeping disease took them quicker than most, a small mercy I’ve thanked the gods for every night.”

“What?” Marin said, her mind struggling to comprehend her father’s words. “No, that cannot be. The creeping disease is slow moving and easily remedied by a tincture that almost any healer keeps on hand.” The highly contagious creeping disease had once been known to wipe out entire villages, but that was a long time ago. Now, as long as it was identified and treated early enough, it was feared far less than the plague.

“We didn’t have enough coin to purchase the tinctures. When the rest of the family grew ill, the cost grew even higher. I petitioned the ardent, but he had no coin after building his new house of worship. The rest of the village was too afraid of becoming sick, so they’ve stayed away.”

“Where’s Ma?” Marin asked. The words choked her as they struggled to slip past the pit that had formed in her throat.

Her father’s eyes grew soft and kind as he reached out to comfort her. As he did so, the blanket slipped from his arm and his sleeve pulled back from his wrist, revealing skin mottled with sores. Typically the creeping sickness started on one’s feet and slowly made its way up one’s body, creeping like ivy up a stone wall. Fever and coughs were part of the sickness’s last stages before death. “Your mother passed a fortnight ago. Minna passed two days hence. Your other two brothers are in bed together. I haven’t been strong enough to check on them for a few hours, but I fear the worst.”

Choking out sobs, vision blurring, Marin ran for the bed to find her brothers alive but in bad shape, the sores already climbing up their necks as they slept. Their breathing was ragged and uneven, and the occasional wheeze whistled from their lips.

“That’s a horrible story,” Tara said, interrupting for the first time. “Yer mother told ye this as a child?”

“Yes, but I’m not finished.”

“Marin’s brothers an’ father died, an’ Marin lived happily ever after on ’er pile o’ treasure,” Tora said. “The End.”

“Not exactly. Marin ran, shouting for help,” Ando continued. “She managed to locate a healer who had the tincture to treat the creeping sickness. She bought the entire supply, paying double what it was worth. When she returned, one of her remaining brothers was gone while the other clung to life by a hairsbreadth. She forced him to drink the medicine thrice a day, along with her father, nursing them back to health. They survived.”

“Wow, a surprise happy endin’,” Tora said.

“You call that happy?”

“I was bein’ flippant. Me ma said I was born flippant. Even me cry was sarcastic. How could Marin live with ’erself after what she’d done?”

“By taking each day at a time. By treasuring something other than bags heavy with coins. By dedicating her life to those who’d survived, who never once judged her for her grievous mistake. To building her own family and treating her children like the piles of gold that they were.”

Tora nodded slowly. “I think I understand. Is that story why yer so damn chivalrous all the time?”

Ando chuckled. “No.” He didn’t go into any more detail, memories of the stories his mother told him about his father circling his mind. “That story is why I value life above all else.”

“A soldier who values life, who’d have thunk it?” Tora said.

“All true soldiers value life,” Sola said, the bronze-skinned Solarii man having overheard as he approached. “If you relish only the killing, you will soon forget what you are fighting for.”

“Eh? An’ what is that?” Tora asked.

“Life, of course.”

Ando was beginning to wonder whether the lot of them would be thrown off the ship by the sailors who toiled on its flanks. For now, however, the off-duty seamen were content to cheer on their comrades as they strained against their opponent, their faces clenching from the effort, their muscles bulging through their salt- and sweat-stained shirts.

Their opponent was none other than the one-horned Grizari named Mrz, who’d, after a rather rocky beginning, proven his loyalty to Ando time and time again. Though he had two men using two arms against each one of his own, the broad-shouldered, gray-skinned boulder of a buck was grinning like a banshee. He even managed to yawn as though bored before slamming both arms down to the table with a resounding thud that drew groans from the hopeful crowd and cries of pain from the two defeated arm wrestlers.

Ando shook his head but couldn’t help but chuckle as a representative for the sailors stepped forward, also shaking his head, but in wonderment rather than amusement. “You won fair and square. The ale is yours.”

“Good,” Mrz grunted. “’Cause I’m rather thirsty from all this hard work.”

Two other seamen rolled a barrel across the deck and then set it upright before the Grizari buck, who didn’t even seem winded from his lopsided victory. Mrz tapped his chest with a fist in thanks. “Is full?” he asked.

The sailors nodded, eyeing his curving ramlike horn warily. His second horn was only a nub after a close encounter with a bolt fired by a Terran ballista. “I could drink it all myself,” Mrz said. “But I prefer not to drink alone. Ale fer ever’one!”

Ando laughed breathily through his nose as a fresh cheer arose. He should’ve known Mrz would have one more trick up his sleeve. He’d never met someone who could make friends as swiftly as the formidable Grizari.

As the barrel was tapped and glasses were filled, the sailors still on duty looked green with jealousy at their poor timing. Those who’d received a drink spread out, a cluster of them forming around Mrz, who’d sat on a crate like it was his throne, the wooden planks sagging under his bulk. Soon laughter arose as he told the type of bawdy joke hardened seamen tended to enjoy.

Ando was tempted to fill his own glass, but as it turned out he didn’t have to as he spotted Tora trying to sneak past, a glass filled to the brim with amber liquid. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, reaching out and snatching the glass from her grasp just as she was about to sip the foam from the top.

Her hand immediately went to the hilt of the blade she wore. It was no ordinary blade, its steel the color of night, shadows seeming to swim along its edge. Ando had seen the weapon in action—it was a formidable sword in the right hand. “Give it back,” Tora said.

“If I don’t, will you run me through?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you drunk ale before?”

“Course. Me da let me sip from his mug all the time.”

“Then that’s what I shall do as well.” She’d earned a drink, that was for damn sure. He was finding it harder and harder to think of her as anything other than one of his men after what she’d done in Sunsei. If not for her decisive actions, killing the obsidian mage, Lin-Wei, they might all be dead. He handed the glass back to her and her hand lifted from the blade’s hilt to accept it, immediately bringing it to her lips. She drank quickly, finishing a quarter of the glass before he was able to drag it from her grasp once more. “That’s enough or you’ll be offering the sea goddess the contents of your stomach.”

“I can hold me ale,” she said, wiping the froth from her lips. Thankfully, she didn’t fight him further, stomping away to join the throng around Mrz.

As Ando sipped from the glass, relishing the warmth of the liquid as it slid down his throat, Sola joined him. “If you try to hold a fire in your hand for too long you’re liable to get burned,” he said as he sat on a coil of rope.

“I’d rather that than have another fire go out.”

Sola nodded in understanding. For a few moments the two men sipped from their glasses in silence, content to listen to Mrz tell a ridiculous story of a hornless Grizari who’d turned out to be a human. The punchline to the tale would’ve made most people uncomfortable, but Ando had heard far worse and he was certain Tora had too. Regardless, it hit home with the sailors, who laughed boisterously and toasted Mrz with a clink of their glasses.

“We need to talk,” Sola said, after the hubbub had died down and the Grizari had launched into another even more absurd story that he claimed was ‘The gods honest truth on my honor as warrior.’

“About…,” Ando said.

“What we’re doing.”

“I thought that was obvious. We’re sailing to Loslandia.”

“Leave the japes to Mrz. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Look, Helm, the lot of us will follow you to the ends of the earth…but it would help to know there’s a reason for us to do so.”

Ando sighed. “I need more time to figure that out, but I don’t believe our meeting was simply chance.”

“Neither do I,” Sola said.

Ando studied the man’s face, wondering whether he was just trying to be supportive. No, he thought. He believes it as firmly as I. But how is that possible? After all, the strange fellowship of peoples from various nations and races—Grizari, dwarf, Solarii, Odinian, Terran, they’d even had two allies from the Four Kingdoms, for a while—had begun in a bloodsport arena where they were supposed to kill each other.

“But what is our purpose?” Ando said, his thoughts spilling from his head. His entire life he’d had a sense of purpose, to protect his family and Odin from ruthless invaders who would take everything, including their lives. But after he’d failed to protect his own family, that purpose had been lost too. Ever since, it felt as though he’d grown a tail and was running in circles to try to catch it.

“I do not know,” Sola said. “But I think it is you who must answer that question. Sooner rather than later, lest our comrades drink themselves into oblivion.”

“Says the man who encouraged me to drink pure liquid magenum.”

“That was enlightenment, not oblivion.”

“Then why don’t I feel particularly enlightened?”

“Maybe because you’re trying too hard. Or not hard enough. Only you know. Have you ever heard the parable of the man with no boots?”

“Let me guess, he walked around barefoot until he stepped on something sharp.”

“Not exactly, but you are on the right track. There was once a man who inherited great wealth from a rich uncle who had passed away rather suddenly. His uncle had been something of a miser and had never shared a single coin of his good fortune with his brother, who’d been the man’s father. Even after the man’s father had died several years earlier, his uncle had hidden himself away in his mansion while the man, his nephew, struggled to make ends meet, eventually finding himself destitute, begging on the streets without a possession other than the clothes on his back.

“The worst was not having shoes,” Sola continued. “His feet were constantly cold, or wet, or cold and wet. He tried to make his own shoes out of junk that he scavenged, but nothing ever held together well enough to make a difference.

“After his uncle died and the fortune he’d stockpiled went to the man, he was overjoyed, feeling the warmth of the fates shining upon him for the first time. When he moved into his uncle’s mansion, the first thing he did was buy the finest pair of boots he could find. Their leather was supple, their stitching exquisite, their soles sturdy but comfortable. They cost a small fortune, but he was a wealthy man now.

“He wore them everywhere, oiling them before he went out so they would shine for all to see. After only a week, he felt something sharp pressing against his foot. Grimacing, he sat down and removed his boot, turning it over and shaking out an edged stone. ‘How did you get in there?’ he wondered, inspecting the boot. He found a hole the size of an acorn burrowed in the toe of the leather.

“Shoving the boot back on, he stormed back to the cobbler, demanding to know how it had happened. The bootmaker had no answer; the boots he made were of the highest quality, known to last for years if not decades. He promised to provide a new set at no charge, which he did.

“The same thing happened. Another week, another hole, another stone in the man’s boot. The next time he visited the cobbler, he agreed to pay additional coin for boots comprised of double the leather. The new boots were heavier but felt so solid the man was satisfied history would not repeat itself.”

“But it did,” Ando guessed.

Sola nodded. “Yes. Not right away, however. After a week, the outside of the boots showed little signs of wear. Order had finally been restored to the world and he could enjoy his new life of luxury. A fortnight passed and then, just as he arrived home from a walk, he felt something sharp poke into the bottom of his foot.

“He reached down and wrenched the boots from his feet, turning them over to find holes burrowed in the toe of each. He cursed and launched them across the grand foyer that was now his. Distraught and frustrated, he stormed upstairs, determined to distract himself by going over his uncle’s books, a necessary task he’d been delaying. What he found shocked him. It was a letter from the man’s mother to his uncle, begging his forgiveness. Unbeknownst to the man, his mother had once wed his uncle, only to fall in love with her brother-in-law, ending their union to follow her heart. Shortly thereafter, he had been born.

“Anger swirled through the man. His entire life, he’d always thought his uncle was an evil, greedy man, but it was him who’d been wronged all those years ago. His anger was swiftly replaced with fear, however. You see, he was a superstitious man. What if his uncle had never truly left this place, his soul clinging to it like a fungus, determined to steal happiness from him? Perhaps the boots were only the start of far worse tragedies that would soon befall him.

“Convinced he’d been cursed, the man ran from the mansion, never to return to it again.”

“I hope that’s not the end,” Ando said.

“Almost, but not yet. This isn’t a story about the man, but about his boots, after all. Eventually, as the property lay dormant, it was seized by the crown and given to a lord in need of a manor. As the lord inspected the mansion for the first time, he came across a pair of boots resting askew on their sides, as though they’d been flung haphazardly. Which, of course, they had. They were gray with dust and tangled by cobwebs, and each had an acorn-sized hole in the toe. And when he bent down to touch one of them, it moved. The lord jumped back, mind leaping to the same superstitious conclusion as the mansion’s previous owner until he saw something small and gray emerge from the boot. More gray creatures crept out, whiskers trembling.”

“Mice,” Ando said.

“Yes, a whole nest of them. They’d been trying to keep warm in the drafty old mansion. The toe of the boots made a perfect resting place, though they couldn’t help doing a bit of gnawing now and then.”

“The man was a superstitious fool, but that isn’t the point of the story, is it?” Ando said.

Sola shook his head. “No. The message is simple: Sometimes a hole in a boot is just what it appears to be. Nothing more.”

“But not always,” Ando said, hearing the unspoken part of the message.

“Not always. The ability to discern the difference is what separates a great leader from an average one.”

Ando nodded. The boots of his life were full of holes, and it was up to him to interpret the meaning of each. Why his family had to die. Why he met the group he now traveled with. Why when they’d killed the final Greater Demon at the Infernal Pit had three ghostly warriors arisen from the chasm and shot past. Why men killed and raped and pillaged for seemingly no reason other than a bit of sport. He was tired of all of it. Exhausted really. And yet that didn’t change the fact that these good, loyal men—and Tora—now depended on him to tell them where to go and what to do. He didn’t take such responsibility lightly. “By the time we reach Loslandia, I will have decided on what comes next,” he promised.

“That is good,” Sola said. “I will hold you to that.”

Two weeks later

After a month at sea, the men were keen to quit Marin’s Treasure and feel solid earth beneath their feet once more. Though life on the vessel had had its happy, restful moments, Ando couldn’t help the feeling of being trapped when surrounded by water on all sides.

Plus, they’d finished off the last of the ale three days ago, which had made some of the men, but mostly the dwarves, even grumpier than usual. Captain Bartholomew James Ambrosia the Third, the dwarf leader everyone just called Barty, was the grumpiest of the lot, shoving to the front as the ship reached the Loslandian coastal city known as Trial, docking on a long pier, a wooden ramp shoved into position. “Outta me way,” he demanded, as though another second onboard had the potential to kill him dead. It hadn’t helped that he’d been wracked by seasickness for more than two-thirds of their journey.

The moment the ramp thumped against the starboard side of the ship, the dwarf scampered down, stumpy legs a blur. The only problem: the small-statured man’s legs weren’t accustomed to a world where the ground wasn’t constantly moving. Thus, they tangled almost immediately and he fell headlong, rolling twice before coming to rest against a pylon amidst raucous laughter from the crew and Ando’s men alike. “I’d like to see the lot of ye do any better!” the dwarf shouted, standing and dusting himself off while clutching the post for balance.

The rest of them did just that, learning from his mistake as they cautiously descended the ramp to cheers and goodbyes from the sailors, taking time to grow accustomed to the solidity of the pier. Barty glared at them the entire time. “At least yer not pukin’ anymore,” another of the dwarves pointed out. His name was Mudd and he had a talent for defusing a tense situation with his good humor and quick tongue. Over the course of their time together, Ando had grown to like Mudd almost as much as Barty.

Barty only hmphed. Mrz joined in Mudd’s effort to cheer the dwarf leader up. “And don’t forget about yer beard,” he said. “It’s lookin’ more and more glorious by the day, it is!”

That, more than the lack of puking, seemed to brighten the dwarf’s countenance by several degrees as his hand rose to tug at the thick, dark locks descending from his chin and cheeks. Ando was amazed by the speed of Barty’s facial hair growth. A month ago the dwarf had been clean shaven as part of their ruse to infiltrate the palace at Sunsei. The way he’d moaned and complained one would’ve thought they were digging out his eyes, not cutting off his beard. Now the beard was the length of a man’s forearm and getting longer by the day. “Eh?” Barty said. “I told ye fools me beard was luscious. Won’t be long before I can properly braid it again.”

With the improvement in the dwarf’s mood, Ando was able to herd the men in the right direction before offering a wave of thanks back to the captain, who nodded only once before turning away. Ando sensed he was happy to see them off his vessel; though they hadn’t caused any real trouble, their presence—specifically Mrz’s antics—had clearly been a distraction to his sailors.

Down the pier they went, a motley crew that drew curious stares from the local workers, making Mrz say, “Ever get feelin’ you bein’ watched?” Ever the attention-seeker, he made a show of shaking his single, curving horn at one of the dockworkers, who didn’t so much as flinch, his yellow-eyed stare as steady as the parade of waves sloshing against the shoreline.

All Ando knew about Loslandians came from hearsay and stories told by men who’d likely never visited Loslandia themselves. Although everyone said Loslandians were “queer folk”, what that meant differed by who was doing the telling. Some said their mouths grew sharp fangs, which allowed them to suck each other’s blood. Others believed they had catlike tails that flicked back and forth as they walked. Still others told tales of creatures that lived as much on land as in the water, able to breathe beneath the sea’s surface like fish.

As Ando surreptitiously inspected the locals, he didn’t see evidence of a single fang, tail or gill, leaving him to conclude all the tales were utter rubbish. The truth was the Loslandians were different—they were abnormally tall and long-limbed, and their hairless skin had a silvery tint to it, not to mention the various colors of their eyes, orange and red and yellow—but not that different to Odinians or Terrans or Avadonians. Just like people everywhere, they toiled, sweat sliding down their faces from the heat of the sun.

Though the cold winds of winter had begun blowing across northern Kingfall, this far south it was still hot and muggy, and soon Ando was sweating too, his shirt saturated in no time at all. As they clomped from the pier onto the solid ground of Loslandia, Ando eyed the dusty walls that blocked their path forward for any sliver of shade they could inhabit to cool off for a few moments. Unfortunately, the sun was high above them, and the only shade was dead ahead, where a gap in the wall offered a respite from the heat under overlapping canopies that stretched as far as the eye could see.

They’d reached the famed Trial bazaar, which was said to have anything you could dream of for sale.

“Are we goin’ in there?” Barty asked. There was concern in his tone as he tugged nervously on the end of his beard; Ando knew the dwarf preferred his space.

“Can we?” Tora said eagerly, her eyes lighting up with anticipation.

Ando said nothing, considering. As he’d promised Sola, he had made a decision about what came next in their journey, but he also knew they needed a chance to rest from their sea voyage and discuss things. Though he knew what he wanted to do, it very well might differ from what they wanted. Not to mention the fact that they had no coin to any of their names, which meant they needed to find some sort of employ to raise funds for whatever came next. “Yes,” he finally said. “Sorry, Barty, but it’s too hot out here in the open.”

“Stay behind me,” Mrz said. “I’ll keep press of bodies away.”

“Thank ye,” Barty said, sliding into the huge shadow cast by Mrz’s bulky frame.

With things settled, Ando led his men into the crowded marketplace.

The Trial bazaar was a place of myriad smells and sights and sounds, all of which were as foreign to Ando and his men as the silver-skinned locals with their brightly colored eyes. Long, coiled snakes with bodies as thick as Ando’s arms sizzled and spat on slowly turned spits, their fanged maws propped open with sticks to release plumes of smoke as they cooked. Women and men alike used oddly shaped swords as they worked around huge, round metal pans heated from beneath by voracious fires. The swords dinged and clanged as they moved peppers and chunks of meat to and fro to ensure they cooked evenly before tossing the charred lumps expertly onto thin, flat bread that was then wrapped up tight like a present and tied shut with twine. Numerous vendors sold drinks that ranged from sweet wines, to thick, dark concoctions that resembled mud, to water infused with mint and slivers of bright, juicy-looking fruits Ando was unable to identify. To the right, a group of performers played strange instruments that they wore on their arms and legs like extensions of their clothing. Bells of various tones rang out as they danced and twirled, each note perfectly synchronized with the others.

As they slowly made their way through the dense crowd, Ando heard no fewer than a dozen languages being spoken all at once, though the most predominant was the common tongue, the shouts of the sellers rising above the clamor of the crowd. “So hungry could eat entire snake right now,” Mrz grumbled. They’d had a hearty breakfast just before the ship made landfall, but Ando knew that meant little to the Grizari, whose appetite didn’t seem to have any limits.

“Ooh, firewater,” Mudd said, pointing to a small, energetic man standing on a stool so he could see over the crowd. Though he was the shortest Loslandian they’d come across yet, he had a rather spectacular system for satisfying the mob of customers holding coins out to purchase a taste of a drink he served in small bottles corked at the top. He gripped two long, wooden poles, one in each hand. One had a small basket affixed to the end, in which customers could place their coins. The other pole had a round loop. The glass bottles were well-designed, larger at the top then the bottom, so the proprietor could place them into the pole’s hoop and then pass them to those who’d already paid. He moved so quickly Ando could almost believe he had four or even six arms.

“What’s firewater?” Ando asked, the name sounding familiar though he couldn’t place where he’d heard it.

“Only the drink o’ the gods,” Mudd said. “Ye’ve never tried it? Ye need to try it.”

Sola explained further. “It is a drink from the Four Kingdoms—Calyp to be specific. They say the mix of spices can only grow in the desert clime native to the Southern Empire, which makes it a delicacy in these parts. I’ve never tried it myself, but I am curious…”

“I’ve tried it,” Mudd said proudly. “Made me beard grow an inch longer within seconds, ain’t no lie.”

Though he was certain the dwarf’s statement was an exaggeration, Ando’s interest had been piqued. He was no connoisseur of strong drinks, but he did enjoy a nip of something stronger than common ale now and again. The only problem: they had no coin.

“Friends from faraway lands!” the proprietor said, having noticed their out-of-place pack pushing past his other customers. “Firewater from Calyp, aged to perfection! It will quench your thirst and give you the energy for many things. Drink some before visiting Trial’s famed brothels and you will get your money’s worth, I guarantee it!”

“Unfortunately, friend, we have no coin to spare,” Ando said, hoping the man would turn his attention away from them to seek more interested customers.

He didn’t. “We are a welcoming people, friend! A drink for you and your friends, on the house!”

Even if Ando had a mind to object, his men wouldn’t have allowed it, their enthusiasm for the offer evident in the way they immediately changed direction with Mrz at their helm, shoving bodies aside like a northern ice cutter bullying its way across the iced-over expanse of the Frozen Passage. Soon each of them had a drink in hand, corks popped and tossed away in their excitement to try the firewater. “You, too, Commander,” Sola said, handing him a bottle of his own. Ando hesitated only a second before accepting it. Though he wanted to keep his wits about him, a single drink wouldn’t hurt. Raising their hands in the air in a toast, every man and dwarf tossed the liquid down while Tora watched jealously. Ando finished three quarters of his drink, impressed by the way its spiciness didn’t stop the liquid from going down smoothly. His mouth and throat burned and prickled, but the sensation swiftly faded, leaving behind an aftertaste that made him crave more of the drink.

He handed the bottle to Tora, whose eyebrows lifted. “Really?” she said.

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

She licked her lips and drank the small amount that remained, cringing slightly as she swallowed. “Tastes like I’m drinkin’ pepper.”

Ando laughed. “At least you can say you’ve tried it,” he said.

To his surprise, she curled an arm around his waist and gave him a quick half-hug. “Thank you,” she said.

Her arm slipped away, leaving behind an even warmer feeling than the firewater burning in his gut. Ando’s eyes returned to the proprietor, who’d handed his poles to another man who was now serving his paying customers. The small, silver-skinned man was slipping through the crowd so gracefully he might’ve been a butterfly dancing through the leaves of a tree. “We wish to repay your kindness,” Ando said, when the man arrived in their midst.

“Not necessary, friend,” the man said, yellow eyes burning like a pair of small suns. “We do not often get humans, dwarves and…” He looked at Mrz and frowned, as though unsure what to make of him.

“Grizari,” Mrz said. “From the Lost Plains of Avadon.”

“Of course,” the man said. “I am Jaz, importer of fine drinks from faraway lands, at your service. Is this your daughter?” He gestured to Tora.

“Aye,” Tora said. “Da is me hero.” She rested her head on Ando’s shoulder affectionately.

Ando said, “We are her guardians now. Sadly, her real father is no longer with us,” he said.

“Dead, he means,” Tora said. When Ando fired her a sharp look, she said, “What? I don’t think Da minds the term, so why should we?”

“It’s fine,” Jaz said. “Loslandians are not as plain in our language as your kind, but I am a man who can appreciate candor. I am most sorry for your loss.”

He bowed slightly and Tora said, “Thank ye.”

“Of course. Now, what can Trial do for you?”

Ando sensed a change in the man’s demeanor, his easy going, friendly nature still evident in his plastered-on smile, and yet something in his question felt insincere. At the same time, they weren’t exactly in a position to slam the door in the face of an offer to help. I shall tread carefully, Ando vowed. “We seek employment. We could man your stall while you attend to other matters. Or we could provide security for the transport of your goods.”

“Alas, friend, I do not require any help at present. But I do have a cousin who might be willing to take you on.”

“What sort of work?”

“She is a property owner. The crops grown in her fields provide sustenance to many cities.”

That sounded promising. Hard labor on a farm may cause a few of his men to grumble, but at least it would be honest work in exchange for honest pay, or at least so he hoped to negotiate. With any luck, they’d collectively earn enough in a fortnight or two to pay for passage on another ship. “How might we find your cousin?”

Jaz brightened at Ando’s show of interest. “She has many representatives in Trial. I can take you to them.”

Jaz could’ve easily outdistanced them as he slipped and slithered through gaps between the waves of pedestrians with the practiced ease of someone who traversed these crowded streets on a daily basis. He didn’t, however, stopping frequently to look back and ensure Ando and his men were still following, feeling very much like a school of fish swimming upstream against a strong current.

Deeper and deeper into the endless expanse of the bazaar they traveled, until Ando grew uneasy with how much reliance they now placed on their guide to lead them back out of its mazelike corridors. Finally, however, Jaz turned out of the canopied marketplace and into the thin shadow cast by a narrow, overhead bridge. Above the bridge was another, then another, each connected to each other by a series of stone staircases with not so much as a railing to hang onto.

“I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” Jaz said with a toothy grin as he sprang up the first set of steps two at a time.

“Why couldn’t we have gone down rather than up?” Barty muttered. As the dwarf clambered up the first of the steep steps, he clung to the side of the wall.

“Afraid of crowds, afraid of heights, afraid of own shadow, too?” Mrz said, clomping up the steps with seemingly no fear, despite the fact that his large size meant half of him was hanging over the edge. The dwarf captain turned to make a rude hand gesture to the Grizari but then lost his balance. Only Mrz’s steady hand on his arm prevented Barty from taking a nosedive over the edge.

“Ye expect me to say thank ye?” Barty said.

“Would be nice,” Mrz said.

Barty hissed out a thanks followed by a stream of dwarven curses that Ando was pretty sure negated his gratitude. For the next while there weren’t any sounds but grunting and cursing as the men tromped up the staircase and onto a platform standing before the first of the bridges they would need to cross to reach the next set of steps on the opposite side. The bridge, like the steps, was narrow and without a hand railing on either side. Jaz demonstrated how it was done, his nimble feet dancing across. “Nuh-uh,” Barty said, backing away from the bridge.

“Could carry you like babe?” Mrz suggested.

That caused the dwarf to stick out his chin defiantly. “A dwarf should never be carried. Never.” He moved forward once more, sliding onto his belly before snapping a look back to warn off anyone considering laughing at him. Then he slid across the bridge on his stomach, arms surrounding the sides of the bridge to keep his balance. When he reached the other side, he stood, turned, and offered a bow with a flourish.

The men cheered and whistled and then followed, one by one. Only one man faltered, losing his balance but managing to lower into a crouch before rising and completing the crossing. Mrz continued to impress, stepping lithely across with his arms at his sides like a dancer a quarter his size and weight. Ando shook his head in wonderment, more accustomed to watching the Grizari trample men under his feet. Tora also made short work of the bridge, another reminder that the girl—young woman, he reminded himself—was far more independent than he liked to think.

Ando, for his part, did fine, although he wobbled several times before reaching the other side. “Nice one, Da,” Tora said, grinning.

“Don’t—”

“Call ye that?”

“Aye. I’m serious. I am just Ando, your friend.”

“I—I know,” she said, and Ando was surprised to hear a tremble in her voice.

“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” she said, wiping away tears with the back of her hand before they could fall further down her cheeks. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then we won’t,” Ando said. “After you.”

The rest of the climb continued without mishap, though the stakes grew higher as they mounted each new level and found another bridge waiting for them. Finally, however, they reached the last one. “Is just me, or are bridges gettin’ narrower?” Mrz said.

Barty was already inching across on his belly, swaying slightly from side to side as swirling breaths of wind blasted him, the buildings no longer offering the protection they had when they were deep inside their bowels. “Don’t tell me yer scared now, Griz?” Barty grunted before completing the crossing and standing defiantly on the other side with his hands on his hips like a conquering warrior.

“Scared?” Mrz said. “Scared is fer prey. Grizari are predators, not prey.” To prove his point, the large man strode forward and crossed to the other side, each step full of confidence.

Until the last, which caught the bridge’s edge, his ankle rolling to the side. Ando was no soothsayer, but he could see what would happen before it did: the massive Griz’s weight would drag him down several stories until he landed with a bone-shattering crash.

But Captain Bartholomew James Ambrosia the Third had other plans, his stubby arm stabbing out like a jabbed club, grabbing hold of one of Mrz’s arms as it pinwheeled at his side. “Shite, yer heavy!” the dwarf complained, digging his heels into the dusty rooftop on which he now stood, straining against a weight far greater than his own.

Normally this was where Ando would shove past the others, race across the bridge and save the day. That’s what he’d done his whole life—tried to help those in need. But now, a wall of his own men blocked his path forward, the platform too small to allow him to squeeze past, not without tossing someone else over the side.

His inability to act seemed to draw the very breath from his lungs, suffocating him, as he watched the dwarf’s feet skid closer and closer to the edge.

That’s when it happened. Sola sprang into action first, practically sprinting across the bridge and then leaping across the final corner because Mrz continued to block the end portion of the crossing. He planted himself next to Barty, grabbing the same arm and lending his own strength.

Still it wasn’t enough, the Grizari’s bones like steel anchors dragging them all down into the depths. But these men—this family, as Ando had begun to think of them—refused to give up on one of their own. More and more risked crossing and leaping the final corner, capturing Mrz’s other arm, the edges of his leather jerkin, and anything else they could latch on to. Several of the taller men even grabbed his horn, until, with a final heave, the Grizari flew forward onto the rooftop, knocking everyone down as he collapsed.

Finally, the rest of the men, Tora, and Ando were able to complete the crossing. Mrz looked up, his gray face smudged with dust and streaked with sweat. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you all. Thought I was goner.” For once, there was no hint of amusement or sarcasm in his tone.

“Couldn’t let ye fall,” Barty said. “Ye might’ve killed someone when ye landed.”

“Er, Ando?” Tora said. He turned toward her, finding her gazing across the rooftop. It was the highest structure in the city, the surrounding rooftops at least a story or two lower. But that wasn’t why she had spoken, Ando realized.

It was because Jaz was gone.

One by one, hands began to appear on the rooftop’s edges as silent forms who’d somehow managed to scale the sheer walls of the building pulled themselves up, brightly colored eyes shining in the sunlight.

Even for the victor, the only good kind of knife fight was one that ended quickly. Ando preferred to fight with his fists or a sword, but apparently these new enemies preferred their shorter, more wieldy knives, slashing them back and forth as they closed in on their prey. There were at least twenty of them, and they wore only small cloths over their midsections. Some sort of pouch was attached to each of their waists, bulging and hanging as though full of small pillows. The rest of their silvery skin was bare, save for tattoos inked in black. Dozens and dozens of tattoos, each identical: a lidless eye, wide open and staring. Some of the bare-chested men had more eyes than others, but they all had at least thirty, by Ando’s estimation. The combined effect was unnerving, Ando had to admit, but being stared at by hundreds of inked-on eyes was the least of his worries at the moment.

“The little bastard led us into a ruttin’ trap!” Barty said, which was a fair summary of the current situation.

A cry from Tora brought Ando’s attention to their rear, where the only bridge leading off the rooftop and back to the staircase was now being crossed by no fewer than six of the strange eye-tattooed men. More sets of bare feet slapped against the steps behind them. Any thoughts of a quick retreat flew away like a flock of birds threatened by a pouncing cat.

All of Ando’s men had now regained their feet and instinctively shuffled toward the center of the rooftop in a tight knot, facing outwards. Steel shrieked as they drew their weapons, swords and hammers and battle axes. Ando noticed Tora’s knuckles as they went white from gripping the darkblade’s hilt. He placed his free hand on hers, shaking his head slightly. “Not that one,” he said.

“It’s my weapon,” she said. “I won’t stand by and do noth—”

“It’s too dangerous,” he interrupted. They had no real notion of what the shadowy blade was capable of and this wasn’t the time for an argument. “If you are to be a part of our group of soldiers, then I am your commander, and you must obey my command without question. Understood?”

“Sounds more like a dictatorship,” she muttered.

“Tora.”

“Aye. Understood. But I do plan to kick a few o’ these buggers in their man parts. That okay with ye?”

“Kick away,” Ando said with a grim smile. And then, to the rest of his men: “Prepare!” The men gripped their weapons tighter, broadening their stances for balance. Mrz beat one of his fists against his chest, having gone from almost falling to his death to a warrior prepared to crush his enemies in the blink of an eye.

Their enemies closed in, almost hypnotic in the way they moved their blades from side to side, slashing and cutting the air. Ando noticed their opposite hands had slid inside the strange, bulging pouches hanging from their waists. Whether it was instinct or a gut feeling or just a good guess, he suddenly knew.

The knives were a distraction, a method to get them pinned in one place, like herding sheep back into a pen.

“Attack!” he commanded, throwing himself forward in a gallop aimed toward the nearest enemy. His men required no further urging, leaping forward like caged animals suddenly set free, but it was too late.

Each of the enemies had already pulled an object from their pouches, drawing their arms back and then throwing whatever was in their hands into the paths of their charging prey. As the objects—some sort of cloth bag, weighted by its contents—flew, an arc of blue powdery smoke trailed behind them. When they landed with a series of thumps, more blue powdery smoke puffed up in thick clouds that immediately obscured their vision, causing them to gag, eyes stinging.

As Ando pulled to a stop, everything began to spin. The world seemed to lurch on its axis, the rooftop rising to smack him in the side.

The sound of his comrades gagging and coughing faded into the rush of blood to his head.

The bright, sunny world grew darker and darker until there was nothing but black.

Twenty-Two

Quill

Lockspell

QUILL SPUN HIS STAFF HARD TO THE LEFT, MEMORIZED WORDS TUMBLING FROM HIS LIPS. He spoke the words with the conviction that, from the moment he’d begun his training at Aeromand, he’d been taught was necessary as a mage. An advanced spell most rank 1 mages wouldn’t have yet perfected.

But he wasn’t most rank 1 mages.

Because I’m technically rank 2, he thought wryly. Cernon promoted me before sentencing me to a lifetime in this voidhole.

The creature that had been charging, a mix between a wolf and an ant, its long antennae probing in front of it as it snapped its fang-filled mouth, went rigid as the pulse of green light shot from Quill’s staff and slammed into its body. Then it dropped, dead, its body slowly fading away into mist.

Of course, it had never been alive in the first place. This Quill knew logically, though the hallucinations were so real he couldn’t bring his rational mind to ignore them. He twisted back the other way, his long viridian robe swirling around his ankles, and fired off another blast, knocking the feet out from under a bear with the hindlegs of a lion. The beast offered a final snarl before going still. A moment later there was nothing there but more green mist, rising like fog off a lonely swamp.

Quill was given a brief reprieve as no other enemies dragged themselves from the shadows. He continued to spin slowly, hand gripping the staff—Gloria, he’d named it when the Archmage Council had given it to him, after his mother. Like his opponents, he knew the staff wasn’t really there, but it also felt so real, firm and solid between his fingers. Even as he spun, the two vials of magenum he’d emptied to dispatch the ant-wolf and bear-lion refilled themselves until they released a brilliant turquoise glow that illuminated the domed room to which he’d been confined for…days? Weeks? He shook his head, trying not to get caught trying to answer a question to which he couldn’t possibly guess the answer. Time had no meaning in the mage prison known as Lockspell.

Lockspell was legendary, the only known prison from which no one had ever escaped. This fact was a matter of pride amongst most mages studying and training in Aeromand—at least until someone was imprisoned.

Not for the last time, Quill wondered how his best friend and fellow inmate, Rondo, was faring. In the past, he would’ve worried about the awkward magenta mage acolyte—mage, rank 1, he corrected in his head—but not anymore. Rondo’s spellcasting wasn’t exactly by the book, but while they’d investigated the theft of darkblades from two of Kingfall’s largest kingdoms, his friend had proved his mettle and prowess on more than one occasion.

“He’ll be fine,” he said aloud. Talking to himself was a new thing, something he’d begun doing more and more as time without meaning slogged on. He knew it was mad, but it was better than the alternative: complete silence.

As if in response to his words, creatures stalked from the shadows, hungry, powerful, inhuman. This time they weren’t a strange mashup of multiple ‘normal’ creatures created by one of the viridian mages who served as Lockspell’s guards. This time, they were something other, creatures that Quill immediately had a name for, only because of how perfectly they matched the descriptions in The Kingfall Histories, which described them to exhaustion.

The Thousands? he thought.

Their hunched forms clarified, their twisted flightless wings scratching tracks across the dirty floor. Click, click, click. The claws on their back-bent legs ticked with each step. There was something humanoid about their expressions, each unique from the one beside it, as though they’d once been like Quill only to be altered by an evil mage’s deranged spell. Their skin was scaly in parts, smooth in others, pockmarked with tufts of humanlike hair sprouting at strange angles.

Quill instantly understood why an army like this had struck fear into even the most steel-hearted of soldiers across Kingfall. He gripped Gloria tighter, the glow from her attached magenum vials casting a halo across the dark skin of his hands.

Though their claws were so sharp they served as weapons on their own, blades materialized in each creature’s hand, as dark as the shadows from which they’d arrived. Darkblades, Quill thought, remembering the first time he’d seen one of the lesserblades. The ancient, magic-forged weapon had been wielded by a rogue mage who’d been part of the conspiracy orchestrated by none other than the Speaker of the Archmage Council, Cernon. Seeing one darkblade wielded in combat had been intimidating enough, but now he was surrounded by them—nine in total, which represented every darkblade that had ever been created.

One slashed at him and it was all he could do to lift his staff in time to cast a basic defense spell to block the blow. Even still, shadows exploded across his vision and he was forced back a step. The next opponent was waiting, stabbing at his back just as he twisted to avoid being stuck like a pig, twirling the staff like a baton before bringing it crashing onto the creature’s head. It had been a heavy blow, struck with power and strength, and yet it barely reacted, skittering back only two steps before going back on the offensive, attacking not with the blade but with the foreclaws on its opposite hand, curved and gleaming.

Quill threw his head back in the nick of time, feeling the rush of air and a sharp bite in his neck as the claws slashed past. He reached up to touch his throat, his fingers coming away bloody from a thin gash. Had he been a second slower, his throat would’ve been torn out completely.

Everything he thought he knew about Lockspell and its famed hallucination torture vanished as he stared, horrified, at the warm, crimson liquid staining his hand. Pain shot through his back as a sword entered him from behind. Another pierced his ribs. Claws and teeth joined the frenzy, the creatures swarming him in their bloodlust, attacking each other in their haste to tear their prize to pieces.

Quill sank to his knees amidst the onslaught, raising his head toward the domed ceiling in a soundless scream as blood filled his mouth.

“Alebras,” a voice said. Despite the pain coursing through him—he was acutely aware that one of the Thousands was ripping his ear from his head while another had tucked its maw beneath his robes to bite into his leg—Quill’s mind translated the basic spell automatically. Stop. Any first-year mage trainee would know the spell, and might even be able to use it to freeze a small falling object in midair. A fully trained mage like Quill could easily cast the same spell to stop a single stampeding horse dead in its tracks to save someone from being trampled.

The speaker of the basic spell made Quill’s past use of the word seem like a child playing with his toys. The voice spoke with the sort of conviction Quill dreamed of having in his own spells, a level of conviction that only came with years, decades, of experience and practice. The spell didn’t just stop one of the attacking creatures, or two. No, it stopped all of them.

Time seemed to stand still as the creatures froze in place, as though suddenly struck by winter’s coldest temperatures, the kinds only found in the far north, at the tips of the Fingerlings or on the bleak shores of the Dreads themselves.

Another spell was spoken with that same powerful conviction—“Si armos” or “be gone”—and the Thousands vanished into mist as though each had been stabbed through the heart. Quill’s scream finally rang out, loud and piercing, clawing from his throat as the world felt like it was turned to liquid and he was swept off his feet, collapsing to the stone floor. He reached up to feel at the side of his head, fearing the worst.

A sharp breath whistled through his lips. His ear was still there, still intact, not damaged in the least. His hands roamed over more of his body, finding his skin smooth and free of puncture or slash. The entire horrifying experience had been nothing more than another elaborate hallucination, albeit the most vivid one yet.

Of course it was, he thought, feeling foolish. The Archmage Council may have managed to steal four of the darkblades to add to the one they already had, but it wasn’t like they had all nine—not yet anyway. Plus, none of the Thousands had been seen for hundreds of years. The official Histories stated that the creatures had been slaughtered to extinction several decades after Erif Mirg had fallen, while the fringe text, Kingfall Revelations, painted a slightly different story—that the Thousands had been captured and imprisoned somewhere in the Dreads. Quill wasn’t sure which account to believe, but regardless, the grotesque race wasn’t available to torture prisoners in Lockspell.

His own staff had disappeared, too, and, like a long-lost memory finally making itself known again, he remembered Gloria being taken from him by the Council when he’d foolishly confronted them. A moment ago his viridian robe had been pristine and rather magnificent; now it was grubby and torn and, if he was being honest, quite smelly.

Quill took three more deep breaths and then sat up, searching for whomever had spoken the spells that had shattered his latest hallucination with such efficiency. A man sat cross-legged at the far side of the space, hands clasped calmly in front of himself. His white hair was long and shaggy, as was his beard. He wore a robe of indeterminant color, as the more Quill stared the more its hue seemed to change, from obsidian to viridian to turquoise to vermillion to magenta to ivory, before starting the cycle over again, the mage colors seeming to chase each other across its folds.

He was staring at Quill.

“Er, thank you,” Quill said.

“You’re welcome.” Unlike Quill’s, the man’s words didn’t echo through the chamber.

Quill stood and made his way across the room. As rattled as he was, he remained on his guard. For all he knew, this was just another hallucination. “Who are you?” he asked.

“You don’t know? I’ve been here a long time.”

Quill did know, and realized he’d known the moment the mage spoke the first spell. And yet the answer should be impossible, this man having entered the bounds of Lockspell so long ago he should be a skeleton rather than the creature of flesh and blood sitting before him. “Megrifir,” he said.

The man chuckled. “I haven’t heard my name spoken in many years. After I was accused and convicted, my name became rather taboo amongst mage circles. Please, sit.”

Quill was dumbfounded, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he sat. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it. He had too many questions and didn’t know where to start.

Megrifir smiled. For a man who’d been confined to Lockspell for decades, he seemed remarkably amicable. “Take your time. That is something we have plenty of.”

“You stopped the hallucinations.”

“Is that a question?” There was a twinkle in the man’s eyes.

“How?”

“With a spell. I’m guessing you’ve heard that one before.”

Quill shook his head. “Never like that. And never without a staff or magenum. How is that possible?”

Another smile, making his beard jump. “They didn’t teach you that in Aeromand? Let’s just say…the Archmage Council prefers to control those with a penchant for magic under the guise of training.”

“Won’t the guard mages realize their hallucinations are no longer affecting me? Won’t they come to investigate?”

“Eventually. But I added a little twist to throw them off the scent for a while.”

Quill didn’t really understand what that meant, but that was the least of his thousands of questions. “If you can do magic without your staff, why are you still here?”

The infamous mage cocked his head to the side. “Why, I was waiting for you, of course.” He said it as though such a thing should’ve been obvious, though Quill couldn’t for the life of him figure out how Megrifir would’ve known to wait years upon years for a mage who hadn’t even been born to get sentenced to a lifetime in Lockspell.

“Why?” he asked. “Why would you wait for me?”

Megrifir’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “My reasons are my own,” he said.

Quill chewed on that, considering whether to push the issue. Maybe later, he thought, changing the subject. “So you could escape Lockspell if you wanted to?” he asked, a spark of hope flaring inside him.

“I’ve ‘escaped’ many times,” Megrifir said. “I return when I need some peace and quiet to think. I always do my best thinking in Lockspell.”

Quill blinked. If not for the conviction with which this man had chased away his hallucinations, he might peg him as a madman, his mind twisted by the lifetimes he’d spent confined in this place. He remembered something that was even madder than him coming face to face with Megrifir, a theory he and Rondo had considered when they were studying the pages of Kingfall Revelations. A simple anagram:

Grimfire

Figmirre

Megrifir

Three famous mages, each from a different generation. All whose names contained the same letters, albeit in a different order. Now he’d met two of them, Grimfire and Megrifir. If he ever managed to exhume Figmirre’s corpse from wherever it was buried, he could complete the trifecta. Then again, now that he’d discovered Megrifir was still alive, he was less certain that Figmirre was well and truly dead.

He was also less certain that his and Rondo’s theory about the three mages being the same person was correct. The man sitting calmly before him was nothing like Grimfire, who came across as arrogant, condescending and, overall, rather disagreeable. Megrifir, on the other hand, seemed amicable and warm, if a bit eccentric, though the latter was to be expected of one as old as he would have to be.

The man waited patiently while Quill was lost in his thoughts, appearing as content as a butterfly resting on a leaf.

“I…” Quill trailed off, feeling foolish.

“You have something you want to ask me. Something…unusual.”

“You can read my mind?”

“I can, but it’s unnecessary. Your expression tells me everything I need to know.”

Quill firmed up his chin. This was absurd. He was already imprisoned in Lockspell; what else did he have to lose by boldly asking this man questions that may or may not make him appear foolish? “Are you Mage Figmirre?”

The mage didn’t so much as flinch at the question, his friendly smile holding steady on his lips. “I already told you, I’m Megrifir.”

“Yes, I know, but are you also Figmirre? Or were you Figmirre before? Or have you ever been Figmirre?”

“I know him quite well,” he said.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“I just want to know the truth.”

“Hmm…” Megrifir tented his fingers together, his fingers tapping against each other. “Yes, I believe you do. You are a truth seeker, that much I can sense.”

“So you’ll tell me?”

“Does a chameleon turn bright red when resting on a green leaf?”

“So you won’t tell me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything.” Quill was getting rather frustrated. The light of hope this man had given him when speaking of escape was beginning to darken. “Can you at least tell me where Rondo is?” He felt slightly ashamed for not having asked sooner. His only excuse was that the wizened mage’s sudden appearance had taken him by surprise.

“Yes, I can.” The mage offered nothing more.

“Will you?”

“I can do better. I can take you to him.”

“Haven’t we already been this way before?” Quill asked as they turned into a broad corridor lit by a series of magelights tethered to the walls. Although the mazelike structure he found himself in had more twists and turns than coil of rope, there was something familiar about this particular hall.

“Yes, but not this same path,” Megrifir said, striding forward confidently. He’d been walking in this manner since they departed the domed space where Quill had fought foul hallucinations for only the gods knew how long. They’d passed through similar spaces where they found other prisoners, mages being tortured. Some tirelessly fought invisible enemies, but not the majority. Most were being tortured in other ways. One ivory mage seemed to be trying repeatedly to cast the same spell, never able to get it quite right. With each failed attempt, he grew more and more frustrated, pulling his hair from his head and casting it to the floor. The bald patches instantly regrew, giving him more hair to pull. Another mage, this one wearing a dirty turquoise robe, was running in circles, never stopping. Every so often he looked back over his shoulder, white fear in his eyes. “Dogs,” Megrifir had commented.

“Dogs?” Quill had said.

“Yes. Poor ol’ Mage Grinkit has had an irrational fear of dogs since being bitten as a young boy. Now his fate is to run from a whole pack of them until he dies.”

Now that his own torture was ended, Quill was swiftly learning that Lockspell was a brutal place for its inhabitants, all of whom were unaware of the real world of stone walls and corridors around them, caught in the throes of battles taking place entirely within the confines of their own minds.

As for Megrifir, the man never seemed to tire or require a second to contemplate which of the many forked passageways was the right one, breezing past dozens of prisoners as they supposedly made their way to wherever Rondo was being kept. Quill hurried to keep up, frowning as he endeavored to make sense of the mage’s absurd response.

“How can this be the same corridor, but different at the same time?” he asked, taking an extra step for every two of the mage’s in order to stay abreast of his stride.

“Exactly,” the mage said, which helped even less than his previous answer. He lengthened his stride even more, forcing Quill, who was rather tall himself, to jog just to keep him within sight as Megrifir abruptly turned left. He gave chase, but eased to a stop, panting, when he rounded the corner and found himself in a large, circular space containing no fewer than a dozen outlets into other passageways.

Hands on knees, he gazed about the area, searching for any sign of where the mage might’ve gone. There were plenty of footprints in the dust here, but they trampled every which way, several sets leading down each of the tunnels while others even led directly toward the walls. His eyes widened when he noticed the footprints didn’t stop there, tracking up the walls and then across the ceiling overhead.

“Coming?” Megrifir sang as his head popped from a tunnel to the left.

“Gods help me,” Quill murmured under his breath. Louder, he said, “Yes, be right there,” and then hurried into the corridor through which Megrifir had disappeared. After another several turns, he followed the mage into a domed space he swore was where they’d started. It was at this point that Megrifir finally stopped.

The edges of the room were dark, while the middle portion was lit by a circle of light of unknown origin. In the middle of the lighted space, at long last, was Rondo. Still garbed in his magenta robe, which was now even more tattered and smudged with dirt than usual, his friend spun and dodged, dove and whirled, hands constantly in motion as he fought attackers only he could see. Watching him, Quill wondered whether he had looked just as absurd. “Rondo!” he shouted, anxious to put a stop to his best friend’s torment.

Rondo didn’t respond, continuing to thrust and strike with a staff only he could see, murmuring spells on his lips that only he could hear. “He can’t hear or see us,” Megrifir said. “He’s in too deep now.”

“Then I’ll just grab him or slap him or something,” Quill said, starting to march forward.

“He will try to kill you,” Megrifir said, which stopped him cold.

Quill turned to look back at the mage. “He’s my best friend. Why would he do that?”

“Because it’s not you he’ll see, but some enemy. This is the torment of Lockspell, forcing its occupants to question the images before their very eyes.” As he said the last part, there was a sadness in the mage’s tone that hadn’t been there before.

“Then what do we do? Can you break his hallucinations the way you broke mine?” He still remembered the raw power of the conviction in the mage’s tone as he’d uttered the spell that had saved him.

“He’s not ready yet.”

Quill considered this. As a viridian mage himself, he knew the dangers that came with using spells to meddle with someone’s mind. One didn’t have the luxury of making mistakes with this type of magic. Pull the wrong string in the wrong direction or even the right string at the wrong time and the subject’s mind could be shattered beyond repair. “And I was? Ready?” he asked.

“Yes, very much so,” Megrifir said, plopping down on the stonework and crossing his legs.

Quill wasn’t sure how being stabbed and bitten by his hallucinations had made him ‘ready’, but he didn’t argue, sitting beside the mage as Rondo continued his battle. Now that they’d stopped, he felt a gnawing in his gut that he thought had been there since they started their search but which he hadn’t really focused on until now. Come to think of it, his mouth was so dry his tongue made a smacking sound when he moved it up and down. “I’m hungry and thirsty,” he said.

Megrifir’s eyes were closed, but the man nodded. “While you’re under the effects of the hallucinations, your natural body functions fade away. When it rains, water sometimes leaks down the walls.”

That didn’t sound very promising. “And for food?”

“The rats here don’t have much meat on them, but they do the job in a pinch.”

Licking walls and eating rats? Is that what his life had become? He’d always thought the day he’d been informed he was to be trained at Aeromand to be a mage and escape his awful existence had been the best of his life. But now that it had led him here, it felt more like a curse.

He shook his head. For now, he would suffer until desperation drove him to such extremes. “Why was my punishment to fight demons and then the Thousands?” he asked.

“The Thousands, you say?” Megrifir said. His eyes flashed opened and he turned his head to meet Quill’s eyes.

Quill nodded. “They were eating me alive when you rescued me—or at least it felt like they were.”

“Queer,” Megrifir said. “Perhaps Cernon is a worthier adversary than I give him credit for.” His voice had grown low, almost as though he were speaking more to himself than to Quill.

“An adversary? He has you imprisoned in Lockspell. If you have a quarrel with him, I’m pretty sure he’s winning.”

“And yet I am roaming free.”

Free? Quill thought they had a different definition of the word, but let it go as his stomach gurgled loudly. There was so much more he wanted to ask the mage, but a swell of exhaustion crept up on him and took him by surprise. To avoid a head injury, he carefully lowered himself to the stone and used his hands as a poor man’s pillow. “I just need to rest for a few moments,” he murmured.

He was asleep a breath later.

Quill faded in and out of sleep. Each time he awoke, Megrifir was in the same position beside him, legs crossed, palms up, eyes closed. Rondo was always fighting his invisible enemies. Quill’s enemies were hunger and thirst, both of which had become monsters far more fearsome than the Thousands. And every time he asked the mage whether Rondo was ready, he received the same answer: “Not yet.”

Those two words implied he would be ready eventually, but the man never gave any indication whether they were hours, days, or years away from that point.

Until one day. It had been raining. This Quill knew because, as Megrifir had promised, the roof was leaking, rivers running down the walls. And he was licking them, scrubbing them clean of moisture with his tongue, soothing his mouth and throat and providing his body with the hydration it desperately needed. Though he still felt weak, the water helped. Some of it had even pooled within a large crack in the floor, which meant he could save some for later.

The pool also attracted the vermin that lived within Lockspell. Quill remained perfectly still as one scurried from the shadows, nose sniffing at the air as if trying to scent danger. Quill knew he stunk, but maybe that was a normal smell for this place, because the rat didn’t seem bothered by it. Soon it was lapping at the water.

Quill prepared to strike, planning to smack the little fellow with his hand to stun it. His stomach growled in anticipation of a meal, alerting the rodent to the danger its nose and eyes had failed to detect. Quill lunged for the rat as it scurried away, his hands clamping around it but closing a second too late as it wriggled free and vanished into a hole in the wall.

Quill cursed his noisy stomach and rotten luck and was about to return to the side of the pool, when Megrifir said, “He’s ready.”

Quill turned to look at Rondo, whose feet were frozen in place while his arms continued to struggle against something that his mind believed was attacking him. He wasted no time in rushing to the mage’s side. “Want to try?” the man said.

“I’m a mage, rank two.”

The man waved the excuse away with a hand. “Bah. The ranks are nothing more than an invention to control us. We are as powerful as we believe we are. And as a viridian mage, you were made for this.”

In the center of the lighted space, Rondo’s body language showed he was becoming more and more frantic, his knees bending as he was cowed by his enemies’ onslaught. “I can’t. Your conviction—I’m not there. I recently failed to open a locked gate.”

“Your choice,” Megrifir said, closing his eyes. He raised his palms in the air, all the way over his head. When his lips opened again and he spoke, his words boomed out as though amplified by the domed space, full of such conviction that Quill swore he felt his very bones tremble like plucked strings. “Alebras. Si armos.” Stop. Be gone.

Before Rondo crumpled to the floor, Quill was already running toward him.

He knelt beside his friend’s body. He was unmoving, his eyes closed. Had Megrifir misjudged Rondo’s readiness? Had his mind been shattered as he was ripped from the hallucination?

His chest was rising and falling. There! His foot had shifted slightly. His eyes fluttered open, rolling about dazedly for a few moments before settling on Quill. “I have to pee,” his friend said.

The reminder of the bodily function that Quill hadn’t required due to his dehydration caused a similar urge to rise within him. “Nice to see you, too. And that’s because you drank a whole water skin before we entered the Eye to confront Cernon, remember?”

“I get dry mouth when I’m nervous!” his friend protested.

Quill couldn’t hold back his smile any longer, roping his arms around Rondo and holding him for a few long seconds before releasing him.

“What was that for?” Rondo asked.

“I’m just glad to have you back.”

“I’m glad to be back. Can I pee now?”

“Of course. Privy is over there.” Quill gestured in a random direction.

Rondo turned to look, frowning. “Where?”

“Anywhere you want.”

Rondo’s bladder must’ve been full to bursting because he was gone for a long time. Finally, he returned, looking somewhat sheepish until he spotted Megrifir. “Oh, er, I didn’t realize we had company.”

“It wasn’t me who broke the spell,” Quill said. “Rondo, meet Megrifir. Megrifir, Rondo.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the old mage said.

Rondo exchanged a sharp glance with Quill. “I already asked him about Figmirre and Grimfire and the similarities in their names,” Quill said. “I didn’t get a straight answer.”

“Because the world is full of crooked paths,” Megrifir said.

“He talks like this,” Quill explained.

“Your conviction…,” Rondo said.

“Incredible, right?” Quill said.

“I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Quill nodded in agreement. Before his friend could ask any of the same questions he’d already asked, he got him up to speed on what had transpired thus far. When he finished, Rondo said, “I saw the Thousands too. They were about to finish me off, just like you. What does it mean?”

Both young mages looked at Megrifir, who’d been content to listen thus far. “What does anything mean?” the old mage said. “Ancient evils are rising, powerful blades are emerging from the shadows, the entire world rests on the edge of a knife, and on and on. All very tiresome, if you ask me.”

“The possible end of the world is…‘tiresome’?” Quill said.

“When you’re as old as I am, you realize nothing really changes. The faces do, the weather as well, but the motivations, the ambitions, the lust for power and wealth…those aspects of life are as unchanging as the paths of the moons across the sky.”

“So it’s better to do nothing?” Quill asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you’ll help us?” Rondo asked. His excitement was almost oozing out of him.

“I’ll help you help yourself.”

“That sounds an awful lot like not helping at all,” Quill said.

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“Extraordinary,” Rondo said, as though he didn’t care whether the old mage recited the names of every city in Kingfall in alphabetical order, so long as he kept talking. “I’m actually speaking to the Megrifir.”

“Who may or may not be the same person as Figmirre and/or Grimfire,” Quill noted.

“Exactly,” Rondo said, eyes lighting up. His hands lifted like he wanted to clap them together, but then seemed to remember himself, letting them fall back to his sides. “Not to mention you stole your name or names from Erif Mirg.”

This was new to Quill. When they’d spoken of the strange similarities in the mages’ names, they hadn’t spoken of Erif Mirg. Why would they? The notorious leader of the Thousands’ uprising half a millennia ago was long dead. But what if this man and the other mages who shared the letters of his name—most noteworthy, Grimfire, whose name was literally Erif Mirg spelled backwards—comprised some sort of freakish cult that worshipped the dead murderer?

Megrifir said nothing, seemingly unperturbed by the accusation. “Okayyy,” Rondo said.

Quill sighed. None of it really mattered compared to their current predicament. “You said the mage guards will eventually realize what is happening, that we’ve escaped their spells. Which means we don’t have unlimited time, right? If you’re willing to help us help ourselves, how do we escape? Do you know about a secret passage or hidden tunnel?” Quill knew that even if they managed to get outside the heavily ward-protected structure of Lockspell there would still be miles and miles of ocean separating them from the nearest land—the coast of Solarii. But that wasn’t a concern if they couldn’t escape the mazelike prison to begin with.

“Yes and no,” Megrifir said.

Quill realized he’d fired off too many questions at once, which made it impossible to understand which were being answered. “Yes and no…what?”

“Yes, you don’t have unlimited time and no, I don’t know about a secret passage or hidden escape tunnel.”

There was only one question the mage hadn’t answered, Quill realized. “Then how do we escape?”

The mage smiled. “Easy. Magic.”

Twenty-Three

Peony Normandian

Forlorn, Travail

THE NAME OF THE SMALL COASTAL VILLAGE, FORLORN, MADE MORE SENSE TO PEONY NOW. Though there was a bleak beauty to the sun-speckled waves as they crashed upon the sparse, dark-stoned shoreline, a shadowy darkness seemed to press upon this part of the world.

The town itself felt like a place where people went to die. The stone structures were clothed in vests of dark-green moss and capped by thatched roofs with more patches than a beggar’s trousers. The streets were more mud than gravel, large puddles from a recent rainfall having sat heavy and sludgy, avoided by the deep runnels carved by passing cart wheels.

The people were as subdued as their surroundings, trudging through the muck wearing high boots, eyes staring straight forward. They hauled sacks of grain and oats, pails of water from a storm catchment, and other baskets filled to brimming with fish, crabs, oysters and other creatures harvested from the sea. Though Daneus and the other dragons had landed just outside the village, none of the townsfolk had shown any interest in them, and there was nary a dragonfire hand sign offered by a single soul. It was almost as though the dragonriders were invisible, and Peony was tempted to find a mirror or some standing water to confirm her own existence.

“I am reminded why I make a point to never travel to the far south,” Star muttered, kicking off a clod of mud that had stuck to the tip of her boot.

“At least we arrived between storms,” Brute said.

“There will be another,” Star said. “We should hurry. The less time we spend here the better.”

Though Peony agreed, she found herself wanting to speak to the people, to understand why they stayed in a place so devoid of…cheer? Happiness? The will to live? “Excuse me, ma’am,” she said to the first person they passed, a gray-haired, broad-shouldered woman wearing a mud-splattered dress with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

The woman made a tutting sound and continued on her unmerry way.

Star snorted. “Maybe we should stay a while, after all. Might be some entertainment value in watching you try to connect with the locals.”

“Can you do any better?” Peony retorted.

“Watch and learn,” Star said, angling off toward a man with cheeks blotched red from the effort of hauling a wheelbarrow through the thick mud, its single rickety wheel getting stuck every few steps. Peony exchanged a look with Brute, who only shrugged as though uncertain what plan Star had up her leathers.

While they watched, Star strode toward the man. “Hey!” she shouted. Like the woman, he ignored her, grimacing as he dragged the barrow over a bump. “I’m talking to you!” Still he moved further away, heading toward what might’ve been a small barn or stable. The mud slowed him once more and Star easily caught him. She didn’t hesitate as she grabbed him by the front of his lace-up shirt, shoved him back and away from his barrow, and then threw him up against the side of the structure.

His eyes were wide now, and he most definitely wasn’t ignoring her. “We’re not supposed to speak to dragonriders,” he squeaked, his voice amusingly high.

“That’s fine,” Star said. “But it also means my dragon will have to eat you.”

The man’s eyes widened even more, so far Peony almost thought they might pop out of his head. “Let’s not be hasty. I suppose a word or two won’t hurt. What do you want?”

“Pa Stormy,” Star said. “Where is he?”

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Starrus! Time for a snack!” Star shouted. Right on cue, Starrus’s tiger-striped form shot into the air and swooped over the small village, casting a long shadow down the main, and only, thoroughfare.

“Wait! Wait!” the man protested, going slack and defeated in Star’s iron grip. “Pa Stormy is on the mount, communing with the storms.” He gestured wildly toward a jumble of boulders that looked rather precariously stacked atop each other just outside of the village. The natural rock formation was flush with the shoreline, its stone feet dipped in the water, battered continuously by waves. To call it a ‘mount’ was a stretch, but compared to the flatness of the rest of the terrain it was a veritable tower, stretching thrice as high as any of the village’s structures, none of which rose more than two stories. And, sure enough, when Peony squinted, she could make out the silhouette of a form standing at the precipice, hands outstretched as though making a grand speech to an invisible audience camped along the shore.

Star released the man, who fell to his knees in the mud, gasping. “Was that so hard?” she said before turning her back and heading toward Peony and Brute. “Come on,” she muttered. “We’ve got a lunatic to question.”

They were at the base of the stone formation when Peony’s blade said, WAIT.

For what? she asked, watching Brute and Star begin clambering up the first boulder.

I—I DON’T KNOW.

Very convincing. Let me know when you do. In the meantime, I’m heading up. Peony followed the others, locating a cleft in the rock she could use to haul herself up. The stone was cold to the touch, but at least the wind had dried it since the last storm. Had it been wet, climbing would’ve been difficult if not impossible.

STOP. YOU NEED TO STOP.

The urgency in her blade’s tone gave her pause. What is it? Is there some danger? Is Pa Stormy armed?

NO, IT’S NOT HIM. IT’S SOMETHING ELSE. YOU HAVE ANOTHER PATH.

Peony blew out a breath, still gripping the stone. The last few times I’ve gone down different paths things haven’t gone so well.

THE VALUE OF THE PATH YOU CHOOSE ISN’T ALWAYS DETERMINED BY WHERE IT ENDS.

Daneus? Peony said.

This is between you and the blade, Dragonmistress, the dragon said. She looked back at him where he was nestled close by the other two dragons, resting on the outskirts of Forlorn. His eyes were closed. They opened lazily and he winked before closing them again.

“I’ll meet you at the top,” Peony called out. Star and Brute looked back. They were already halfway to the precipice. “There’s something I need to investigate first.”

Star rolled her eyes, and Peony knew she would never hear the end of this considering she’d been the one to lead them to Pa Stormy in the first place. Brute said, “Don’t take too long or we’ll have to send out a search party.”

“I’ll be there before you know it,” Peony said. Won’t I?

THAT DEPENDS, her blade said.

On what?

GOOD QUESTION! LET’S FIND OUT, SHALL WE?

Daneus sniggered while Peony dropped back to the ground with a light thump. Where is this ‘other path’ I’m supposed to follow?

HEAD TO THE WATER. IT IS NEAR.

Peony worked her way around the base of the boulder pile toward the sound of the crashing waves. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was back in Chrysallis as a little girl, sitting with Osric listening to the waves. In a strange way, it made her feel connected to home and to Dragonsmount, and to anywhere else that the waves made this same sound as they washed upon the shore.

She reached the edge of a small lip separating the scrub grass plain from the rocky beach, which was almost entirely exposed, the waters having receded as the tide swept out. Shellfish and crabs littered the wet stones. Peony looked one way, toward the small dock to which several of the townsfolk’s fishing boats were tied. She looked the other way, where the rocky beach ran right up against a sheer wall of rock that climbed all the way to the boulder pile’s apex. Craning her head all the way back, she could still make out Pa Stormy preaching to his invisible masses. He would soon be joined by Star and Brute.

Now what? Peony asked.

WALK WEST, the blade said.

“There is nothing but a wall of rock to the west,” Peony said aloud. Her only response was the squawk of a low-flying seabird swooping down to investigate. It splashed into the water before taking to the air once more, beak clamped around a small, wriggling fish that had made the mistake of swimming too close to the surface. “Fine, I’ll walk west,” Peony said.

She picked her way along the beach, careful not to slip on any of the slick, rounded stones or step on anything that might bite or pinch. Crabs skittered away, ducking behind rocks or disappearing inside tiny holes, tucking their thin legs beneath them. She reached the wall of rock. Now what? Walk through it? She knew she was being childish, but she was anxious to rejoin the others and learn what she could from Pa Stormy.

YES. EXACTLY, her blade said matter of factly.

Seriously?

NO. IT’S CALLED SARCASM. TO YOUR RIGHT, THERE’S A DARK SLASH IN THE STONE. SEE IT?

Peony peered along the surface of the wall. She’d seen the so-called ‘dark slash’ but dismissed it as a shadow caused by a ridge in the cliff. Seaweed clung to its surface, darkening it further. She made her way over, growing more convinced her initial instincts had been right. “That’s nothing, it’s just a…” She trailed away as her hands poked at the slash, surprised to find them penetrating through the tendrils of half-dried seaweed hanging from the ridge like the hair of some sleeping goddess of the sea. She pushed in further, until her entire arm vanished inside. She withdrew it quickly, imagining spiders and other creepy crawlies clambering across her skin.

YOU WIELD A BRIGHTBLADE, her sword reminded her.

Can’t I still be afraid of spiders? Peony asked.

Not really, Daneus said. That would almost be like a dragon being afraid of heights.

Peony wasn’t sure the comparison was valid, but now wasn’t the time to argue nor falter because of an illogical childhood phobia. She took a deep breath and drew her sword from the air itself. Simultaneously, she whispered, “Brightform,” her body blazing with a lesser degree of the same light that poured from the surface of the sword. With a single slash, she cut away the seaweed and plunged into the darkness, her sword’s light chasing away the shadows faster and more completely than any torch ever could.

Thankfully, there were no spiders, though legions of barnacles clung to the moist stone. The slash, to her surprise, was more of a tunnel, stabbing deep into the stone, curving toward the right and out of sight. What will I find? Peony asked.

SOMETHING THROBS WITH POWER.

And that’s a good thing?

I DON’T KNOW.

Excellent!

Truth be told, Peony was tired of feeling like she never knew what was behind a single door she opened. That’s ironic, Daneus said.

Why?

Because none of Dragonsmount’s caves have doors.

Rut it, she thought. I’m the Dragonmistress of Travail talking to a godblade and my dragon. What could go wrong? With that in mind, she strode forward into the narrow tunnel.

The attack came without warning.

Peony had just stepped from the dark slash of a tunnel into a broader cave cut into the cliff when a long shadow came scything down from one side. She raised her brightblade with uncanny speed, meeting the weapon in a blaze of light.

Her sword, which had already met shadow and steel without faltering, shattered before her very eyes, blades of jagged light spilling around her, vanishing before they hit the stone floor. Peony stumbled back, shocked, horrified. Her own skin, which had been limned with brightness a moment ago, faded back to its normal color—dyed blue on one side and pale and freckled on the other. A dark form stood before her, face hidden, the long rod that had destroyed her brightblade with a single blow still gripped in a hand. Even when the form stalked toward her, she had no fear for herself, only a deep and tumultuous fear for the sword that had become so much more than a weapon of war to her. Blade? she said, feeling the thought quiver as she sent it into the ether.

As the figure advanced on her, she retreated, waiting for an answer. She received nothing but the drip-drip-drip of seawater falling from some unseen point on the cave’s ceiling. Blade? she tried again, the silence seeming to grow louder and louder in her mind until it was the hammering of a sledge on an anvil.

She dropped to her knees, the walls and ceiling seeming to press in around her. Loss, like nothing she’d ever experienced before—not the loss of Dane or even her parents—filled her, causing her throat to constrict until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe… I want to die, she thought, meaning those words with the conviction of one who’d lost everything. If she would never be bathed in the light of the brightblade again, then what was left to live for?

The shadowy figure loomed over her, raising its staff.

Fear might’ve struck her then, but instead, amidst the heavy sadness and disbelief at having lost her sword, the void in her heart was filled by the fires of anger as she sprang back to her feet, sidestepping to avoid the blow just as it whistled past her ear. Losing her blade felt like losing a part of her soul, yes, but not the whole of it. She had people who were counting on her to be strong—Dane, Star, Brute, her brother Osric, whether he liked it or not, and of course a big, blue dragon whose temperament wavered between ornery, sleepy and the most loyal creature ever created from one moment to the next. Daneus! she shouted in her mind. Do everything in your power to smash through these walls of rock and end this creature!

This was the point where Daneus would usually release a rumbling Hoom and then offer some jape about using their enemy’s bones to pick his teeth. Instead, silence reigned in the wake of her command.

“Your dragon cannot hear you,” the figure said. Its voice was deep and confident.

The fires of anger were doused as she looked upon the shadowy form standing before her through a different lens. The lens of fear, brought on because of her will to live, to survive. “What are you?” she said, voice finally trembling as she realized that no one would come to save her. It wasn’t a question born of curiosity, but of necessity—she needed to keep her enemy engaged and talking if she were to have any hope of escape. Continuing to circle, she scanned the wall for the narrow tunnel she’d arrived through.

It’s not there, she thought. It’s gone. Somehow, someway, the crack had been sealed, leaving her trapped and alone with a killer. Magic, she realized. Her opponent wore a dark robe and wielded a dark staff, like a mage. But could a mage really destroy a godblade with one powerful blow?

Not an ordinary one, she thought. Had the Speaker of the Archmage Council really left the safety of Aeromand, travelled all the way to southern Travail, and sought to destroy her brightblade? For what purpose? Still, there was no mage more powerful, as far as she knew. “Cernon?” she tried.

The dark figure stopped. And then did the last thing in the world she would’ve expected.

He threw back his head and laughed.

When the mage finished laughing, a fresh wave of anger chased away Peony’s fear. If these were to be her last breaths, she wouldn’t waste them cowering. “Do I amuse you, mage?” she said.

“I apologize, Dragonmistress,” the figure said, pushing back his cowl. And then, “Illumini.” The tip of his staff began to glow, casting light across the dark space and over his previously hidden features.

Peony stared. Rather than some foul, twisted, scarred demon of the void, she found standing before her a youngish-looking man—perhaps twenty name days old. His face was unlined, his features dark and pronounced, from his firm cheekbones to his dimpled chin. He was clean-shaven, his hair well-kempt in a close cut that was reminiscent of the grooming requirements of Odinian soldiers. In any event, he was clearly not Cernon, who was more than twenty years older. “You apologize?” Peony said. “You ambushed me and destroyed my brightblade!”

“Ah…that. Yes. It was an unfortunate necessity.”

Unfortunate necessity? Those words had no meaning to her in the wake of the destruction of her sword. “Who are you and what do you want?” She was aware that her voice was shaking again, but she didn’t care. This time it was with rage rather than fear.

“Someone who wants to help you.”

“Help me?” I am going to murder him. Gods willing, I’m going to snap his staff over my knee and stab him in the throat with the jagged ends.

“You could kill me,” the man said. “Or…you could listen to what I have to say.”

Peony didn’t even care that he’d read her mind again. She stepped forward. “Maybe I’ll listen and then kill you.”

The young mage smiled. “The light shines bright within you,” he said. “As usual, the First has chosen wisely.”

He might’ve been speaking another language for all the sense his words made to her. “Good to know. Now are you going to answer my questions or not?”

“Not. But I am going to tell you a story. But first, I think this belongs to you.”

Peony’s breath was stolen once more as a blade of light appeared before her, stalwart and solid. Blade! she shouted, grabbing the sword’s hilt and holding it aloft as its brightness chased the remaining shadows away from every corner of the cave.

PEONY? I—I THOUGHT I WAS LOST.

Gripping the blade, Peony felt whole again. Me too, she said. But now you are found. And you are mine. Now squirrel yourself away lest this cretin try to take you from me again. Like a lantern being covered by a thick blanket, the light vanished, along with the brightblade. Peony returned her attention to the mage. “I don’t understand.”

“It was a test,” the mage said simply.

“A test of what?” Peony asked, fists clenching. She wanted answers more than she wanted to hit something, however, so she forced them to unclench.

“Your will. Others have been broken beyond repair by the loss of their brightblade. The desire for death becomes all encompassing.”

“I wanted to die,” Peony blurted out.

“At first,” the man said. “But then that desire was overcome by a more powerful emotion, wasn’t it?”

“How do you know what I’m thinking and feeling?” Something dawned on her. “You’re a viridian mage, aren’t you? A mind clawer.” She remembered hearing that term spoken by her father once, and not in a nice way. Though the king had been a significant employer of Aeromand mages, they were all of the ivory variety. Her father had respected their form of magic, that of creation. He had less respect for the other types of mages, with viridian and obsidian at the bottom of the list. Still, she’d already met a viridian mage, Quill, in the wake of Chrysallis’s ruin. He’d saved her brother’s life. She’d gotten a good sense from him.

“I have a penchant for many types of magic,” the mage said neutrally.

“But how? You’re so young?” From what Peony had gleaned from the mages she’d interacted with growing up in Chrysallis, it took many years for a mage to gain enough experience to reach the next rank, and that was within one single specialty.

“Am I?”

Before Peony’s very eyes, the man’s features began to twist, to change. His chin elongated, gray and white hair growing from it, knitting into a beard. Lines formed on his face, carved deep by time and experience. His brows became bushier, his forehead broader. He even grew in height several inches, his shoulders broadening.

Peony took a step back, slightly disgusted by the transformation. “Is this the real you?”

The mage, now an old-looking man, shrugged. “Not even I can say anymore. When one changes their skin so many times, one’s true self often gets lost. Only what is on the inside matters now.”

“And what is on the inside?”

The mage breathed through his nose, frowning. “Regret. Failure. Fear for the future combated by hope for a better day. You bring me hope, Peony Normandian.”

“Why?”

“Because you care.”

While that might be true, it still didn’t explain why she would bring this powerful mage any hope for the future. “You relieved me of my brightblade as easily as stealing a toy from a child. If you want to see a better world, why don’t you use your powers to make one?”

“A fair question,” the mage said. There was almost a fatherly look in his expression now. “The answer, however, is far more complex than I can explain in the little time that we have. All you must know is that I am using my powers to try to save this world, but my reach is limited. Suffice it to say, stealing your sword was but a parlor trick. I couldn’t actually take it from you, nor destroy it, even if I wanted to. But there are others who could.”

“Good to know. Do you have a name?” Peony asked.

“I have many names, but the one you must know is Figmirre.”

The name sounded familiar, though she couldn’t place the context in which she’d heard it. “Fine, Figmirre, why am I here?”

“Because you wave your brightblade around with all the skill and recklessness of a child brandishing a stick.”

“Tell that to those who are dead and buried because of my childish sword waving.”

“Overconfidence could destroy everything that has been set in motion. You almost lost the brightblade while imprisoned in Sunsei, did you not?”

“How do you—” Peony stopped herself. It didn’t matter how he knew. He was right. She still remembered that feeling of helplessness, of loss. It was a fraction of what she’d felt when this very man had actually taken the sword from her, or so she’d believed.

I FELT BROKEN, her blade said.

The mage’s eyes watched her curiously. “Yes, I almost lost my blade then. But I didn’t, did I?”

“The next time you might not be so fortunate. There are many powers at play in Kingfall, many of which will strive to claim the brightblades and shadowblades for their own. If they fall into the wrong hands, it could destroy everything.”

“How? Why? You are speaking in riddles and generalities, sir.”

Figmirre opened his mouth to speak, his lips going so far as to move, but no words emerged. He sighed. “I am unable to say. All I can say is everything will be revealed in time. For now, you must strengthen your grip on the brightblade so you are better prepared in the future. I can help you with that.”

“My grip?” Peony said, looking down at her hands. They were calloused and dirty. One was blue, the other pale and freckled. Both strong enough to cling to Daneus’s spikes astride his back. Capable enough to wield a godblade. They were nothing like they’d once been when she’d been Princess Peony.

“Not there,” Figmirre said. He tapped his chest. “Here.”

“No, no, no,” Figmirre muttered as he stepped back once more, blades of light falling around him and then fading into nothingness. Peony had lost count of the number of times the mage had shattered her brightblade into oblivion with his rather ordinary-looking staff.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!” Peony said, her own frustration boiling over. They’d been at it for several hours and sweat now trickled down her face and wormed its way beneath her riding leathers. In the back of her mind, she was thinking about Star, Brute and, especially, Daneus. They would be wondering where she was, whether she was alive. Void, they could very well be just outside this very cave shouting her name and she wouldn’t know it.

“The blade is only as sharp as the warrior,” Figmirre said, as if that explained everything.

“I can’t even use my blade when you keep destroying it,” she spat back.

“Then stop me,” the mage said, raising his eyebrows.

“I—I can’t. I tried. I’m trying.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. Your grip—your real grip—on the blade is like any other muscle that must be worked to be strengthened. You are distracted with things of no concern happening outside of this cave.”

“No concern? My people are murdering their own dragons. That is my focus. I have to stop them.”

“And if you come up against a mage like me who shatters your brightblade, or worse, takes it from you? What then?”

Peony already knew the answer. Void, she’d said the same thing to persuade Star and Brute to make the journey south, biding their time rather than striking. Gathering information. Because they couldn’t fail or all would be lost. She took a deep breath, steadying her temper. “Okay. I’m ready. Again.”

The brightblade materialized before her and she grabbed it, leaping back to avoid Figmirre’s staff as it slammed down where she’d stood a moment earlier. This time, she focused not on the act of wielding the blade, but of her own connection to it, the hundreds of tiny points where her hand pressed against its steel, the light like a thread that tethered them together, an unending stream of power that existed only when they moved as one.

Slam!

She was too slow to move as the mage’s rod crashed into her blade. The blade flickered for an instant but then burst into a thousand light-filled shards. It was gone a moment later. Figmirre’s eyes met hers, his lips curling into a small smile. “Better,” he said.

“Not good enough,” Peony replied. “Again.”

She lost count of the number of times she failed. Fifty? A hundred? More? Exhaustion wore on her aching muscles, her heaving lungs. Eventually she collapsed in a heap. Figmirre said nothing but, “Sleep.” She barely heard the word before drifting away. When she awoke, they started again. Over and over, until she could no longer keep her feet. Sleep took her once more.

This pattern repeated for what must’ve been days, each blending together in the dimness of surroundings occasionally brightened by the appearance of her blade before it was destroyed. It felt like dying a thousand deaths, and yet with each failure her determination grew.

Now she squared off against the mage, who never seemed to tire or falter, his steadfastness like nothing she’d ever witnessed. A while back she’d come to terms with the fact that he would never reveal more about his past or identity than he already had. This allowed her entire focus to turn to the task of keeping her blade where it belonged—in her hand.

He leapt forward and she danced away, relying on brightform to provide superior quickness. She couldn’t rely on it for long, she knew, or her strength would wane, so she released brightform, racing hard to the left and then cutting back the other way to dodge another swipe. “Running will only delay the inevitable,” Figmirre said. He swept a blow at her feet and she leapt over it.

Being airborne left her open to his next attack, which came far faster and harder than she was ready for. It left her only one choice:

To block. She raised the blade, tensing to receive the hit and mentally preparing herself to rebound from another failure. As expected, there was a flash of light as the staff struck the blade, blinding blades of light shooting out in every direction. And when they vanished…

The brightblade was still there, still gripped in her hand.

PEONY? the blade said, voice full of wonder as it echoed through her mind.

We did it, Peony thought back. We did it!

Her enthusiasm was short-lived, the mage’s next blow landing a second later, the blade exploding into a thousand pieces, leaving her hand bare once more. “Now you’ve got it,” Figmirre said. “Again.”

The next round she managed to sustain two blows before losing her “grip” on the blade. And then three, five, ten, her confidence growing in leaps. Ten turned to twenty, to thirty, until she knew the blade could not be ripped from her by this mage or any other, her defense turning to offense as, with a cry, she launched an attack of her own, forcing Figmirre back on his heels. Her own blows fell like rain until he dropped to one knee, hands gripping each side of his staff to defend her final blow, which shattered the rod in half. She seamlessly moved the tip of the blade to his throat. “Better?” she said, allowing a hint of a smile to form on her lips.

“Yes. Much better. You are ready.”

“For what?”

“Your blade can explain it. Now go, your friends are waiting. They’ve made a discovery of their own.” He gestured to the wall behind her.

She turned to look, finding that the narrow tunnel had reappeared. She breathed out a laugh and shook her head, turning back. “I just want to say—” She cut off. The strange mage was already gone. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Then she turned and headed for the tunnel, anxious to be reunited with the others, especially Daneus. Hoom? the dragon said, their bond repaired. I think I lost you for a few minutes.

Twenty-Four

Dane

Mothswood, Loslandia

“THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WE CAN DO FOR HIM,” DANE HEARD DOM SAY. His voice sounded far away and echoey.

“The herbs I applied to the wound will slow the infection’s progress,” another voice said. The woman, Dane remembered. Dom’s companion. “But the injury is beyond my skill to heal completely. Now that the infection has moved to the blood, stopping its progress will require more than scavenged herbs and homemade tinctures.”

“How long does he have?” Dom asked.

“I don’t know. A day perhaps? Two at the most.”

Dane’s eyes fluttered opened. He felt a void of a lot better than before. His head wasn’t on fire anymore and he wasn’t particularly cold. Talking amongst themselves, no one seemed to notice he was awake. His eyes flicked from his brother to the armored woman who’d been introduced to him as Gwendolyn Storm to the old woman who’d called herself ‘the Moth Queen’, a title that felt rather apt given the thousands of moths clinging to all parts of her body, almost like she was wearing them. Finally, he glanced up at the massive black dragon, Domi, overshadowing all of them as an enormous branch bent under his weight. Everything about the situation was madness, and yet he knew the answer to his brother’s question. “I can’t die,” Dane said. “Not like this.”

“Dane,” Dom said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I need to recover and return to Travail.”

“You’re weak. You need to rest.”

“Peony and Daneus need me. My riders need me. We must go back. Both of us. It is our duty, our responsibility.”

“Why?” Dom said. “I like it here. I like the…seclusion. Why should we go back? They exiled us both, Brother. We owe Travail nothing.”

“You left,” Dane said.

“If believing that makes you feel better, have at it.” The scorn was heavy in his brother’s voice.

Dane’s instinct, as it always was with his brothers for some odd reason, was to snap back, to issue a sharp rebuke founded in his unbreakable beliefs about what was right and what was wrong. For once in his life, he muzzled himself, biting the words off before they could sting someone else he cared about. Instead, he said, “You’re right. Father made your position in Travail untenable. Drake and I did, too. Only Mother supported you the way you deserved to be supported, the way family is supposed to support one another.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, I didn’t leave for me. I left for Domino and Domi’s sakes.”

Dane nodded. Now that he could relate to. He’d done everything in his power to get Daneus to leave with Peony so that they could survive even if it all but ensured his own execution. “Thank you for saving me,” Dane blurted out, wishing he’d said it sooner.

“You’re welcome. Now back to the matter at hand. I want to stay in Mothswood. I—we—he gestured to their collective group, could be happy here if we could just get rid of that nasty infection of yours.”

The Moth Queen muttered a curse under her breath, something about ‘stubborn scaly riders’, but didn’t say anything else. Several moths took to the air, fluttering around her head before settling on her once more.

“I can’t stay,” Dane said, ignoring the old woman’s insult.

“Because of Peony Normandian or because of Daneus?” Dom asked. “Because I can fly back to find them. I can bring them here. We can cast the past where it belongs—in memories—and live the future for us.” The eagerness in his tone was something Dane had never heard from his solemn eldest brother, who’d never seemed to get truly excited about anything when they were children.

Oh Peony, oh Daneus…are you safe? They probably thought he was dead. And if they didn’t, they might very well be searching for him, putting their own lives in peril. If they returned to Travail, his uncle wouldn’t waste any time capturing and executing them as well. Of that he was certain. “It’s not that simple,” he said, letting his thoughts fade lest they drive him mad with fear. “Uncle Drudge has usurped the dragon throne. He’s determined to wage war with Odin for no reason other than his own lust for power.”

“So what?” Dom said.

“So what?” Dane echoed, not understanding what his brother meant.

“Yes. Who cares? Father and his brother were always determined to drive our kind to the edge of the knife. Your ascension to the dragon throne only delayed the inevitable. Let them destroy themselves, I say.”

Dane stared at his brother, who stuck his chin out defiantly. He felt…numb. Though his brother had always eschewed the ways of the dragonriders, he never realized how thoroughly he despised them. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I am the rightful Dragonmaster and I won’t turn a blind eye to Drudge’s treachery.”

“Petty revenge,” his brother scoffed.

“This isn’t about that!” Dane snarled. “This is about Father’s legacy. Our legacy.” He shook his head, realizing his own words weren’t entirely truthful. “No, that’s not right. This is about all of Kingfall. The godblades have been found, Brother. Or at least two of them. Something big is coming, I can feel it in my bones.”

“Not my problem.”

“That’s your choice. My choice is to return and take my chances.”

“Have at it!”

“I will!”

“Good!”

“Gentlemen, if you are quite finished, I have something to say.” The brothers’ mouths clamped shut as they turned to look at the woman garbed in the most beautifully crafted armor Dane had ever laid eyes on, something he might’ve noticed earlier if he hadn’t been so distracted with his heated exchange with Dom. The armor was so precisely sized that it seemed to hug every inch of her like a second skin, rising to her neck where it flowed like liquid steel around her throat and jawline. A quiver and fine-looking bow were visible just over her shoulders. She had sun-darkened skin and hair as silver as the steel that girded her loins. Her yellow, catlike eyes were split by narrow pupils that widened and retracted as she met his gaze.

“With due respect,” Dane said. “This is between us.”

“With due respect, you are acting like children.”

“I don’t know you,” Dane said.

“But your brother does, and he wouldn’t be here without me. Void, neither would you. Only the herbal remedy I concocted has kept you alive this long. Now I can see stubbornness runs in the family. The pair of you would rival Gareth and Roan, gods rest their mulish souls.” The last part seemed to be muttered more to herself than to either of them.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for me,” Dane said. “I truly appreciate it. But—”

His brother cut him off. “She’s right,” Dom said. “And she’s earned the right to speak a hundred times over, Brother. Gwen has traveled with me for many years.”

“Doing what?” For the life of him, Dane couldn’t comprehend what could’ve kept his brother away for so long, especially considering he only referred to her as ‘friend’ and, by his own admittance, hadn’t bonded with her.

“Searching for my dragon, Siri,” Gwen said. “She left me a long time ago and my heart hasn’t been whole since.”

As shocked as he was by the fact that this foreign woman had once been bonded to a dragon herself, Dane found himself asking, “Why did she leave?”

Her catlike eyes closed for a moment, too long to be a blink. When they opened, she said, “Because she grew a second head.”

The story Gwendolyn Storm told was long, a winding tale that burned some rumors popular in Kingfall to ash while illuminating others for the shining truth that they were. It was a story of love and hate, anger and fear, beauty and goodness. And though the most startling revelation should’ve been that this woman, this long-lived Orian, was one of those known as ‘the fatemarked’, Dane’s mind clamped onto the bond she’d formed with a fierce dragon named Siri. There was something beautifully sad about the way Gwen said her dragon’s name, almost like the softest notes of a melancholy song.

When she finished, the portion of the clearing that had been previously sunlit was dusky gray. Dane found himself considering the plight of her dragon more than anything else. He couldn’t deny the symmetry with his own brother’s situation. The main difference was that Siri had fled without her rider, a decision he respected. If the dragon was going mad but was somehow aware of it, her love for Gwen had shone through as she slipped away, leaving the Orian free to live her life. The only problem: Gwen hadn’t lived her life, not really. Instead, she’d dedicated her life to finding Siri, a search that Dom had apparently participated in for the last ten or so years without success.

“I haven’t found her…yet,” she said, her eyes burning with a determination to succeed that chased away the echoes of sadness in her voice. “But I will. Before I take my last breath, I will find her.”

It had been an eye-opening, incredible tale of good conquering evil in the end at great personal and collective consequence, but Dane was unclear as to the woman’s objective for telling it. “Thank you for sharing that. I shouldn’t have judged you so harshly; I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. I would very much value your opinion on the matter.”

“You might not like what I have to say. Either of you.”

Given he and his brother’s plans were so at odds with each other, he wasn’t sure how they could both be disappointed in her advice. His eyes met Dom’s, and he could tell his brother was wary as well. “If we can’t listen and consider opinions contrary to our own, then we truly are the children you accused us of being,” Dane said. Dom nodded in agreement.

“Very well. I think you both need to return to Travail…” Dom groaned while Dane perked up. “I haven’t finished. Something is stirring in Kingfall. These…godblades as you call them…suddenly appearing is no accident. It reminds me of the fatemarked all over again. The timing is not coincidental. Your uncle may be a black-hearted man, but he won’t destroy Kingfall on his own. There are forces more powerful than any of us can imagine at play here. Drawing them from the shadows and destroying them is the only way either of you will ever find true peace.”

She was right—he didn’t like what she had to say. The last time he’d flown off to defend a part of the world that wasn’t his own—Avadon—he’d returned to learn secondhand of the death of a loved one, the loss of a best friend, and the start of a coup. He shook his head. “I just want things to return to how they were. Peony and I barely had the chance to start a life together.”

“Do you love her?”

The question took him by surprise. Though Dane’s original purpose for accepting the Odinian marriage alliance was motivated by nothing more than politics, in Peony he’d found so much more. A strong, clever, alluring woman who cared deeply about everything, even things most would ignore. At first he’d thought, arrogantly, that he’d set her free, like opening the door to a bird’s cage. But now he knew that it was always she who’d set herself free, agreeing to take him on her journey.

But did he love her? He’d thought he did, but now he realized that word was like a drop in an ocean millions of times bigger. He would swim across it to reach her. He would smash through walls. He would destroy entire armies set between them. Did he love her?

“Do the storms rage in Travail season by season?” he said, the only answer that felt like an apt comparison.

Gwen nodded. “Then you will set aside that love until peace has been restored. Just like…” Her lips trembled and her eyes grew misty, but this woman’s self-control was like nothing Dane had ever seen. Not a single tear fell. “Just like Roan,” she finished.

Dane understood. Once, he’d been willing to die so Peony and Daneus could live. He was willing to do so again and again, as many times as it took to give them the life they deserved. “I can do this,” he said. “But first I need to rid myself of this infection.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “It is beyond my ability to heal.”

“Well, well,” the Moth Queen said, having not spoken for hours, just sitting and listening as her moths fluttered around her. “Finally I think you are ready to hear what I have to say. I may have a solution, something with the power to heal your infection.” Her eyes flitted mischievously between the brothers.

“What solution?” Dane and Dom said at the same time.

The old woman’s sharp eyes darted to Gwen, and the women exchanged a knowing look. Clearly they’d come to some sort of an agreement. Gwen nodded once and the Moth Queen said, “To find that which has been lost.”

It was clear now to Dane that the Moth Queen’s previous ornery disposition had been something of a ruse to put him off his guard. Now, she was focused on him and Dom, her eyes alight with the excitement of a woman on the precipice of something she’d lived her entire life for.

“There is a darkness within you that only one who is as old as I can see,” she started. Dane knew that wasn’t completely true—he was certain Peony had glimpsed that same darkness on more than one occasion—but he didn’t interrupt. “I knew it the moment I saw you.”

“There is darkness in everyone,” Dom argued. “Some are just better at hiding it.”

“True,” the old woman said, nodding in agreement. “But this is different. This is something beyond anyone’s control. A growing shadow stretching for its kin. It cannot be thwarted, cannot be denied.”

In the past, words like these would’ve caused Dane to laugh and make an offhanded remark about superstitious nonsense. Now, however, everything that had happened over these past few months seemed to connect with her words like the lengthening links of an iron chain. A shiver ran down his spine. Gods how he wished Daneus was close enough to communicate with. Even after all this time he hadn’t gotten used to being apart from his dragon, the feeling similar to how he expected it would feel to lose an arm or leg.

The Moth Queen continued. “There is only one way to put this darkness to use, to discover that which could save your life.”

“Discover what?” Dane asked.

The Moth Queen ignored his question. “You must learn to see without eyes.”

For some reason, this statement more than anything else the woman had said thus far resonated with him. Ever since he’d awoken in this place, he’d sensed something always on the edge of his vision, like it was hiding in plain sight but beyond his ability to see. “How?” Dane said.

“I will sew your eyes shut.”

“Not happening,” Dom said.

Dane didn’t exactly like where this was going either, and yet something stirred within him, an instinct firing. Something about her words felt…right, that Dom had chosen to bring him to this exact place at this exact time for a purpose. Plus, it wasn’t like he had many options. Even Gwen had said he would die in a day or two if something didn’t change. But sewing his eyes shut? It seemed like madness. “Why can’t you just blindfold me? The effect will be the same.”

“I fear the temptation to remove it will be too great, even for one with the courage of a lion. Can you promise you won’t slip the blindfold from your face at the first sign of danger?”

Dane considered the question seriously. Finally, he shook his head. “No. But what dangers do you expect me to face while blind?”

“I know not,” the woman admitted. “Only that any reward worth gaining requires an equal measure of risk. If you want to survive, this is the only way.”

Dane was dying, he could feel it in his bones. And he could also feel that there was something in this wood that could save him, if only he wanted it enough. Peony’s face appeared in his mind next to Daneus’s. He owed it to them to do everything in his power to survive. Even something that appeared, on its surface, to cross the line into the realm of madness. “I’ll do it,” he said.

“No, you won’t,” Dom said. “I didn’t return to Kingfall and save you only to have some mad woman practice her cross-stitch on your eyelids.”

If the woman was offended by his questioning of her sanity, she showed no sign. “This isn’t your decision.” She reached into a pocket in her thick dress, upsetting several of the moths. She plucked out a spool of thread with a needle tucked under several strands on one side. “Hold him steady. I would hate to puncture one of his eyeballs.”

“Dom, please,” Dane said, feeling even more confident about his decision. “I can’t die now. I can’t. Hold me down. If you do, I’ll never ask anything else of you.”

Dom shook his head, but it wasn’t his answer. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you die anyway.”

He had always known Dom to be physically strong, and that strength had only grown over the years, but it was Gwen who surprised him, her grip on his forehead like iron as her yellow eyes bore into his. He growled, biting down on a stick, surprised he hadn’t snapped it in half yet. One of his eyes was already sewn shut, his eyelids pulled tightly together. The Moth Queen was working on the other eye now, Dom and Gwen holding him steady each time she pierced him with her needle.

The final crack of what was left of the light vanished, leaving him faced with a darkness so deep and impenetrable he might’ve slipped inside the bowels of a cave. He wondered whether he was the mad one for allowing this strange woman covered in moths to do this to him. And yet something felt unexplainably right about it.

The woman’s voice emerged from the darkness. “Tell me, Dane, what do you see?”

Now he felt like an idiot. “Er, blackness? Nothingness?”

“Good. We will take our rest while you walk through the forest.”

“What?” Dane said.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Gwen said. “His fever could return any moment.”

“He made his bed,” Dom said. “Let him sleep in it.”

“Fine,” Dane said. It was only a forest, after all. Plus, he’d slept enough for three lifetimes. The last thing he wanted to do was rest even more. A good, long walk could very well be just the thing his body needed to fight off the infection naturally.

“Go. Return once you’ve seen,” the old woman said.

“Seen what?”

“You will know when you see it.”

“Be careful,” Gwen said.

“Watch out for fire ants,” Dom said. His older brother seemed to be finding the entire thing rather amusing. “Shout if you run smack into a tree.”

Dane ignored him and stood, extending his arms and feeling his way forward. If Daneus could only see me now, what would he say? he wondered. The dragon’s deep, rumbling voice resounded in his head, almost as real as if he were really speaking to him. Hoom. What do you call a dragonrider foolish enough to let a hedgewitch sew his eyelids shut and send him frolicking alone in a dark forest at night? You! He could almost hear the dragon’s thunderous laughter. Despite himself, he found his lips curling into a smile.

“Watch out for the—”

Wham!

He stood there, stunned, his head throbbing something fierce. While his arms had been feeling their way forward, a low-hanging branch had caught him in the skull. At least Gwen had tried to warn him. Dom had probably been holding back a laugh as he watched him blunder forward.

“I’m all right,” he said, cringing at the pain. He reached up and felt for the branch, his fingers coming away sticky. Blood, he thought. My blood. What the void am I doing? I’m ill, I should be resting…

Dry twigs and leaves crackled underfoot as he ducked under the branch and continued stubbornly forward. He took it slower this time, maintaining one arm high and one low to prevent a repeat occurrence. For a while, he heard the others speaking in hushed tones, but he couldn’t make out any of their words, and soon their voices disappeared completely.

The forest spoke to him. The trees creaked. The leaves whispered as a gentle breeze teased them. He stopped, listening to the sounds. Something occurred to him: he hadn’t heard any birdsong since he awoke in Mothswood. Not a whistle or chirp. Though he grew up in a cave on the cliff’s edge that was Dragonsmount, he’d spent considerable time in the forest to the east, traipsing amongst the trees with his brothers, back when life had been simple and the future a picture he could paint in his mind. There was always birdsong, the winged creatures seeming to know how beautiful their voices were to the point where they were determined to flaunt them every hour of every day.

Now, the lack of such melodious chatter felt loud in his ears, the silence heavy with foreboding as he remembered something his father had once told him, the first time he’d visited those same woods after his bonding with Daneus. The silence had been deafening on that day, too. “The birds know there is a dragon about. They love their own voices, but they love their lives even more.”

Had the birds fallen silent simply because Domi was perched on a branch in a nearby clearing? Or was there some other predator even more fearsome than a dragon lurking somewhere?

He scoffed at his own meandering thoughts, feeling his way around the trunk of a tree so massive it could’ve been hollowed out and used as a shelter for an entire family. “What am I doing?” he wondered aloud. “I should be charging back to Travail, to Peony, to Daneus, infection be damned. Instead I’m wandering blindly in a forest with trees as big as the towers at Chrysallis. And I’m talking to myself. And I’m talking to myself about how I’m talking to myself…”

Something flashed before his eyes.

Well, not before his eyes because his eyes were sewn shut. Before his…consciousness? How was that possible unless his own mind was already playing tricks on him? There! The ‘flash’, for there was no other way to describe it, appeared again, this time on the edge of his vision, or lack thereof. He turned his head quickly to try to capture it, but it was already gone. He stopped, heart pounding, considering. It had been a flash, yes, but not a flash of light. It was a flash of…darkness. He knew that made less sense than a wingless dragon, and yet that’s what he’d seen. The wall of darkness blocking his eyes had grown even darker in one spot, like a column of black so deep it was the absence of light.

“What are you?” he asked aloud.

Of course, no one answered. He should’ve expected this, and yet he realized he was disappointed. He’d expected a response.

He started off again, hoping to catch another flash of darkness. His crunching footsteps seemed to echo in his wake. An echo in a forest? He’d never heard of such a thing. He stopped, listening once more, the eerie sensation of being hunted trembling through him.

Nonsense, he thought, chuckling at how quickly a bit of darkness clouded one’s judgement. If he were being hunted, whatever creature was hunting him wouldn’t be intelligent enough to step when he stepped and stop when he stopped. If anything, the predator would attack before he had the presence of mind to flee.

He moved forward once more, feeling the air in front of him, which was clearer than before—not a single branch or tree or bush blocking his way forward. The ground beneath his feet was no longer cluttered with undergrowth, but hard and stony, allowing him to increase his pace.

“Stop!” a voice suddenly shouted, heavy footfalls slapping the ground. Dane had just lifted his foot to take his next step, his leg hovering in the air. Maybe if he’d had his eyesight his balance might’ve been enough to stop that foot from falling. Maybe if the wind hadn’t been blowing too hard from behind. Maybe if the toe of the foot still planted on the ground hadn’t crept over an edge he didn’t notice until that voice had shouted its warning.

Maybe if one or all those things hadn’t been lined up so perfectly, he might’ve been able to stop his dangling foot from falling.

It fell into empty space, his momentum carrying him forward into a precipitous drop that could’ve been a foot or a thousand feet for all the good his eyes could tell. With a jerk, a hand grabbed the back of his leathers, momentarily arresting his fall.

It wasn’t enough.

The hand bucked forward along with him and he heard his brother’s cry join his own as they tumbled headlong into the abyss.

Or ravine, as it turned out. Dane landed hard on the slope on his chest and elbows, his body banging off an exposed root that he tried to grab as he flew past. He missed and his legs kicked up behind him, forcing him into a roll, his body bouncing and slamming around, knocking against stones, more roots and then tearing through a prickly bush, a portion of which clung to him as he continued his breakneck descent until—

Squish.

He planted facedown into the base of the muddy ravine, muck squelching under his weight. A second later there was a second squish as Dom landed beside him. Dane groaned, trying to spit mud from his mouth but finding it clinging to his tongue like a putrid paste. His brother was spitting and coughing and clearly trying to do the same.

Dane’s shoulder was on fire. He tucked his arm against his chest, cradling it with the other one as he continued to cough.

Eventually he had expelled enough of the muck to talk, though the foul taste lingered. “What happened to me sleeping in the bed I’d made?” Dane asked.

His brother’s response came from closer than he expected. “Beds in Travail always were about as comfortable as sleeping on stone.”

“So you figured you’d help to cushion things with…mud?” Dane joked, teeth barred against the pain lancing through him.

“It’s dark as void out here. I didn’t realize the ravine was there until you were practically in it.”

“Well, I appreciate the effort. How long have you been following me?”

“Since Gwen and Her Mothiness fell asleep. Domi told me not to go. As usual, I should’ve listened to him. At least then it would only be you covered in muck.”

“Can we climb out?”

“The sides of the ravine are too steep here. We’ll need to follow the path until it ends or becomes more climbable. If only Domi could squeeze through the foliage he could pull us right out, but the trees are arched over the ravine like a roof.”

Wonderful, Dane thought. “At least this will give us a chance to get reacquainted.”

“Aye, you can start by catching me up on everything that’s happened since I left,” Dom said, grabbing his hand and pulling him to his feet.

“Thanks. But I thought you—how did you put it?—received news on foreign shores.”

“Only major events. Not the nitty gritty stuff.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“Just because I don’t want to involve myself in Travailian politics doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Dane sighed. “Lead the way. I’ll talk.”

So that’s what they did, slogging through the thick mud, each step heavier than the last as the sodden dirt clung to their boots. Dane told him of their parents’ untimely and sudden death, his own struggles with his relationship with Drake after ascending the dragon throne, his decision to bond with Peony, how it had changed his life for the better in so many ways, her finding of the brightblade, the circumstances around Lei’s death, and everything that followed. At first, he had to force the words from his throat, where they seemed to stick, but the more he spoke the easier they came. It felt as though a weight were slowly lifting from his shoulders. Even the mud clinging to his boots felt less heavy. When he finished, he expected Dom to tell him that Lei’s death wasn’t his fault, that there had been no right decision, that no matter what he’d chosen she might’ve died anyway…and on and on.

He didn’t. All Dom said was, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Emotion welled inside Dane. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

“Really?”

“Of course I am.” The fact that his brother would question such a thing made him stop.

“I thought you hated me,” Dom said.

“Why would I hate you?”

“Because of…Domino. Because of his second head. I brought shame to our family. That’s why I left. Father would have me sever my bond with Domino and select another egg. I—I couldn’t. Not ever.”

Back then, Dane would’ve probably agreed with his father. A dragon with two heads was…unnatural. Multiheaded dragons were said to be sick with madness. Unpredictable. But now, after everything he’d been through with Daneus… He put himself in Dom’s boots for a second. “I think I would’ve done the same thing,” he admitted.

“Truly?”

“Aye, now come on.”

They continued their slog in silence, until Dom finally said, “Do you think Domino went mad?” Dane heard the unspoken question behind it: Do you think I went mad?

Dane wished he could give his brother the answer he wanted, but he knew nothing but truth could ever lie between them. He shook his head, but it wasn’t the answer either. More like an admission about his own lack of knowledge. “I don’t know. It must’ve been confusing, right? Having two voices in your head like that?”

To his surprise, his brother laughed. “You mean like how Peony talks to both Daneus and her brightblade?”

Dane cocked his head to the side. He’d never thought of it that way. Void, the rest of the world thought the dragonriders of Travail were savages because they rode dragons and lived in caves. “Fair point. I guess we are all afraid of what we don’t understand.”

“Even Father?”

“Especially Father.” The squish of his brother’s boots through mud stopped again. “What is it?” Dane asked.

“I’m going to do something, and I don’t want you to be surprised by it.”

“What?”

“Hug you.”

Dane opened his arms. “It’s about time, Brother.”

His brother felt warm against him. Solid. “I’m sorry I abandoned you,” Dom whispered.

“I’m sorry you felt like you had no other choice.” Any awkwardness between them seemed to slough off like the chunks of drying mud. “But I’m glad you’re back.” Dane might’ve lost one brother, but now he’d gotten another one back.

“Me too.”

They separated and Dane said, “Now, let’s talk about our triumphant return to Kingfall. Brothers, reunited to save the world.”

“Just when I thought things were going so well,” Dom said.

“Ha. Funny.”

Dom sighed. “We are outcasts. We owe Travail nothing.”

“I must return. For Travail, yes, but also for Daneus and Peony. And for Kingfall, too. People aren’t always kind to us, but that doesn’t mean they’re not worth fighting for. If you won’t do it for me, do it for Drake.” Dane knew he was being unfair to his brother, but he also knew Dom and Drake had always had a special relationship he hadn’t fully understood.

“I was wondering whether you would dare to speak his name.”

“How much do you know?”

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

Dane’s brow wrinkled, pulling at the stitching sealing his eyes shut. “I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

“That’s because Drake and I had a secret.”

“What secret?”

“Drake’s dragon…”

“What of Draconus?” Dane asked, growing impatient.

“His father was Domino.”

Dane couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d been struck by lightning. “What? That’s impossible. You were already gone, and Domino was still in his youth.”

“I’m not going to try to persuade you, but it’s true nonetheless. I cannot explain how Domino released his egg so early on, nor why I felt compelled to meet Drake the day he chose his egg. All I know is the egg came from Domino and it connected with Drake in the same way Daneus connected with you.”

“Why didn’t he ever tell me that?” Dane wondered to himself.

“Fear perhaps. He might’ve been worried Draconus would grow a second head like his father.”

That made sense. Void, Dane had felt that fear on several occasions after he saw what had befallen his brother. He couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for his brother to have that level of fear as his constant companion. “I wasn’t particularly kind to him,” Dane said.

“I know. But Drake didn’t help matters either. He was always jealous of you and your ascension.”

Dane shook his head. “How do you know any of this? You’ve been gone for so long.”

“There is a unique bond between a dragonfather or dragonmother and their spawn. Normally this bond is short-lived because the parent passes into the storms before their egg hatches.”

“But Domino was young,” Dane said, incredulous. Something still didn’t make sense. “But Domino was gone long before our feud fully took root. Not to mention you were on the other side of the Endless Ocean. You might as well have been on the sun.”

“This is where things get really incredible,” Dom said, a breathlessness born of excitement creeping into his voice. “First, the tether between dragonfather and child doesn’t seem to have any distance-based limitations like the bond between dragon and rider. Domino could communicate with Draconus as easily in Sonaria as he could in Travail.” The way his brother casually tossed out the name of the godling nation was a stark reminder to Dane of how much of the world his brother had seen while he’d rarely even traveled outside of Travail. “And second, after Domino passed into the storms, Domi gained the ability to communicate with Draconus. They spoke often. I know he didn’t tell me everything, but he told me much.”

Dane was stunned. Not only had his brother been keeping track of his family through his dragon’s tether with Draconus, but he’d discovered a new facet of dragon lore that, as far as Dane knew, no one else was aware of. His jaw tightened, causing the dried mud to crack on his skin, as he realized something else. “So all that shite about news reaching distant shores was a lie?”

“I was trying to figure out the best way to tell you the truth.”

“And Drake? Does he know about this too?”

Silence.

“Well?” Dane said.

“I forgot you couldn’t see. I nodded.”

Dane wanted to punch something, preferably something that would break. All the years while he was alone and feuding with his only remaining brother, Drake was secretly communicating with Dom through their dragons’ tethers. “Why didn’t Drake tell me?” Dane growled. “I deserved to know.”

“I told him not to,” Dom said.

Dane’s face grew hot. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right about that. I wouldn’t. I don’t understand why someone would abandon their family.” No sooner had he spoken that Dane realized another thing he should’ve sooner, the truth hitting him like a slap in the face. “You knew about mother and father’s deaths the same time we did, didn’t you?”

There was silence, and Dane wished he could open his eyes to gauge his brother’s expression. “I did,” Dom finally said.

“And you didn’t return to Travail to help send them into the storms?” Dane heard the accusation in his own voice, but he didn’t care.

“I—I thought about returning then. I made excuses in my own mind, none of them valid. The truth was, I was still a scared boy trying to discern his place in the world.”

“But your dragon only had one head by that point!” Dane said, fuming. “You would’ve been welcomed back! Our family needed you! Drake and I, we were broken. You should’ve been there. You should’ve—” Dane cut off, emotion clenching his throat like a squeezed fist.

“I didn’t want to be welcomed back only because Domino had his head chopped off!” Dom fired back. “I should’ve been welcome no matter if my dragon had ten storm-drenched heads, don’t you see that? Are you still so blind?”

Dane’s instinct was to do what he always did: to lash out, to defend. That’s what he always did during his confrontations with Drake. And how has that worked out for you? he thought. He was repeating the same process with yet another brother. He took a deep breath, swallowing the knot that had formed in his throat. A knot of foolish pride. “You’re right. I have no right to throw stones at anyone.”

All the air seemed to go out of Dom as he exhaled deeply. “I’ve been in a dark place for a long time, but I feel like I can see a sliver of light now, like the storm is finally breaking.”

Once more, Dane discerned symmetry in his brother’s words. Just as Dom was emerging from the darkness, he felt mired in shadows. He hesitated to ask the question that appeared in his mind, the sting of their youngest brother’s betrayal still sharp and piercing. No, he thought. Drake made his choices, but I made mine, too. I played as much a role in my own fate as anyone. “Has Domi heard from Draconus recently?”

“Yes.” His brother’s response came immediately, almost as though he’d been waiting for that very question. It was as sharp as a dagger.

“And?”

“Draconus is…” A sob shook his brother’s voice.

There must be some mistake, was Dane’s first thought. Last he saw, both Drake and Draconus were as right as rain, strong and healthy and determined to destroy him. “How?” he said, the question full of the same hollowness he felt in his chest.

“The Terrans breached the Solarii border and marched on Sunsei.”

“That doesn’t explain how a dragon died.”

“Domi only caught bits and pieces of information. Both Drake and Draconus were distraught, but…”

As Dane listened, the pit in his stomach grew larger. Rose Ontarii was the Solarii Queen now? Drake and Draconus had been dragged down by nets made of linked metal? Draconus, pierced by arrows, had breathed his last breath? And what of Drake? Had he perished in the wake of his dragon’s death?

It was almost inconceivable that he and Dom were alive, together, while Drake might very well be dead alongside his dragon.

Silence filled the space that followed the story. Dane didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to feel. He and Drake had been at odds for so long he was almost like a stranger to him. And yet.

And yet.

Those two words were the start of a truth that surrounded him, a truth he’d been avoiding for a long time because it was easier to cloak oneself in ignorance. And yet I still love him.

“I have to find him, whether he’s dead or alive,” Dane said.

“I know, me too,” Dom said.

“What? You said you didn’t want to go back.”

“I lied. After all you’ve been through, I didn’t want to sway your decision one way or another. I wanted you to be certain.”

Dane breathed out hard through his nose. “So you’re saying we’re going to be making a triumphant return after all?”

“‘Triumphant’ might be the wrong word for it, but yes, we will return together. Just as soon as you are on the mend. Ah, I can see the end of this godsforsaken ravine at long last!”

Before Dane could breathe a sigh of relief, a roar tore through the quiet night.

Dom’s hand gripped Dane’s elbow firmly as they ran, twisting and turning as they plunged through the dense forest. It would’ve been a harrowing experience even if Dane could see; blind, it felt like tiptoeing along a crumbling rock shelf without ropes while being shot at by arrows.

“Was that Domi’s roar?” Dane asked as they ran. He didn’t tell his brother that the fever had returned, his entire body wracked with tremors. Dom jerked him hard to the left and a branch whipped against his face, stinging him.

“No,” Dom said with confidence. Dane understood—he would recognize Daneus’s roar anywhere. It also sent a shudder through him; whatever had made the sound was large.

Right on cue, another powerful roar lit up the silence of the night. The sound was closer now, near enough to make Dane want to clap his hands over his ears. There was no time for that, however, as Dom dragged him forward, feet tripping and stumbling on roots and other hazards as they flew through the night and—

The wall of darkness he’d faced for hours now was obliterated by a column of light.

Dom slammed to a stop, blocking Dane’s way forward with an outstretched arm. His eyes were still sewn shut, that much he could tell, and yet he was able to gape at the streak of light which suddenly slashed across and down. Sparks flew in its wake and there was another roar, so close now that Dane felt like he could reach out and touch whatever monstrous creature had made it.

The column of light vanished, leaving a long pale column pulsating in its wake. “Curse this damn blade,” a new voice muttered. The voice was followed by a whistling sound and then a raucous crash and the splintering of wood.

“Shite!” Dom yelled, hauling Dane to the ground just as he felt the rush of wind and the slap of leaves and branches on his head and shoulders. The ground shook as the tree thundered to the forest floor.

What sort of creature beside a dragon can level entire trees with a single blow? Dane thought.

And then—

A flash of something at the very edge of his vision. He turned toward it and this time it didn’t flee, that shadow-dark glimmer. No, this time it moved toward him. Even as the creature released another roar and the voice—that of a girl, if he wasn’t mistaken—shouted something, a burst of light exploding once more in the air, Dane stared at the thing as it approached. At the same time, logic made him think, Not real. How could it be? His eyes were sewn shut. It was a hallucination, nothing more, his mind consumed by the fires of his returning fever.

Still, real or not, he reached for it, until the something pressed into his palm, warm to the touch.

The world around him immediately emerged from the darkness. Above him, branches slashed past. Leaves trembled as the ground shook once more. It was still night, still dark, but he had no difficulty making out details. He looked upon the face of the thing he now gripped in his hand, a blade, roiling with shadows.

His mouth dropped open.

A blade just like the one Sampson Gaard had wielded when he fought Peony at Kerr’s Crossing.

He was holding a shadowblade. And it felt…right…like he’d gripped this blade every day of his life for the past ten years. He stood, shrugging away from Dom’s hand. “Dane?” his brother said, but he was already moving away, ducking and weaving through the tangle of branches from the fallen tree that had very nearly crushed them. Any heat in his forehead had vanished, the cold in the rest of his body gone. He was dimly aware that the infection in his shoulder had abated, the wound sealing itself shut and leaving only a thin white line as evidence his uncle’s blade had ever pierced him.

Dane emerged into a clearing just as the light vanished once more. This time he had seen it for what it was: a blade sheathed in light and shadow, so large it should’ve been wielded by a mighty warrior but instead had been gripped by a young, brown-skinned girl. The girl’s hair was as dark as night as its tresses fell in waves down her shoulders to her dress. It was the oddest dress Dane had ever seen, and that included the insanely impractical one Peony had planned to wear during her time in Travail. The girl’s dress was made of thin-looking red material she wore like a sash that angled from shoulder to hip, exposing a large part of her sides and back. From her waist, the material tumbled to her knees, though it was evident from the ripped and ragged hemline that it had once covered her legs all the way to her feet.

Where had the sword gone? Dane wondered.

As he stared at her, the girl hissed at the thing that had drawn her ire—the source of the roars. Standing before her was a creature the likes of which Dane had never seen, its body as thick as a dozen barrels piled up together, its arms and legs broad and twined with vines and lumpy with moss and lichen. Its head was a flattened dome, broader than it was tall, and split with a dark maw filled with blunt, square teeth. Black liquid—blood, Dane realized—streamed from several long slashes across its torso as well as from its gray lips. Another roar emerged from that foul mouth, loud enough to dampen Dane’s hearing for several long moments, like he was underwater.

The creature hadn’t noticed him yet, its entire attention focused on the unarmed girl, who seemed to be trying to conjure her disappearing sword by repeatedly shaking her hand. Just as the creature swung one of its powerful fists at her, the blade reappeared, sending shadows fleeing on one side while thickening them on the other. She raised the blade to defend herself…

Too late.

The creature’s fist slammed into her so hard she left her feet, crashing into a tree and then slumping to the ground.

She’s dead, Dane thought. No one could have survived such a blow.

The creature stomped toward her. Dane acted without thinking, leaping from beside the fallen tree into the center of the clearing, shouting, “Hey, you big, ugly lump, over here!”

The creature stopped, turning its massive body slowly, several small trees snapping in two as one of its arms brushed past them. Dane stared into eyes as dark as the sword he now wielded. There was a brief moment of silence as the creature seemed to assess this new enemy, but then, with a mind-numbing roar, the creature charged—Thud! Thud! Thud!

At the time, Dane couldn’t comprehend why he did what he did next, stabbing the shadowblade not outwards toward the charging creature, but straight down at the ground. Even before the blade struck earth, shadows twisted around him. He felt himself being dragged into them, or being made a part of them, almost like he was made of ice and melting into a much more powerful river. He could still feel the sword in his grip, no longer buried in the ground. He couldn’t remember pulling it out. Rather than sweeping him off his feet, however, he was able to swim within the shadows’ rushing currents, forcing them to bend to his will. Time seemed to slow, the monster still charging, but its heavy feet falling much slower—Thud…Thud……Thud………

The creature was close enough to reach him now and it didn’t hesitate to unleash another powerful punch. Dane moved with the shadowy current, twisting around the massive fist, sliding past it as easily as water penetrating the holes in a sieve. Simultaneously, he emerged from the river of shadows and reversed his blade’s course, sending it stabbing upwards into the core of the creature’s thick chest. It punched through the creature’s skin, hot blood splashing on his face.

He withdrew the sword, dripping blood and shadows, in awe of what he’d done, how he’d moved. He felt exhausted, as though he’d run a great distance.

Wounded, the creature was less awed, more angry. It lunged forward, slamming its strangely shaped head into his before he could even consider slipping back into that current of shadows. Stars exploded before his sewn-shut eyes as he toppled backwards. Dazed, he lay watching as the creature looked away from him for a moment to check on his other victim, the young girl.

Between the creature’s legs, Dane could just make out her body, which remained motionless on her side. Shattered. Even if she were alive, too many bones would be broken for her to ever walk again, at least not without assistance.

Dane watched as her eyes opened, settling not on the monster but, inexplicably, on him. He met her eyes, noticing the way they narrowed. Could she see his eyes behind his sewn-shut eyelids? Or only sense his gaze somehow?

His inner thoughts disappeared as the creature, uninterested in their staring contest, returned its full attention to its original prize, who was now clearly not dead.

Yet, even as the beast stomped back toward her, the girl continued to stare at Dane with those contemplating eyes. Get up! he wanted to scream. Hurry! But he knew it was fruitless, the pair of them too damaged to save themselves, much less each other.

But then, impossibly, she moved. It was no reflexive twitch in the final throes of death, but a strong two-footed kick that carried her back to her feet just as the creature raised one of its own monstrous feet to stomp her six feet beneath the ground. She dove away as the foot came rumbling down, turning with incredible speed and slashing just as her sword reappeared. A spray of light and shadows arced behind the blade as it slid easily through the creature’s trunk-like leg. The blade emerged on the other side and then, once again, disappeared.

Dane stared, trying to figure out how the blade could’ve passed through the creature’s thick skin and bone without seeming to do any damage, but then, with a sickening squelching sound, the creature’s weight dragged the upper portion of its leg from the lower half, its body whipsawing and then crumbling into a heap.

Dane and the girl watched as the creature writhed and squirmed, the pool of black blood beneath its body growing larger by the second. Finally, it went still.

The girl turned toward him. “I have traveled a long way to meet you,” she said.

“So have I,” Dane replied.

He didn’t know why he said it, only that it was the truth.

Twenty-Five

Andovier Helm

Countryside near Trial, Loslandia

ANDO AWOKE TO THE CLATTER OF WOODEN WHEELS OVER UNEVEN GROUND.

His eyes opened, blinking against the bright blaze of sunlight that greeted him. Where am I? he wondered. Images rushed back into his mind: silver-skinned men tattooed with dark eyes, wielding knives; thrown bags emitting bluish smoke; the feeling of the world tilting and then darkness.

So much darkness.

He blinked slowly several times until his eyes grew reaccustomed to the light. Was it the same day? The next day? For all he knew, the effects of the smoke could’ve lasted for several days, his attackers taking him miles and miles from where he’d started. No, he thought. I don’t feel particularly hungry. And my mouth isn’t dry. This likely meant it had only been a matter of a few hours within the same day, the sun having not yet completed its long dive toward the horizon.

He tried to move but realized he couldn’t. I must be bound, he thought, eyes finally opening fully to take in his surroundings. Mrz stared at him from across the bed of a wagon, a hilly countryside flashing past behind him. Normally this was the point where the Grizari warrior would offer a jape or an absurd story to make light of the seriousness of their situation, but this time his lips didn’t move. They were, however, slightly parted, a line of drool running down to his chin and then slinging its way to his chest like a thin, viscous rope.

Ando tried to speak but found his own lips as disobedient as the rest of his body. Fear filled him as he realized: Save for his eyes, he was paralyzed. Mrz too. He couldn’t turn his head, obviously, but his vision stretched along the whole of the opposite side of the wagon bed, where he found more of his men propped up, including Sola and Barty.

Tora was nowhere to be found. He blinked furiously at Mrz, hoping he would understand the question. The big man calmly blinked once in response, which Ando took to mean, Yes, I can see her.

Ando relaxed. Though their enemies had paralyzed and abducted them, they hadn’t killed them. That was something to be thankful for, at least. Which meant for now, they were safe, though it was likely they would be sold into slavery of one form or another. In most of the northern part of Kingfall slavery was nonexistent—Avadon being the lone exception—but he’d never heard of the practice being commonplace in Loslandia. Then again, he hadn’t heard much about the southern nation, and he’d already learned that the things he had heard had probably been greatly exaggerated if not just plain fiction.

Unable to move, there wasn’t much for him to do except hope the effects of the blue smoke he’d inhaled wore off sooner rather than later. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t bound as he’d initially thought, which meant the only thing stopping him from attacking their abductors was the lingering poison in his system.

In the meantime, he studied the countryside flashing behind Mrz’s broad head. No manmade structures blotted the landscape, which was lumpy with roundish hills that looked oddly hard, though they weren’t craggy with stone. Instead, their flanks were as smooth as the broadside of a forged blade, reminding him of the armored carapace of the crabs he used to hunt with his children on the shoreline beside their house.

Several moments went by before he realized he’d thought of a memory of his children without feeling sad. That realization was immediately replaced with the heavy weight of guilt.

Stop, he thought. This is not the time. Focus. He did, though it did little good, the monotony of their journey mind-numbing. The endless march of armored hills; the descending sun casting ever-lengthening shadows from Mrz’s bulky form; the clickety-clatter of the wagon’s wheels.

And finally, just as dusk had fallen in earnest, reaching their destination.

The edge of a gate blurred past, there and gone again, making Ando wonder whether he’d imagined it, his mind fooled by the growing darkness. But then he saw a large, ivy-covered wall running away from their wagon into the distance before turning and plotting a course parallel to theirs, enclosing an immense area. Next came the rows and rows of olive trees, hundreds of them, their fruit barely visible against the gray backdrop. The wagon’s wheels sent swirls of dust into the trees as it cut a path between them.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sky having grown dark and dotted with stars, they ground to a halt. All was still. All was silent. And then, a booming, female voice: “Welcome, friends! I hope your journey wasn’t too arduous. At least you couldn’t feel your arses, though I warn you they will be rather sore tomorrow. I do apologize for the manner in which my invitation was issued, but you see, I feared you wouldn’t accept without…proper encouragement.”

Ando thought that was a pretty poor description of what had transpired, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to contradict her, whoever she was. While he tried to make sense of what was happening, the woman stepped into view, illuminated by a swathe of red moonslight as she conversed with one of the bare-chested Loslandians that had abducted them. She wore a blue, loose-fitting dress as shiny as silk, cinched around her waist with a thin, braided belt. Along with her companion, she spoke in a tongue he couldn’t identify, the words uttered so quickly and in a mashed together way that the message might’ve been one long word muttered in a tongue-twisting stream.

However, that wasn’t what captured Ando’s attention. No, it was the woman herself.

For she wasn’t a silver-skinned, bright-eyed Loslandian.

She could’ve been from Odin or Teravainen or Avadon. Except every exposed bit of her pale skin, including her face and hairless scalp, was covered in tattoos—black, staring eyes.

She turned toward him, a small smile curling her lips as their eyes met. She spoke, switching back to the common tongue. “Ah, you’re the leader of this merry band, right? I think we’re going to get along grandly. Now, my guards will escort you inside the main house. You must be positively famished.”

By ‘guards’ the woman meant two enormous humanoid creatures that Ando could only identify as giants from what he’d read of the Godswar in The Kingfall Histories. It was common knowledge that their kind had been wiped out when Erif Mirg and the Thousands made their final push into southern Odin, just before Mirg was struck down and the course of the war altered forever. Standing at least twelve feet tall, everything about them was thick, from their treelike legs to their clublike arms to their bulbous heads with dull, flat features, like a heavy door had been pressed down upon their faces. Unlike their master, however, their skin was free of eye tattoos.

By ‘escort’ the woman meant the giants would pick them up two at a time, slinging their paralyzed bodies over their shoulders with ease, carrying them inside—the creatures had to duck slightly to avoid hitting their heads on the doorframe—and then flopping them onto large pillows to cushion the impact—not that they could feel it anyway. The pillows were arranged in a circle around a firepit already dancing with flames that licked at the bottom of one of the large round cooking pans they’d seen used in the Trial bazaar. The same eye design used on their captors’ tattoos was printed on each of the pillows.

As Ando lay helplessly on his side, he finally caught a glimpse of Tora, who happened to be positioned a quarter of the way around the circle from him but facing toward him. Their eyes met, and a warmth filled him that was beyond that provided by the fire. She appeared unharmed, thank the gods. He noticed something else. While all the others he’d seen thus far had been relieved of their weapons, himself included, the darkblade continued to shadow her hip and thigh.

“Nob! Ham!” the woman barked, stepping between Ando and Tora. “Sit our guests up. I won’t have them treated like ragdolls.” Apparently she was speaking to the giants, because the massive creatures lumbered into view, making their way around the circle in opposite directions, propping each of them up using piles of the large eye pillows. Once they were finished, they stomped out of view, though from their heavy breathing Ando could tell the giants hadn’t gone far.

The structure they’d been forcibly brought into was a single, large room constructed of walls of stone and a wooden, angled roof that stretched at least twenty feet overhead. The ceiling’s wooden beams were exposed, inked with streams of eyes that all seemed to be looking at Ando, though he knew, logically, that wasn’t true.

The bald woman began to walk a circle around the firepit, bare feet soundless on square, white tiles, each of which bore the eye symbol in its direct center. The net effect of the thousands of eyes they were surrounded by was disconcerting. “I am She Who Sees, and I have Seen each of you.”

Such an absurd statement would’ve typically drawn comments from the likes of Mrz, Barty and even Tora’s sharp tongue, but without the ability to speak, the statement went uncontested, only the crackling of wood being slowly devoured by fire filling the void left in its wake. The woman paced a full circle before speaking again. “We are the Sight. Now that you have entered our lands, the Land of Vision, you can never leave. The risk is too great you’ll tell another who will tell another. The outside world will come for all I have. They will want it for themselves.”

This woman was clearly delusional. Thus far all Ando had seen were a pair of blunt-nosed giants, shirtless men covered in eyes, and endless olive groves. And all this nonsense about the Sight and the Land of Vision was obviously a product of her addled mind.

The woman who’d given no name except She Who Sees completed another lap. She spoke in the strange tongue she’d used earlier, words clearly meant for someone Ando couldn’t see—one of her men perhaps. For his benefit, she translated the command into the common tongue as her eyes fell upon him. “Start with him. Andovier Helm.”

Ando would’ve frowned deeply could he move his facial muscles. Instead, his eyes bore into hers. How did she know his name? Unless Jarrod Gaard was a very different man than he’d seemed and sent a message ahead of them to his freakish eye-covered friend in the south, no one knew their true identities, not even the captain of the ship they’d arrived on. He remembered the other thing she’d said when she first addressed them: I have Seen.

As his mind struggled with the revelation, one of her men appeared before him, holding a small, corked vial filled with a dark red liquid that might’ve been blood. Unlike the other tattooed men he’d seen so far, this one had two eyes inked on his face, directly under his real eyes, like a mirror image. “Drink,” he said in a strong accent, trilling the ‘r’ sound. Drrreenk. He uncorked the vial.

Ando willed himself to cast off his paralysis and swat the vial from the man’s hand, but not so much as one of his fingers obeyed him. Instead, the man used a pair of fingers to pry his mouth open, tip his head back, and pour a few drops of the liquid onto his tongue. To his surprise, it tasted as sweet as confectionary.

His tongue slid around in his mouth, feeling swollen. Wait, he thought. I can feel my tongue. Suddenly, his body spasmed, his feet kicking in the air and his arms flailing. Strong arms slid around his chest from behind, gripping him tightly until he regained control of his muscles and reflexes, finally flopping forward with a gasp. “What…did you…do to us?” he said between ragged breaths.

“The remaining effects will wear off shortly,” She Who Sees said calmly, standing before him. The many eyes etched on her feet stared up at him.

“And the rest of them?” he asked, angling his head to look up at her.

She smiled, which made several of her eyes appear to move higher on her cheeks. “They are being administered the antitoxin as we speak,” she said. “Look for yourself.”

More of the men had moved in and were dripping the sweet, red liquid into their mouths. One by one, their bodies reacted as his did, none more violently than Mrz. The Grizari man required no fewer than four men to restrain him lest he smash his head repeatedly onto the hard tiles. Finally, he managed to shove the men aside and sit up, gasping as Ando had done. “Who wants to die first?” he growled.

“Calm yourself, Mrz,” the woman said.

“How know name?” Mrz demanded.

The calm smile held firm on her face. “I told you, I have Seen.”

Barty, who had also been released from the paralysis, puffed up to his full height, which might’ve been as high as one of the giant’s knees. Red-faced, he jabbed a finger in her direction. “Seen what?”

“Why, your journey, of course, Captain Barty. I have followed your progress with interest for some time, you see.”

“No, I don’t see nothin’!” the dwarf said, stomping his feet. He looked so worked up that Ando might’ve found it amusing if he wasn’t equally frustrated by this woman.

Ando said, “What my friend means is that we do not understand how your magic works. There are no mages within our group, warriors all.” Ando sensed that a degree of honesty would work in their favor, especially considering she already seemed to know who they were.

The woman tutted. “Warriors. Such a generic term. No, you are far more than that, which is why I’ve brought you here. Honor, loyalty, strength, courage. These are things I value in those who join the Sight.”

“Before, you made it sound like we don’t have a choice,” Ando said.

“Then you misunderstood. Everyone has a choice. You may join me and my people and live out your days amongst us, reaping the rewards of casting away the blindness most men suffer for the whole of their lives. Or…” She paused there, sweeping in a circle, hem of her blue, silk dress flowing around her feet. “You may be my prisoners.”

“Been prisoner before,” Mrz said. “Few times, actually. Didn’t take.”

“Does that mean you’ll join the Sight?” She was responding to Mrz but her eyes focused on Ando.

“No. Means I’ll keel you and yer lot and smash through gate with horn. How that sound?”

“I was afraid you might say that,” the woman said. “Guards!”

The eye-tattooed men charged back into the circle, hands gripping the cloth bags, wisps of blue smoke trickling from their edges. Were they really willing to toss them around in order to paralyze them once more? Wouldn’t the smoke affect them and their leader too?

Mrz was already on his feet, shaking his horn as if to say, “Come!” Barty and Mudd flanked him, hands fisted and ready. Some of Ando’s other men had stood as well, most notably Sola, the calm-tempered man having said nothing but watched the proceedings intently. Ando was about to shout for everyone to “Stop!” in an attempt to snip the fuse leading to what felt like a magepowder keg about to explode.

Someone else beat him to it. Tora stepped between them, stomping her foot repeatedly until all eyes were fixed on her. Her mouth moved, but no words emerged. She pointed to her mouth, a distressed expression tightening on her face. Then she shook her head.

Ando stared, trying to make sense of the senseless.

“You cannot speak, child?” She Who Sees said.

Calling Tora a ‘child’ had always earned him a stiff rebuke, but Tora wasn’t able to do anything but shake her head sadly.

“Curious,” the woman said. “Not only does she wear a blade of darkness but the godsmoke has taken her voice. I must meditate on this. If we are quite done, I trust you are all very tired and in need of rest. Do not try to escape.”

With that, the woman departed through the large doors, her army of men filing behind her until only Ando, his men, and the two blunt-faced giants remained, bathed in the glow of the fire.

“Will someone tell me what the void is happenin’?” Barty said.

They’d gone around and around in circles on the matter until they were bleary-eyed and yawning. At some point, Tora had tucked her head against Ando’s shoulder and fallen fast asleep.

Looking upon her serene, peaceful face, she’d never looked more childlike, all her defiance and hardness stripped away by the simple act of sleeping.

Barty and Mrz were arguing again. They agreed on one thing—they needed to escape—but nothing else. Besides Ando, the dwarf and the Grizari, only Sola remained awake, content to listen silently. Void, even the giant guards had grunted at one point and ducked through the door. As the door had closed, Ando had heard their bulky bodies thump against the other side; evidently they would spend the night sleeping against the door.

Finally, when he could take no more of the bickering, Ando said, “Enough.” Barty and Mrz turned to look at him. “We are not ready to formulate a plan for escape, especially considering Tora’s…condition.”

“But—” Barty started to protest.

“Do you trust me?”

“Ye know I do.”

“Then get some sleep. The rising sun may bring a new light to our situation.”

The dwarf’s mouth opened, but then closed and he nodded in resignation.

“Mrz?” Ando said.

“This is wise,” the Grizari said. Moments later he’d curled up hugging one of the large eye pillows and was soon snoring.

“How does he do that?” Barty asked. “Me mind will be active fer hours.”

“At least try to get some rest.”

“Aye,” Barty said, following suit and resting his head on a pillow.

Ando carefully extracted himself from beneath Tora, sliding her head gently onto a pillow and then tucking additional pillows around her for warmth. Then he made his way over to Sola, who was the only one still upright. “I value your opinion above all others,” Ando said. “Will you offer it now?”

Sola’s eyes met his. “Only if you answer a question first.”

Ando gave a half-smile. “You want to know my decision on what to do next, before all this happened,” Ando said.

“You never told me, but I could see the certainty in your eyes when we made landfall.”

“Aye. I had planned to return to the Four Kingdoms. To start anew.”

“You hoped to find peace there?”

“There is peace there,” Ando said. “Sir Metz confirmed it. I am certain he would help me procure some land. I could build a house, grow crops. Give Tora a real life, one free of danger and bloodshed at every turn. I would have you and the others by my side, if it was what you all wanted. And if not, you would be free to make your own path.”

Sola gave nothing away with his expression. “I do not fault you for seeking peace. And I cannot argue with the honor in protecting Tora. She has suffered too much tragedy in her life already, more than anyone, much less a young girl, should suffer.”

“Don’t let her hear you call her a ‘girl’,” Ando said.

Sola smiled. “Why do you think I said it when she was asleep?” He sighed. “Is this really what you want? If so, I will support you. I will go with you.”

Ando should’ve had a certain Yes ready on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t. “I can learn to want it,” was the best he could offer in response.

“Running away from your home will not provide an escape from your painful memories. This I have learned.”

“I know that,” Ando snapped. Sola continued to stare at him. “I know you’re only trying to help.”

“The truth is, I am speaking to myself as much as to you,” Sola said. “My brother’s death, seeing my parents without him by my side…these things damage one’s soul.”

“Can it be healed? Your soul, I mean.”

“I do not know. But I hope to find out.”

“We will find this out together,” Ando said, extending his hand.

Sola grasped it, squeezing. “Yes,” he said. “Now, I know while the dwarf and Grizari were arguing you were formulating a real plan for escape. Out with it.”

Ando smiled. His friend knew him too well. Then again, this time he might be rather disappointed. “Simple. We kill the giants.”

The next day, breakfast was served in the same large, high-ceilinged room in which they’d slept. Eye-tattooed men used the long swordlike tools to cook peppers and slabs of meat on the large round pan over the fire. Just inside the door sat the giants, dull, milky eyes staring dead ahead. He’d observed them for a while, trying to figure out whether they were more alert than they looked, but hadn’t been able to come to a conclusion just yet. In any case, without a weapon he would stand little chance against their advantage in size. Which meant biding his time, for now.

Beside Ando, Tora sat in silence, watching the men cook. Ando hadn’t pushed her to try to speak, offering nothing but a “good morning” and a spot beside him on a vacant pillow. Banter floated throughout the room amongst the other men, most of it aimed at Mrz’s insatiable appetite after his stomach had offered a hungry, lion-sized growl.

Ando’s stomach had also grumbled a few times as the scent of the cooking meat and peppers had reached him. At least the fare here would be more flavorful than what they’d been eating over the last few months.

The final item added to the pan was a massive egg, larger than anything Ando had ever seen—and that included the large ostrich eggs that had once been served at one of King Normandian’s grand galas he’d been forced to attend. Just carrying the white-speckled blue egg had required two of the men straining against its weight. Once they reached the pan, they slid it across the slick surface using long metal oars. Then one of the men used a sword to slash the egg down the center, cracking it in half and allowing the contents—thick yellow ooze around an enormous pale-white yolk—to spill free and surround the meat and peppers, crackling from the heat.

“Tell me that’s a dragon’s egg,” Barty said, eyes gleaming with excitement.

The men ignored him. Ando still wasn’t certain how much of the common tongue they understood.

“The Travailians would never sell one of their precious dragon eggs,” the response came, not from any of the men, but from the blue-clad woman who swept into their midst. Ando hadn’t heard or noticed her enter, almost as though she’d drifted through one of the walls.

“Then what is it?” Ando asked.

“A grunchin egg,” she said.

“A grunchin?”

“Yes. Creatures native to Loslandia. They favor the wide plains between eastern Mothswood and Flood’s End.”

Ando’s heart skipped a beat. Either inadvertently or intentionally, she’d given him a vague idea of their location. Though he was no expert on Loslandian geography, he’d studied enough maps of Kingfall to place their position in his mind’s eye. If they escaped the walls they’d seen when they first entered the complex, all they would need to do was head north-northeast and they would eventually hit the coast. From there, navigation would be simple, following the shore until they returned to Trial.

The dwarf, however, was more focused on the source of the large, blue egg. “Bollocks. Didn’t see any such creatures on the road ’ere, certainly nothing large enough to produce an egg o’ that size.”

“No?” the woman said, raising her thin eyebrows. Ando could tell it was an act, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “That’s strange. Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough.”

The dwarf grunted but said no more, while She Who Sees sat on a large plush cushion near to Ando and Tora while her men used their blades to fold over the portions of the egg’s innards that had begun to firm up from the heat of the fire. Ando said, “Have you meditated on Tora’s condition?” Ando avoided Tora’s eyes as they flicked toward him.

“I have,” the woman said.

“And?”

“And it is beyond my skill to help her,” she said.

“Meaning what?” Ando said, still avoiding Tora’s stare. He couldn’t bear to see her sadness.

“Meaning there is magic at work here beyond the reckoning of even one like me who has the full Sight.”

“But you know of others who might help her?” A sprig of hope had sprouted in his heart.

“Perhaps. The Moth Queen has power beyond my own. But as I said before, none of you can leave. Not ever.”

Ando felt Tora’s body stiffen beside him. He patted her knee, trying to calm her before she did something rash, like trying to hit the woman. “You would rob a young woman of her voice?” he asked.

“The loss of her voice has something to do with that blade sheathed at her hip. The blade my men were unable to confiscate even when she was unconscious. They even tried hacking off her belt, but I was informed the belt was as hard as steel.”

That was one mystery solved, though the answer provided no relief. From the moment Tora had claimed the blade as her own, Ando had feared what could happen. Now, somehow, the blade had thwarted any from prying it from her, a fact that sent a shiver up his spine. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a deep frown of confusion form on Tora’s face.

“You want the blade,” Ando said, reading between the lines.

“Yes. But I fear she must give it willingly.”

“And if she does, you will allow us to leave to seek this…Moth Queen?”

“Just her. No one else.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. She cannot wander the wilds of Loslandia without protection.”

Tora squeezed Ando’s hand, drawing his attention. She pointed to the blade and then shook her head. He understood her meaning. Even if the woman would allow all of them to leave in exchange for the darkblade, she wasn’t willing to give it up. This fact, more than anything else he’d learned thus far, troubled him.

“You must,” he said.

I won’t, she mouthed.

“Tora has a strength beyond what even you can see,” She Who Sees said.

“I know how strong she is,” Ando said.

Their conversation died away as breakfast was served by several of the bare-chested men, passing out tin plates. Each plate had a long, thick rectangle of the cooked egg mixture. They were given no utensils, but none were needed, the wrap easy enough to pick up and bite into using one’s fingers. The inside was soft and flavorful, lumped with the charred meat and peppers. The egg itself was like no egg Ando had ever tasted. It was creamy and sweet, seeming to melt on his tongue before he even considered chewing it.

When their bellies were full, Ando said, “What is your real name?”

“I am known only as She Who Sees.”

“But surely you had a name before you were given that title.”

“That was a long time ago, and I fear my memory is short.”

Ando knew she was lying but pushing her would get him nowhere. He changed the topic. “Tell me about your giants.”

“Giants?” She Who Sees said. Ando’s gaze flicked toward the two, well, giant figures seated with their backs against the door. If they noticed he was talking about them, they gave no outward sign. “Oh, you mean Nob and Ham. They are only quarter giants, the last of their kind. There used to be more like them, but they’ve died off over time. Real giants wouldn’t even be able to squeeze a foot inside this structure.”

Ando raised an eyebrow at that. He thought Nob and Ham were unbelievably large. Even his most wild imagination failed to picture what a true giant would look like. “The Histories state that giants were hunted to extinction during the Godswar,” Ando said. It felt like a fool’s argument considering the evidence sitting only a stone’s throw away.

“Yes, they do,” the woman said, offering nothing more.

Ando steered the conversation in a slightly different direction. “Why are they so loyal to you?”

Her real eyes twinkled while her tattooed eyes continued to stare at him, as though sighting their target. “The same reason your men are loyal to you,” she said.

“And that is…”

“You are someone worthy of their loyalty.” She lowered her voice. “They don’t know you plan to leave Kingfall forever, do they?”

Ando froze, gauging whether any of his men might’ve heard the woman’s words. Most of them were laughing and japing, their moods greatly improved by the good food. Tora, however, met his eyes with a dark stare, her head cocked slightly to the side. Dammit, he thought. This wasn’t how he wanted to tell her. “Plans change,” Ando said.

“I know of a reason you might want to stay,” the woman said.

“Does it matter? You said it yourself: We’ll never leave this place.”

“Probably not,” she said, waving away the notion as though swatting a fly.

Ando gritted his teeth, trying to stave off his curiosity even if he knew she was only baiting him. Failing. “Fine. Tell me the reason I might want to stay,” he said.

“Chrysallis has fallen,” she said.

Though it was clear she knew more, the woman had refused to go into detail about what had happened at Chrysallis, only revealing that Travailian dragonriders had attacked the city and razed it to the ground. She departed shortly thereafter, telling them they were free to wander the area surrounding the structure, though any attempt at escape would be met with harsh punishment.

Ando and his fellow Odinians were stunned by the revelation. A man named Marsh that Ando hadn’t directly served with but who had been captured, like him, at Westport, hung his head and said, “I grew up just north of Chrysallis. Every fortnight we’d ride into the city to sell our harvest—potatoes mostly. I have many fond memories of the Glass City.”

Many of the other men nodded in agreement. Ando understood the sentiment. Though his visits to the Odinian capital city had been limited to those in his official capacity as High Commander, he’d viewed Chrysallis for what it was: a shining symbol of Odinian prosperity. And what of King and Queen Normandian? Were they injured, or worse, dead? The thought made his head hurt. King Normandian had been a kind, gentle ruler who’d entrusted his borders to Ando. Hearing of a direct attack from their neighbors to the southwest made his blood boil and raised an army of questions in his mind. Why would the Travailians start a war with Odin? They’d never seen eye to eye on many matters, but they’d been in partnership for centuries within the Soullands—holding the demon tide at bay. And why now? Just as Teravainen’s intentions toward Odin had seemed to soften under Jarrod Gaard’s rule, now they had an enemy on a new front? It felt like more than bad luck or coincidence.

It felt like fate. His fate, one that continued to stab him in the gut, piercing armor and flesh. Will I ever have peace? he wondered. Or am I fated to fight until my last breath, just as my father did, and his father before him?

Seeking fresh air, Ando slipped outside. The door now stood wide open, one giant positioned inside the structure while the other stood sentinel in the yard beyond. She Who Sees clearly had little fear that her prisoners would try to run; or if they did, she was confident they would be stopped before they got too far.

Ando blinked, wondering if his eyes had fallen victim to a trick of the light.

When he opened them again, the figures were still there, dozens of them.

Children.

Ranging in age from barely-old-enough-to-walk to almost fully grown, the children ran and laughed and played. If not for their unique surroundings, they could’ve been children anywhere in Kingfall. Laughing. Happy. Safe. Peaceful. Carefree. His eyes landed on a group of them playing a game where they used their hands and feet to hit or kick a sackcloth ball tethered to a metal pole that rose until it formed a ring. One of the older children, a tall lanky girl, leapt up and smacked the ball with the flat of her hands. It spun several times around the pole, rotating higher each time, and then sailed through the ring. Half of the children ran to her side, cheering, while the other half looked despondent.

The game started up again, growing more and more heated as the children did battle. Once more, the tall girl got into position and walloped the ball with enough force to rip it from the string tethering it to the pole. The ball sailed toward Ando, bouncing twice before rolling to a stop at his feet. The girl shouted something in what Ando presumed was Loslandian, and then sprinted to retrieve the ball.

By the time she skidded to a stop before him, Ando had already bent down and picked up the ball. She said something to him in her foreign tongue that he took to mean, “Give it here.” She extended her arm, reaching for the ball, palm open.

Ando stared, horrified. An eye imprinted on her palm stared back at him.

He placed the ball into her palm and then she was gone, racing back toward the other children. The ball was reattached to the string and the game resumed as before.

Ando frowned. How long had this group, the Sight, been operating? How many children had been forced to be a part of it? And where were the mothers? Thus far he’d seen only grown men, though the children were a mix of both genders.

He glanced back at the open door into the structure in which they’d passed the night. None of the others had emerged. The quarter-giant—he couldn’t tell if it was Nob or Ham—continued to stand sentinel. She Who Sees had said nothing about whether they could explore the grounds. But she also hadn’t explicitly forbidden it.

Ando said, “I’m going for a walk.” The giant gave no indication that he’d heard or cared, so Ando started off along the edge of the structure so as to not interrupt the children’s game. When he reached the corner, he turned, following the building to the rear. Past its back corner, he spotted other structures rising from the plains. Hundreds of them.

Compared to a major city like Wolfsgaard or Chrysallis, its size would be considered small, but it was a fair bit larger than most of the towns and villages that dotted Odin’s rural countryside. Which meant the eye-tattooed men who’d abducted them comprised a small fraction of She Who Sees’ Followers, a sobering realization.

Even if they managed to escape, they could very well be hunted by an army of men.

Ando tried not to think about that, focusing on the first of the structures, a tall, broad building with three spires rising closely together. At their apex, they curved together to form a circle with a wiry eye created in its center. What appeared to be the front of the structure had a fine columned portico and a grand entranceway framed by two large, oaken doors standing open, almost like an invitation to enter.

Don’t mind if I do, he thought.

After glancing behind him to ensure no one, especially one of the giants, was following him, Ando made his way across the space between the structures and inside. As he passed the open doors, two large eyes stared at him, carved into the wood.

He stopped, taking in the scene. Rows and rows of benches, all occupied by bare-chested men. None had noticed him, all eyes trained forward toward a dais that rose higher than the tops of their heads. Atop the dais was an altar of sorts, printed with the eye of course. Beyond were more depictions of the eye, massive paintings that adorned the walls and, Ando noticed, even the ceiling.

Something moved atop the altar, drawing his attention. A squirming child, arms and legs pinned by four of the men. Something was stuffed in the child’s mouth, a rag perhaps.

Each of the men in the audience raised their right hands in the air, holding something. Ando squinted to discern the nature of the object, recognizing the small glass jars filled with the blood-red liquid that had been given to him and his men to cure their paralysis. As each hand was dropped, the men drank the liquid in a single swallow, bellowing and beating their chests with their left hands. When they’d all drunk, their cries faded away.

Silence reigned until a door at the rear of the space opened and She Who Sees entered. She wore her blue dress, but a crown had been added to her bald scalp. Ando had seen crowns before—those worn by the Odinian royalty as well as King Gaard. They were always ornate and gaudy but sat comfortably on their heads. This was nothing like that. She Who Sees’ crown had an eye in the center, of course, the pupil blue and sparkling, a sapphire perhaps, but the rest of it was all sharp edges, like a collection of tiny daggers forged together. The daggers pierced a ring of skin on her scalp, rivers of blood already streaming down her face and neck as she strode forward to stand before the altar.

“Be still,” she said, voice echoing through the chamber.

Immediately, as though having fallen unconscious, the child lay still. She began to chant in the foreign tongue, and soon the voices of all those assembled joined her, growing louder and louder as she lifted a thin, needlelike dagger, dipping it into a pot of ink resting nearby. She began to cut.

The urge to rush the dais and drag the child away from this horrid woman arose inside Ando, but he fought it off. Whatever ritual he was witnessing, it had happened hundreds upon hundreds of times before he arrived, and it would happen countless times after he departed. Saving one child wouldn’t solve the real problem—that these children never had a choice. They were born in this place, their entire lives dictated to them by the strange beliefs of the tattooed men and the woman they seemed to worship like a queen or a goddess. Not to mention any attempt to save this child would be met with a force outnumbering him a hundred to one.

Still, as She Who Sees continued to carve, he found himself edging forward. You cannot control the whole of the world, he reminded himself. If you could, your family would still be alive. Nor would you have lost a single man on your journey southward. No civilians in Sunsei would’ve been raped or beaten at the hands of the invading Terrans. Tora’s parents would be telling her stories and teaching her things and loving her the way she deserves to be loved.

And then it was over, the chanting stopping so suddenly that the silence seemed to reverberate between Ando’s ears. Blood streaming down her face, She Who Sees lifted the child’s hand to show her followers the eye that had been tattooed on the palm, a mixture of ink and blood. However, the woman’s eyes stared not at the faces of those who worshipped her, but on Ando’s, which was full of undisguised hatred. “Follow me,” she said.

Ando ignored the stares of the men as he walked between them, climbing the steps to the dais and past the altar, eyes lingering on the child—a young girl of not more than nine name days old—for a second before skating past to where She Who Sees disappeared through the same door she’d entered from.

He followed her through, into a sort of antechamber in the rear of the temple, letting the door swing shut behind him. Lanterns provided light from four corners, their haloes meeting in the center, where the woman had fallen to her knees on a large depiction of the eye painted on the floor, her hands clasped together. She’d already removed the crown and set it beside her, tiny tendrils of blood seeping from the edges of its dozens of tiny daggers.

“Why?” was Ando’s only question. At least, for the moment.

“She reached the next level of Sight,” the woman responded, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. Her real eyes were closed, while the rest of those inked on her skin seemed to penetrate him with their sightless stare.

“How many levels are there?”

“Infinite.”

“How does it work? How did you know my name, and the names of my men? How did you know we were coming to Loslandia?” More questions flitted through his mind, but he left it at that for now. He knew he probably wouldn’t like any of the answers anyway.

“Tell me why you hurt,” she said, ignoring all of them.

“No,” Ando growled. “I owe you nothing.”

“I can help you.”

“If you wish to help me, let me and my men leave. I need to take Tora to this…Moth Queen.”

“How do you expect to help her when you haven’t helped yourself?”

The faces of angels, eyes unseeing. “I should kill you now.”

“You won’t.”

Ando stalked forward. “Then you don’t know me. I would do anything to help Tora.” Teeth clenching, he reached for her neck.

“I am unarmed and defenseless.”

His hands closed around her neck. “You have an army outside that door,” he said, starting to squeeze.

“Will…this…ease…your…pain?” she rasped. She still hadn’t tried to fight back or yell for help. Ando hadn’t expected this. He squeezed harder.

Hoping.

Waiting.

For relief.

From the pain. The eternal pain that even now stripped him of breath and drew tears to his eyes and left him shaking as he strangled the many-eyed woman who refused to fight back.

Lifeless, broken bodies, precious hearts no longer beating. Skin cold.

“No!” he shouted, releasing her and throwing himself to the floor, pounding his fists so hard he thought he might punch through it. Instead, his knuckles simply broke open, blood smearing across his skin as he continued to pound, hot tears splashing in the midst of the onslaught.

He heard She Who Sees gasping, retching. “I can…help you,” she said between coughs.

“No one can help me,” Ando said, vision blurred. He stopped pounding, pressing his forehead against the tear- and blood-stained tiles. “I am lost.” This truth might’ve been a falling star crashing into the earth from the very heavens, such was the speed of its unexpected arrival.

“I can remove the pain. I can help you find yourself again.”

“How?” Was he really asking? Yes, he thought. Such is the level of my desperation. I would place my trust in a madwoman.

“There’s an herb that can be taken to forget permanently.”

Ando sobbed. He had wrapped himself in pain for so long he didn’t know what it felt like not to hurt. But was this truly what he wanted? To forget them? Moira, Ollie, Celeste. They’d once been the reason his heart had beat in his chest, his reason for drawing each breath into his lungs. His memories of them were all he had, weren’t they? No, he thought. It hurts too much. The pain is more than I can bear. Oblivion was all he had left. “Do it,” he said.

“We are built on memories,” she said. “To remove them is to remove portions of ourselves, like cutting off an arm or a leg. You will not be the same person you were before.”

“I haven’t been that person for a long time,” Ando said. He wiped away the tears, twisting his head to face her. “Do it.”

“As you wish. Stand and tell me your name.”

Together, they arose, him with his knuckles bleeding and her with dried tracks of blood from the punctures on her scalp. She already knew his name but repeating it wouldn’t harm anything. “Andovier Helm,” he said.

She nodded. “Before I became She Who Sees, I was Meri,” she said.

“Why are you telling me this?” Ando asked.

“Because you will forget my name along with everything else. She turned away, moving to a table laden with pots of different sizes, shapes and colors. “You’re in luck. This was harvested less than a fortnight ago. The leaves are still quite potent.”

Ando said nothing, hating himself as he watched her pluck several dried leaves from the pot and tuck them into a small net attached to a stick. She placed the net into a porcelain cup and then poured water into it. The water was hot, steam curling from the cup as the liquid turned a deep brown. She Who Sees bobbed the net up and down a few times and then removed it. She lifted the cup and turned back to him. “Best to drink it while it’s still hot,” she said.

He took it from her, the noxious smell making him cringe. The heat of the liquid melted through the cup and into his fingers. For all he knew, this could be poison. But would death be any worse than the pain he felt every second of every day? Yes, he’d kept fighting all these months, but not for himself. For his men, for Tora. His own life was forfeit.

As he raised the cup to his lips, she said, “Drink all of it.”

He opened his mouth and drew the foul liquid inside. It was so hot it immediately scalded his tongue, but he didn’t spit it out, relishing the burn as he held it inside his mouth for several long seconds, closing his eyes. I’m sorry I failed you, Moira. I’m sorry I failed our children. I’m sorry I can’t live with your memories anymore. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—

You didn’t fail me, or them, a voice came. His eyes flashed open, instantly blurring with fresh tears when he saw her.

Oh, Moira, he said. You shouldn’t be here.

Neither should you. The man I married, the man I loved, he would not be here.

I am not him. Not anymore.

She stepped forward. He knew she wasn’t real, a memory trying to save him, but she looked so real it stole his breath. She reached forward, cupping his jaw with her hand. To his surprise, he could feel her touch. Oh, Ando, you are him. You have just forgotten. You have lost your way. Let them help you back to the path.

A sob choked him as they appeared, no more than the height of his hips, like bright stars formed into precious children. Celeste! Ollie!

They ran to him, shouting Da! and throwing their little arms around him as he crouched to embrace them. He held them out to look at them, their features as familiar to him as the taste of water upon his lips. We’re scared of the ghosts, Da, Celeste said. Ollie nodded earnestly, adding, Will you protect us?

Ando frowned, trying to understand. Ghostly apparitions tore through his body before disappearing through a stone wall. The wraiths that had emerged from the Infernal Pit, one of which had also appeared in one of his nightmares about his family’s deaths. I don’t know how, he admitted.

But you will try, won’t you?

Gods, how he wanted to take them into his arms again and never let go. He knew he couldn’t, however, not when the forms standing before him, so lifelike, were not real, not really. And yet, he believed their message was. Yes, I will try. I will always try.

As soon as the words had left his mind, his children began to fade. He reached for them, but his hands went through them. He stood to reach for Moira, but she was already gone too. Only the eye-tattooed woman remained, her two real eyes fixed on him with a curious expression.

He opened his mouth and expelled the liquid, spitting several more times to remove as much of the noxious taste from his tongue.

“I can make another cup,” she said. “I’ll let you go if you drink it.”

“No.”

“I won’t let you leave any other way.”

“I understand.”

“Men without a leader are no better than headless chickens.”

“Is that a threat?”

“More like an observation. Guards!”

Almost as though they’d been outside the door just waiting for her barked command, a trio of guards barged in gripping cloth sacks, holding them over their heads threateningly.

“It’s time,” the woman said. “If he tries anything, kill him.”

Twenty-Six

Quill

Lockspell

QUILL HAD STUDIED THE ART OF MAGIC FOR MANY YEARS AT AEROMAND, BUT NEVER LIKE THIS.

For one, they had no staffs nor magenum. “Crippling things,” Megrifir said when Quill asked about how they were supposed to do magic without them. It was the third time he’d asked, his frustration boiling over as he spoke the same simple spell for fire that the mage had used a moment earlier to make a small blaze that sat in the palm of his hand for a moment before he snuffed it out by closing his fist. “After its discovery, magenum has become overused because of how easy it makes magic. It has become a crutch.” ‘Easy’ wouldn’t be the word Quill would choose—it had taken him years of hard work and practice to reach mage, rank 1. Megrifir continued: “Only mages incapable of tapping into the fabric of the world itself must rely on such things.”

“Well, then maybe we’re incapable,” Quill said, glaring at the rat they’d managed to capture and kill. Megrifir had challenged them to make fire to cook the rat, but thus far neither Quill nor Rondo had generated so much as a spark or wisp of smoke.

“Enjoy your raw rat meat then,” Megrifir said.

He stood to leave, but Quill quickly said, “Can’t you just cook it for us this once?”

Megrifir ignored him, departing down one of the corridors. After imparting his words of wisdom, he often did this, disappearing to allow them to practice alone. It was most frustrating.

“I’m starving,” Quill said, hands clutching his empty stomach. The rains had continued, so water hadn’t been a problem, but they would require food soon or they’d grow too weak to even attempt any more magic. The raw rat was looking better and better, even if the thought of biting into it made Quill slightly nauseous.

“Then I suppose we better figure out this spell,” Rondo said.

Quill frowned at his friend. “Why aren’t you complaining? You always hated when you couldn’t get a spell right after several attempts.”

Rondo shrugged. “I’ve never had Megrifir as my teacher,” he said, as if that explained everything. He turned away, repeating the spell for fire every few seconds, staring hard at the palm of his hand.

Maybe it was the hunger, but his friend’s cheeriness in the face of their impossible situation grated on Quill’s nerves. And he swore the dead rat was mocking him, its little mouth curling up into a smile. He picked it up, about to throw it in frustration, when something blazed to life on the edge of his vision.

He turned his head, jaw dropping open when his eyes locked on the flames dancing on Rondo’s hand. The mage’s eyes were as wide as full moons. “I did it!” he said. Just as the words left his lips, the flames vanished. The only evidence they’d been there at all was a tiny curl of smoke rising from his palm. Rondo was grinning like a cat who’d caught a fish out of water. “Gah, why wasn’t Megrifir here to see that?”

“Forget about him. You did that. Now do it again,” Quill said. “I’ll hold the rat.”

Over the course of the next hour or so, Rondo repeatedly generated fire from thin air without a staff. Though each instance was short-lived, the flames guttering and dying mere seconds after they burst to life, the rat’s skin slowly grew crispy and the meat inside warm and then hot.

When the rodent was fully cooked, the pair stared at it, saliva practically dripping from their mouths. All Quill wanted to do was tear into the meat and chew and chew until it was gone. Instead, he handed it to Rondo. “You first.”

Rondo pushed it back toward him. “You came for me. You saved me from those creatures. I insist.”

“No,” Quill said, shaking his head. “Megrifir saved you. I can’t even conjure a wisp of smoke. You made fire out of nothing. You earned the whole thing. It’s barely more than a single bite anyway.”

“You caught the rat. I cooked it. We both earned it.”

How Quill wanted to agree with his friend, even if he only got a mouthful of the meat, which was all he could smell now, the aroma like a drug. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it. “I’ll eat the next one. If you catch it, I’ll cook it. Now tell me how you did that.”

While he watched Rondo chewing, trying not to focus on the drips of grease that slid down his chin, the mage did his best to explain things in between small bites. “It was like I could see the fire before it appeared. Not the flames, but the essence of them. Their heat, the way they moved. They were already living in the air, all I had to do was coax them out. Does that make sense?”

It didn’t. Every time Quill had attempted the same spell, he’d felt like a worthless fool being played a trick on. He hadn’t seen anything at all. “Er, yes, I think so,” he lied. “I’ll keep practicing while you hunt for the next rat.”

“That’s the spirit.” Before departing, Rondo cracked open the bones and sucked out the tiny bit of marrow inside. Then he set off to capture their next meal, a spring in his step.

Quill muttered under his breath. “Okay, it’s time. No more messing around.” He lifted his hand, palm up, staring at the air just above his skin. Trying to see what Rondo had seen, or sense what he had sensed. He thought he detected a slight glimmer in the air—was that a spark?—so he spoke the spell, mustering as much conviction as he could, believing that the fire would appear, that it would burst into life exactly the way it had for Megrifir and Rondo…

Nothing. The air remained empty, his palm pale and cold under the glow of the magelights. He blinked and tried again. And again. Over and over he spoke the spell for fire, a spell he’d mastered years earlier as an acolyte. Or so he thought he had. If he had his staff and even a single drop of magenum he’d have a roaring bonfire blazing within seconds.

Instead, all he achieved was nothing, nothing and more nothing, and then a sharp pain in his hand when he slammed his fist down onto the stonework in frustration.

Of course, Megrifir chose that moment to reappear. Quill waited for the mage to chide him for his failure and lack of patience before instructing him on where he went wrong. That’s what he’d seen his teachers at Aeromand do on many occasions to his fellow acolytes. Never to him. He was always the fastest learner, the one who received nods of respect and words of praise from the mage instructors.

Instead, the old man plopped down beside him and began to speak about something else entirely. “Within magedom, there are six types, based on which style of magic you have a natural proclivity for. Ivory—the art of creation. Magenta—the art of growth. Obsidian—the art of everything beyond the grave. Turquoise—the art of flight and travel. Vermillion—the art of fire. And Viridian—the art of the mind.”

Quill had learned as much on his first day in Aeromand, when he was but a scared boy who’d just set his drunk, abusive father on fire. “Er, I think I may have heard that before,” he said, trying to hide the sarcasm from his voice.

The mage smiled and nodded. “Yes, but that was when you were being taught that a staff and magenum would be used to unlock the power inside you. Now I need you to consider this information through a different lens.”

Quill thought about that, trying to understand. He no longer had his staff to rely on. Nor the clinking vials of magenum tethered to its shaft. ‘Crutches’ as Megrifir had called them. Where did that leave him? With his own natural ability and Megrifir’s instruction to tap into the fabric of the world around him, whatever that meant. He could feel the memory he’d hidden and locked away pulsing deep inside him like the beating heart of a beast, a monster that should not be allowed to exist.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“I think you do.” Quill hated how the mage’s eyes continued to twinkle like they were damn stars while they lounged on a peaceful night under a glittering nightscape. Ever since he was chosen by the Council for the false assignment that was nothing more than a ruse to cover the archmages’ own treachery he’d known no peace. The very beauty seemed to have been sucked from the world, leaving behind a place of ruin and desolation, the culmination of which was the dragonlords’ destruction of Chrysallis.

And yet even that memory he was willing to face head on, replaying it frame by frame in his mind, inspecting it from all angles, considering each choice with an objective eye before deciding that he could’ve acted differently but that the result would’ve been the same or—gods forbid—much, much worse. But that other memory…

He couldn’t face it, not ever again. Setting his father on fire felt almost like a moment of peace compared to his deeper, darker memory.

Megrifir was still staring at him, as if waiting…for something.

“I don’t,” he insisted. “I am a viridian mage, rank 2. Schooled in the art of the mind, yes, but creating fire has always been as easy as speaking a word and drawing magenum into my staff. Early on, I thought I might be a vermillion mage, but was only able to master basic fire spells, nothing more.”

The smile never left Megrifir’s face. It wasn’t condescending exactly. No, it was worse. There was pity in its curves. This man pitied him. Why? What did he know about him, about his past? Megrifir had been locked up for years, decades. Then again, Quill had heard him speak the spell that had broken both his and Rondo’s hallucinations, had heard the power, the conviction, in his tone. He sensed this mage had forgotten more magic over his lifetime than Quill had even learned. “What does rank 2 mean to you?” the mage asked, surprising him once more with his choice of topic.

“It means…” Quill paused, reconsidering the word he’d been about to speak—everything—because it simply wasn’t true, not anymore. Although he felt he’d earned the rank by recovering one of the darkblades and uncovering Cernon’s plot, Cernon had only promoted him to try to buy his silence, before immediately sentencing him to a lifetime in Lockspell. And Quill didn’t…feel…any different. He was still Quill. A prisoner. His hands constantly felt empty without his staff gripped between them. He sighed. “I don’t know what it means,” he admitted.

“Neither do I,” the mage said, chuckling. “Before they locked me up, they called me a mage, rank 7.”

“Weren’t you?”

“They wouldn’t have locked me up if I was,” he said. “No, they saw something in me that was far more powerful than what any of the other rank 7s could boast. Because I understood that the staffs, the magenum, the ranking system itself—these were just ways to control the mages, invisible shackles forcing everyone to march where the Council wanted them to march. I urged them to begin training mages in a different way, the same way I am training you now.”

“Your experiment seems to be failing,” Quill said. “At least with me. Rondo managed to create fire. We cooked the rat.”

“Of course he did,” Megrifir said.

“You smelled it?”

“Well, yes, but I knew he would be the first to succeed from the moment I met you both.”

Quill’s head sagged. “I’m that impressive, huh?”

The old mage reached over and patted his knee, a surprisingly tender act. “Which type of mage do you believe me to be?” he asked.

Quill looked up. “Rondo said you’re a—”

“I didn’t ask what Rondo said. What he said is based on a book written by someone else. I want to know what you believe. What do you see when you look upon my cloak?”

Quill realized he’d become so accustomed to the ever-changing nature of the folds of fabric this man wore that he barely noticed it anymore. He gazed upon the colors once more, his eyes trying to pin them down to the most dominant hue. But every time he thought he saw viridian, or turquoise, or magenta holding steady, the color would change to something else, obsidian or vermillion or ivory. “I see six different colors.”

“I never knew you were colorblind,” Rondo said, having approached without Quill noticing, such was the level of his concentration on Megrifir’s robe. In one hand he held a rather plump rat by its long tail.

Quill frowned. “I’m not. Your robe is clearly pink—”

“Magenta.”

“—while mine is viridian.”

“Then why would you say Megrifir’s robe is six different colors when it’s obviously magenta?”

Quill realized why Rondo was so adamant about the color: because it was the same as his, something he hadn’t considered before, when they’d first discussed the infamous mage. It also explained why Rondo was so eager to be trained by him. Quill looked sharply at the mage’s robe again, squinting, trying to see just the magenta that his friend clearly saw. The color flashed for a moment but then changed, repeating its endless cycle. “That’s not what I see,” he said.

Rondo cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Tell him your robe is magenta, Megrifir.”

Though Rondo had spoken to him, Megrifir’s eyes never left Quill’s. “All you must do is open your eyes and see, truly see, the fabric of the world for what it is. You asked why Rondo was able to create fire while you were not. The answer is that Rondo has faced his demons and emerged victorious. You have not. Until you do, the spells you speak will be nothing but words.”

They were alone again, Megrifir leaving them once more. “You really don’t see his robe as magenta?” Rondo asked. For now, the dead rat lay nearby, temporarily forgotten. For the first time in days, Quill didn’t feel hungry.

“No,” he said.

“That’s so…strange. Do you think he’s messing around with our minds?”

The mage seemed to have an extraordinary amount of power, but Quill hadn’t felt the twist of magic inside his head. Even the most talented, experienced viridian mages couldn’t riffle through another mage’s mind without leaving behind some subtle hints. “I don’t think so.”

“I know you don’t like to talk about…what happened with your da, but I didn’t realize you were still affected by it.”

Quill jammed his eyes shut, trying to fight off other images, ones he’d never told anyone about, not even Rondo. “I’m not,” he said.

“So Megrifir is wrong about you needing to face your demons?”

Quill wished he could say yes. He couldn’t. “He’s not wrong.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Listen, Rondo, there are things about my past that I want to stay there.”

“But Megrifir says you need to—”

“I don’t care what Megrifir says!” Quill snapped.

Rondo flinched back, looking like someone who’d been slapped. “I was just trying to help.”

The air rushed out of Quill’s chest. “I know. I’m sorry. I…” I what? I want to go through life pretending everything is okay, like I always have? I want everyone in the world, including my best friend, to see me as stronger, more capable than I really am when I can’t even face a memory from when I was only five years old?

“It’s fine,” Rondo said.

“No,” Quill said. “It’s not. You’re right. Maybe Megrifir is right too. I don’t know. It’s just that ever since the mages came and took me away, I’ve always looked forward, not back. If I focused on my magic, on my future, then maybe the past wouldn’t matter so much, you know?”

“You’re preaching to a believer,” Rondo said, snorting. “I don’t know why I ever cared about what my family thought of me in the first place. I could achieve mage, rank 7 and they’d still consider me a failure. I guess once I realized that, nothing they’d said to me seemed as important. I can still hear their voices, their hurtful words, but I can laugh them off. I mean, I’ve faced a darkblade and a dragon and lived to tell the tale.”

Quill laughed, wondering why he hadn’t ever thought of things that way. It was a simple truth, but a truth nonetheless. His laughter faded as a key was turned in a lock that he’d never planned to open. Still, he hesitated to lift the chest’s lid. Somewhere in the distance he heard Rondo’s voice—“Quill? Quill?”—but he ignored it, tugging the lid upwards. Aged from time and disuse, the lid stuck, but he fought it with his mind, prying it open with a creak.

He looked inside.

Outside of his mind, he frowned. For inside the chest was another, smaller box, also locked. With a frustrated growl, he stuck a key in the lock and turned, hearing a satisfying click. Again he pried the lid open to find—

Another box. Even smaller. Had these boxes been added over the years or were they always here? he wondered. Rondo’s voice was still there, calling for him, but it grew fainter by the second even as the tone of it became more urgent—“Quill! Quill!”

Deeper and deeper Quill delved, opening each new, smaller box faster than the one before, until he reached the final box, no bigger than the tip of his finger. The key was as tiny as a needle. He opened it…

The box was empty.

A mental sigh rushed through his mind as relief flooded him. What a fool he had been! This entire time he’d been hiding something so small and insignificant it had faded away to nothingness over the years.

Even as relief filled him, a hand shot from the nested chests and grabbed him by the throat, dragging him down, down, down into the darkness.

He awoke to darkness. He listened for a moment, hearing only the still silence of night.

Five-year-old Quill felt afraid. Not of the dark or the night itself, but of what might be out there. He’d only seen the monster once before, about a year ago, but that had been enough. Even through the pane of his grimy window, he’d been able to tell it was large, larger than a bear. Moonslight had illuminated its fangs as the beast had hesitated outside of their small cottage. And then it had looked through his window, right at him. He’d released a small yelp and tumbled backwards onto his behind before scrambling back into bed, pulling the covers over his head. He’d stayed there for a long time, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, when nothing happened, he drew the covers away, half-expecting to see the monster’s face at the window, smiling a bloody, fang-filled smile.

Nothing was framed against the night. He’d crept back to the window, gazing into the yard. It was empty.

He hadn’t slept another wink that night. When the roosters crowed the morning sun forth, young Quill had raced out the front door, skittering to a stop near where he’d seen the monster. The ground was damp and muddy, perfect conditions for holding footprints.

There were none save for those he’d created in his haste across the yard.

For a while he’d questioned what he’d seen. He hadn’t told his mother. He’d kept the image of that hideous creature hidden deep inside himself.

Until now. Now, he knew, the monster had returned. How he knew, he couldn’t say, only that it was an instinct he’d been born with.

All he wanted to do was throw the covers over his head and jam his eyes shut. He didn’t. Maybe it was because a fortnight or so ago he’d had his fifth name day and his mother had told him he was the man of the house now. He’d beamed, not questioning the statement even though he had a father, a man who showed up now and again smelling of sweat, urine and strong drink.

Quill didn’t like the man. He was rough with his mother and always dragged her inside the bedroom before closing the door. Though his mother tried to hide them beneath long-sleeved dresses, he always noticed the bruises that were left in his father’s wake.

“I’m the man of the house now,” he whispered to himself, before standing and padding across the room to the window. He was as quiet as a mouse so as to not awaken his younger siblings, who slept in a single bed together while he had his own. He used a hand to clear a circle in the condensation-blurred glass, peering out into the yard.

Nothing moved. The yard was empty.

Another sound made him flinch, drawing his attention away from the window as the noise had come from behind. He tiptoed back across the room, standing before the door.

Listening, hand hovering over the doorknob. There were voices, muffled through the wooden door. His first thought was: Father has returned. But no, that didn’t feel right. Whenever his father arrived it was like a storm, his slurred shouts thundering through the thin walls. This was different, the speakers’ voices harsh whispers meant to prevent the children from waking up.

Quill opened the door and peered around the corner into the house’s main room, which served as a kitchen and living space. He identified his mother immediately, her hands heavy on a table as she hissed, “You need to leave. Don’t come back. It will only confuse the boy!”

The boy. She could be referring to Quill’s younger brother, but he was only a baby, barely more than a year old. No, he knew she meant him. But why would he be confused?

The other participant in the discussion was a tall man. Though his back was to Quill, he could tell the man was old, his hair long and gray. “He needs to know who, what, he is,” the man said.

“No,” Quill’s mother said. “I won’t hear another word of it. I don’t care who you are.”

“I’m his father.” Those three words pulsed in time with Quill’s heart.

“No, you are not. Not anymore. Not since you left us the day Quill was born. He already has a father.”

“The drunkard who beats you?”

“At least he shows up. You are gone for over a year and then appear out of nowhere?”

“You know I can’t stay,” the man said.

Quill almost stepped out from hiding in that moment, almost blurted out, “Why not?” because if this man was truly his father, he wanted to meet him. Surely if he met Quill he’d change his mind. He could be their father and Quill’s other father could stay away. Then his mother wouldn’t have any bruises to hide.

Something stopped him, his mother’s gaze over the man’s shoulder. How long had she known he was there, watching, listening? “Just leave,” she said bitterly. “And don’t return.”

The man sighed heavily. “As you wish.” He crossed the small space between them, leaning in as if to kiss her, but she backed away.

“Just go!” she said, raising her voice for the first time.

The man slipped around the edge of the table, grasped the doorknob, and pushed out into the night. Quill swore he saw a flash of black fur just before the door closed behind him.

Quill stood, frozen, uncertain whether to slip back into the bedroom or step out of the shadows. In the end, his mother made the choice for him. “Quilly,” she said. “Come here.”

He ran, fists knotting at his sides and tears streaming down his face though he didn’t even completely understand why. He threw himself into her arms, where there was safety from strange men claiming to be his father and monsters in the yard. “Oh, Quilly,” his mother said. “What are we going to do?”

He didn’t know what to say, except, “What do you want to do, Mama?”

“I—I want to forget that man ever existed. I want you to grow up with a father who’s there for you, who loves you. I want you to know you are loved, by me and your brother and sister, if no one else.”

As his mother spoke, Quill’s eyes dried and colors danced through the air before him like thrown streamers. Quill could see the way they interacted, the connections between them beautiful, mesmerizing. They brushed against her hair, dusted her skin, teased her eyelashes, which were now wet with tears.

All Quill wanted was to comfort her the way she comforted him, to give her at least one of the things she desired. To forget the man she’d argued with, the liar who claimed to be his father. “Do you see the pretty colors, Mother?”

A small frown drew lines across her forehead. “Colors?” she said.

“The ones all around us,” Quill said. “Do you see how they dance and play? They are free. I want us to be free, too.”

“Oh, Quill,” she said. “We are. Or we will be. I’m sorry to have worried you, but your only job is to be a child. Mine is to protect you.”

“No. I have another job, too, Mama. Be at peace,” he said, the words flowing from his lips naturally, even as the colors in the air seemed to turn toward him, surprised. He knew them, though his mother didn’t seem aware of them at all. They were all moving at once now, and he knew he was commanding them. Somehow, with his eyes or mind. At first their movements seemed random, but then their collective form began to take shape, curling in arcing whorls on each side, almost like the petals of a flower. The center portion, however, carried none of the grace of a flower, its lines sharp and piercing, the edges of a blade made sharp by a whetstone in preparation for cutting deeply, completely.

“Quill?” his mother said, and he could sense the fear in her tone now. She didn’t understand what he was saying or why, but that was okay. Soon she would be at peace, because of the colors, because of him.

The symbol of the sword flanked by the flower petals clarified, glowing, pulsing. It was ready, his to command. There was meaning in it, meaning he could discern through raw, gods-given instinct, a meaning he now interpreted. “Forget,” he said, though the sound that emerged from his mouth wasn’t in the common tongue, but in some other language, one as ancient as the colors that obeyed his will. “Loriesso.”

His mother’s lips opened to speak, but before she could utter another word the colors stabbed into her forehead and she stiffened, her teeth clamping together. Quill closed his eyes, concentrating.

Images of the stranger he’d seen in their house a few moments earlier swarmed to the forefront of his mind. No, he thought. Not his mind, her mind. He could see what was supposed to be only hers to see. Her memories. This man had made her happy for a brief and fleeting time, and when that time was over, she had a baby, a son. Him. Her smile was real, her words filled with a love that none but a woman who’d carried life inside herself for almost a year could truly understand. “You will be called Quill,” the memory version of his mother said.

The memory version of the stranger loomed over her as she sat rocking the babe. “It’s time for me to go,” he said. “I have lingered too long here already.”

His mother’s smile faded. “What? Why? I don’t understand. Don’t I make you happy? You have a son now.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t make me happy. You did what I needed. That is all.” Quill sensed the lie, but apparently his mother did not.

She stood, her jaw quivering as she fought to control her emotions so as to not wake the sleeping infant in her arms. “Then get out.”

“I will return when I can.”

“Don’t bother.”

Young Quill saw the pain that these images, these memories, continued to cause his mother. He couldn’t abide her pain for a second longer. The knife forged of brilliant pulsing colors flashed across the dark spaces between memories, obeying his every will. Cutting. Removing. Severing.

And when it was over, he opened his eyes to find his mother smiling, her head cocked to the side as she looked upon him. “That’s better” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “I feel better. Why are you out of bed, Quilly?”

“I—” The memories he’d cut from her mind swirled within his own, the tall gray-haired man’s words stabbing, haunting: You don’t make me happy. Though the words had been spoken to his mother, he knew they applied to him as well, otherwise his real father wouldn’t have left him all those years ago. Now, young Quill grabbed those words and the accompanying images, shoving them down as deep as he could, into a chasm that he’d used before, a hole already cluttered with the acts of a drunken, rage-filled man. While his mother looked upon him, waiting for him to explain why he was out of bed, he buried it all.

“I’m thirsty,” he said.

His mother smiled, busying herself as she stoked the dwindling fire to warm him some milk. A few minutes later he was back in bed, under his covers, his belly warm and full. He slept.

He never saw the monster in the yard or the strange man again.

“Quill! Quill!” The shouting of his name was accompanied by hands gripping his robe and shaking him. As his eyes fluttered open, Rondo’s face gradually replaced the memory that had dragged him into the iron box buried deep inside the chasm he’d used to hide it all those years ago as a young, naïve lad of only five name days old.

“I’m…okay,” he managed to say, his lips feeling like they’d been exposed to the sun for too long.

“What happened? We were talking and then you curled up in a ball and started shaking.”

“How long?”

“A few seconds? Maybe ten at the most.”

Gods. It felt as though he’d been trapped in the long-forgotten memory for ages. “I’m fine now.”

“I’m glad, but…” Rondo hesitated, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Your teeth were chattering, but I could understand what you were saying.”

“I spoke?”

“Yes. You said two words: my father.”

Quill looked away from his friend. Ever since he was six and he’d used magic to create fire, he’d believed that was the first time he’d performed magic and that the man who’d been on the receiving end had been his real father. Void, he’d told as much to Rondo a few years after their friendship had begun and he knew he could trust him to secrecy. Now he knew, or at least remembered, the truth—that he’d first used magic a year earlier to cut out the memories of his real father, the stranger. And he’d done it to his mother.

“Quill?”

“Please don’t ask,” Quill said. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

There was concern in Rondo’s eyes. The concern of the only true friend he’d ever had. “Okay,” his friend said. “As long as you’re alright?”

“I am. I think. Or at least I will be. I know what I have to do.”

The days crept along. Every day the priority was catching a few rats for Rondo to cook, the gamey meat a poor man’s meal and yet as satisfying as a feast.

Though Rondo had grown quite adept at creating fire from thin air, that was as far as he’d gotten, much to his frustration. “I’m a magenta mage, I should be able to grow something, right?” he said now. “A flower? A vine? Void, I’d take a weed at this point!”

Quill listened, happy to soak up his friend’s venting, despite the fact that he hadn’t even managed fire yet. It wasn’t for lack of trying; he sat in meditation for hours each day, staring at the air in front of him, searching for something, anything, those floating, dancing colors he’d so easily discerned as a five-year-old boy wanting to comfort his mother.

They escaped him.

“Oh gods, I’m sorry, Quill,” Rondo said. “Here I’m prattling on when you haven’t been able to…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“It’s fine,” Quill said. “Really. Trust me, I get it. You’ve been able to conjure fire, but now you’re stuck. I’m just more stuck. At least you can cook our food for us.”

Rondo, who’d been pacing, slumped down beside him. “I never thought I’d be thinking of rats as ‘food’.”

“No? For all we know it may be a delicacy in some places.”

Rondo’s eyes lit up at the notion. “Lord Beauregard, would you enjoy some melted butter on your stuffed rat?”

Quill smiled but then snapped, “No, Bertram, you damn fool! I take my rat with persimmon and sugar! And cut off that tail, you heathen! I shall use it to flavor my soup.”

Rondo laughed. “I would kill for some persimmon,” he said. “It’s always been my favorite fruit. Though I fear my taste buds have been forever ruined by all the rat we’ve eaten.”

Quill cocked his head to the side. “Persimmon is your favorite fruit? Why didn’t I know that?”

Rondo shrugged. “The magenta mages who grew our food preferred apples and figs. I would know considering I requested persimmon several times only to be met with nothing short of disdain.”

That sounded just like Rondo. He could be as pesky as a gnat and as endearing as a warm blanket from one moment to the next. Quill was almost surprised the magenta mages hadn’t acquiesced just to shut him up. In truth, Quill loved both sides of him even if the former got him into trouble on occasion.

While he was glad for the break from the intensity of hours of concentration that their silly banter provided, he was anxious to get back to work. They still didn’t know how much time they had before the Lockspell guards would notice something was wrong. Even Megrifir admitted he couldn’t hide them forever. Which meant Quill needed to be ready, lest he be a useless hunk of flesh and bone while Rondo could at least conjure fireballs to defend them.

Thus, he returned to his practice, except this time he closed his eyes. Even after he’d unlocked the memories he’d kept hidden for so long, he’d avoided thinking of them. Sometimes they crept up on him just before he slept, or immediately when he awoke, but he quickly chased them away with other thoughts, or light conversation with Rondo.

Now, however, he sought those memories out once more, cycling past the monster in the yard and his mother’s argument with the tall stranger until he reached the spinning, whirling colors in the air. He focused on what it had felt like to connect with them, to have them feel like an extension of himself, an extra appendage perhaps. That feeling was one of control, of seeing and knowing and understanding the mysteries of the universe and having the ability to bend them to his will.

He clung to that feeling even as he opened his eyes, searching the darkness for those flashes of color. Instead, all he saw was gray and black smeared with patches of white from the magelights. And then:

A flash of red, off to the left. He twisted his head hard in the direction of the color, eyes locking on it, excitement rising in him for a split-second before fading just as quickly once he realized the source of the color. Rondo stood staring at the flame he’d conjured on his own palm, the reds and oranges and yellows dancing hypnotically.

Quill sighed, trying not to let the disappointment settle too heavily inside him. “I have time,” he murmured under his breath. He could try again and again and again, as long as it took to find success. “I’ll go catch a rat,” he said, traipsing off toward the hole that held their water supply and drew the rats.

Each day, once the ache in their bellies was satisfied, they would sit with Megrifir for a few minutes so he could impart his years of experience upon them. Quill didn’t tell the mage about what he’d seen in his own memories, but he suspected the man already knew.

Today, the mage had returned to the topic of most interest to Quill. “Everything in our world is connected. One of the rats you see wandering these halls is as near to a moth fluttering through the forests of Loslandia as it is to your hand when you catch it.”

Megrifir had made similar statements before, but that didn’t make them any easier to comprehend. Rondo, in the throes of his always insatiable need to understand everything, asked, “How can something in Mothswood, which is hundreds of miles away, be as near as something that’s close enough to touch?”

“The fire you’ve been able to conjure…,” Megrifir said, “…where do you think it comes from?”

Quill frowned at the odd nature of the question. None of his instructors on Aeromand had ever asked him anything like that. Everything he’d learned to do was spoken of like a skill akin to any other—a warrior learning to use a sword to harm or a blacksmith learning to use a hammer to shape iron. He recited as though reading from a text: “The magenum is bonded to the mage’s natural magical abilities via the requisite spell channeled through the magestaff, spoken with the correct tone and timbre and with conviction.” The latter had been hammered into him more times than he could count, the notion that a spellcaster was only as powerful as the strength of their conviction. Void, that was what had amazed him about Megrifir when they’d first met—his conviction was beyond anything Quill thought was possible.

Now, however, the mage rolled his eyes with plenty of the same conviction. “Is there a hole in your head? Has anything I’ve said over the last several days stayed inside your fool-brained skull? Magenum enhances, that is all. A staff is a tool—”

“Actually you called it a crutch,” Rondo pointed out.

Megrifir offered him a dagger-filled stare and he clamped his mouth shut.

“Tool, crutch, piece of kindling…the label matters not. What matters is that to be a mage is not to be an all-powerful creator of magic like the powers that be at Aeromand would have you believe. To be a mage is to be a thief, plain and simple. The world’s most capable thieves, yes, but thieves all the same. Me, you, Cernon himself. We do not have, and therefore we steal.”

Quill blinked and looked at Rondo, who offered a shrug. This infamous mage clearly had natural ability in spades, but he was also older than dirt, making it possible he’d begun to lose critical parts of his mind, sliding into senility. Comparing mages to common thieves? What sense did that make?

But then Rondo cocked his head to the side, his brows furrowing slightly. Quill had seen that expression on his friend many times; it was what he looked like when his steel trap of a mind was busy sifting through its archives, plucking out relevant information that was seemingly unrelated but which, to him, was as connected as two pieces of rope tied together. Two pieces of rope would become three would become four, and soon he’d have an entire net brimming with the day’s catch of fish—his conclusions.

Rondo’s eyes widened when he completed this internal work, his mouth opening ever so slightly. “By the gods,” he murmured. “We’re no better than thieves lurking in the night.”

Megrifir smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Most mages I’ve met aren’t interested in jewels or gold or possessions of any kind. It’s the power they’re after, the ability to control the world around them.”

Quill didn’t know about that. Cernon obviously fit that profile—and perhaps the rest of the Archmage Council, as it turned out—but the other, regular mages he’d had contact with seemed to view their calling as a noble one, to be used only for the good of Kingfall. But all that was secondary to his continued confusion on another matter. “Can someone please explain to me why we’re thieves now?”

“Not now,” Rondo said. “Always. From the first time we ever used magic and every spell we’ve cast since, we’ve been thieves.”

“So the fire you’ve been conjuring…”

“Stolen,” Rondo said, looking to Megrifir for affirmation. The mage nodded and Rondo continued, speaking faster as things grew clearer in his mind. “We got fire to cook our rat, while some other poor sap’s fire was doused as completely as if a bucket of water had been thrown on it. I didn’t create or conjure, I took from someone else.”

Quill shook his head. Obviously Megrifir believed this theory of mage thievery, but he wasn’t convinced. “If this were true, it would be common knowledge amongst mages.”

“Once it was, a long time ago,” Megrifir said. “But over time and generations hard decisions were made. Mages had too much pride to be viewed through the same lens as common criminals. Can you imagine? Every time a fire went out, people would complain about the mage thieves at work again, even if it had just been the wind, or a patch of wet wood. The blame wouldn’t end there. Any mishap, any theft, any problem would raise cries of anger against all of magedom. Rather than being raised on a pedestal shrouded in reverence, mages would be hated, despised, hunted, imprisoned or even killed.”

Quill was still struggling to wrap his head around the concept. If it were true, what the mages had managed to do was erase reality and build the greatest conspiracy the world had ever known. That was far too huge a thing for his brain to grasp, so he focused on the mechanics. “So when the ivory mages at Chrysallis—” he swallowed a lump in his throat at the memory of the destruction he’d witnessed in the Odinian capital city “—created spires of glass, where did the glass come from? Surely someone would have noticed if entire windows went missing.”

“Bits and pieces from all over the world,” Megrifir explained. “You are right that someone would notice if an entire glass pane disappeared, but if one window cracks and a shard falls out, it’s just a stroke of bad luck. When they bend down to collect the broken shard only to come up empty, they might frown and wonder for a few seconds where it disappeared to, but then they will rationalize the event. A disappearing glass shard? No, more likely it landed, slid and went down a hole or under a piece of furniture. They’ll find it eventually. Only they never do, and soon they forget about it.”

“I created a shield to protect us when the walls were coming down,” Quill said. “Who did I steal that from?”

“I’m guessing you used a basic orb shield spell?” Megrifir didn’t wait for him to respond before continuing. “For that you are taking common daylight and imbuing it with steel. The daylight could’ve come from anywhere; perhaps someone was reading a book, the pages lit by rays of sun filtering through a window. Suddenly their page grows dim and they have to lean closer and squint to make out the words. A passing cloud, of course, their brain tells them. If they’d only looked outside, they’d have found the sky as blue as a robin’s egg.”

“And the steel?” Quill pushed.

Megrifir shrugged. “From some armory in some place, perhaps. The next time the Master of Arms took inventory he would find a small discrepancy—one missing shield—and would puzzle over the difference for a day or two before chalking it up to a recordkeeping error. Life would go on.”

“That’s horrible,” Rondo said.

“Perhaps. But what if the mage uses their magic for good? To save a life? To ease someone’s suffering? Is it still horrible? They are still taking something that doesn’t belong to them without asking, but they’re doing it for the right reasons.”

Rondo’s head hung. He looked…shattered, like his entire world had been flipped upside down.

Quill understood that, but he wasn’t ready to buy what the mage was selling. Thus far, he’d been citing examples that weren’t particularly bothersome to him. Stealing glass and shields and fire wasn’t a good thing, but they felt mundane next to more serious spells. Spells that were the core of obsidian and viridian mages’ magic. He started with something he was curious about, but which didn’t matter as much to him on a personal level. “The hallucinations of the mages in Lockspell,” he said. “They are stolen nightmares, right?”

“Very good,” Megrifir said. Though he’d complimented Quill on his logic, his lips didn’t curl, his eyes locked on Quill’s.

He breathed through his nose. “What about memories?” Quill asked.

The mage didn’t blink as he said, “Can you be more specific?”

“What if, hypothetically speaking, a mage took someone’s memory?”

Quill kept his eyes trained on Megrifir, but on the edge of his vision he saw Rondo frown. “Why would a mage do that?” he asked.

Quill glanced at him. “Many reasons. If someone saw something they shouldn’t have, or something traumatic. Taking their memory might ease their suffering or make their life happier.”

Rondo shook his head. “I still don’t think that would be right. A person’s memory makes them who they are. Taking pieces of it would be like cutting off pieces of them—fingers and toes, an ear, an eye.”

Quill understood why his friend felt this way. His incredible memory was one of his greatest talents, so it was natural that he would be protective of it. Quill was forced to shrug off his questions. “It’s just a hypothetical.”

Rondo didn’t back off. “Is that what viridian mages are taught to do?” he said, a sharp edge creeping into his tone.

“Among other things,” Quill said.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Quill was getting annoyed. All he wanted was a chance for Megrifir to answer his question, because he needed to know before he screamed. It’s not like it was his fault that they’d been lied to from the moment they stepped foot on the Isle of Mages. “Did you tell me about every type of plant you learned to grow?” he retorted.

“That’s different, and you know it,” Rondo said. He slumped back, silent once more.

Quill had argued with his friend before, but he never enjoyed it. He would try to make it up to him later, but now was his chance to get the answer he needed. He turned back to Megrifir, who’d been watching the exchange with interest. Megrifir said, “A memory that someone else had lost would be restored to them.”

Quill breathed quietly, considering this. “Like if someone forgot that they’d stubbed their toe a year ago, they might suddenly remember?”

“Not likely. The memory that is restored would be commensurate to the memory erased.”

“Commensurate how?”

“That depends on the nature of the memory taken, but generally the emotion associated with the memory would be equivalent.”

The memories he’d taken from his mother all those years ago cycled through his head. He felt her emotions, the weight of them. Love, happiness, anger, regret, pain. How many others had to suffer so she could gain relief? Yes, perhaps some aging old woman who’d forgotten things from her past had been showered with loving and happy memories, but were there others who’d been forced to relive painful memories they’d hoped to forget forever?

Though Rondo was still sulking, his desire for knowledge was stronger. “Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t we create something from nothing?” Quill suspected he was thinking about the plants he and his other magenta mages had grown during their studies at Aeromand. How many farmers had been deprived of their hard-earned crops so a bunch of ignorant mages could play with their spells?

“Our world has always sat upon a knife’s edge,” Megrifir said. “All we have is balance to keep us from tipping one way or the other. Spellcraft relies on this balance. Something can’t be given unless something else is taken.”

Afterwards, Megrifir left them to practice, as he always did after providing instruction. Neither Quill nor Rondo knew where the mage went during his walks. Neither of them asked and the man never offered.

Normally, he and Rondo would discuss some of the things Megrifir had told them, working together to enhance their collective understanding. Today, however, Rondo turned away from Quill until all he could see was his back.

“Rondo,” Quill said.

No response. His friend sat, unmoving, one finger tracing circles on the dusty floor.

Quill filled the void of silence. “I’m sorry I was short with you before,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to make light of your concerns.”

“Concerns?” Rondo scoffed. “That’s underselling how I feel by a wide margin. It’s like you weren’t even listening.”

“I’m listening now.”

Rondo spun back around to face him. “How are we supposed to live with ourselves now that we know what we know? I mean, I can just stop doing magic, but then we would starve. But why should I take someone else’s fire? Do I need it more than another? What if someone traveling in a bleak wilderness struggled to get a fire going for two days? Then, on the brink of freezing to death, they managed to get a spark, which grows into a life-giving fire. Just as they are starting to melt the ice in their bones, the fire vanishes without reason or logic. Because I took it to cook a measly rat with hardly any meat on its bones. Do I deserve to live while this other person dies?”

“If you’re asking me, I will always say yes, because you are my friend and the traveler is a stranger to me. Plus, what if all you did was take a flame from a single candle that can easily be relit with a bit of flint and a stone? You get to fill your belly while whoever you took the flame from merely has to take a moment to relight their candle? Why should you perish just so as to not inconvenience someone?”

“I’m not surprised that’s your answer considering you think it’s alright to steal someone’s memories.”

Rondo started to turn away again, but Quill hurriedly said, “Wait,” and his friend stopped, half-turning back. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the memory thing. You’re right. It’s not okay to do that to someone, at least not without their permission.”

“But you know how to do it?” Quill nodded, his heart skipping a beat. Just leave it at that. Please, he thought. “Then that means you’ve done it before?”

“Not in real life. We practiced in class on each other, using meaningless memories. One of us would step on someone’s toe and then use magic to erase the memory of the event. They couldn’t remember why their foot hurt, that sort of thing.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t know if one of your classmates took more than that single memory, because you wouldn’t remember it. For all you know, they took entire pieces of your past.”

Quill frowned. He’d never thought of that. During the exercise, they’d been told to focus on the single memory they were instructed to remove, so that’s what he’d done. But what if one of his fellow acolytes hadn’t been so obedient or focused. “You’re right. It was a foolish and dangerous exercise. I can only hope nothing else was taken from me.”

“So other than while studying in Aeromand, you’ve never taken someone’s memory?”

Quill wished it were as easy as shaking his head, a tiny lie that wouldn’t hurt anyone. Rondo would believe him, of course he would. But Quill couldn’t live with himself if he lied to the one friend who’d always been faithful and honest to him. “I did, once,” he admitted. “A long time ago.”

Rondo frowned, trying to make sense of the timeframe that would be required for both of those statements to be true simultaneously. “When you first came to Aeromand?”

Quill shook his head. “No, before.”

Rondo’s eyes narrowed further. “But I thought that before Aeromand the only time you’d ever done magic was when you set your bastard of a father on fire?”

“I—I thought so too,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I was a child. I didn’t even know what magic was, I just knew that my mother didn’t want to remember, and so I helped her. Or at least I thought I did.”

Rondo stared at him. His expression held no judgment, only compassion. “These are the demons Megrifir spoke of?” Quill nodded. “And have you conquered them?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means facing them. It means not allowing them to control any aspect of your life.”

“How?”

“If you tell me exactly what happened, maybe I can help you.”

Quill hesitated only a second before making a decision. He told him everything.

When Quill finished his tale, Rondo immediately said, “You have to find your real father.”

“What? Why? No, he left me. He left my mother. He’s never been a father to me. I don’t need him.”

“Exactly. That’s why you need to find him. To tell him that. To let him know that his failures only made you stronger. To look him in the eye and tell him that you rose above his abandonment.”

“And that will…”

“Give you closure,” Rondo said. “Allow you to move on. Trust me, I know a bit about this, that’s why I was so easily able to create fire the first time.” Rondo winced as he was probably reminded that he hadn’t technically created fire but stolen it.

“But you never faced your family. You haven’t seen them in years.”

“No, but I did write them a letter.”

This was news to Quill. Rondo had spoken about wanting to write a letter for years now, but each time he put quill to parchment he ended up throwing the letter into the fire. “When?”

“During the return trip to Aeromand. I had the letter sent along with the ones to each kingdom.”

“What if the letter never made it to them?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rondo said. “I said what I need to say. I don’t plan to ever see them again, but if I do, I can recite my letter word for word.” He tapped his head with one finger.

“Then that’s all I need to do? Write a letter and conquer my demons?”

“Your situation is…different. You never even met your father. I think you need to face him.”

“Great advice. I’d love to take it on, but there’s this tiny matter of being locked in a magical prison from which no one has ever escaped. Except for maybe Megrifir, although I’m beginning to doubt that too.”

“Good point,” Rondo said.

“I thought so.” Quill sighed. “Does that mean there’s no hope for me to ever perform magic again?”

“Do you want to, knowing what we know now?”

“Do you?” Quill asked.

“You’re deflecting.”

“Like a damn mirror,” Quill said, smiling.

Rondo smiled back. “The truth,” he said. “Yes, I still want to do magic. It’s part of who I am now. But I also can’t ignore what Megrifir told us. Every spell we cast will impact a stranger in ways we won’t be able to control, so we can’t use magic frivolously.”

“Agreed,” Quill said, glad the tension between them had vanished in the wake of honesty. “Though I don’t think that will be a problem for me. I can’t even get a spark.”

“The Lockspell guards don’t seem to be aware of us yet,” Rondo pointed out. “There’s still time, so you’d better get practicing.”

As it turned out, Rondo was wrong about that. For invisible to them both had been the sands of the hourglass pushing through a narrow canal separating the present from the future, filling the base until only a few grains remained clinging to the precipice.

Those grains fell, now, obliterating what was left of the time they thought they had, the future arriving on the dark wings of a night hunter, scything unseen through a midnight world. They fell in the form of Megrifir’s harried strides as he raced back into the domed space. The mage stopped, eyes alight with the glow of the magelights. “They’re coming,” he said.

Twenty-Seven

Peony Normandian

Forlorn, Travail

PEONY STRODE FROM THE TUNNEL AND INTO THE LIGHT. Though it had been several days, based on the position of the sun she’d emerged around the same time of day that she’d entered. A strange coincidence, she thought.

What are you going on about? Daneus asked in his rumbling voice.

You’re being very laid back about all this, she said. Where are the others? Do you think they’re going to kill me? She knew disappearing for days only to reappear as though nothing had happened wasn’t going to win her any points with Star, who already disliked her.

I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Daneus.

Yes, Peony?

Be serious.

I am, I swear it! Why are you so concerned? If you hurry, you still might be able to make it to the top of the boulder tower before they finish up with Pa Stormy. I heard some shouting and threatening—mostly by Star on both counts—but recently things have become more…civil.

Peony had just clambered from the rocky beach back up the rise, but now she stopped cold. Daneus was still beside the other two dragons on the outskirts of town. Brutus and Starrus were fast asleep, while Daneus was alert and staring in her direction, long sinuous neck rising high above the nearby structures. They’re still up there? she asked, though she needn’t have. As she craned her head back and turned, three silhouettes were backlit against the sky.

Of course they are, Daneus said. Why wouldn’t they be?

Because I’ve been gone so long, Peony said.

Personally I wouldn’t call a few minutes ‘long’, but to each her own, I suppose…

A few minutes, Peony thought. No, that can’t be. She’d been gone for days, at the least. She’d slept for hours, trained for hours. Are you saying it’s the same day as when you lost your connection to me?

Of course. Had it been much longer I would’ve torn apart the rock pile looking for you. A queer thing, it was. To be so close in proximity and yet feel as though we were a world apart. How do you suppose that happened anyway? Does this Pa Stormy fella have some strange magic we don’t know about?

Peony shook her head, baffled. Then she opened her mind, her memories, up to Daneus, a flood of images cycling between them from what Peony had experienced while their connection had been broken.

I—I don’t understand, the dragon said.

Neither do I, and I’m the one who experienced it, Peony said. Some sort of time twist. In there, several days passed. Out here, a few minutes.

Are you…okay? Daneus asked.

The question and the sincerity behind it made Peony forget about Star and Brute and Pa Stormy as she took off at a full run, galloping across the coastal plains, throwing her arms against a tiny portion of Daneus’s broad neck as he lowered it to the ground. She rubbed her cheek against his scales—her real cheek, pale and freckled and free of dye. Then she kissed him with lips she’d once been embarrassed about because of the unusual cleft she’d been born with. Compared to having a dragon who loved and cared about her, who asked if she was okay before worrying about anything else, the cleft felt like such an insignificant thing. “I love you,” she said aloud.

Careful not to say that too loud, the dragon said. You don’t want it getting back to Dane. He’s not usually the jealous type, but I could see him making an exception in this case.

Peony slapped his scales fondly and then turned back toward the boulder pile, squinting as she realized there was only one silhouette upon the precipice now, that of Pa Stormy, his hands once more stretched toward the heavens. As she searched the rock pile’s flanks, she spotted Star and Brutus climbing quickly toward the base. They dropped the last several feet from the top of the final boulder to the ground, and then hurried toward her.

“Thanks for coming up to meet us,” Star said as she approached.

Peony considered trying to explain what had happened but decided against it. Something about her experience felt almost…sacred, something to be shared between her and the brightblade.

And me? Daneus said.

And you. Always you.

THE TRIUMPHANT TRIO, her blade said.

Peony liked the sound of that, but they weren’t triumphant yet. Far from it.

She turned her attention back to Star, who was scowling, and Brute, who was red-faced and gasping from the effort of climbing up and then back down the rock pile. “Just tell me what happened,” Peony said.

Star held up a book. Well, actually, to call it a ‘book’ was being generous. Back in Chrysallis, Peony had a fine bookshelf constructed of polished and lacquered walnut, as sturdy as a fortress as it held dozens upon dozens of books. Though Peony was known to dog-ear the pages of most of the volumes, the rest of the time she treated them with the utmost care, their covers worn from use but not scuffed or broken, their pages crisp and free of stains. Their bindings were flexible from the act of opening and closing them, but not cracked or damaged.

The ‘book’ Star was holding wasn’t any of these things. It’s spine, if you could call it that, was so floppy it wouldn’t have given a rabbit’s ear a good contest at standing erect. The cover was a patchwork mess, old and frayed along the edges, dirty and chafed across the front. The pages—what she could see of them anyway—were stuffed in a mad jumble between the covers, yellowing corners and edges sticking out at odd angles rather than aligned as a well-bound book should be.

“He gave that to you?” Peony asked.

“He required some convincing,” Star said.

“I helped with that.” Brute offered with a big, toothy smile.

“What’s inside?” Peony asked.

Star handed the book her way and Peony took it, fingers feeling the edges of the title etched into the cover. “The History of Travail,” she read aloud.

“And a dark and bloody one it is,” Star said. “We read something like this growing up as part of our dragonrider training, but a portion of it was missing. Pa Stormy has added the grisliest parts back in.”

Peony opened the book carefully, half-afraid it would fall apart or turn to dust in her hands. The first couple hundred pages were written in neat, mundane handwriting on paper in decent condition, each glued into what was left of the broken spine. Though the intellectual side of her protested, she scanned past chapters about the finding of the first dragon’s egg, the discovery of the dragon-dragonrider bond, the establishment of the dragonlords as protectors of Travail and the ascension of the first dragonmaster and dragonmistress. As she flipped through the pages, her fingers naturally stopped at the first cockeyed page that seemed to have been inserted into the book, added after it had already been bound together. The page was crooked but locked firmly in place by some sort of sticky, gluelike substance that had applied to its inner edge before it was shoved haphazardly between the bound pages. At least a dozen more similarly glued pages followed, each in a slightly different position than the one before and after, giving the book a ruffled look when closed. Someone added these in a hurry, Peony thought, scanning the contents. Words were scrawled on the pages, not in neat lines using a ruler which was the method most scholars and historians preferred, but in mad jumbles that meandered between hasty sketches of dragons and riders. Most of the ink used was black, but there were splashes of red. The color may have once been bright and bold, like fresh blood, but had faded to a darker red that had flecked off in numerous spots, leaving the depictions looking unfinished.

They were gruesome. Here, a dragon with a severed head. There, a burnt dragon’s corpse, scorched scales clinging to its long skeleton. The final page illustrated a new creature, humanoid but winged and scaled, rising into the sky as flames shot from his mouth.

“We were wrong?” Peony said, feeling dazed and horrified. They’d come here to disprove Drudge’s lies about the horrific rituals he was performing being founded in history. “I can’t believe we were wrong.”

“We weren’t,” Star said. “The pictures only tell half the tale. Read the words. We were right.”

Peony flipped back to the beginning, took a deep breath, and began to read.

Hundreds of years before the gods claimed Kingfall for their home and drew the ire of Erif Mirg and his Thousands, dragons and their riders lived in relative peace in what had been known for centuries as Travail, a desolate land left alone by neighboring peoples. Despite the barren landscape, the Travailians thrived, learning to grow sturdy vegetables that thrived in the hot, arid climate—beans, peppers, cucumber, eggplant, bitter melon, squash and pumpkin.

All was well. Until the year 692 B.W., almost six centuries before the start of the Godswar, when a strange disease ravaged Travail. The disease, which came to be known as dragonsbane, didn’t afflict humans but their dragons, wiping out half their population in mere weeks and threatening the longevity of the race.

When the current dragonmaster’s own dragon became ill, the dragonlords grew desperate, so they sent messengers far and wide, seeking help. A mage claimed he could help. He couldn’t cure the disease, or save the dragons’ lives, but he could save their souls, or so he claimed. He taught the dragonmaster a ritual to be performed when a dragon was close to death. The ritual would secure the dragon’s spirit, drawing it inside its rider via the strength of the bond between them, while also offering the suffering dragon the gift of a swift death.

The dragonmaster couldn’t bear the thought of losing his dragon forever, so he completed the ritual, transforming into something other, a crossbreed of sorts. He hadn’t murdered his dragon, which was already on death’s doorstep, but claimed his dragon’s spirit remained alive inside him.

Strangely, soon after he’d completed the ritual, the disease vanished, leaving the surviving dragons hale and healthy once more. Life continued on. In the days that followed, the dragonless dragonmaster, now scaled and winged and bearing the ability to breathe fire, became more and more reclusive, disappearing inside his cave for days, refusing to emerge even when there were significant decisions to be made. And when he did emerge from his solitude, he was often found wandering or flying by himself, muttering under his breath.

One day, he vanished. He’d last been seen heading south on his own, but no one had spied his return. The hierarchy was thrown into chaos, but when weeks passed, he was eventually replaced by his son. Things returned to normal.

But then dragonriders and their dragons began disappearing. At first it was just one—a strange mystery, but not a crisis. Then another vanished. And another. When three pairs of riders and dragons were lost within a week’s time, the dragonmaster organized the dragonlords into search parties, scouring all of Travail.

They found the missing dragonriders in the Soullands. By the time they discovered them, the dragons were already dead, murdered while completing the ritual taught to them by the mage, which they now called the Path of Storms. The riders had transformed into something other.

And leading them was none other than the former dragonmaster, the first to complete the ritual.

The old dragonmaster’s son, the new dragonmaster, was distraught. He sought to reason with his father, but he was too far gone already, convinced that the ritual was meant to be, that only through its power could the True Bonding be completed, each rider-dragon pair becoming one as they fulfilled their Transformation.

It broke his heart, for he still loved his father, but the new dragonmaster had taken an oath to protect Travail and their customs. He prepared for war against the rogue group of riders.

It was over swiftly, the transformed half-human, half-dragons greatly outnumbered. Those who’d witnessed what had transpired pledged an oath of secrecy; each would take what they knew to the grave so this part of Travail’s dark history would be lost forever.

“How does Pa Stormy know about any of this?” Peony asked when she’d finished reading.

“If he is to be believed, Pa Stormy’s ancestor was amongst those who swore an oath of secrecy, but he lied. He wrote everything down. It has been passed down in secret within his family, from generation to generation, each dragonrider swearing their own oath to protect the information with their lives. I tend to believe him as he was prepared to throw himself off the cliff rather than give us this book.”

“What changed his mind?” Peony asked.

“I told him the truth,” Star said. “The truth about what is happening at Dragonsmount. I think he realized that his family has kept the truth secret for all these years for this very purpose.”

“But that makes no sense,” Peony said. “Drudge had to learn about the ritual from someone, and if the only living person who knew about the true history was Pa Stormy, then he must’ve been the one who told him.”

There may have been others, Daneus said.

Peony frowned, her mind ticking over the facts, recounting the order in which the story had unfolded in reverse, going back to the beginning. She froze. “The mage,” she murmured.

“It’s the only way,” Brute said. “Pa Stormy is missing most of his marbles, but he struck me as genuine. But if the mage who taught the dragonmaster the ritual knew, surely there were others too.”

Other mages, Peony thought, her hands clenching into fists. After her experience in Sunsei, Peony’s opinion of those trained and deployed by Aeromand had soured, but she never expected this level of treachery. Quill and Rondo had saved her brother’s life. They’d promised to petition the Archmage Council to intervene in Travail, to condemn Drudge’s heinous actions as unlawful. But what if Quill didn’t know the full truth? What if he’d been silenced? Or worse, what if he was a coconspirator the whole time? She discarded the latter thought out of hand, because Quill wouldn’t have protected her brother if he’d been in on the scheme. Now, she feared for what had happened to him and Rondo when they’d returned to Aeromand.

No, the true culprit behind it all was Cernon, maybe even the entire Archmage Council. Any hope of support from the Isle of Mages vanished under the weight of Peony’s logic. “We’re on our own,” she said. “We need to spread the truth amongst the riders before Drudge’s followers grow too strong.”

Bile rose in Peony’s throat, bitter and thin. She swallowed it back down, lips trembling.

They were back at Dragonsmount, their dragons hidden away while they approached stealthily on foot.

The field before them was littered with scorched dragon bones. No fewer than twenty dragon heads lay sightless on the ground, severed from their long, muscled corpses, once stoic and powerful.

“Did we do the right thing in leaving?” Star asked. There was no anger in her tone, just a hollowness that proved the genuineness of her question.

Peony said, “Yes. This would’ve happened no matter what we did. Now we can stop more dragons from being murdered.” Even to her own ears, she heard the lack of conviction in her words.

Brute lifted a fist to his lips and then blew, opening his fingers and moving them from side to side as he moved his hand outward. Star and Peony did the same, honoring the fallen dragons in the only way they could. Several moments passed in silence, a cool wind dusting the land ahead of a storm gathering over the sea to the west.

“We’ll need to seek shelter, ride out the storm,” Star said.

“No,” Peony said. “We won’t. Tonight the storm is our ally.”

Star frowned, curiosity tightening her expression. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning I need your help. You know the dragonriders far better than me. Now tell me, who can we count on as allies?”

As night fell and the wind whipped and swirled in gusts and eddies, they made their approach on dragonback. Typically, Dragonsmount would be patrolled by dragonriders on their mounts, but the time during a major storm was the one exception.

For good reason, Peony thought as the rain began to fall in sideways waves that pelted her hard enough to sting. This was only the beginning, which meant things were about to get a whole lot worse; they needed to reach Dragonsmount and find a place to shelter, preferably somewhere that they wouldn’t end up with a blade stuck to their throats.

Peony worried about the book getting soaked through. She’d wrapped Pa Stormy’s book in thick leather material they’d scavenged from the Soullands and secreted it beneath her riding leathers for safekeeping. Her leathers were waterproof, but even now she could feel the rainwater cascading down her neck in rivulets, worming its way beneath her clothing. She shivered.

Don’t think about that now, Daneus said. We need to hurry or there won’t be anything left of any of you, much less the book.

I’m sorry for putting you in danger. Will you be all right?

Hoom. Of course, Daneus said. Dragons are made of tougher stuff than humans. We will find a place to protect ourselves after you are off.

Starrus was leading them, her lithe form just a blur, almost like a trail of smoke, as she darted through the downpour. Brutus’s bulky form gave chase, long spiked tail whipping from side to side in his wake. Daneus was third in line, his head switching from side to side as he scanned the cloud-devoured skies for any signs of danger.

Before departing for Dragonsmount, they’d worked together to make a list of dragonriders they believed would join their cause. Given Peony’s lack of knowledge of most of the dragonriders and their histories, she’d mostly sat idle while Star and Brutus had debated. While they’d agreed on the first five dragonriders for the list, things had become rather dicey from that point on. This scared Peony quite a lot. What if they made the mistake of trying to recruit a dragonrider who’d already fully committed to Drudge’s rule, or worse, already walked the so-called Path of Storms, transforming into a monster? If so, their gambit could unravel before it had really gotten started.

You’re overthinking things again, Daneus said. He half-turned his head so that one eye could gaze back at her. In the distance, red lightning zigzagged downward from the sky.

Well, I would hate to underthink things, Peony retorted.

All I mean is that sometimes you need to take a leap of faith and hope for the best.

Sometimes I think that’s all I’m ever doing these days, Peony said. Just once I wouldn’t mind if things went according to plan.

Sounds boring, Daneus said, which caused a surprised laugh to slip from Peony’s lips. Rainwater drained into her mouth and she threw her head back to drink freely. In a way, the dragon was right. Her life back in Chrysallis had been boring. Every day was scripted, and nothing ever seemed to go off course. Not until the day Dane’s letter arrived, stamped with the dragon seal. Since then, the script of her life had been soaked, struck by lightning, pierced by sword and arrow, and burned to a crisp by dragonfire.

Not necessarily in that order, Peony clarified for Daneus’s sake.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way, the dragon said.

I might have it a different way, but I don’t mind the excitement. I just wish…

Dane was here, Daneus finished. I know. Me too.

More bolts of lightning stabbed down from the heavens. The heart of the storm was about to make landfall, which meant they were running low on time. Daneus slowed his flight as Dragonsmount suddenly loomed out of the storm just ahead. Starrus had already alighted at its precipice, Brutus landing just beside her. Daneus completed the trio, each rider dismounting hurriedly. Their boots splashed into the puddles that formed in small crevices that overflowed and then created thousands of tiny waterfalls that tumbled off the cliff face and into the wind-churned waves of the Bay of Sighs.

Without another word, the dragons launched themselves back into the sky, disappearing into the storm.

“Come on,” Star said, raising her voice to be heard over the pounding rain. “The first cave isn’t far.”

She started off, as surefooted as always despite the slickness of the path. Brute gave chase more slowly, picking his way down the path, occasionally using a hand to steady himself. Peony hesitated just a moment, wondering how many more memories she would create on this mount. Thus far, she’d experienced excitement (the first time she’d landed here and assumed brightform), love (her Bonding Day), sadness and grief (Lei’s funeral), and passion (when Dane had returned to her).

Countless more, Daneus said, snapping her out of her reverie. Now you need to hurry.

Peony strode forward, the rain and wind shoving her from behind as it blew off the face of the sea. Be ready, she said.

I AM, her blade said.

She easily caught up to Brute, who was forced to slide on his backside down the steepest portion of the slope, which led to the uppermost cave. Just ahead, Star waited for them at the bottom. Peony danced past the larger man and stopped by Star’s side. Every instinct told her not to look at the darkened cave mouth because it would be too painful. The short time she’d spent living there with Dane had been some of the most wonderful days of her life. Now, they assumed, Drudge had taken the cave for his own. If he was inside, he was asleep—no telltale light shone from within.

What do you have to fear from a cave mouth? Daneus asked.

Memories, Peony said.

There are memories of the past everywhere if you know how to look for them. Facing them will set you free.

Peony sensed wisdom in the dragon’s words, but still she didn’t look. She wasn’t ready. She might not ever be.

With considerable huffing and puffing, Brute caught up. Star gestured ahead and then raised three fingers. Their first target was the third cave they would reach from this point. Peony had memorized the order of the names on their list. The first rider’s name was Skye. She’d been a strong ally of Dane’s from the beginning, her mother—also a dragonrider—part of Dane’s father’s inner circle when he’d been dragonmaster.

The first cave appeared on the right. Orange light flickered from within until it met the rainfall. There it wavered, battling the rain for position only to reach a stalemate on the cave’s doorstep.

Star peeked around the edge of the rock. She glanced back at Brute and Peony and nodded. The coast was clear. She raised one finger, then two, and finally the third, darting out from cover and slipping past the cave. Any sound her footfalls might’ve made was swallowed by the storm. Peony snuck past next, then Brute. The big man was almost to the safety of the shadows when he kicked a stone. Hard. It skipped across the hard ground, glanced off the side of the cave mouth at enough of an angle to send it skittering inside the short tunnel leading into the cave.

Brute froze, his dark form highlighted against the firelight glowing behind him.

“Fool!” Star hissed, shooting out from the safety of the shadows and grabbing him by the arm. Together, they dove for cover, landing in a heap beside where Peony still stood, back to the wall. Star roped an arm around Brute, covering his mouth as the threesome breathed as silently as possible, rain sloughing off the rocks and splattering onto their heads and shoulders.

Footsteps echoed from inside the cave. A form emerged into the light, eyes narrowing as it peered into the darkness.

Peony had seen this form before, but from a distance. Up close, it took all her will not to recoil. Dragonrider Morticia’s cheekbones had become more angular, sharper. The bones of her forehead now protruded, forming a ‘V’ between her brows. Peony remembered the woman when she had a thick nest of hair atop her head. No more. Now, scales glistened on the surface of her face and head. Scales that descended the length of her neck before disappearing beneath her leathers. Her fingers curled slightly at the end of her scaled arms, culminating in claws. Twin humps that Peony knew to be wings rose just above the set of her shoulders. And when a low growl emerged from the back of her throat, so did a few flames, roiling around her lips without burning them.

Everything about this…creature…felt unnatural.

Morticia took another step forward, closer toward where they hid. Another growl was chased from her mouth by flames. Peony tensed, preparing for a fight. Her hand opened to receive her brightblade, rainwater dripping from her fingers.

Beside her, Star sensed what she was about to do. She gave a single shake of her head to warn her off.

Peony hesitated, even as the dragon-woman took yet another step, so close now it was almost a wonder that they were still invisible, cloaked by only shadows and the sheeting rain. SHOULD I COME? her blade asked.

Peony didn’t respond, holding her breath as Morticia moved ever closer, until they were separated by little more than the thin line separating the light from the darkness. She could feel her hot breath on her face, could see the tension in her eyes as they strained to pierce the darkness.

The storm arrived with a clap of thunder that shook the firmament of the mount itself. Morticia flinched back, raising a clawed hand as though to protect herself as a blast of wind slammed into the side of the cliff. Streaks of rain lanced into her scaled form, forcing her to retreat further into the safety of the cave.

Peony was pinned to the side of the cliff, her hair sodden, hanging in clumps on her shoulders. The heart of the storm made what had preceded it feel like a spring drizzle. Peony was immediately chilled to the bone, every inch of her, whether clothed or bare, slick with rainwater. She felt miserable, and yet her first thought was: Daneus? Have you found shelter?

Not exactly. Don’t worry…about us. We’re…fine. Something about his response sounded forced, strained.

Daneus, Peony said, her inner tone sounding like a parent scolding a naughty child. Where are you?

Atop…Dragonsmount. We didn’t want…to go far in case…we were needed.

Daneus!

Save your lecture…for after. Now go!

Driven back by the force of the storm, Morticia had once more disappeared inside the protective walls of the cave. Star gestured for them to move. The storm fought their every step, but eventually they were able to pick their way back onto the path, which continued to descend along the face of the mount. Wind and rain hammered them from all sides. Rivers of rainwater rushed past their feet. “The dragons!” Peony said loud enough for the others to hear. She hoped her voice wouldn’t carry because of the storm.

“We must trust them,” Star said. Brute nodded in agreement. Of course the others already knew about what their dragons had done; they’d probably reached out to them when the brunt of the storm hit, just like Peony. “All we can do now is complete our mission as swiftly as possible.”

This was easier said than done. Although they made it past the next cave, occupied by another of Drudge’s staunch allies, Ivan, without event, the third cave was empty. “Where is she?” Peony wondered aloud as they hunkered down beneath the roof of the cave mouth.

“I was afraid of this,” Star said. “Skye isn’t exactly a subtle woman. If she protested what my father is doing, she’s probably been imprisoned, along with her dragon. We cannot linger. The storm will soon weaken, and we need to be far away from Dragonsmount.”

They hurried on, skipping past the caves of the riders whose allegiance couldn’t be trusted and stopping at those on their list. Four more caves were dark, silent and deserted. Their top five choices for allies had all been imprisoned, or at least they hoped. No one spoke of the alternative.

Peony remembered how hot the debate between Star and Brute had been regarding the sixth rider on the list. Her name was Serennia. She was relatively young, barely twenty name days old. Star had found her to be someone who followed their leader—whether Dane or Drudge—without thought. A ‘sheep’ she called her on multiple occasions. Brute had disagreed. Before Lei’s death, she’d taken the young dragonrider under her wing, so to speak, acting as her mentor. She spoke very highly of her and believed she was solid in all the right ways. Loyal, honorable, tough.

After listening to each of their arguments, Peony had been called upon to settle the debate. She’d sided with Brute. At the time, she’d felt right about the decision. But now, as she stared at the glowing cave mouth where Serennia lived, she was full of doubt. What if Star was right and the young dragonrider was content being a mote of dust, carried by the wind itself without a will of her own to change her course?

THEN WE MUST KILL HER, Peony’s blade said. ARE YOU PREPARED TO DO THAT?

Once, Peony’s answer would’ve been an easy no. But now? An ally to Drudge was her enemy, an enemy of Travail and all that it represented. Yes, she said. I am prepared.

With that in mind, she was the first to step out into the light, sliding smoothly along the wall, more and more of the cave’s interior coming into view. A young woman appeared sitting in a chair, the side of her face visible. She was reading a book, legs pulled up onto the chair, a blanket gathered around her shoulders and draped over her arms and chest. Her face was dyed magenta to match her dragon’s hue. Serennator, the dragon was named, Peony remembered.

Immersed in the book, Serennia hadn’t yet noticed Peony’s presence. Options flicked through her mind. She could come in strong, drawing her brightblade and jabbing it to the dragonrider’s throat before she was even aware of her presence. But what if she raised an alarm through her bond with her dragon? No, Peony thought. We chose her for a reason. They needed to trust the list they’d agonized over for several hours.

She steeled herself and then stepped out, clearing her throat.

The dragonrider moved much faster than Peony expected, tossing aside the blanket and the book in the same swift motion that brought a dagger into her grip, the weapon having been hidden beneath the thick fabric. It was almost as if Serennia had expected an intruder to appear suddenly in her cave.

“Whoa,” Peony said, holding her hands out to show the woman she was unarmed. “I just want to talk.”

Serennia’s eyes widened. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“I am the dragonmistress. Where else should I be other than amongst my riders?”

The woman chewed on that thought for a moment before speaking. “Drudge is dragonmaster now. You are nothing but a rebel and an outcast. You are my enemy.”

Peony saw a change in the woman’s face, her eyes drifting to a faraway place. She’d opened her connection to her dragon. “Wait. Please,” Peony said. “Hear me out. If you don’t like what I have to say, then you can raise the alarm. I will allow myself to be taken without resistance.”

“Like storms you will,” Star said, stepping out beside her. “Hello, Serennia.”

Serennia retreated a step, her knuckles blanching as they gripped the dagger tighter. “Star? What are you doing with-with her?”

Brute stepped out next, his bulky form filling the remaining section of the short tunnel between the cave and the path. “The same thing as me. Supporting the true leader of our people. Defending our dragons from the atrocities being committed against them.”

Serennia shook her head. “The Path of Storms is the right way, the only way to achieve the True Bonding and set our dragons free.”

“Oh gods,” Star said. “Don’t say I didn’t try to tell you.”

Peony ignored her, focusing on Serennia. Everything about the way the young woman spoke those words felt like her reciting something from memory, something that had been pounded into her. “Is that really what you believe?” Peony asked, stepping forward, closing the gap between them.

“What I believe?” Serennia said. “This isn’t about beliefs. This is about what the dragonmaster has decreed.”

“So you plan to chop off Serennator’s head?”

“I—I—”

Peony stepped toward her. “Will you cut through scale and tendon and bone? Will you watch beautiful Serennator’s head flop from his neck to the ground. Will you see his body burned like chaff in a fallow field?” Three steps away. Two.

The woman’s hand shook as she gripped the dagger between them. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll scream.”

“No,” Peony said, shaking her head. “You won’t.” She reached out and touched Serennia’s hand. Her fingers were cold, still shaking. They opened and Peony took the dagger, handing it back to Star, who placed it on a table. Serennia slumped back into her chair. Tears sprang from her eyes, but she didn’t weep. She looked…numb.

“I could never do that to Serennator,” she said. She glanced at Peony, and there was a fire in her eyes that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. “Never,” she repeated.

“I believe you,” Peony said. “You’ve been pretending.”

“Yes. I had to, to survive. Drudge has been rounding up anyone that speaks out against him. I’ve been nothing but loyal, but it’s been…it’s been hard.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

The woman’s expression suddenly transformed, excitement seeming to burst from every pore. “Please. Take us with you. Whatever you’re doing, we want to help.”

The plea in the woman’s tone stole Peony’s breath. She wanted more than anything to say yes, to grant her this wish, this desire. To escape with her dragon. Peony the princess would’ve said yes. But Peony the dragonmistress could not. “We need you to pretend a while longer. That is how you can help.”

The excitement on Serennia’s face faded, replaced by a frown of confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Peony reached inside her leathers, extracting the bundle. The outer layers of leather were wet, but as she unwrapped the book, the inner portions were as dry as bone. “You like to read?” Peony asked.

“Very much,” Serennia said.

“Read this,” Peony said. “It will tell you the same truth about the Path of Storms that your heart has already discerned.”

Serennia accepted the book, staring at its worn cover and rumpled pages. “You want me to spread the word, don’t you?”

Both Star and Brute were right about one thing—the woman was smart and tough. Peony nodded. “Not just the word—the truth. Speak only to those you trust. True allies. And on the third day hence, gather them and fly east along the coast until you cross the river Misery. There you will find us waiting, just as dusk falls. Now, hide the book somewhere safe. It’s time to raise the alarm.”

“What?”

“Give us a one-minute head start and then shout. Have Serennator roar his head off, too. You need to make it as realistic as possible, can you do that?”

Serennia nodded firmly. “Yes. I can do that.”

“Thank you. Now go with wing and scale. May the storms be forever at your back.”

“And with you,” Serennia said.

Peony offered a small smile, turned, and led the others back out into the storm.

Two and a half days had passed without event, the weather relatively mild—alternating between periods of sunlight and light rains—as they’d spent the time making plans under the cover of Travail’s northern forests. Their escape from Dragonsmount had been swift, though as they chased the storm itself there had been a moment of fear as they’d heard Serennator’s powerful roar resonate amongst the peals of thunder. More roars followed, dozens of dragons taking up the cry.

They feared one of the keener-eyed dragons might’ve spotted them, tracking the direction of their escape, so they took great pains to veer southward, an adrenaline-inducing flight that carried them into the heart of the storm before they were spat back out. Well clear of Dragonsmount, they changed direction and made their way back to the north where Serennia had agreed to meet them with however many rebels she could recruit.

Peony swore she had yet to fully dry out in the days that had passed, almost as though she were now made of rain, streams of icy water flowing through her veins rather than blood.

“Will they come?” she asked now, sunning herself on a large rock set on the eastern bank of Misery as it meandered southward between the trees. She felt like her eyes were constantly searching the skies for any signs of dragons. Small birds and butterflies flitted past, but nothing larger.

Star didn’t turn to look at her, eyes closed. Her tiger stripes gleamed in the sunlight, almost like they were her true skin color. “They will try,” she said.

It wasn’t exactly the comforting answer Peony had hoped for, but it was the truth. After all, that’s what they themselves were doing—trying. Day after day, trying to do more, to be better, to build a better world, the kind that was worth living in.

We will build that world, Daneus said. As usual, the dragon had been napping, sprawled along the riverbank with his long tail trailing into the cool waters. Or at least so she’d thought.

I hope you’re right, she said.

I am. We will build that world for us. For Dane. For your child.

Peony froze, heart pounding. Daneus had opened one eye, which was now fixed on her. How long have you known I’m with child? she asked.

The sound of the dragon’s deep chuckle rumbled inside her head. As long as you have. You aren’t as good at shielding your mind from me as you think you are.

Evidently, Peony said. In a way, I’m glad you know. Keeping the secret has been hard. Does anyone else know?

Not that I’m aware.

Let’s keep it that way.

As you wish. And Peony?

Yes?

I’m happy for you, Daneus said.

Thank you but save your happiness for another day. We have a rebellion to organize.

Fine. But in return I get to name your daughter.

Firstly, it could be a boy. And secondly, not a chance, Peony said.

I’ll take that as a maybe.

It’s a strong no, actually.

We can discuss the details later. I have lots of ideas. Grinhalla is at the top of the list.

Sure, Peony said. If void freezes over.

Stranger things have happened. If you don’t like Grinhalla, I’m willing to compromise with Quaintrillio. A good strong name for a good strong girl.

Or boy. And no…

The minutes and then hours passed as Daneus suggested—and Peony rejected—name after name. Despite her protests, the distraction was a welcome one. Her hands settled comfortably on her stomach. Just as the shadows began to lengthen, she sat up, shushing her dragon. Star did the same. Brute appeared, several fish slung over his shoulder, tethered together by a thin vine. As one, they searched the skies.

The final day vanished as dusk fell on the banks of Misery.

The sky remained empty. Peony’s heart fell. “Did Serennia change her mind?” she asked.

“Or she got caught,” Brute said.

“No, she’s a smart woman,” Star said. “She wouldn’t have been caught. And her mind was set. Even I can swallow my pride and admit that.”

“Then why hasn’t she come?” Peony said.

Even as the question left her lips, a dark form swept past overhead, too large to be a bird. She stood, mouth opening. Another dragon appeared, then another. More followed, Peony’s heart leaping as she counted them. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Twenty-three.

One by one they landed on the riverbank, an impressive and colorful array of scales, spikes and wings. As the riders dismounted and picked their way over to where Peony, Star and Brute stood, Peony scanned the line of dragons for Serennator’s purple-scaled form.

She frowned when she realized the young woman and her dragon weren’t amongst those who’d come. The first dragonrider approached, offering the sign of dragonfire. Brute stepped forward and embraced him, the two hardy men smiling as they slapped each other firmly on the back. “Flint,” Brute said. “Where is Serennia?”

The man’s smile vanished. He shook his head. “She didn’t make it. She wanted to try to recruit a few more to the cause. We told her it was too risky, but she wouldn’t listen. She said we needed more. Oren turned her in. Drudge took the book from her. He made an example of her. He…he…” The man’s voice faltered, tightened. “He imprisoned her and burned the book. He commanded that Serennator be executed. We narrowly escaped with our own lives.”

Peony remembered that feeling of drowning, the very same that sometimes chased her into her nightmares. She felt like that now. She’d been the one to convince Serennia to help them. She’d been the one to reject her plea to escape with them, instead commanding her to stoke the flames of rebellion from within the hottest part of the fire. The young dragonrider’s dragon had died because of her, a bright, vibrant life snuffed out long before it should have been. She lifted her hands, half-expecting to find them stained with the dragon’s blood. Would Drudge take Serennia’s life, too, or punish her by forcing her to live with her loss?

Peony? Daneus said, concern in his voice.

I’m…I’m fine. I must be. Falling apart now won’t make Serennia’s sacrifice matter. We must make it matter. She stepped forward. “Thank you all for coming,” she said. “For risking your very lives for a cause you believe in.”

She was met with nods and firm stares.

“Serennia was right. There are too few,” Star said. “It’s not enough.”

“It will be,” Peony said. “Just as soon as we free those who Drudge has imprisoned.”

“When?”

“We need to allow time for others to come to the same realization as us. We attack Dragonsmount in a week. Who is with me?”

One by one, the dragonriders standing before her dropped to one knee, hands lifting to lips, their fingers forming the sign of dragonfire.

“Why are they doing that?” Peony whispered to Star.

Star’s eyes were wide with awe. “Because this is them pledging their allegiance to you and you alone. You truly are their Dragonmistress now.”

Twenty-Eight

Dane

Mothswood, Loslandia

GWENDOLYN STORM LEAPT INTO THE CLEARING, BOW ALREADY STRUNG AND NOCKED. Her cheek blazed with her fatemark, while a lantern bounced and clanked from where it was roped around her armored waist.

Her hands dropped when she saw the corpse of the very large, very dead creature in the center of the space. “What did I miss?” she asked, eyes roaming the area, narrowing on Dane first as he continued to grip the shadowblade and then narrowing further as she spotted the brown-skinned girl, who continued to stand nearby, weaponless again. “Where’s Dom?”

“Here,” Dom muttered, fighting through the tangle of branches of the fallen tree, spitting out pine nettles as he emerged. His own gaze took in the scene before them, eyes widening when he saw the size of the pool of blood occupied by the beast. “What in the void?”

Where to start? Dane thought, mind still muddled from all that had transpired. Right, introductions. “I’m Dragon…Dane,” he said, almost falling into his old habit of prefacing his name with ‘Dragonmaster’. “Of Travail,” he added as an afterthought.

The girl frowned. “Dragon Dane? Queer name, if you ask me, considering you’re not a dragon. I am Fyre Dancer, hailing from Firestone.”

“Queer name, if you ask me,” Gwen parroted, securing her bow and arrow to her back, and then lifting the lantern. The halo of light expanded its reach, stretching for the edges of the clearing. The arc of light went around Dane’s blade, however, leaving a rectangular void. Dane was aware of Dom’s cock-eyed stare, but he ignored it. Gwen didn’t seem to notice, her own stare focused on the newcomer. “Considering you’re not made of fire, nor dancing. I’m Gwendolyn Storm from Ferria.”

“And I’m Dom, from…nowhere,” Dom said. “At least, not presently.”

Ignoring the others, the girl, Fyre Dancer, said, “That blade…where did you get it?” Her eyes were tethered to the sword gripped in Dane’s hand.

“It’s like she read my mind,” Gwen said, finally seeming to notice the column of darkness where the light of her lantern should be. “Of course, I’d also like to know how your infected wound is no longer infected, nor a wound, but maybe that’s just me being overly curious.”

My sword, he thought. Am I already claiming the shadowblade for my own? “I was going to ask you the same thing,” Dane said to the girl.

Gwen’s attention shot back to Fyre Dancer, brow crinkling. “Er, Dane, last I checked your eyes are still sewn shut. Trust me, she wields no weapon, at least none I can see. And she’s not exactly wearing enough clothing to conceal a sword. Maybe your infection isn’t gone, only traveled to your brain…”

Dane had forgotten his eyes were sealed, his vision as clear as it had ever been with them wide open. “I can see everything,” he said. “I swear it.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. How many fingers am I holding up?” One hand continued to grip the lantern while the other remained at her side.

Dane smiled. “Nice try. None.”

Gwen’s lips cracked open. “What am I doing now?” She lifted one foot into the air. Her balance was incredible, not even a wobble threatening to throw her off kilter.

“Standing on one foot.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Gwen said. “You can really see?”

Dane nodded.

“See without eyes…,” Dom murmured.

Dane remembered the Moth Queen’s words, which had been nonsensical at the time. Now they felt like the wisdom of the gods. “It’s the shadowblade,” Dane said. “The moment I touched it, my vision was restored. My injuries healed. But even before that…I could see your blade.” He gestured to Fyre. “The one made of light and shadows.”

“Shadowblade?” Dom said, awe in his eyes. “You mean to say you’re holding one of the godblades?”

“I believe so,” Dane said. “It explains so much…” He didn’t elaborate, distracted by memories of Peony. Touching her hand, spikes of brightness piercing his skull, stabbing, throbbing…a wave of blinding brightness slamming into him, rocking him back, drawing a ragged scream from the back of his throat…kissing her, searing tendrils of agony ripping through him, like a bolt of lightning streaking into him…

All this time, I was her natural enemy, he thought. Just like Sampson Gaard. Does that make me Sampson’s natural ally? Why, gods, have you chosen to punish me so? Even as his thoughts spiraled, Dane felt better than he’d ever felt simply because his fingers were gripped around the warm steel hilt that fit so perfectly in his palm.

“Dane? Dane?” A voice cut through his wandering thoughts, as thick as the mud he’d slogged through in the ravine what felt like hours ago. He turned to find Dom close at hand, a concerned look on his dark face.

“I’m…fine. Just trying to make sense of it all.” He remembered Fyre Dancer’s earlier question, the one he’d avoided. He sighed. “I didn’t ‘get’ the shadowblade from anywhere. It came to me, like it had been waiting all this time in the shadows.” He was about to attempt to explain how the sword had allowed him to move amongst the shadows, but Dom interjected.

“Waiting for what?” Dom asked, his quizzical expression persisting.

“For the end of the world.” All eyes flashed back to Fyre, for it was she, not Dane, who had spoken.

“Explain,” Dane said.

“Not here,” Gwen said, eyes darting about as though the trees themselves might be trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Once more, they were settled in the moth-infested clearing that the Moth Queen called home. When they’d arrived, the old woman hadn’t so much as raised her eyebrows when she saw Fyre Dancer nor the shadowy blade gripped in Dane’s hand. Instead, she’d busied herself with a tiny pair of scissors, which she’d used to snip the threads binding Dane’s eyes shut. When he’d opened his eyes, he could barely tell the difference.

So strange, he thought now, noticing every blink in a way he never had before. Dom had settled on a stump, and Dane could tell he was already deep inside his own head, communicating with Domi, the black-scaled dragon having landed in the trees above not long after they’d arrived. Gwen took up position on a flat rock on the edge of the clearing. Fyre sat cross-legged directly on the ground in the center. Dane returned to the soft bed, which he’d since been informed was made of ‘layers of moth silk’. Whatever it was, he sighed as he sank into the plush material, feeling rather sore again from his romp through the forest.

Even as the thought entered his mind, the aches seemed to melt away, leaving him energized. Did you do that? he thought, remembering how Peony described speaking to her brightblade—“It’s no different than communicating with Daneus,” she’d said.

The blade didn’t respond, though shadows continued to roil around its shaft, like storm clouds gathering just before releasing sheets of rain.

“All right,” Gwen said, offering a pointed look at Fyre. “You—speak.”

If Fyre was intimidated by her audience, she showed no signs. Why would she be? Dane thought. She just slew a beast ten times her size. Still, something about the calmness in her form, her expression, made him lean toward her. “It all started when Smoke Wisp was taken to die…,” she started.

Her story was one of love and loss, trials and tribulations and, eventually, triumph of a sort. Evil was vanquished. It was a story as familiar to Dane as the feeling of air filling his lungs, only the details changed to suit Fyre’s circumstances. He perked up when she spoke of discovering the blade, half sheathed in light beyond measure, the other half as dark as the darkest night. She recited what it had told her from memory, never faltering on a single word or phrase, like its messages and words of wisdom had been etched into the very fabric of her soul.

“After many days at sea,” she said, “I reached these shores. Loslandia. It was the real start of my training, the monsters of Mothswood my teachers. I have nearly died a hundred deaths in this forest, but I fight on. Not for me, or for Kingfall, but for Smoke Wisp, my one and only true love.”

“So when we found you,” Dom said, “you were…training?”

She nodded. “When I’m in distress, the blade tends to, well, it sometimes, uh—”

“Disappears?” Dane said. Another nod. He glanced at his own blade, now resting across his knees. “Why doesn’t the shadowblade disappear when I’m in distress?”

“Each of the Blades of Seven are different,” Fyre said.

“How do you know that?”

“The Pureblade told me,” she said simply.

“The Pureblade…,” Dane murmured, in awe of the revelation. It was the only thing that made sense. After Erif Mirg was struck down and his Legacy Blade shattered, its largest shards had been used to forge six new magical blades—the godblades—three as bright as the sun and three as dark as shadows. Smaller shards had been used to forge what became known as the lesserblades, eighteen in total. Supposedly, there was a shard larger than any of them, but had gone missing. The godblades were wielded by the six who were chosen, reaping great destruction and death until a seventh blade appeared high atop a cliff, half bathed in shadow and the other half wreathed in light. The ‘Pureblade’ it was named by historians. The identity of the magnificent weapon’s wielder was unknown, but as soon as the blade was thrown from the cliff, it vanished, along with the wielder. So did the six remaining godblades.

The Godswar ended shortly thereafter. Without the shadowblades amongst them and their allies, the Thousands were soon overrun and destroyed. The lesserblades were rounded up and distributed amongst the various kingdoms to be guarded but never used. All of this was common knowledge to anyone who’d read The Kingfall Histories.

The Blades of Seven had been lost for centuries.

Until now.

But why now? Dane wondered again. “You said before, the blades were waiting for the end of the world before they emerged. The Pureblade told you that as well?”

“Yes. A great evil is stirring.”

“What evil? The shadowblades? My uncle, Drudge?”

“I know not.”

“And you think you’re the one to stop this evil from ending the world?” Dane asked.

Fyre shook her head. “I am just the Carrier. The Pureblade’s true wielder has yet to be revealed to me.”

That sort of made sense to Dane. After all, Peony had only recently been revealed as the wielder of one of the brightblades. Same for Sampson Gaard and his shadowblade. And, of course, Dane was now the latest wielder of a shadowblade. What will Peony think? he wondered again. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus on more productive thoughts, like whether the other three godblades—another shadowblade and two more brightblades—had been found. Doesn’t matter, he thought. What matters is that they will be, sooner rather than later.

“Will you show it to us? The Pureblade?” he asked.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Fyre said.

“Why not?”

“The Pureblade warned me of those who would be seduced by its power. Those who would try to take it from me.”

“We are not those people,” Dane said. “Dom and Gwen recently saved me from certain death. They brought me here and the Moth Queen helped nurse me back to health. If not for her, I’d never have found the shadowblade. It would still be lost in these woods, and I would be slowly dying a fever-induced death.”

The Moth Queen said nothing, extending her arms to either side. As though they’d been given an unspoken command, a swarm of fluttering wings filled the clearing, moths by the hundreds leaving their perches on the trees and wispy vines before settling all over her body.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Fyre lifted her hand, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips in concentration. Dane licked his lips in anticipation of seeing the sword whose beauty defied words once more. Several long seconds passed before Fyre sighed and dropped her hand.

“Well, that was rather underwhelming, don’t you think?” Gwen said, both of her thin, silvery eyebrows lifting.

“It’s been a long night,” Fyre said. “I don’t have the strength. Perhaps on the morrow I will feel strong enough to summon the blade. May I rest in the clearing tonight?”

“Of course,” Dane said. “I am no longer in need of the bed.” He turned toward the Moth Queen, remembering that both the bed, and the clearing, were her domain. “Any objections?”

“No,” she said simply, moving her fingers up and down as a dozen or so moths danced and fluttered between them. “Stay under my protection for as long as you like. The monsters of the wood won’t dare to threaten any of you while within the clearing’s boundary. If what you say is true, we have much to discuss.”

While the Moth Queen spoke, Dane’s eyes had been tethered to Fyre’s. Nothing about her claim of being weary had rung true to his ears. It was a lie, he thought. But why?

Though the ground was surprisingly soft, coated with a thick layer of moth wings, Dane struggled to drift to sleep. He kept the shadowblade’s broadside flush with his chest, blade down; he hoped that whatever connection he’d already formed with the sword would prevent him from cutting off something important if he did fall asleep.

He needn’t have worried, for sleep continued to elude him, even after the soft sounds of the others’ restful breathing filled the air. He opened his eyes, searching the darkness that had pressed in from all sides after the final lantern had been extinguished. Nothing moved. He could just make out Gwen’s silver-armored form as a ray of green moonslight snuck through the forest. Dom had climbed up to his dragon, preferring to sleep nestled between the spikes on Domi’s back. One of Fyre’s feet hung over the mothsilk bed that Dane himself had occupied during the days since his failed execution.

He squinted, trying to locate the self-proclaimed Moth Queen, but the aging woman was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she’s nocturnal, like her moth children, he thought, amusing himself. She was an odd woman indeed. Who wanted to rule over a kingdom of moths, especially one in a forest plagued by ravenous creatures like the one they’d fought earlier? Though she clearly had a degree of wisdom and experience beyond his own comprehension, he also sensed a distantness each time he looked into her eyes, almost like he was staring down the barrel of a bottomless well.

His eyes narrowed on Fyre’s foot, which had suddenly moved. He watched as she slipped from the bed, bare feet pressing quietly onto the moth-wing carpet. Gwen shifted, armored arm making a metallic ringing sound as it clanged off her hip. The girl froze, waiting several long moments to be sure the Orian wasn’t going to awaken, before starting off. She was headed for the edge of the clearing.

“Wait,” Dane hissed, sitting up.

She turned slowly. “I can’t linger here.”

“Why not?” Dane asked.

“The Moth Queen is not an ally.”

The woman was strange, yes—void, he’d been thinking that very thing only a minute ago—but she’d done nothing but help him. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“The Pureblade told you, didn’t it?”

“Doesn’t matter. I must go. Now.”

“Then we’re going with you. Give me time to rouse the others and then we’ll leave. I swear it.”

Dane began to stand, drawing the shadowblade with him, when a powerful voice rang out. “No one is leaving!” He could immediately tell the voice was that of the old woman, and yet it was changed somehow, full of command and surrounded by the whisper-soft flutter of moth wings. He quickly rose, whirling to locate her position as her voice had seemed to come from every side at once. The clearing was empty save for Fyre and Gwen.

Gwen was on her feet a second later, just as the wind began to pick up, whipping between the trees and sending the threadlike vines flapping wildly. “Where is she?” she said, also scanning the tree line.

Dane didn’t know. All he knew was that Fyre Dancer was right: they needed to leave…now. “Dom!” he shouted up.

His brother’s face appeared over the side of Domi’s flanks. The dragon’s neck curled around to look down at them. “What’s happening?” Dom asked.

“The Moth Queen decided we’ve overstayed our welcome. We’re coming up.” Turning back to the others, Dane said, “Come on, we have to climb.”

No one disagreed, the wind gusting harder now. As one, they ran to the nearest tree, which was broad enough that they could all climb in tandem, its trunk full of knots and protrusions that would make the ascent easy enough even with the wind swirling around them.

Or at least it should’ve been easy enough. Instead, after they’d scaled about ten feet off the ground, the whirring, fluttering sounds of thousands of moth wings arose. It seemed to come from the darkness of the forest, but was swiftly getting closer and closer, until the sound was a crescendo in their ears. “Faster!” Dane cried. The marking on Gwen’s cheek flared and she leapt upward with a single bound, grabbing a thick tree branch and swinging herself up with a level of power and precision that made Dane’s eyes widen in awe.

Until she was hit full in the face by a swarm of moths so thick he could barely identify a single moth from the group, which moved like a single winged creature. Gwen toppled headfirst from the branch as though felled by an arrow. Dane’s heart leapt into his throat as he watched her fall from a height great enough to snap her neck in two. At the last second, she contorted her body in midair, managing to get her feet beneath her and landing awkwardly, her knees crumpling and throwing her backwards where she skidded to a stop.

Just above him, Fyre screamed. Dane twisted his head up just in time to see the young girl’s mouth slam shut as the swarming moths focused their attention on her, battering her from the sides, curling around her neck like fingers trying to choke the life out of her. She disappeared under the onslaught, only one of her hands still visible, not clenched in a fist but open, as if waiting to receive something.

Flash! The Pureblade appeared in her grip in all its shadow-bright glory. Half the moths disappeared into the pulsating shadows on one side, while the other group was immediately consumed by the brightness on the opposite side. And in the center was Fyre; she looked like half a person with her body split down the middle by the ever-warring light and shadows, her teeth clenched in a determined snarl.

The Pureblade disappeared, leaving Dane blinking away spots from one eye. Immediately a fresh swarm of moths arrived, smashing into Fyre as she stared at her empty hand. Like Gwen, she fell, scrabbling to grip anything she could. Failing.

She hit the ground feet first but was prepared enough to bend her knees to prevent her legs from breaking. She sat down hard on her backside, her momentum carrying her downward where her head slammed viciously into the ground.

Climbing was impossible—Dane realized that now. Instinct took over as he slid more than climbed down the face of the tree, rough bark scraping and scratching at his leathers. When he was halfway down, the moth swarm reached him.

It was all he could do to clamp his mouth shut as he felt them flapping and battering against him as though trying to burrow into his skin. When that didn’t work, he felt them pressing into his nostrils, clambering into his ears. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear anything except the sound of the swarm as he fell.

The impact was nothing compared to the feeling of being helpless to defend himself. His entire body was covered by the moths, a creature he’d seen thousands of times in his life but never given much more than a fleeting thought to. An annoyance, more than anything else, eating one’s clothes and reproducing at a prolific rate.

MUST I SPEAK TO BE HEARD?

The voice came out of nowhere, literally, its deep timbre confined to the hidden recesses of his own mind. He’d been spoken to like that by only one other creature, Daneus. Thus, his mind immediately thought Domi? wondering how his brother’s dragon had managed to communicate with someone he wasn’t bonded with. But then it hit him:

Shadowblade? he thought back.

LAST I CHECKED, I’M STILL SHEATHED AT YOUR HIP. USE ME.

Dane had been so distracted by the notion of climbing to his brother’s dragon and flying far away from this place, that he hadn’t given the slightest thought to the blade. Now, blind to anything but the tumult of powdery wings that felt like they were all around him, he felt for the blade, fingers closing around its hilt, which pulsed in his grip.

USE ME, the blade said again.

Concentrating, Dane slipped into the shadows as he had before, moving like a wraith across the clearing. How he did it, he wasn’t entirely sure, only that it felt as natural as strolling down a level path, like placing one foot in front of the other.

He turned. The moths had continued swarming where his body had lain a few seconds earlier, but now they seemed to realize their quarry had slipped from their clutches as they rose into a single, massive column of whining wings.

Feeling suddenly tired, Dane drew himself from the shadows, blade gleaming darkly in his blue-knuckled grip. Beside him, Gwen fought to her feet, drawing her bow and nocking an arrow in one seamless motion. On the opposite side, Fyre stood as well, shaking off the blow to her head and staring at her empty hand, willing her Pureblade to appear once more.

From above, Dom called down. “I’m coming!”

Something seemed to be happening with the moths. They were still conjoined like individual parts of a greater being, but rather than attacking, they were condensing, growing even thicker in some parts of the mass. Some of them settled onto the air itself, their wings stilling as they tucked them behind their backs. “No!” Dane quickly shouted back to his brother. “You’re no good to us dead. Fly with Domi toward the east. We will make our way to you.”

“I won’t leave you again!”

Dane looked up, meeting his brother’s eyes, the distance between them seeming to vanish. “You must. Now go!”

Dom hesitated only a second, face clenching, but then he spun around, grasping two of Domi’s neck spikes just as the powerful dragon leapt skyward, branches snapping and hundreds of leaves raining down as his wings unfurled.

Gwen had begun firing arrow after arrow into the teeming mass of moths. It was almost impossible to tell whether she was hitting anything as any moths that might’ve died were swiftly replaced by more moths fluttering from the edges of the clearing, joining the larger group and replacing the fallen.

Wait…, Dane thought, eyes narrowing as he noticed something. He blinked, trying to determine if it was just his eyes playing tricks on him, but no…one segment of the moths had coalesced into what appeared to be—there was no other way to describe it—an arm. As he stared, a second arm was formed, followed by two legs, a torso, and, finally, a head. Although it was impossible, the moths seemed to vanish, and in their place the powdery white flesh, wrinkled features and gnarled hands of the Moth Queen garbed in vines and leaves appeared, blue eyes sharp and focused.

“Prepare to die,” Gwen said, drawing her bowstring taut once more.

The old woman didn’t so much as flinch, instead offering a small, mischievous smile, like she knew a secret. “Not so hasty. No one needs to die today.”

“What do you want?” Dane asked. He continued to grip his shadowblade, ready to slash at the first sign of another attack.

“The Pureblade,” Fyre said, answering before the Moth Queen could.

“Correct,” the old woman said. “Actually, I was just after that shadowblade”—she motioned to Dane’s sword. “I’ve been aware of its presence for decades, centuries…” Centuries? Dane thought. How old is this woman? Clearly she wasn’t human, though he sensed a humanity about her, as though she’d once been human countless years ago. At some point, however, the forest or the moths with which she communed had changed her into something…other. “…but it has eluded my grasp,” she continued. “I knew as soon as I saw you that you were the key to drawing it from the shadows and into the light. But to have you show up mere moments after the shadowblade was revealed?” She looked pointedly at Fyre Dancer. “I understood the timing for what it was: fate. The gods telling me that they see me, that they bear witness to all I have accomplished. At long last, I will get my just reward, not only the shadowblade, but the Pureblade, too.” Her eyes glimmered with unveiled desire.

“For what purpose?” Dane asked.

“To protect myself and my children, of course,” the old woman said. “The world grows smaller by the day. Already those seeking to profit from the timber this forest unwillingly provides chop and hack at the northern flanks of my kingdom. Several times I’ve sent my little winged soldiers to warn them off, but my enemies are growing smarter, hiring Aeromand mages to defend their lumbermen. I’ve lost thousands of my children already, and I refuse to lose more. Give me the blades of your own free will and I will allow you to depart Mothswood in peace.”

“I won’t,” Fyre said.

“Good answer,” Gwen said, closing one eye as she sighted down the shaft of her strung arrow.

Dane gripped his shadowblade tighter, realizing its pulsing had fallen into time with the rhythmic beat of his heart. Like Fyre, he wasn’t going to give this woman anything, especially not something that had the potential to help him fight back against the usurper who had stolen his title and tried to have him murdered.

The Moth Queen’s eyes met each of theirs in turn, lingering the longest on Dane’s, until he shifted from one foot to the other in discomfort under her piercing stare. “Then you have chosen your fates,” she said.

And then she attacked.

It was a sort of leaping lunge, hundreds of moths already pouring from her body as her edges, so clear and humanlike a moment ago, blurred and distorted, her arms growing as they shot toward them. Gwen had been ready, her arrow rocketing from her bowstring, punching into the old woman’s chest. Despite the surrealness of her moth-formed body, the impact was real, the woman jerking to one side as a dozen or so moths fluttered dead to join the thousands that already layered the floor of the clearing.

It barely slowed her down.

Dane’s blade whistled through the air, slashing from right to left, shadows trailing its finely honed edge and scything through the swarm of moths that was the Moth Queen. She laughed, the rend already stitching itself back together with new moths. She raised a fist and slammed it into the side of his face, the impact far greater than he could’ve predicted, twisting his head around. Blood trickled from his lip and his jaw ached.

On the edge of his vision, light burst forth as the Pureblade formed in Fyre’s grip. As Dane spun back around, Fyre wasted no time, stabbing the sword into the Moth Queen’s heart. The woman froze, eyes gaping open as she stared at the blade. Half of the moths that formed her body had turned black while the other half were now the purest white, like the color of freshly fallen snow illuminated by blinding sunlight.

Dane exhaled. While neither his shadowblade nor Gwen’s well-aimed arrows had been effective against the woman, the Pureblade clearly had. It was over.

Or not. Just as he released his sigh of relief, the Moth Queen’s powdery lips curled into a smile. She reached out and grabbed the blade, squeezing, not seeming to care that the edge was cutting through her fingers, which popped free one at a time, shattering into moth corpses that flitted to the ground. Still she squeezed harder. No, not squeezed, Dane thought. Pulled. She’s pulling. As if to prove the truth of his thoughts, the Pureblade was suddenly wrenched from the Moth Queen’s chest, her body exploding into a thousand individual moths once more. Only a handful fell dead while the rest began to swarm, filling the clearing with their beating wings, the old woman’s voice carrying on the wind, which once more picked up in blasts and gusts. “My children! To me! To me!” she cried.

No, it isn’t over, Dane thought. Far from it. We need to— “Go!” he said, his voice partially drowned out by the sound of wings and wind. He led the way, plunging into the forest just as thousands more moths erupted into the clearing.

They ran at full tilt, hurdling low-hanging branches and dodging foliage. Branches whipped across their faces and arms, and thorny vines clawed at their legs though they barely noticed in their haste to escape.

The smaller moths they’d grown accustomed to in the presence of the Moth Queen continued to flit about them, occasionally fluttering around their faces, but that wasn’t as great a concern as the new moths that had appeared. These moths were different, larger, the size of birds—and not the small kind. Perhaps they’d mutated on their own or the Moth Queen had created them, twisting them into creatures more batlike than moth, glistening fangs embedded in their dark mouths. One whose body was the size of a boot and whose wingspan would’ve rivaled that of an eagle swooped past Dane’s side before hooking back around and pelting directly at him.

He lifted his blade in pure self-defense, the huge moth slamming directly into it, thick body splitting into two halves that tumbled to the ground on either side. Dane ran on, catching a glimpse of Fyre’s Pureblade bursting with light as she stabbed it through another large moth that had attempted to dive at her head from above. Gwen wasn’t defenseless either, fatemark flaring on her cheek as she fired arrows on the run without losing any of her accuracy. Dane had never seen anything like it, watching as the largest moths he’d ever seen dropped through the forest in droves.

More came, a dozen, then two dozen. Soon there were hundreds of the larger moths, too many for them to cut down with their godblades or arrows, most of them racing ahead to cut off their escape. Any ideas? Dane asked, finally remembering his very brief conversation with the shadowblade.

RUN FASTER, the blade said. DON’T DIE.

Thanks. Peony never mentioned your lot have a sense of humor.

The blade didn’t respond, but Dane swore it darkened even more. Just ahead, the moths that had outdistanced them stopped, clinging to trees. Without a word, Dane and the two women slowed to a stop as well, peering intently through the foliage. “Get ready,” Dane warned, lifting his blade.

One of the moths took to the air.

Then another.

Then several.

Gwen took one down from an incredible distance with another perfect shot, but it was like throwing a pebble to try to destroy a mountain as the rest of the giant moths left their perches, tearing toward them through the forest.

Dane closed his eyes and slipped into the shadows. SHADOWFORM, the blade said, catching him by surprise.

Is that what this is called? he asked, breath catching as the world around him seemed to float and melt, like the very air had turned to dark liquid, oil or ink perhaps. He was aware of the moths swarming around him, a storm of chaos, and yet unable to touch him.

YES. IT IS MY PRIMARY ABILITY. DO NOT LINGER IN THE SHADOWS FOR TOO LONG.

Dane remembered what Peony had called what happened to her when she wielded her own blade—brightform. A thread of apprehension uncoiled itself in his gut as he wondered what she would think if she saw him now, but he shook the feeling away, concentrating on the task at hand. Just as a moth shot past, he stabbed the blade free of the shadows, skewering it like a piece of meat being roasted over a firepit. He flung the dead moth off the blade and then whipped the blade in a round arc, hacking through two more of the winged creatures. The end of the slash caught the edge of another moth, severing its wing and causing it to veer sharply to one side where it crashed into a tree and flopped to the ground. He almost laughed as he realized how easy it was to fight like this, basically invisible while picking off enemies at will.

GET OUT OF THE SHADOWS! the blade shouted, cutting through his glee and reminding him of what the blade had advised earlier, something about not lingering in the shadows.

Why would I do that? he thought back, impaling another moth on the tip of the sword, all life vanishing from its beady eyes in an instant. If he vacated the shadows, he would expose himself to attacks while at present he was armored in darkness.

I DON’T HAVE TIME TO TUTOR YOU ON—OH SHITE, TOO LATE.

Dane’s legs crumbled beneath him as he tumbled from the shadows, which made a sucking sound as they vanished back into the blade. He gasped for breath, clutching at his chest which suddenly seemed incapable of drawing enough air to satisfy his body, which had been sapped of strength. Helpless, he watched four of the moths circle overhead, the creatures having noticed his reappearance and subsequent fall.

They dove.

Dane tried to lift his shadowblade to protect himself, but it felt as though his arms were made of stone, the blade as heavy as an anchor.

Ziiip-thwack!

An arrow scythed through the air, stabbing through one, then a second, and finally a third moth before losing pace and dropping under the weight of its three passengers. Thank you, Gwen, Dane thought, even as the fourth moth continued its dive, having avoided death-by-arrow with a quick swerve at the last second.

Dane’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the moth’s teeth snapped toward him, and then—

His arm finally lifted, blade stabbing up and into the dark cavity of the moth’s mouth. Gravity drew the creature all the way down the blade until its pincerlike teeth came to rest gently on the top of his hand still gripping the hilt. He shuddered at what might’ve been had he not regained a measure of strength at that exact moment.

YOU WOULD HAVE NO FACE, the blade said.

Thanks for clarifying, Dane retorted, though he was somewhat shocked that the shadowblade had apparently read his mind.

YOU’RE WELCOME. NEXT TIME LISTEN TO ME. AND NO MORE SHADOWFORM FOR SEVERAL HOURS AT THE LEAST. UNDERSTOOD?

Yes, Dane said, mustering enough strength to regain his feet and survey the scene before him. Gwen was still shooting at anything that moved, reloading her bow with uncanny speed but slowly being overwhelmed by the sheer number of moths throwing themselves at her without fear of death. Several had already clanged off her armor, and it wouldn’t be long before they realized the only way to kill her was to get to her face. Not to mention she would soon run out of arrows. Not far from the Orian, Fyre Dancer was also fighting for her life, mostly because her Pureblade would only appear for a few seconds at a time, just long enough for her to dispatch several of the pincer-mouthed moths with slashes and stabs that alternated pulses of blinding light and roiling black shadows. Each time her blade disappeared she was forced to flee, dodging the winged creatures with impressive agility. But time was against her, her exposed skin already pierced by multiple bite marks leaking blood.

“Fyre!” Dane shouted. “To Gwen! Get to Gwen!” The girl’s head turned just as her blade reappeared. She used it to kill three more moths that dove for her head and then she took off toward the Orian, who shot another two moths out of the air as they tried to pursue her. Dane’s shout had drawn the attention back to him, and now the moths swarmed him. The instinct to step into the shadows arose in a fresh wave, but he ignored it, remembering how helpless he’d felt as his legs had crumpled beneath him.

GOOD, the blade said. THERE ARE OTHER WAYS TO FIGHT UNTIL WE BUILD UP YOUR STAMINA.

Such as…

MY SECONDARY ABILITY. SHADOWGUARD.

How do I—storms! He leapt back as something appeared on the edge of his vision, so close it was almost touching him. His eyes widened as he stared at the something, which was his size and build, bearing a sword identical to his. The only difference between them was that this other warrior seemed to be constructed of layered shadows, a ghoulish quality to him though he moved with feet planted firmly on the ground.

He also had no eyes or nose or face at all, so there was that.

Dane hoped he’d have the chance to ask his shadowblade about this queer shadow version of himself, but now was not that time as several moths swept in from the sides and above, deadly fangs glistening. How do I control it? he asked, raising his blade to ward off the attackers. Before they reached him, however, the shadow warrior leapt forward and unleashed a series of slashes. There were audible thumps as each of the dead moths hit the ground in short succession. Ohh, Dane said. Like that.

THE SHADOWGUARD IS YOUR PERSONAL SECURITY FORCE. IT WILL DEFEND YOU TO ITS DEATH.

It can die?

TEMPORARILY, BUT IT WILL EVENTUALLY REJUVENATE TO BE USED AGAIN. THE BEST PART IS THAT UNLIKE SHADOWFORM IT ONLY SAPS A SMALL PORTION OF YOUR STRENGTH.

Dane liked the sound of that. He took off toward the women, who were now fighting back-to-back and using a large tree to protect them on their blind spot. Dane assumed it was the capable Orian’s stratagem; Dane had been around battle enough to know an experienced soldier when he saw one. As he ran, his shadowguard kept pace, occasionally leaping to one side or another to cut down one of the moths. There were too many enemies for the conjured creature to kill them all, so Dane remained at the ready, hacking at any who breached his defenses.

When he reached the women, Gwen said, “Who’s your friend?” Without missing a beat, she fired two arrows from her bow simultaneously. Each shot in a slightly different direction, a feat Dane didn’t even know was possible, and a moment later there were two more dead moth corpses.

“To be honest, I’m still trying to figure that out myself,” Dane said. He supposed he shouldn’t be too in awe of the Orian’s abilities when he had a shadowy warrior by his side.

Surprising them both, Fyre spoke up. “I’m going to try something.”

After Dane’s shadowguard hacked two more moths in half, there was a momentary lull in the action, during which Dane and Gwen exchanged a look. “Er, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Gwen asked.

“Yes,” the girl said stubbornly. “I can do this.”

Dane appreciated her confidence, but given what he’d seen so far, she was having trouble doing much of anything with her ancient weapon, which seemed to have a mind of its own. “No,” he said. “On my count, we run. You two go ahead, as my ‘friend’ will cover our retreat. Gwen, stop every twenty paces and fire on the enemy. Fyre, when your blade appears, use it. Understood?” Dane wasn’t so far removed from his position on Dragonsmount that giving orders didn’t feel as natural as breathing.

“Just let me try,” Fyre complained. There was a youthfulness in her tone that reminded Dane she couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen name days old.

“Later,” Gwen said. “We may need your strength before the end. It is a good plan.”

Fyre sighed but nodded, still staring at her hand as though trying to bore a hole through her palm with her eyes.

“Good,” Dane said. “On my count. One…” Gwen shot two moths down in short succession. “Two…” Dane’s shadowguard strode forward, slashing across its body, then back the other way, and then repeating the motion, leaving four more moths dead. The only problem: Two moths snuck inside the arc of its blade, going straight for his throat. Dane almost expected them to pass through the warrior’s shadow-dark form, but instead they latched onto its neck, wings fluttering as they tore into it. The shadowguard reached up with its free hand and grabbed the moths, ripping them free one at a time, but the damage was already done. The warrior fell to its knees, shadows roiling from its form, which began to disappear until it was nothing but a dark haze.

A heavy feeling of loss hit Dane, staggering him.

“Isn’t this where you say ‘three’?” Gwen asked, shooting another pair of moths with her two-arrows-at-one-time trick.

Dane barely heard her, head swimming as tears blurred his vision. It felt like the loss of a friend, a loved one, his heart full of holes. Why do I feel this way?

BECAUSE THE SHADOWGUARD WAS INFUSED WITH A PART OF YOU, THE PART YOU ARE MOST PROUD OF.

Dane fell to his knees, feeling a wail rising in his throat. He clamped his lips shut to hold it back. Tears streaked his cheeks. Someone was shouting, demanding that he get up, that they would be forced to leave him if he didn’t come to his senses. The urgency of the voice—the Orian—felt like such a little thing compared to what he’d lost. I…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, Dane said.

THE FEELING WILL PASS AS SWIFTLY AS IT ARRIVED, the blade said.

In the meantime, Dane was dimly aware that their window to escape had closed with a slam, the moths surrounding them, hundreds more arriving, flocking through the branches high above, wings fluttering through the leaves.

Just as his blade had promised, that feeling of utter lostness and grief passed with the blink of his eyes, tears drying, heart leaping in his chest. He stood, preparing to run.

Gwen noticed the tension in his body, not dissimilar to one of her bowstrings. “Too late,” she said. “The only choice left is to fight to the last.” She said it with the certainty of one who’d been in this position before, maybe more times than she could count. Somehow, someway, she’d survived them all, else she wouldn’t be here.

Even as Dane realized she was right, he understood the futility of making such a stand. Within moments they would be overrun. Her prowess with the bow and his shadowblade wouldn’t be enough against such numbers.

I tried, Peony, he thought. I’m sorry I failed you, Daneus. Fight on. He raised his blade just as the moths began their next attack, not diving individually or in pairs or trios, but in waves upon waves, like an entire colony of bees emptying from their hive.

A column appeared, half light, half dark. The Pureblade, gripped by hands almost too small to surround its hilt, held by arms that were strong but shouldn’t be strong enough to wield such a powerful weapon. Fyre screamed as she reversed the angle of the sword, driving it deep into the forest floor.

Fyre

The moment the Pureblade bit into the earth, she felt the surge of power through her arms, her body, her legs, her feet. Her feet were bare, as they always were—her people hadn’t worn footwear of any kind—their soles calloused and leathery, protecting them against sharp stones and twigs. The surge of power that had originated in her blade shot in all directions, seeking those who would harm her, radiating upward in blasts of white and black flames that licked at the trees and the branches but didn’t set them alight—for they were not the enemy.

The moths were not so lucky.

For several fearful moments, the entirety of the world around them seemed to be ablaze, entombing them in fire. Fyre’s body shook, tremors wracking her form as she clung to the Pureblade, refusing to let it slip away again. The pain was great, causing blood to seep from her eyes, her ears, her nose.

“Don’t you do it,” she said through clenched teeth, even as she felt her grip on the blade begin to wane.

YOU WILL DIE, her blade said sadly.

She could no longer speak, the strain too much, so she answered in her mind. You said that was my role in all this, right? That I would be required to sacrifice for the greater good?

YES. BUT NOT YET. NOW I MUST GO FOR A TIME. IT IS OVER.

With a final scream, Fyre fell to the ground as the blade vanished beneath her. Shadowy waves crashed upon her, pulling her beneath the surface of a dark, lonely sea.

Dane

Dane blinked, trying to chase away the dancing black and white flames that continued to flare across his vision even after the fires had fallen away. As his vision cleared, he took in the forest around him. The air was empty save for branches and leaves, not a single moth in sight. He expected to find their bricklike corpses and powdery wings strewn across the forest floor, smoldering and singed.

Instead, they were simply gone, a fine white powder falling across the expanse, coating everything in a thin layer that might’ve been a dusting of snow.

Fyre had asked for a chance to save them, and when they’d denied her, she’d taken it upon herself anyway. “She saved us,” Gwen said, mirroring his own thoughts. They turned at the same time to locate the girl, who was curled in a ball on the ground, eyes closed.

“No,” Dane breathed, rushing to her side. “Fyre?” No response. He pressed his fingers to her lips. At first he felt nothing but the pang of fear hammering in his chest, but then her exhalation washed over his skin. A ragged laugh escaped his lips as he sat back. “She’s alive,” he said.

Gwen nodded, though he could see the relief on her face as well. “We cannot linger here. The Moth Queen may have other means to trap us within the wood.”

“I will carry her,” Dane said, lifting Fyre’s unconscious form. His knees gave out and he fell, cushioning her with his own body. She didn’t stir from her sleep.

“You are too weak. I can carry her,” Gwen said.

He didn’t argue, accepting her offered hand as she pulled him to his feet. He watched as she located a straight, solid branch from the ground, handing it to him. He sheathed his shadowblade and leaned on the makeshift staff, feeling oddly like an old man. He’d learned a hard lesson from overusing his shadowform, but it wasn’t one he would soon forget.

Next Gwen scooped up Fyre’s form with ease, hefting the girl over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she said.

They walked for hours. The entire time, Dane listened for the telltale flutter of wings on the wind, but silence reigned in the wood. Eventually, he heard the songs of birds, the most beautiful music his ears had ever heard.

They were safe. For now.

Still, it wasn’t until they reached the edge of Mothswood and stepped out onto bumpy plains that stretched as far as the eye could see that the tension melted away. Miraculously, not a stone’s throw away a black dragon sat on his haunches, basking in the sun.

“I feared the worst,” Dom said, dismounting gracefully.

“For me or for them?” Dane said with a smile.

“For all of you,” Dom said, clasping his brother’s arm. Gwen placed Fyre gently on the ground and then embraced the dragonrider with a tenderness that made Dane long for Peony’s touch.

He fought off the feeling, gazing across the barren terrain. “What now?” he asked.

“We fly north,” Dom said.

“Are you certain that is what you desire?” Dane asked. He didn’t want his brother to say no, but he also wasn’t about to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. It was that mentality that had chased him away from Travail in the first place.

“More certain than I’ve been of anything in my life.”

Dane relished the wind’s breath on his skin, the feeling of true freedom that could only be gained from flight, Domi’s wings undulating at each side. The dragon’s obsidian scales gleamed in the sunlight.

Domi rode up front with Gwen behind him. Fyre was nestled between a section of spikes that formed a sort of barrier on either side. Dane sat behind her, occasionally searching the girl’s peaceful face for any sign of life.

She remained as still and silent as a sleeping babe.

When he looked away, her eyes flashed open.

When he looked back, she was already clambering to her feet, the Pureblade forming in her hands. Before Dane could even think to reach out and grab her, she did the unthinkable.

She threw herself from the dragon’s back, falling toward the forest far below.

Fyre

Fyre knew she wasn’t supposed to go north, not yet. Not until she was ready. Mothswood had been a close call. She’d demonstrated strength and skill when she’d summoned the brightfire, but she’d still ended up unconscious and at the mercy of the dragonriders.

She owed them a debt of gratitude, but she also knew they wouldn’t understand when she told them she needed to go back. Regardless of what she’d done, the power she’d exhibited, she saw the way they looked at her—like she was a child playing with the sword of a warrior. As Carrier, she couldn’t allow anything to stop her from following the path laid under her feet. A path that remained in Loslandia.

Which left her only one choice, a choice she made without fear, though it should’ve scared the skin right off her back. She leapt from a flying dragon’s back.

Wind buffeted her from all sides as she fell, Pureblade gripped tightly in her grasp. The ground looked so small from this high, and yet already it was growing larger. She glanced upward, watching as the dragon wheeled about and dove, tucking its wings behind itself to gain speed.

No matter. She would reach the forest canopy first.

Concentrating, she refocused on the forest and the shadows that lived there. Shadows she could use. She was still weak, and she wouldn’t be able to maintain shadowform for long, but she didn’t need more than a few moments.

Still, she held her breath as the distance vanished beneath her, branches sturdy and sharp enough to skewer her seeming to rush toward her. Just before they did, however, she slipped into the shadows beneath her, a dark haze falling over her eyes. Her strength immediately ebbed, and she could feel her control of the blade begin to falter. She continued to fall, but slower now, avoiding branches as she weaved and wound through the sea of shadows.

She had almost reached the forest floor when the rest of her strength left her, the Pureblade vanishing into mist. She fell the last few feet, body thumping to the ground.

Weariness tugged at her eyelids once more, but she staved it off by holding them open with her fingers, dragging herself through the undergrowth on elbows and knees until she located a mossy, hollowed-out log, half-rotten and decayed as it slowly returned to the earth.

Fyre squeezed inside the log, pulling her feet behind her.

She slept.

Dane

They searched for Fyre’s body for hours without avail. There was no way she could’ve survived a fall from such a height, and yet it was as if the forest itself had swallowed her whole.

“Enough,” Gwen finally said.

“We keep looking,” Dane said. How could they abandon the one who’d saved their very lives?

“Dane.” This time it was Dom who’d spoken, his hand gripping Dane’s shoulder.

“Don’t you start, too. We can’t leave her.”

“She didn’t want to go with us. I think she made that very clear.”

“I don’t leave friends behind,” Dane said.

Dom breathed through his nose. “I knew you wouldn’t let it go that easily. You were always one to hold a grudge, Brother. Go on then. Say what you have to say.”

Dane only realized after the words left his mouth that he’d been holding so much back since he was reunited with Dom, like a raging river blocked by a dam that was now full of holes. “It was supposed to be you,” he snarled. “You were to be the Dragonmaster. You were the elder. You were groomed from the moment you were born. I never wanted it. Never.”

“Something smells,” Dom said, pretending to sniff the air. “Oh, wait, that’s just the shite you’re spouting. With each one of my failures, you always looked at me like I wasn’t enough, like it should’ve been you born first. Or maybe like I should’ve never been born at all.”

His brother’s words caught him off guard, both because of their ferocity and because of the sincerity in Dom’s tone. He truly believed what he was saying. Dane had been ready for a fight, his fists already clenched at his sides, but now the fight was sucked out of him, like air rushing from a hole in an inflated sack. “What? No. I never thought that. I swear it.”

“That’s how it felt,” Dom said, voice low. “All the time.”

“I…I…” Gods, Dane thought. Had we really made him feel that way? Like we didn’t want him to exist?

Yes, he thought, answering his own question. We did. Maybe it wasn’t intentionally or malicious, but they did force him on the outside of their family. We were trying to make him want to change, to conform, to become more like us, the way we thought he should be.

“I—we—were horrible,” he said, finally finishing his thought.

Dom stared at him, surprise on his face. “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

“And yet the wounds never healed. Storms, Dom, I’m sorry. For everything. If I could take it back, I would. I could blame it on the foolishness of youth, but that would be a lie. I was old enough to be better, to do better. But regret never changed anything, so all I can do is show you now that you’re my brother and I love you. I don’t care who you are. Your dragon can grow three heads. Void, you can grow three heads. It will make no difference. I love you.” Dane stopped, realizing he’d repeated that same statement twice now, a statement he’d never uttered to either of his brothers in all the years they’d been together, at least not that he could remember.

Dom looked stunned. “I—I love you, too.” He fell into Dane’s arms, weeping. Dane held him for a long time, until Gwen cleared her throat, having stood quietly the entire time. Sniffing, Dom pulled back, wiping tears from his eyes and cheeks. “From now on, we do things together,” he said.

Dane smiled and nodded. “Together,” he confirmed. “Fyre’s path is no longer the same as ours. May the gods protect her.”

“I think she’ll do perfectly fine without them,” Gwen said. “Have you seen that sword of hers?”

Twenty-Nine

Andovier Helm

Loslandia, near Mothswood

ANDO’S MIND RACED. WHAT WAS THE POINT OF ALL THIS? WHY HAD TORA LOST HER VOICE? Why had She Who Sees tried to persuade him to swallow a potion promising to destroy his memories? And why did she want him dead when he refused? Those and other questions swirled through Ando’s mind as he was shoved from behind by one of the eye-tattooed men while two others flanked him.

“Ando!” a voice shouted. Mrz’s brows were furrowed as the large Grizari watched him be hustled by. He stood alone, apparently the only other from their group to leave the large room. Like Ando, he’d probably been watching the children play their game with the ball and the ring. “What happenin’? Where goin’?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” Ando said. “Stay calm.”

Having heard the commotion, others crowded around Mrz, men and dwarves, and then Tora. Her mouth opened wide, and her lips moved. He could read what they were trying to say—his name—but no sound emerged. When they fell shut once more, she started across the yard, stalking on an angle to intercept him like a hunting predator homing in on their prey.

That’s when dozens and dozens of men poured into the yard from around the far edge of the building, cutting off her path. “Tora!” Ando shouted. “I’m all right. Don’t do anything foolish.” Like half-strangle our captor and almost swallow a vile, memory-destroying liquid? he thought in his head.

As he was hurried along, Ando twisted his head to look back at the others. A confrontation had begun, his men shoving against the tattooed men to try to barge their way through to get to him. Then, suddenly, there was a poof of blue smoke, drawing shouts. More and more of the tattooed men were raising sacks of the blue, paralyzing powder, shouting in Loslandian. The smoke swirled all around them, and yet didn’t seem to affect them. Ando remembered how before the ceremony where the child’s hand was tattooed back in their temple, members of the audience had drunk the bloodlike liquid.

It protects them from the smoke, Ando realized. Meanwhile, the smoke had begun to dissipate, giving Ando a clearer view through the haze. Thankfully, his men and Tora had backed away fast enough to avoid paralysis. Except for one, Mudd, who lay flat on his back, unmoving. Throwing a large arm over his mouth and nose, Mrz stepped forward and scooped up the dwarf in the opposite arm before retreating once more.

Good, Ando thought. It is better this way. At least they will be safe.

He turned away, shoved forward by unfriendly hands.

They walked for a long time between rows of olive trees. Or at least that’s what Ando thought they were when they’d rode into the walled-in complex when they first arrived. Upon second look, however, their fruit was the right size but different in color—reddish-brown—and texture—bumpy and rough-skinned.

“What sort of trees are these?” he asked.

The men babbled at him in their foreign tongue and shoved him along quicker, shaking the cloths filled with blue powder menacingly.

Finally they arrived at their destination, a section of the area free of tree growth or any other foliage. Rectangular mounds of dirt counting into the hundreds ran from north to south and east to west all the way to the ivy-covered wall in the distance. A shovel lay on its side near one of them. One of the men picked it up, speaking a single word in first his native language and then in heavily accented common tongue. “Deeg.” He shoved the shovel’s handle into Ando’s hand and pointed to a spot of flat earth nestled between two of the mounds.

Ando knew in that moment what he was being asked to do:

Dig his own grave.

How did I get here? Ando wondered as he dug, the hot sun baking the back of his neck, drawing sweat from every pore until his clothes were drenched through. The shadowy places of the world felt like they were streaked with light while the bright places had become overrun with darkness, creeping shadows that smothered the very joy that had once lived there.

His home had been one of those bright places, filled with laughter and love and pleasure. Or at least that was how he liked to remember it. In truth, there were sometimes pain and tears, heartache and sorrow, too. Their world had been perfect in all its imperfectness.

Now it was a place where only ghosts lived.

Am I supposed to find meaning in the deaths of my family? he wondered, the question aimed at the gods he’d always believed in but which he now despised for all they’d taken from him.

Chunk, went his shovel into the ground. Scoop. Toss. Chunk. Scoop. Toss.

What if I don’t want to find meaning in any of it? What if I want to be sad and miserable for the rest of my life? A life which, he thought wryly, was on its last legs.

Chunk. Scoop. Toss. Deeper and deeper he delved, until the earth around him rose past his hips, then to his chest. He was almost finished. He needed to come to a conclusion, one way or another. He could go quietly or fight to the end. Every instinct told him to fight, but he was tired of fighting, tired of existing in the absence of a love that had, from the very beginning, felt as deep and unending as the waters of the ocean.

But Tora. But Mrz. But Sola and Barty and Mudd—happy-go-lucky Mudd who was now paralyzed. The events of the past few months flashed through his mind, cycling through so quickly he struggled to keep up. Battles in King Gaard’s arena, so much meaningless bloodshed, and yet what had arisen from the pools of blood had been nothing short of miraculous: friendships and brotherhood. Surviving, pulling a young girl from a hutch surrounded by entire structures that had been turned to ash. Defending a Rift in enemy territory when no one else would. Seeking refuge only to be confined once more. Fighting, ever fighting. Onward toward what? Abandoning Kingfall forever? Was that truly what he wanted his family’s deaths to mean?

“No,” he said, shaking his head in wonderment as realization filled him. “No,” he said more confidently. Kingfall was under siege by powers beyond his own, powers he might never truly understand. And yet…standing side by side with Tora and the men he’d grown to care for and love like brothers, he need fear nothing so long as he refused to retreat.

He looked up. The tattooed men were staring down at him, watching. They no longer gripped their paralyzing cloth sacks, probably feeling safe now that he was in a hole while they held the higher ground. But they’d made one cardinal sin:

Never arm a soldier and expect to survive the day.

“Deeg,” one of the men said.

Ando made like he was about to stab the shovel into the dirt once more, but this time he stopped at the last second, spinning the shovel around until its head faced the sky, the base of the handle resting on his palm. He launched it skyward with all his might.

He didn’t wait to see whether it hit any of the men. If he had, he would’ve seen the sharp edge of the shovel’s head scythe into one of their throats, splitting one of the eye tattoos in half. He would’ve seen the man topple backwards, eyes wide in shock as blood geysered from the wound. He would’ve seen the other two men drawing their sack pouches once more, not hesitating as they slammed them down into the three-quarters-finished grave.

Ando didn’t see any of that, however, because the moment the shovel left his hand, he was sprinting hard for the grave’s far wall, gaining a three-step running start, before bending his knees and then leaping as high as he could, grasping at the clumps of sod, digging his nails into the dirt. Pulling with everything he had.

Just as the bags exploded, kicking up plumes of blue smoke, he dragged himself free of the pit, rolling hard and fast, breathing in lungfuls of clean, fresh air.

The element of surprise evaporated within seconds as one of the men drew a knife and pounced. Ando managed to get his hands up to grab the man’s wrists, holding him at bay as the knife’s sharp tip hovered less than an inch from one of his eyes. Then, slowly, Ando began to push the knife away.

He knew the second man would soon be upon him, his eyes watching for any signs of movement. The attack came from the left rather than the right, where the man had circled around the hole or perhaps leapt over it. Ando was ready, dropping his elbow such that the man atop him twisted awkwardly to one side. His mouth gasped open as his comrade’s own knife sank deep into his back.

Ando shrugged the corpse off him and fought to his feet, glancing down at the slash he’d taken on his own chest when his attacker had angled away. Blood seeped through his shirt, but the injury was superficial.

The third man backed away slowly, arms in front of him. His hands were empty, his pouch in the grave and his dagger in a dead man’s back. Weaponless, he resorted to his last line of defense: words. “Please,” he said. It sounded like pleace. He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “Don’…keel.”

Ando had lived by a sort of self-defined creed his entire life. Protect others. Right the wrongs. Have mercy. Void, hundreds of times upon the battlefield he’d spared the lives of his enemies, choosing to take them hostage rather than kill them after they’d been injured and disarmed. At Kingsfort he’d used considerable resources caring for wounded men who’d tried to kill him. ‘Better to save a life than to end one,’ he often said. It was this very creed that had led him to spare Sola and Mrz when both men had been designated his ‘enemy’ the moment they were forced into the arena with him. At Sunsei, he’d spared the guards trying to prevent their escape, knocking them unconscious rather than killing.

Now, this man was weaponless, asking for the same mercy Ando had freely given countless others over his lifetime. This man had been born into a world where thoughts were placed in his head, shoved in so deep that he knew little else, any opportunity to challenge them ripped away from him by the innumerable tattoos of the eye that covered much of his skin.

Didn’t he deserve mercy?

“I’m sorry,” Ando said, reaching down and wrenching the dagger from the dead man’s back.

“Pleace,” the man said again.

Ando shook his head. Because he knew. There was no way to take this man hostage. If he spared him, he would rejoin the other men as soon as possible, and then all their lives would be forfeit.

And Ando couldn’t have that. He feinted hard to the right, forcing the man to take a step in the opposite direction, bringing him closer to the grave’s edge. Sensing the empty space now directly behind him, the man glanced back to gauge the distance. It was a novice mistake, one Ando exploited, lunging forward and stabbing, the dagger penetrating the exposed skin of the man’s chest, just over his heart.

As he shoved the man into the grave, the knife slid from his flesh, slick with blood. Ando turned away, gathering up the two other knives and the shovel. They would need all the weapons they could get if they were going to escape.

At a steady jog, he headed back through the grove, cluster of structures looming in the distance.

By the time Ando reached the edge of the grove, the tension in the yard had melted away. His men and Tora must’ve gone inside the large structure, while at least a dozen eye-tattooed men watched the open door for any additional signs of rebellion. The two quarter-giants sat in the shade, seemingly unconcerned by the events that had transpired earlier that morning.

Ando considered his approach from the cover of the grove. As he did, one of the many branches fell across his vision, the reddish-brown fruit dancing before his eyes. He frowned, plucking one off to inspect it more closely. It was the size of his thumb, from the middle knuckle to the tip. Something oozed from a small hole in one end. Juice, blood-red. Tentatively, he dribbled a drop on his tongue, his mouth exploding with a sweetness that even a baker’s most sugary cakes would struggle to compete with.

Ando squeezed the rest of the juice into his mouth and then, careful to avoid drawing attention, removed his shirt and began to pluck as many of the small fruits as he could wrap within the folds of cloth.

Tora

As she motioned to Mrz and the others, trying to explain her plan using only hand signals, Tora’s frustration at not being able to speak reached a boiling point. She drew her darkblade and slammed it into the tiled floor of the large room. With a crunch, the blade sank through the tiles midway up the sword, shadows roiling along its edges.

The eyes of the dwarves and men, as well as the Grizari’s two large eyes, stared at her, eyebrows raised.

She sighed, dragging the blade back out and firming up her grip. She wanted to hit something with it—preferably something made of flesh and blood. Ideally, the freaky woman covered in eye tattoos or one of her equally freakish minions. Beyond the half-circle of men, one of the giants lumbered inside as though curious as to what had caused the sound.

I guess he’ll have to do, she thought, shoving past the men and stalking toward the abnormally large creature. One of them, Sola, protested and scrambled after her, but she was moving too quickly, the distance between her and the giant vanishing in her haste to do something. Sitting and waiting around for something to happen simply wasn’t in her nature.

As she approached, the giant cocked its head to the side, staring directly at the darkblade, eyes blinking lazily. With his massive form looming over her, she almost reconsidered whether this was the wisest course of action. Rut it, she thought, aiming for his knee, thrusting the blade forward.

The giant’s hand moved far faster than she expected given his size, reaching down to grasp her forearm, stopping her attempted stab short of his leg. She tried to squirm from his grip, but his fingers were like iron shackles, refusing to release her. The giant’s other enormous hand grabbed her by the waist. Geroff me! she tried to shout, but as usual her lips moved silently, her message undelivered.

Not that it would’ve mattered. She pounded the giant’s hand with one fist, but the blows felt as weak as a small child’s. The giant picked her up, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked not at her but at the darkblade still held in her grip.

Though she couldn’t shout, the rest of the men she’d spent countless hours with could, and they raised their voices as they charged the giant, weaponless save for the strength of their courage and loyalty.

That’s when all void broke loose. Eye-tattooed men poured inside the structure, gripping those damned cloth sacks that had been the source of her lost voice, the only part of her that refused to reemerge from the grip of paralysis. Before they could throw any of them, however, Mrz slammed into their midst, horn tossing one of them aside like a straw doll before tackling another to the ground. Barty was next, leaving his feet and going airborne to rope his arms around another of the men before he could throw his cloth sack, slamming him onto his back.

Thankfully, none of the felled men lost their grips on their cloth sacks or their little rebellion might’ve been over before it started. Still, as the melee continued, Tora noticed one of their enemies breaking away from the others. While she tried to squirm free of the giant’s grip, she could only watch as he drew his arm back to throw his sack, specks of blue powder already pouring from an invisible hole in the side, kicking up a stream of smoke that swirled around his body.

Tora couldn’t even scream to warn the others.

It turned out, she didn’t need to.

The giant set her down gently and then swept a hand hard to the side, backhanding the man with such power his body flew through the doorway, an arc of blue smoke trailing him as he disappeared into the yard.

Ando

The moment Ando saw one of the giants vanish inside the structure, he knew something was wrong. As quickly as he could without spilling its contents, he gathered up the ends of his shirt and tied them together, slinging it over one shoulder like a knapsack. His other hand fumbled for the three daggers and shovel, clutching them to his chest as he ran from cover. With any luck, he’d be almost inside before any of the tattooed men realized what was happening.

Before he’d crossed half the distance to them, however, loud shouts erupted from inside. The men wasted no time as they took off, already drawing sack cloths over their heads as they charged inside.

Ando fumbled and dropped one knife but kept going, eyes trained on the open doorway.

Until the second giant stepped in his path. Nob—or possibly Ham—stood blocking the entrance to the structure, dull eyes meeting his own sharp stare. Taking a deep breath, Ando calmly placed the makeshift knapsack on the ground, and then the two knives, before raising the shovel menacingly. He’d said before that killing the giants would be necessary if they were to escape, and it seemed that time had come.

To his surprise, rather than attacking him, the giant stepped aside, waving a thick-fingered hand as though to say, “You first.” Ando blinked. If this was a trick, it was a good one, the lumbering creature showing no signs of anything but a genuine desire to let him pass.

Which he did, slowly, after gathering up the two knives and shirt full of fruit. Unfortunately, that meant because he had one eye trained on the giant as he strode toward the entrance, he reacted a split-second too late when a body came hurling through the doorway, hand still gripping a sack cloth spouting blue smoke. The man crashed into his shoulder, rocking him back and landing beside him with an audible groan. Immediately the air exploded with blue smoke, misting around him like thick fog, penetrating his nose, his mouth, stinging his eyes…

Ando had the presence of mind to hold his breath even though he suspected it was far too late for that, the blue paralyzing smoke having already filled his lungs to brimming. He could almost feel the poison worming its way into his bloodstream, slowing his heart, melting his mind until, like before, it would fade, fade, fade…

Nothing happened. The blue smoke began to dissipate, chased by a gust of wind that sent dirt and dust tumbling across the yard.

Stunned, Ando sat up. The juice from the small fruits worked! he thought, only just realizing that he hadn’t truly believed they would. The man who’d come flying through the doorway groaned again, rolling about as he clutched at his knee, which didn’t look quite right. What had sent him airborne like that? Mrz? Ando shook his head. Even the powerful Grizari wouldn’t be able to toss a fully grown man that far and hard.

His eyes landed on the giant, who continued to watch him contentedly. Yes, he thought. Only a giant could’ve thrown a man that far…

He scrambled to his feet, mind trying—and failing—to comprehend why the giants would be attacking their own allies, actually helping them to escape. Doesn’t matter, he thought, once more scooping up the shovel and knives and tossing the shirt full of fruit over his shoulder. Even a pair of giants might not be enough to save them given their disadvantage in numbers, not to mention there would likely be reinforcements arriving any second.

He barreled through the doorway, hearing the heavy thump of the giant’s footsteps right behind him.

Tora

Tora had only been stunned for a moment after watching the giant hit a man that was supposed to be his ally. Releasing a silent war cry that sounded only within the confines of her own head, she plunged into the melee, a dark shimmer sliding up and down her blade wetly like oil. The first enemy she was confronted with had lost his sack of blue powder somewhere during the confusion, but had swiftly replaced it with a dagger, which he now stabbed at her with a lunge.

She hadn’t been ready for the speed of his attack, not even close, and yet her feet moved instinctively, sidestepping the attempted blow and then plunging her own blade into his bare abdomen, piercing one of the eyes tattooed on his skin. As he gasped, doubling over with blood already leaking from his mouth, she stared, in awe of what she’d done. Yes, she’d fought before. Void, she’d killed the mage, Lin Wei, back in Sunsei. And yet this time everything was different. This man was a stranger. And she’d seen his eyes when she’d stabbed him, whereas her attack on the evil mage had been from behind, impersonal.

She could feel the warmth of his blood on her hand, having leaked down the edge of the blade. She could see the tip of the blade, still gleaming darkly, protruding from his back, having penetrated skin and muscle and bone and other inner parts of him she’d rather not think about.

Tora drew the blade out and he fell, dead before he hit the ground. Because of her.

Because of me, she thought, feeling slightly ill. A numbness settled into her legs, heaviest around her knees, as she turned, taking in the carnage. She saw more of the bare-chested men on the floor, bloody and staring with unseeing eyes. She saw a dwarf too (his name had been Klars and she’d spoken to him numerous times; she’d enjoyed the stories he told about his childhood), and one of the Odinians (a man called Aidan who grumbled every morning about the brightness of the sun, but came alive with personality in the evening, a song always on his lips). They were already gone, pierced by enemy daggers.

Though she’d seen death—too much death—for some reason the sight of these two goodly souls lying dead enraged her, a fire burning from her head to her toes as she spun, slashing at anything bare-chested and covered in eyes in her path. Two more fell before her fury and the third was dead to rights when she stopped her slash—

Her blade hovered inches from its target, a bare chest, strong from years of training and fighting but devoid of eyes. She looked up.

Ando stared at her, real eyes wide. For some odd reason he was carrying a shovel in one hand. “Tora?”

She fell into his arms, the madness and fury and bloodlust vanishing in an instant. Because he was alive, so alive. (Unlike her mother. Unlike her father.) There was so much she wanted—needed—to tell him, but when her lips moved, no sound emerged.

“Eat this,” he said hurriedly, reaching into the folds of a sack that had once been his shirt. Handing her a small reddish-brown fruit the size and shape of an olive. “You needn’t swallow the skin but be sure to suck out all the juice. It will protect you from the blue smoke.”

She hesitated to take the fruit, trying to understand.

“Do it,” Ando said. “Explanations later.” He shoved the fruit into her mouth. She nodded and began chewing, sugary sweetness exploding across her tongue.

Not a moment too soon. Tendrils of blue smoke had begun curling from the floor, where more and more of the enemy had dropped their sack cloths, but now a huge puff burst nearby. At least four of their own, including Tora and Ando, were in close proximity to the smoke as it roiled upwards and outwards. Tora gagged and doubled over, coughing, but to her delight she didn’t topple over nor lose control of her own limbs. The two others that had been close by weren’t so lucky, their legs going stiff as they collapsed.

Ando dropped the shovel and grabbed her arm. “Tora, we need to get as many of the others to drink the juice as possible. Can you help?” She stared at him, feeling steel in her bones. This was a different man than the one she knew, who typically asked her to stay close to him at all times. This was a man who trusted her with the lives of his men. Whatever had happened out there in the fields had changed him.

She nodded firmly, extending her free hand. He dropped several small fruits into her palm and then was gone. She went the opposite direction, emerging from the smoke just in time to spot Sola. He now gripped a dagger, presumably one he’d taken from one of the enemy, and was circling his bare-chested foe, each man feinting jabs as they searched for an opportunity to attack.

Tora felled Sola’s enemy from behind, kicking the corpse aside and then handing the Solarii a fruit. He stared at it, dumbfounded. Eat, she mouthed, making a chewing motion with her teeth.

She turned away, searching for another ally to help. Another smoke blast had gone up, and at least one more of their own was caught in the roiling tendrils of blue. She could only hope Ando had reached the man first. She noticed the giant who had first helped her. His back was to the inside of the wall, half a dozen foes stabbing and slashing at him with their daggers. He managed to slap one aside with a heavy hand, but that only allowed two others to dance forward and poke at his skin. He was already bleeding from dozens of cuts, most on his arms and legs.

Though she knew she needed to get the fruit to the rest of the men, seeing the giant alone and outnumbered stoked the fire that had never fully gone out, only died down. Now it blazed inside her again as she charged the men, cutting down one and then another before they knew she was upon them, twisting hard to the side to deflect the third man’s attack, finishing him off with a hard slash across his chest. The giant kicked the fourth and then slammed his fist into the fifth, sending him hurtling across the room. The sixth turned and ran, only to run headlong into the second giant, who’d been slowly picking his way through the crowd, smashing any of the tattooed men in his path. The giant cuffed him around the head so hard he wavered like a stalk of grass in the breeze before collapsing where he stood.

Tora still had no idea why the giants were helping them, but as Ando had said, the time for explanations would be later. Once more, she rushed off, handing the small fruit to each man and dwarf she passed, until she reached Mrz, who’d just dispatched one of the enemy with a toss of his curving horn. “Already got one from Ando,” the Grizari grunted, opening his mouth to reveal big, square teeth stained with the fruit’s dark-red juice.

Together, they turned to survey the carnage. Only one of the Sight members remained but, seeing his comrades lying in their own blood, he turned to flee. The second giant took a large step over, blocking his path. The man shouted something at him in Loslandian, spittle flying from his lips. Whatever he’d said, it didn’t sound very nice. In any case, the giant reacted by reaching out and grabbing the man, who stabbed repeatedly at the creature’s hand. If the giant felt the spikes of pain, he showed no signs of it, calmly throwing the man across the room, where he slammed into the wall and crumpled in a broken heap. Wearing the same mundane expression he seemed to always wear, the giant sucked his hand where blood had begun to well from several punctures.

Ando said, “Reinforcements will arrive soon! We need to hurry. If you don’t have a weapon, find one. Squeeze juice from these fruits”—he held up one of the small olive-like fruits—“into the mouths of the paralyzed. Carry the wounded. Leave the dead.”

One of the giants stepped forward, causing Ando and the other men to flinch back, weapons raised. Tora, however, stepped forward. She placed her free hand on her heart and mouthed, Thank you. She gestured from the giant to one of the injured men lying clutching a leg that was bent all wrong and then pretended to pick him up. The giant nodded his massive head and then opened his mouth. “Carry,” he said, his voice deeper than the low rumble of thunder that preceded a summer storm.

Tora nodded excitedly. Please, she mouthed.

The giant reached down, treelike arms so close she could feel their warmth, and picked up the man, whose mouth opened in horror. “More,” the giant said in that same, powerful voice.

“You heard him,” Ando said. “Locate the survivors who can’t walk on their own and bring them to the giant.” The other giant lumbered over to stand beside the first, extending his arms as well. “To the giants,” Ando corrected. His eyes met Tora’s and she could sense the wonder in her own reflected in his.

They got to work. Tora sheathed her blade and helped squeeze fruit into each paralyzed man and dwarf’s mouth. When she got to Mudd, he gasped and almost headbutted her as he bucked wildly, beard swishing across his knees. Then he turned to the side and threw up. Tora didn’t know exactly how the juice worked, so she helped him tilt his head back and drink from another fruit as she squeezed. “Thank ye,” he said when she’d finished. “Thought I was a goner that time, for sure.”

Barty, who was staggering after slinging a full-grown man across his shoulders, said, “I didn’t. I couldn’t be rid o’ yer foolishness if I tried!” He stomped away and twisted around awkwardly to lower the man into the waiting arms of one of the giants. The giant stood to his full height, arms now at capacity as he held two men and three dwarves. The other giant also had a complete load and had moved closer to the doorway. “Go. Now,” he said.

“You heard the man,” Ando said. “Follow my lead. We will attempt to breach the wall on the western border. Run like you are being chased by demons. We will only stand and fight if we have no other choice.”

Tora clenched her teeth as they sprinted out into the sunlight.

Ando

Ando had learned early in his life never to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it came in the form of a pair of quarter-giants who’d previously served a psychotic woman who’d forced him to dig his own grave. Void, without the giants’ help they probably wouldn’t have survived the fight inside the building. Now, outside, the lumbering creatures were carrying the injured in their powerful arms, their long strides the equivalent of three of his own. To his surprise, they headed west as he’d commanded. They might appear dull-witted on the outside, but they are far from it, he thought.

Shouts in the distance snapped him back to the task at hand, leading the rest of his men and dwarves in the giants’ wake, plunging into the grove of trees. He spotted Tora, sprinting over the land in the row parallel to the one he’d entered. Images of the way she’d fought inside the building flashed through his mind. He’d seen the way she’d rushed to help one of the giants, how easily she’d cut down her enemies, grown men all, like she was a seasoned warrior. Though he still didn’t trust the weapon, he had to admit that the darkblade had made her confident in her own abilities. Well, more confident.

More shouts resounded somewhere behind them. They were still distant, but not as much as before. Ahead, the wall that was their goal still seemed miles away. A new sound arose, one that plucked at the hairs on the back of Ando’s neck. The beat of horse hooves.

Outrunning the enemy was suddenly an impossibility. Making a stand was their only hope, though even with two giants, victory was a longshot, the sheer number of enemies that would soon be upon them making their own small force feel like a single grain of sand against an entire beach.

The horses’ hooves pounded closer. Ando hazarded a glance over his shoulder, but all he could see were a dozen clouds of dust growing steadily closer. He twisted back around to find the giants, whose long strides had carried them well ahead, having stopped. “Git behind,” one grunted, ushering the men and dwarves between them. “Take wounded. Will make stand here.” As gently as a nursemaid caring for a patient, they placed the injured on the ground.

“Thank you,” Ando said. He picked up one of the larger men, balancing him on his shoulder. “For everything.” Others pitched in, Sola and Barty and Mrz, and soon every injured man was accounted for.

Ando turned away, hating to leave two warriors behind but knowing that if he didn’t every last one of them would die.

It wasn’t until the wall grew close enough to capture them in its long shadow that he realized Tora was no longer with them.

Tora

As much as logic and practicality told her that standing to fight alongside two giants against a sea of enemies was folly, Tora couldn’t bring herself to leave them. Together they stood, side by side by side, in silence. Waiting, watching the clouds of dust grow ever closer, until Tora could make out the eyes of the horses in full gallop, champing at their bits, their bare-chested riders astride their backs wielding glinting daggers.

Tora should’ve been more scared than she’d ever been in her life, but she wasn’t. She gripped the darkblade calmly, her knees bent, prepared to dive out of harm’s way if the riders chose to steer their steeds directly at her.

They did, death on four legs pounding toward her with reckless abandon.

Then, just as she was about to spring out of their path, using one of the fruit trees for cover, the giants stepped forward. The horses reared up, tossing their riders from their backs. Most of the men managed to roll clear of the beasts’ stamping hooves but two were trampled underfoot before the horses fled.

The giants lumbered forward, reaching for the men scrambling back to their feet. Two were scooped up, the giants smashing them together and then dropping the broken bodies in a mangled heap.

The rest of the fallen riders managed to rally, fanning out to surround the giants, darting in and stabbing at their legs. One man got too close and paid the price as a heavy fist smashed him into the next row over, but that only opened the giant to an attack from his blind side, three men darting in and leaping to stab him between the ribs thrice in short succession.

The giant bellowed, swatting at the men as they danced back out of harm’s way. He clutched his side, blood streaming between his thick fingers. That same fiery anger tore through Tora as she stalked toward the trio, darkblade rending the air with shadows. She stopped, frowning slightly, noticing something she couldn’t immediately make sense of. Tiny dots, hundreds of them, swarming across the horizon like an army of ants.

Not godsdamn ants, she thought. Tattooed men on foot, in pursuit.

Without another thought, she charged the three men, knowing she needed to dispatch them and the others who’d arrived on horseback with haste if they were going to escape the horde now hunting them. With any luck they could still make the wall well ahead of the enemy and be up and over before their foes even started to climb.

The three men she charged, however, were no fools. They’d seen their reinforcements, too, and now scattered in all directions to prevent her from getting a quick kill. She focused on the one in the center, who’d turned and retreated toward his sea of allies. He was long and lean and fast.

But Tora was faster. She knew her speed and strength were enhanced somehow by the blade she wielded, and yet it felt as natural as if she’d always been this way. When she closed the gap within a few strides, she leapt, driving her blade through the man’s back, felling him like a sapling before an axe.

She turned, finding the giants once more harried from multiple sides, their foes staying well clear of each other to ensure they would have to be picked off one at a time. She took a deep breath and charged again.

Ando

Ando passed the injured man to Mrz and shouted for his men to “Climb! Climb!” Then he turned and raced back the other way, eyes locking on the position of the giants, their powerful forms rising above the lines of trees. He couldn’t spot Tora yet, but she would likely be near Nob and Ham, playing the role of hero she seemed to relish.

Cold fear sliced through him when he saw the enemy. Not so much because of the dozen or so men that now surrounded the giants, attacking methodically from behind as each giant spun and tried to ward them off, but because of the army of enemies he spotted in the distance, moving ever closer to their prize.

Ando was no stranger to meeting an enemy’s charge, but he’d always had a wall of fully armored men bearing shield and spear by his side. Even then, the first time he experienced a battle’s frontlines he was kept up for several nights with nightmares of the carnage: men from both sides screaming and bleeding; limbs scattered haphazardly, not attached to the places they should’ve been; blood spattering his own face as he gave into a pure animalistic instinct to survive, meting out death as he’d been trained to do.

He didn’t want any of that for Tora, even if she was capable of handling it. Not to mention she had no armor, no shield, no stoic line of soldiers standing beside her. It was just her and two giants who were already bleeding from dozens of wounds.

As Ando ran, already knowing he wouldn’t arrive before the wave of enemies, he saw one of the giants drop to one knee with a mournful cry. The other giant immediately reacted, lowering his powerful head and charging into the man who’d stabbed the other through the back. He crashed into the man, landing atop him and seeming to swallow his tiny form beneath his bulk. The act might’ve saved the other giant, but it also left him vulnerable. No fewer than half a dozen men fell upon him, stabbing, slashing, hacking.

The giant bellowed, swinging at them with mighty fists, managing to knock one off on the left side only to blind him to the enemy swooping in from the right side. The tattooed man pierced the giant’s eye with an overhand chop of his dagger. The man staggered back, grinning like a banshee as though surprised by what he’d managed to do.

And then he was gone, the other giant having recovered enough from his own injuries to launch a kick that sent the man soaring over one tree and then into the piercing branches of the next. One such branch stabbed through his bare chest, leaving him hanging limply, like a flag on a still day.

It wasn’t enough. The giants were growing weaker, their movements slower—the cost of blood loss and being outnumbered since the fight had begun back inside the structure. Ando urged his feet to move faster, but the reinforcements were within shouting distance of the giants now. The giant who’d been stabbed in the eye remained on the ground, protecting his head from the remaining enemies, who continued to attack from multiple sides. The giant who’d found the strength to kick one of the men into the tree, faltered once more, dropping to one knee as four men closed in.

And then Tora was there, her small form rounding one of the giants, who had previously blocked her like a mountain blocks a boulder. One of the men must’ve caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye, because he turned, bringing his knife to bear.

Too late.

Tora’s blade sank into his chest, his fingers losing all strength as they opened, dropping the dagger. She kicked him away, whirling to slash open the abdomen of another enemy, who’d turned his attention away from the giants.

Ando’s mouth opened as he continued to run, in awe of the young woman making short work of the remaining enemies, whose blood she spilled with the ease of one born to kill. And when the last man fell, she stood, moving slowly in a circle, as though daring any of their ghosts to rise and try to haunt her.

Run, he thought, just as she turned, lifting her blade as if only just remembering the hundreds of additional enemies heading her way. Silently, without war cry or taunt, they swarmed to either side, as though an invisible obstacle had forced them to go around it.

They didn’t stop until Ando had lost sight of her.

Tora was surrounded.

Getting to her would be impossible. Beyond impossible.

Ando got to work.

Tora

One of the giants was already dead, this she knew. As she’d turned, surveying the death that she had caused, Tora had seen him take his last faltering breath before succumbing to his grievous injuries, his chest no longer rising nor falling.

The other giant was in a bad way, too, barely able to bear his own weight as he remained upright on one knee, clutching his side. Several daggers were still embedded in his skin, blood leaking from dozens of gashes and punctures.

The giant’s eyes fell upon her, filled with sadness beyond measure. “Failed you,” he said. His deep voice no longer held the power of thunder.

No, Tora mouthed, a deep melancholy penetrating her very bones. You saved me.

“Go. Must survive.” The enemy was upon them now, spreading to either side, the broad path of escape swiftly closing. If she ran now, the added speed lent to her by the darkblade would still allow her to race ahead of them. She could still escape. But only if she went now.

She stayed. I won’t leave you, she mouthed.

A deep, resigned sigh blasted from the giant’s lips. He extended his hand toward her and she took it, only able to wrap her fingers around two of his, which were each the width of plump sausages.

As the enemy surrounded them, they simply existed in each other’s sphere. “Ready?” the giant finally said.

Tora nodded. The giant groaned, struggling to his feet. He turned, standing back-to-back with Tora to face the enemy.

Ando

Ando couldn’t see beyond the next two or three enemies, so he simply fought, dispatching three, then four, then five men. Six.

Seven.

That had been easy, the men’s attention focused on the giant and the young woman with the deadly blade forged of darkness, but they quickly realized an equally deadly foe had snuck in from the rear. More and more turned to face him, using the same tactics they’d employed so successfully against a creature more than twice his size. Outnumbered and surrounded, Ando knew the end was nigh. He’d survived countless battles fought on the lands he loved, and now he would die in a foreign place separated from those he’d managed to love when he thought his heart was no longer capable of feeling anything but pain.

An enemy blade scythed toward his neck. He dodged, only to take the slash on his shoulder. He ducked another swipe, kicking his enemy away and brandishing his own stolen knife in a circle to ward off any others who thought to step inside his reach.

They moved in anyway, knowing full well he was all threat and no promise at this point.

“Come,” Ando growled, determined to take a few more with him to the grave.

Before he could strike, bodies cascaded to either side like the foamy waters of a crashing wave, split by a new form that barreled through them, powerful arms and horn tossing them about like chaff before a farmer’s scythe.

“Think you can have all fun by yourself?” Mrz said, swinging the shovel he’d taken from Ando hard enough to shatter the arm of one of the men who’d gotten too close. The Grizari warrior immediately reversed direction, slamming the butt end of the shovel into another man’s gut, doubling him over.

He wasn’t the only one who’d come back. Every man and dwarf who could still walk were suddenly there, fighting alongside him as they’d done from the moment their hardy band of soldiers was first formed in the middle of a Terran arena. Barty and Sola and Mudd and so many others, a mix of Odinians and dwarves. They fought like lions, tearing through their enemies’ lines until Ando, finally, caught a glimpse of Tora.

She, too, was fighting for her life, standing atop the giant’s back as he lay face first on the ground. Men scrambled up the giant’s flanks to get to her.

Tora

The second giant had done everything in its power to protect her, and, even now, grievously injured and slipping in and out of consciousness, he offered his body to her to give her the small advantage of the high ground. As she stood above the sea of enemies around her, she hoped they’d at least given the others enough time to escape.

No, she thought as her eyes landed on a pocket of men fighting amongst the mob. Ando and his men were cutting their way toward her. It was fruitless; even if they reached her, they would soon be cut down. Instead of only her and the giants dying, they would all die.

For what? she wondered. What have we accomplished? War continued to plague Kingfall, destruction seemed to rain down upon the world from a thousand storms. What was the point of it all?

While her enemies clambered up, murder in their eyes, she pondered these questions. Her eyes met Ando’s, and she was reminded of his own struggles, his own questions, those that he held close to his chest for fear of showing weakness. And she remembered something he’d once said to her when she’d asked him why he cared so much about defending others when his own life was in turmoil. His answer had come without hesitation: “Because we can.”

At the time, she’d thought it was him being foolish, overly selfless when there were times that called for a person to put themselves first. And yet, now, she thought she understood. Hadn’t she stayed back to fight side by side with the giants and try to give the rest of them time to escape simply because she could?

She wasn’t trying to be overly selfless or noble, and she certainly was no one’s fool. And, unlike the other times she’d acted rashly and without thought, she hadn’t done it to prove her courage and abilities to Ando and the others.

No, she realized. I did it out of love. And these men are acting from a place of hate, killing because they believe in a delusional woman who thinks to make herself a goddess.

The fire inside her rose once more, sending strength to her limbs, making her vision go completely red. Shadows danced amongst the flames, and she sensed life within them. There, a batlike wing. There, a hooked claw. There, a snapping beak. The life strove to tear itself free from inside her, where it had been living from the moment she closed her hand around the darkblade’s hilt. She felt the force welling inside her until she could hold it back no longer.

She threw her head back and screamed.

Ando

Ando thought he would be relieved to hear Tora’s voice return, but instead the rawness of its piercing tone—like a nightmare made real—sent a slash of terror through him.

Not fear for himself but for her.

Her scream had stopped the battle in its tracks, every eye falling upon her as she continued to yell at the sky. That was nothing compared to what followed.

Winged creatures of darkness began to crawl from her mouth, taking to the air one by one and then in droves, shrieking as they chased each other in smoke-like whorls across the sky. “By the gods…,” Sola said, suddenly by Ando’s side, staring at the flock of darkness, like a murder of crows seeking fresh carrion.

Tora’s cry cut off suddenly, and then she raised her hands to the sky.

Tora

What had crawled out of her should have disgusted her, horrified her.

It didn’t. As she raised her hands over her head, she thought the winged creatures were the most beautiful things she’d ever laid eyes on. Because they were hers. This she knew instinctively the same way one knows their own hands are theirs to command.

It wasn’t something she would be able to explain if prompted, and yet her mind could sense each and every one of the shadowy creatures into which she’d breathed a portion of her own life. While her enemies quailed beneath the darkened sky, she issued her command.

Attack.

Ando

The creatures suddenly descended like a swarm, ethereal wings whipping past, claws scratching, tearing, beaks snapping, stabbing. Several minutes of abject terror ensued, though it felt like hours to those unable to do anything but hunker down in its midst.

The winged shadows decimated everything in their path. Well, almost everything.

When, at long last, the creatures of darkness took to the air once more, only Ando and his men remained unscathed. The sea of enemies had become a sea of corpses. Chests had been clawed open. Eyes pecked out. Blood soaked the soil.

Ando and his men stood in wonder, living islands in an ocean of death.

And, as they watched, the winged shadows dove for the young woman standing atop a giant’s back, her mouth already open to receive them.

Thirty

Quill

Lockspell

“WHO’S COMING?” RONDO ASKED. BOTH HE AND QUILL ALREADY KNEW, BUT SOMEONE HAD TO ASK.

“The guards, viridian mages all,” Megrifir said, voice calm but full of an urgency that hadn’t been there on any of the previous days. “Rank four at a minimum. They will be armed with staffs and a heavy supply of magenum.”

“I thought the ranks are meaningless, ways to control us,” Quill said. “And the staffs and magenum are just crutches. That’s what you told us.”

“I did and they are. But you still don’t believe me.”

“Yes, I do,” Quill said. That ethereal blade of color slashed through the halls of his mind, cutting out the memories of the only woman he’d ever loved—his mother.

“Then I guess we have nothing to worry about. Follow me. They’ll be here soon, but perhaps we can buy some time and find a more desirable place to make our stand.”

Quill didn’t think anywhere in Lockspell would be any better, especially considering his inability to perform even the simplest of spells, but he didn’t argue as the mage departed once more without looking back, striding to the far side of the domed space. Megrifir hadn’t led them astray yet, and Quill didn’t expect him to now, even if the situation was futile. They were only three, and unarmed prisoners at that, while they faced a veritable army of highly trained and experienced mages. He exchanged a quick glance with Rondo, and then they both hurried after the mage who, as enigmatic as he was, had become something of a mentor to them both.

Into one of the corridors leading off from the domed room they went, the stone walls rushing past on either side as rats scurried out of their path. Megrifir didn’t run, but as before, Quill found himself jogging to keep up with the tall mage’s long strides. Rondo did the same, and each time they turned left or right down an intersecting tunnel they’d barely catch a glimpse of the man as he made yet another turn.

The sound of footsteps pounding on the stonework echoed from somewhere in their wake, and Quill said, “Run!” They took off, slapping their palms on the wall at each corner to save themselves from a headlong crash into bare rock.

Despite their efforts, the footsteps grew closer, until Quill found himself throwing harried glances over his shoulder just before each turn. On one such occasion, he glimpsed a mage, face obscured by shadows cast by the green, hooded robe that hung heavy from his frame as he ran. Just before Quill turned the corner, he spotted a long, black staff gripped in the guard mage’s hand, at least a dozen vials of magenum clinking as they swung from short cords tethered to the shaft.

The mage shouted something, the first word as clear as the sound of a struck bell—“Hallucinato”—a spell he’d learned as a third-year acolyte and practiced on his fellow classmates (he made an acolyte named Horatio scream with fright as conjured images of spiders dropped from the ceiling onto his head). The second part of the spell, however, was silenced by the slap of his and Rondo’s feet. The second part of the spell designated the nature of the hallucination being forced upon them by the viridian mage. Knowing its nature would only help them to determine reality from fiction.

The walls began to close in.

Rondo instinctively ground to a halt, but Quill grabbed him roughly by the elbow and dragged him onward, shouting, “It’s not real! Keep going!”

But knowing something and believing it were two entirely different things in this case. As the ceiling began to descend as well, slowly moving down to crush them, and the walls pressed closer and closer on each side, Quill began to mutter, “Not real, not real, not real…,” because it felt so real, looked so real, his mind trapped in a mage-induced hallucination. He remembered what Megrifir had told them: in order to maintain balance in their world, some lucky sap who’d been in the tortured throes of a nightmare was now likely sleeping peacefully in his or her warm bed, oblivious to what was transpiring hundreds of miles away.

Megrifir was gone now, not even a snatch of his fluttering robe visible ahead.

Spikes exploded from the walls, mere inches from their bodies and forcing them to crash together, running awkwardly now, like some strange four-legged, two-headed creature. “Quill!” Rondo shouted.

Logically, Quill knew it wasn’t real, but forcing his brain to believe it? He remembered Megrifir’s magic-filled command all those days ago, for the hallucinations to simply Stop. Mustering as much conviction as he could under the circumstances, he shouted, “Alebras!” trying to see those motes of light in the air around, the connections between them and a moth in Loslandia or a piece of steel in some Terran armory or that person sleeping peacefully in their bed in gods knew where.

One of the spikes stabbed through his side, pain ripping through him and stopping him dead in his tracks as he screamed. On his other side, Rondo released a similar cry of pain as he tumbled to the ground, causing Quill to trip and fall over him.

There was blood everywhere. Pouring from their wounds, smeared on their faces where their bloody hands had flailed as they’d fallen, spilling smoothly across the stonework, filling every crack and runnel.

And still the spiked walls closed in. Where was Megrifir? Had he truly abandoned them to save his own skin? If so, Quill wouldn’t blame him; he couldn’t even perform a simple spell for fire, one that Rondo had mastered in less than a day. No, he wasn’t worthy of saving.

“Quill,” Rondo said, face twisted with pain. “Please. I can’t survive this for much longer.”

Quill knew what his friend meant. The hallucinations wouldn’t physically harm them—even if the pain felt real—but it could kill them. That was the nature of fear: to paralyze, to twist reality, to steal everything that made a person who they truly were. And whether the resulting transformation resulted in real death or not, it would feel like death, the ending of a life, vibrant and beautiful.

Like Rondo.

But what could Quill do? He tried to focus on his thoughts even as another spike pierced him, several others sliding smoothly past overhead, like the warring fangs on opposite sides of a dragon’s maw.

Rondo’s voice came again, weak, agonized. “You’ve seen the colors before. See them again.”

Despite his pain, Quill’s head cocked to the side at his friend’s words. Though Quill had been the one whose actions had led them to this dark-edged precipice, Rondo still believed in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself. And he was right, Quill had seen the colors. Once, as a naïve, unlearned five-year-old boy, that which was invisible to the masses had become visible to him. And the mages assaulting them with the hallucinations, regardless of rank, were viridian, just like him.

With two words echoing through his mind—not real, not real, not real—he twisted around to face their attackers, a spell already on his lips but not yet ready to fall. Another spike penetrated his flesh and he moaned. Then another, jerking his body like a puppeteer’s marionette as its strings were pulled.

The air was empty save for the spikes, now clashing together like the swords of two armies coming together in battle.

Until it wasn’t.

Motes appeared, not of dust illuminated by the magelights, but emblazoned with myriad colors, streaking past, around, floating, connecting, whirling, dancing like butterflies on a breeze, though the air was still. He stared in awe at them, at first taking their constant movement for nothing but the randomness of autumn leaves tumbling headlong from spindly tree branches, but then—

Patterns, like invisible lines drawn from star to star to create constellations in the night sky. The colorful motes were all connected in some way or another, streaking down the corridor, penetrating the stone walls and ceiling, and, he knew, flashing through the air outside of Lockspell, off to faraway places where they played amongst oblivious creatures like humans.

Quill could’ve watched the lights forever, but then Rondo snapped him out of his awe-filled haze when he murmured, “Please…hurry.” His voice was tight and gurgling, as though blood was filling his airways.

Quill turned to his friend, smiling as dozens upon dozens of lights settled on both their skin, and said, “It’s going to be alright.” It wasn’t a spell, but he heard the conviction in his own voice, the certainty. He twisted back and said, “Alebras. Si armos.” Stop. Be gone.

Viridian light blazed forth from the multi-colored specks in the air, racing from mote to mote, zigzagging, slashing, tearing the spikes from the walls and shoving the walls themselves back until, with a spray of tiny particles of light, the corridor returned to its normal width, the way it had always been.

The viridian mage drew back his cowl to reveal skin so pale it might not have seen the sun in years, small blue veins visible at his temples. His eyes narrowed as he eyed Quill. “How are you doing this?” he said.

“Magic,” Quill said. And then: “Hallucinato arachne.”

He watched, mesmerized by the lights as the spell shot from his fingertips, tracing a path across the space between him and the guard before stabbing into the mage’s head.

The mage’s frown deepened for an instant, before morphing into a horror-filled expression as he reared back to look up at the ceiling, hands lifting to ward off some danger only he could see. He screamed.

“What’s happening?” Rondo asked, finding his feet once more. A puzzled expression had replaced the twisted look of pain.

“Spiders,” Quill said.

“Spiders?”

Shouts echoed from the way they’d come. Reinforcements.

“Yup. Spiders. Come on, let’s go.”

The path ahead had numerous twists and turns, but no forks or other decisions, which meant they continued to travel the same path Megrifir had traveled. As they wound their way through Lockspell, they hissed back and forth.

“You did it!” Rondo said.

“I did!” Quill replied.

“You saw the lights?”

“Yes!”

“You cast a spell without a staff or magenum!”

“Two, actually!”

“Wow!”

Their respite was brief, however, as they spilled into a circular space without any other exit along the base of the walls save for the corridor they’d arrived through. A dead end.

Echoes thundered from the shaft behind them. Quill had handled one viridian mage, but how many more were coming? He couldn’t hold them off forever. And where was Megrifir?

Beside him, Rondo had craned his neck to look upward. “The bastard…,” he murmured.

Quill followed his friend’s gaze to where, high upon the wall stood a door. No steps or other manner of reaching the door had been installed, leaving it about as useful as a window made of mud. And hovering in midair, his hand already on the knob as he looked down at them was none other than Megrifir.

Quill had nothing to say to the man who’d pretended to be their ally only to abandon them the moment true danger arrived, but Rondo had plenty to say. “No wonder they locked you in here and threw away the key! You’re a disgrace to mages everywhere! I hope your magic fails you and you fall and break your—”

“Forget about him,” Quill said.

“Face. I was going to say face.”

“I did what I needed to do to help you,” Megrifir said. “Sometimes you don’t realize you’re on fire until you see the flames. Perhaps one day you will understand that.” Without another word, he thrust open the door and was gone, leaving the wood rocking against the wall as wind blasted through the gap.

Quill and Rondo’s eyes met each other’s as they both realized the same thing at the same time: If they could just get to that door, escape was possible, the outside world just beyond the thick, warded walls of the prison.

“Maybe we can climb?” Rondo suggested, striding to the wall and trying to dig his fingers into the cracks between the stones. He tried to shove his toe in, too, and then push himself up, but his feet slipped off the slick surface and he thudded back to the ground. “Give me a boost, I think there’s a better foothold a little higher.”

Quill saw the cleft his friend had spotted, but as his gaze roamed higher on the wall, there were few, if any, other places to grasp or stand on. No, climbing was futile and would likely end in one or both of them suffering broken bones or worse. “Won’t work,” he said.

“We have to try,” Rondo pleaded. “We can’t just give up.” He could hear the determination in his friend’s voice. Ever since they’d departed Aeromand all those days ago, the mage’s mettle had grown. That was good, but mettle alone wouldn’t save them now. Only magic could do that.

“No one is giving up,” Quill said, listening to the shouts resonating from the corridor. They were dangerously close now. “Can you buy me some time to work something out?”

“How?” Rondo asked.

“Fire,” Quill said.

Rondo grinned and took up position beside him.

Quill concentrated as he looked up once more, colorful motes emerging like fireflies from the darkness.

Flying was every mage’s dream, even if it was rather impossible. Yes, with a powerful staff, sufficient experience, and a hearty supply of magenum, there were mages who’d learned to fly for small distances, but there were just as many who’d paid the ultimate price—death—when their conviction had wavered midflight. Turquoise mages had a natural penchant for levitation—both of themselves and objects—but even their talents had limits and weren’t meant to be used to lift large objects, like a human body, to the height they now needed to reach.

Still, the spell for flying was something they taught acolytes in their final year of study, while cautioning them only to attempt such a feat with a net beneath them or when absolutely necessary.

They didn’t have a net, but Quill definitely put this in the ‘absolutely necessary’ category.

Plus, Megrifir had done it, so why couldn’t they?

The pessimistic part of his brain answered that question: Because he’s about a thousand times more skilled and experienced than you.

“Shut up,” Quill muttered. It was then that another question took root: Would him flying mean that something else—a bird perhaps—dropped helplessly from the sky to its death because he stole its natural ability? Or worse, what if a dragon dropped from the sky? There were a few dragons he probably wouldn’t mind hurting—those that had attacked Chrysallis, for example—but what if it were Peony Normandian’s dragon? What if she were riding it at the time? It wasn’t like he could choose how the world balanced his theft of flight.

Unless Megrifir was lying, of course. Though the mage had wronged them in many ways, Quill didn’t believe the mage had ever outright lied to them. Maybe he was being naïve, but something about magic requiring balance in the world felt right, righter than anything else ever had.

The shouts burst from the tunnel a moment before a half-dozen viridian mages came into view, barreling down the corridor. Amongst them was the pale mage who Quill had tortured with about a thousand spiders. He didn’t look happy, eyes full of murder. This time there would be no hallucinations, Quill knew. No attempt to subdue them. No, now they were fighting for their very lives.

Rondo clearly understood this, too, and he shouted the spell for fire, the spell he’d been practicing for days without end. In the silence of his command, he stared in horror at his empty hand, which he’d outstretched in anticipation of the fireball he’d attempted to conjure. Only a tiny wisp of smoke rose from his palm. “Oh no,” he said, hand beginning to shake.

“Again,” Quill said, surprised by how calm his voice sounded. “Not with anger, with conviction.”

Rondo’s eyes met his and he nodded, the steel returning to his eyes. Again he shouted, but this time it was with the certainty of one who’d cast a spell hundreds of times without fail. Flames burst into being in his hand and then shot for the tunnel mouth when Rondo reared his arm back and threw them with everything he had.

When the fireball hit the floor, the magical flames exploded upwards, climbing the sides of the doorway until the space was roiling with fire. “There’s more where that came from,” Rondo said, already preparing to create another fireball.

With Rondo blocking the tunnel with his flames, Quill refocused on the lights dancing overhead and the patterns beginning to take shape amongst them.

His eyes widened as he spotted what appeared to be hand- and footholds, or at least ethereal ones, almost like the lights themselves were trying to guide him toward a solution. An idea that felt better, and safer, than attempting a risky flight that may or may not kill Peony Normandian and her dragon. Perhaps they could climb using magic, stealing a craggy wall from somewhere, a wall that could be rebuilt without anyone dying.

He nearly discarded the notion out of hand. Because creation was an ivory mage skill, and he was a viridian mage, his own talents more geared toward those of the mind. But then he remembered that Rondo was a magenta mage who only seemed able to create fire, which should’ve come more naturally to a vermillion mage. Ever since he set foot in Lockspell, every truth he’d learned about magic seemed to have been flipped on its head. Gritting his teeth, he growled out a spell. “Gerannon mos licitus un dernum!”

At first, nothing happened, save for the lights above him seeming to freeze in place. And then…

The room itself began to rumble, the floor beneath his feet cracking and breaking. A large stone erupted just before him, powering upwards as though lifted by the massive hand of a giant. More stones followed, tethered to the first by seams of mortar, rising higher and higher until they stopped, just shy of the open space marking their only hope of escape.

Quill’s lips curled into a smile, amazed by what he’d done. It wasn’t as graceful as it might’ve been if the wall had been built by an ivory mage, but the wall’s craggy and textured surface was climbable.

He turned back toward Rondo excitedly, just as the mage threw another fireball. This one, however, never reached its target. In fact, at that moment the wall of fire he’d already created vanished, as though blown out by a powerful wind. The newest fireball met the same fate, sucked into a dark hole that had appeared in the wall.

The mages stepped inside the circular room, their lips already forming spells, drawing wisps of magenum from the uncapped vials dangling from their staffs. And then they attacked.

Without thinking, Quill stepped in front of Rondo, arms raised at his sides, the spell he’d used to protect them along with King Osric Normandian as the walls crumbled around them emerging automatically.

Time seemed to slow as shards of green light shot from the tips of the guard mages’ staffs. The motes of light that surrounded Quill brightened, silvery lines tracing themselves from speck to speck, radiating outwards and around them, forming a sphere of protection. The shards deflected off the magical shield, slamming into the room’s ceiling or walls. One hit solidly on the shield’s side and shot straight back at the mage who’d cast the spell. He raised his staff in a futile attempt to save himself, but it made no difference. The spell punched into his chest and he stiffened, eyes going wide and then glazing over with a whitish film.

The other mages stared at their comrade, eyes narrowing. And then the stricken mage dropped his staff and charged for the wall at full tilt, head lowered like a bull about to gore its target. Except he wasn’t a bull and the wall wasn’t made of flesh and blood. He rammed headfirst into one of the stones, the impact making a sickening cracking sound. The mage staggered backwards two steps, his body turning of its own accord. An odd smile formed on his lips as a sheet of blood streamed from his scalp down his face. Then his legs seemed to melt beneath him and he collapsed, blood pooling around his head.

Icicles of fear penetrated Quill’s heart. A ‘suicide spell’ it was called. It wasn’t something that was explicitly taught to viridian mages in Aeromand, but that didn’t stop the acolytes from finding it on their own in the various magical texts they had access to.

The icy fear was replaced with fiery anger. He couldn’t maintain his shield against their attacks forever, but that was no longer his plan. No, he wanted to make them hurt. As he fumed, the room seemed to darken, as though someone had tossed blankets over the magelights. Shadows seemed to coalesce around him, clinging to his robe and skin. His body began to shudder. What is happening to me? he thought.

The fury he’d felt a moment earlier vanished as his teeth chattered together, softly clicking at first but then violently clacking until he expected them to crack from the impact. His hands suddenly felt heavy and he raised them, eyes widening when he saw the darkness that surrounded them, making them appear twice their natural size.

His hands began to lift higher, though he hadn’t tried to move them. His mouth opened in a silent scream, air rushing from his lungs, far more than he could’ve possibly inhaled when he breathed in, like a gust of wind before the coming storm. And then he couldn’t breathe, his airway pinched by invisible hands or the shadows themselves, or something else, an invader squirming and crawling, dragging itself from his throat.

He audibly roared, expelling all the fear and anger and that silent invader, which now poured from his mouth in the form of a wraith—a wraith he’d seen before, at the base of a forlorn cliff off the western coast of Odin. He remembered:

The blade scythed down toward the corpse, passing through the mage’s neck and then exploding in a shower of black and white motes that erupted into the air like a geyser. Releasing a horrific shriek, the ghoul charged toward Quill, feet not touching the ground. As Rondo threw himself to the ground, Quill knew he should do the same but was dumbstruck, unable to move, as though his feet had frozen to the stone beneath him by a sudden drop in temperature.

Just as the ghoul passed through him, there was a sucking sound and a thick lump formed in his throat. He whirled around, expecting to find the creature soaring up over the bluff, but instead he found nothing but night air and the ghosts of his own hot breath as they met a wall of cold.

The ghoul was gone, leaving only an unexpected thought behind in Quill’s mind:

The shadows beckon and you must answer.

Oh gods, he thought now, watching the same ghostly creature charge across the space between him and the guard mages. The wraith hadn’t passed through his body at all; it had been living inside him, much like it had lived inside the mage who’d been wielding the darkblade. Riding him, like he was nothing but a beast of burden, transporting the creature from place to place, unwittingly.

Now it was free again.

It stopped just before the mages, who gripped their staffs with white-knuckled fingers, trying to hide their fear but failing. The wraith wore dark armor that might’ve been an extension of its muscular form. Though fear seemed to surround the creature, it was no monster, but a human. Atop its head was a crown ringed by knifelike blades stretching for the ceiling.

While it drew a serrated blade from a sheath attached to its spine, Quill realized the ghost must’ve once been a king, a leader of men. As it stalked toward the guard mages, something changed. Its feet touched the ground, hard bootheels tapping on the stonework. The edges of its body, previously fuzzy and indistinct, clarified. The ethereal, ghostly quality faded until the creature appeared as solid as the walls around them.

And then it attacked.

It was all over in a matter of moments. Spells shot from the mages’ staffs, but they seemed to have no impact on the enemy they were faced with. If anything, their spells made it stronger as it slashed and stabbed and dismembered and severed.

And when it was finished, all that was left of the mages were corpses.

That was what Quill had wanted, wasn’t it? Hadn’t the same murderous intent burned through him a second before the wraith had emerged? But not like this, he thought, knowing it was a lie. The end result was the same, whether he used his own prowess as a mage to end their lives or this creature, death incarnate, to do his bidding. Did it do my bidding? he wondered. Or was it only acting in accordance with its own instincts, its natural desire to spill blood?

The creature turned, its sharp edges already fading, its solidness melting like ice left in the sun until he could see the corpses through it, behind it, their severed limbs scattered randomly about. The ghoul rose from the stonework and began to move toward him. “Stop,” he said. “No. I forbid it. You may not enter.”

If the creature heard or understood him, it gave no sign, sliding smoothly through the air. He turned to run, the shield vanishing in a spray of silver motes, but the wraith was already upon him and he felt a blast of ice and that familiar lump in his throat as, once more, it entered his body. Why? he thought. Why me?

He turned to face Rondo, expecting to see his friend backing away, horror in his eyes. Instead all he saw was a white film glazed over his eyes, one foot pawing at the ground as he stared at the wall. Oh no, Quill thought, concerns about the creature living inside him disappearing as he realized what had happened. He’d created the protective shield fast, but not fast enough. One of the guard mage’s brutal spells had slipped through without him knowing, hitting the person that mattered most to him in the entire world.

Rondo was in the throes of a suicide spell.

He took off running.

Quill leapt after Rondo, whose head was down just like the guard mage’s had been, intent on smashing his skull into the stone wall. And, just like the guard mage, his skull would crack open as easily as an egg tapped against the edge of a table.

Rondo was five steps away, four. Three, two…

Quill lunged, grabbing him around the waist and tackling him to the ground, Rondo’s head coming to rest mere inches from the wall. The mage bucked and squirmed, throwing an elbow behind him in an effort to free himself. Quill took the blow on the shoulder and hung on for dear life. “It’s me, Quill!” he said through clenched teeth. Rondo continued to struggle against him, growling like an animal.

Quill’s mind raced, trying to remember everything he knew about suicide spells, quickly realizing the answer was ‘very little’. It wasn’t something the acolytes were tested on and it wasn’t like he ever expected to face such a heinous spell. All he remembered was that such a spell did not react to counterspells the way that other viridian conjurations did. Even the death of the mage who’d cast the spell hadn’t vanquished the curse. Using the basic stop command that had worked for their hallucinations would be like trying to deflect an arrow with a piece of string. Still, he had to try.

Concentrating on the motes of color still floating around him, he said, “Alebras. Si armos!”

Rondo’s body slumped to the stonework. Quill exhaled in relief. It worked. Inexplicably, it worked. He relaxed his grip.

That’s when Rondo lunged forward on hands and knees, his head cracking against the wall. The impact was a fraction of what it might’ve been had he ran full speed into the wall, but it still made a vicious-sounding crack. Quill dove onto him again even as Rondo tried to bang his head into the wall once more. “Rondo!” Quill shouted, using his knees to pin him while he continued to flail.

No response other than more bucking. He spied a nasty gash on his friend’s forehead, blood leaking from the wound and trickling down the side of his face. The bleeding was slow, and Quill didn’t think the injury was mortal, but the next one probably would be. He considered his options. He could continue to pin Rondo down and hope the effects of the spell eventually wore off, but his strength would likely wane before his friend’s, which was buoyed by the power of the spell. He could try more spells of his own, but he was already feeling tired from those he’d cast thus far. Spellcraft was like fighting—you had a fixed store of energy to use and once it ran out you needed to rest. He probably only had enough energy left to cast three or four more spells, and if those didn’t work…

He shoved aside his negative thoughts, trying to focus on the problem at hand. Maybe distance from the spellcaster’s body would help. Some spells had a range to them. If he were able to get Rondo far enough away, maybe the spell would fade. So that left two choices: run back down the tunnel, further into Lockspell, or attempt to reach the doorway high on the wall, as Megrifir had done.

The hallway could prove easier, but what if there were more mage guards headed their way right now? Weak and trying to prevent Rondo from offing himself, he would be in no state to fight again. No, the only real option was escaping the bounds of Lockspell. Void, maybe a slap of fresh air in Rondo’s face would do the trick.

Rondo was fighting harder now, but Quill managed to lock his arms behind his back as he eyed the wall he’d created for them to climb. Climbing it on his own wouldn’t be difficult, but while trying to carry a kicking, scratching Rondo on his back? Impossible.

Before, attempting to fly had been a risk he wasn’t willing to take, but now…he prayed that whatever fell from the sky as he rose wasn’t Peony’s dragon.

He gritted his teeth, sliding his arms around Rondo’s sides and chest until he was able to lock his hands together over his sternum. Wham! Rondo’s head snapped backwards, the back of his skull smashing into Quill’s lip. Quill cried out but refused to release his hold, craning his neck back to avoid another of his friend’s headbutts.

“Aeronus solaris,” he said, eyes boring into the motes of color flitting about overhead. Several dozen of them reacted instantly, glowing bright for a second before whipping around him, creating a column of tornadic air. His body began to rise, slowly at first as he was weighed down by Rondo’s squirming form, but then faster as he gained momentum.

He focused on the colors around him, remembering everything he’d read about flying. Getting oneself airborne was the easy part; controlling oneself once in the air was a whole other matter. Spells danced from his lips, encouraging the whirlwind spiraling around him to send him left or right, back or forwards, jerking him about awkwardly. And all the while, Rondo continued to distract him as he tried to extricate himself from Quill’s grip.

The wall loomed closer and Quill attempted to circumvent it, but at that moment Rondo leaned forward and bit one of his hands. “Ahh!” Quill screamed, pain shooting up his arm as his friend’s teeth continued to tear into his flesh.

It should’ve been over. He couldn’t possibly maintain his grip for more than another moment with teeth shredding his flesh. He let go.

Only holding Rondo with one arm now, his friend’s body swung off-balance to the side, his weight like an anchor now, dragging itself free of his grip. “No, damn you, no!” Quill shouted, roping both legs around his friend’s form, locking his ankles together as tightly as he could around Rondo’s waist. This caused Rondo’s head and upper body to buck forward until he was dangling upside down.

Quill cursed but refused to let go. He twisted his head back around to refocus on steering them toward the exit…

SMACK!

While he’d been distracted, the wall had loomed closer and closer, and now he thudded into it. His chest took the brunt of the blow, the wind exploding from his lungs. He gasped for breath, unable to speak while the flying spell continued to draw them ever upwards, his body scraping against the rough stone wall, peeling skin away until he bled from a dozen minor wounds.

Over the wall they went, going too fast as they sped into free air once more, past the doorway that was their target, careening out of control toward the stone ceiling.

Frantic, Quill gulped at the air, trying to force even a single breath into his crushed lungs, just enough to offer a whisper. Just as impact was inevitable and he raised his arms over his head to protect himself, air filled his lungs. “Alebras!” he hissed. The whirlwind ceased its spinning, the lights flitting away and returning to their random dance.

Flight left him.

They dropped like a pair of conjoined rocks.

As they plummeted, Quill reached for the wall he’d created what felt like ages ago. He hit the top with his chest and managed to fling his arms over the edge, fingers clawing into cracks and crevices.

As if sensing an opportunity, Rondo bucked and fought the grip of his ankles harder than ever as he dangled upside down. “No,” Quill growled. “No, you won’t. I won’t let you.” He groaned as he stabbed his elbows into the wall’s precipice and shoved upward. Slowly, inch by inch, he hauled them onto the flat portion.

The doorway stood open before him. Beyond was a night sky smattered with islands of red, green, blue—innumerable stars, the only witnesses to their plight. He reached for those stars, pulling Rondo behind him. With a final cry and a flop, they spilled onto a platform of bare rock overlooking jagged rock formations that rose from the sea’s watery mouth.

“Rondo?” he said, gazing at his friend’s still form. He’d stopped fighting, his body as unmoving as the platform beneath him. And then…

Slowly, his friend’s head twisted in his direction, eyes milky white, without color or recognition. Rondo lunged forward, wrenching Quill’s legs apart so hard and fast he heard his knees crackle as they came untethered. Quill cried out in pain and yet managed to dive for Rondo just as he threw himself off the platform toward the teethlike cliffs below.

As the mage disappeared over the edge, Quill grabbed one of his arms, which contorted awkwardly as it was trapped between the opposite forces. With a pop! Rondo’s shoulder dislocated, twisting awkwardly. Quill’s hands, sweaty from the exertion that had gotten them to this point, slid down Rondo’s arm, his fingernails digging red tracks across his skin. “No, no, no,” he breathed, his legs dragging behind him as Rondo’s weight pulled him toward the edge.

Their hands clasped, and as Quill squeezed, he felt Rondo squeeze back. “Rondo!” he shouted, voice tight from the strain.

“Quill? Oh gods, Quill. Help me. Please. I—I—I’m not ready to die.”

Quill peered over the edge, finding his friend’s body twisted unnaturally, his dislocated shoulder protruding in a way it was never meant to protrude. Rondo’s eyes met his, no longer milky white but full of life and fear and pain and hope.

The spell had been broken. Quill didn’t know whether the amount of magenum the mage had applied to the spell had finally been exhausted, or the dislocated shoulder had snapped Rondo back to reality or it was caused by something else entirely. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was he still had a chance.

All he needed was to be strong. A spell drifted from his lips as he drew on the motes of color for strength. Somewhere, someone else would grow weak, but their weakness would be temporary while he would take their strength and use it to save a life, a life that meant the entire world to him.

The motes of colorful light flared for a moment, but then faded back to their usual brightness. What? No, Quill thought. He spoke the spell again, forcing as much conviction into the words as possible. Another flare of the lights, weaker this time. His fingers began to slip free of Rondo’s. “Don’t let go,” Quill shrieked. “Don’t you dare!” Tears were streaming from his eyes now, Rondo’s face blurring.

“I’m sorry,” Rondo said, blinking away his own tears. “I always thought of you like a brother.”

“No,” Quill said, clinging to Rondo’s fingers even as they continued to slide away from him, gravity winning the battle against his waning strength and those useless motes of color swirling around him.

“Make Cernon pay,” Rondo said.

“We’ll make him pay together,” Quill said between clenched teeth. “I can’t do this on my own.”

“You can. You will. I love you,” Rondo said.

“Come up here and tell me that like a man,” Quill said. “You come up here and tell me that like a man, you bastard!” He had him by the fingertips now, his own fingers aching from the effort. “Rondo, godsdamn you, Rondo. I love you, too. My brother, I love you too.”

Their fingers slid free and then he was gone.

Megrifir

The old mage tightened his jaw as he watched from the precipice of the cliff above where Quill hung over the rock ledge. His friend’s body lay crumpled on a slab of black stone surrounded by armies of whitecaps slapping against its flanks. A massive wave rose from the west and came crashing down upon the stone. As it receded back into the sea, only the slick, dark rock remained, Rondo’s body swept into the watery abyss.

Beneath Megrifir, Quill threw his head upward and released a wail worthy of a haunting ghoul just as fat raindrops began to fall from the sky.

Subconsciously, Megrifir steered the sheeting rain away from his form, leaving his clothes bone dry while the wailing mage’s filthy viridian robe was instantly sodden, making him appear to melt into the stone platform. Megrifir closed his eyes but refused to stopper his ears against Quill’s mournful cry. There were consequences for actions; this he knew better than anyone. He knew he could’ve saved Rondo, but then Quill might not become what he needed to become. Everything he’d worked toward might’ve been ruined.

Megrifir couldn’t have that, not when he’d toiled his entire life to right his wrongs and restore the balance that Kingfall so desperately craved.

Still.

Still. Hearing those cries nearly shattered his mind the way the rocks had shattered Rondo’s body. Had it been anyone else, perhaps he could’ve weathered the pain by refocusing on his greater objectives, like a man seeing the whole of a pristine beach without noticing the individual grains of sand from which it had been created.

He distracted himself with another matter, that of the Unforgiven who’d been riding Quill the entire time he was imprisoned in Lockspell. He knew the king by name—Jameson Gaard. He remembered the old wearer of the Terran crown as a rather straightforward individual, not the cunning, wily devil he’d become. How he’d managed to lie dormant within Quill and avoid Megrifir’s detection was a matter that would require greater consideration.

He tucked the thought away for another time, eyes opening to bore into Quill, who’d slumped back to the rock shelf, head tucked between his knees, body shaking quietly. Not because of the cold of the sheeting rain. Because of loss, because of pain, because of failure and anger and unanswerable questions. Time had little meaning to a mage as old as Megrifir, his patience almost boundless, and yet the next hour tested his to its limits. He refused to look away, eventually muttering under his breath: “Get up. Get up. Get up.”

He knew how critical the next few moments could be. To everything. The death of a loved one had broken many a strong man’s will over the centuries, and though he’d felt Quill’s strength from the moment he’d met him all those years ago when he was naught but a screaming babe in his mother’s arms, he held his breath now. Please get up.

Movement.

Quill’s head lifted, so slowly it might’ve been as heavy as a boulder.

He pushed to his feet, body tense, the set of his jaw that of one who still had something to live for, to fight for.

His son leapt from the cliff and flew.

Second Interlude: Life and Those Who Claim It

ROACH WAS TIRED. OF THE KILLING. OF THE ENDLESS MARCH OF DAYS WITHOUT CHANGE. OF LIFE.

Since he’d killed one of his fellow Thousands on the day he’d followed Reyals, he’d been challenged to combat no fewer than a dozen times. And each time he’d refused, which meant he was now labeled as a coward and an eccentric. The other Thousands whispered about him as he sat alone, wishing his kind were not so long-lived. Maybe then he could pass away quietly into the Void.

Unfortunately for him, the lifespans of the Thousands were, well, thousands of years, unless they were killed by less natural means. This was why their punishment had been so cruel, forced to wither away in these godsforsaken caverns without so much as the breath of wind to cool their skin. Even worse, they didn’t know how they’d gotten here. One moment they were locked in battle with the human filth, and the next they awoke, groggy and confused, in their underground prison.

That was so long ago that with each passing day it felt more and more like a dream rather than a memory.

Roach hadn’t seen Reyals since that day. This fact wasn’t exactly unusual, for the number of his kind imprisoned in the caverns was significant, well into the thousands. There are thousands of Thousands, Roach thought wryly. Ha. Plus, he’d heard stories of some of them being moved between the various caverns and then being moved back. No one seemed to know why, but the general consensus was that the gods, or whomever their captors were, were toying with them.

Void, they didn’t even know where they were, the world outside the caverns a mystery. For all they knew, they might not even be in Kingfall anymore, transported by some dark magic to Sonaria or beyond.

Roach longed to escape, but knew it was folly. Hundreds of his kind had tried over the years, but the godbeasts had ended them like they were no more than ants to be squashed underfoot. Their three jailors were legendary, their names the thing of myths: Rain, Air, Iron. Godbeasts as terrible and magnificent as anything the gods had created during the time before the Godswar. When others of their kind had fallen in battle, these three had persisted.

Now the godbeasts avenged their fallen brothers and sisters each time one of the Thousands attempted to leave.

I could try to escape, Roach thought now. If I fail, at least death will be waiting. Nearby, three of his kind had begun to fight after exchanging harsh words over some meaningless disagreement. An arm was torn off and tossed aside to be fought over by those watching. Claws shredded flesh. Teeth tore out a throat. Another of his kind was killed senselessly. The other two shared the meat between them, snarling and snuffling as they ate their fill.

Despite all the fighting and killing, their overall numbers grew by the season, his kind’s appetites for flesh almost as insatiable as their taste for blood. When they weren’t fighting, the Thousands were rutting, planting their seed in each other. One mother could release a dozen hatchlings a few weeks later. The children grew swiftly, reaching full size in mere weeks.

Though it was difficult to estimate, Roach believed the Thousands now numbered ten times what they had during the Godswar, a veritable army that would be capable of swarming over Kingfall like a flood of death and destruction if they were ever released from their cavern prison.

Roach’s mind returned to escaping, but he swiftly discarded the notion. He didn’t fear much these days but staring into the face of one of the legendary godbeasts was not something he wanted to experience before he died. Plus, there were easier ways to die if one had a mind to.

“Oi, Cranulla,” he said, spitting out the name like a foul taste. His voice sounded strange, more guttural than usual even to his own ears, and he realized he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days, maybe even weeks. When asked a question, he offered little more than grunts in response.

Upon hearing his name, one of the pair of Thousands who’d teamed up to murder the third looked up from his kill, dark blood dripping from his needlelike teeth. “Roach speaks. Should I feel honored?”

“There is no honor in the likes of you,” Roach said.

“A compliment? Did you hit your head or something?”

Roach didn’t explain that it was meant to be an insult because the creature wouldn’t understand. To Cranulla, a kill was a kill. But Roach knew differently. There was no honor in ganging up or attacking from behind. No, if he were going to kill someone, he would stare them dead in the eyes as life faded from their gaze.

Liar! that voice in his head said. Once you sought to kill from behind. You failed. You failed FAILED FAILED!!!

“I’m going to kill you,” Roach said, trying to use his own words to silence his chaotic thoughts.

Cranulla laughed boisterously. “You got lucky with Krangar. He probably didn’t expect you to fight back. Why do you think so many have challenged you to combat since? Easy kill.”

“So you accept my challenge?”

“Name the day and time.”

It was something of a joke, as none of them could tell one day from the next, much less the hour of each day. Not that it mattered. Now that Roach had made his decision, there was no reason to delay things further. “Today. Now. Here.” Roach stood, lifeless wings whispering as he rose to his full height, which was at least a head shorter than his opponent. Cranulla had been spawned almost two centuries after the end of the Godswar and had spent his entire meaningless existence in this prison. Maybe that meant it wasn’t his fault that he had no respect for anyone or anything, but Roach suspected he would’ve been a cretin regardless of the timing and circumstances of his birth. Anyway, he wasn’t planning to kill him. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Spread the word,” Cranulla said, gaining his own feet and puffing himself up as much as he could. “Roach has a death wish.”

“I wish only for your death, you ignorant fool,” Roach said, quite enjoying goading the youngster. He considered killing him just to teach the rest of those from his generation and beyond a modicum of respect, but immediately cast aside the thought. I should’ve done this sooner. Why did I wait so long? He knew the answer was hidden in a memory, a fleeting moment in time when he’d almost done something that had puzzled him for the last four centuries. Something that he knew he would have done if not for the abrupt end to the Thousands’ role in the Godswar, when that mysterious figure had stood atop the cliff holding a blade whose very nature defied the eternal battle between darkness and light.

Cranulla stalked toward him wearing a sneer on his dark slash of a mouth. He was completely at ease, as confident as he would be facing an infant. Already a crowd was gathering as word of an organized fight spread through the cavern like wildfire.

Roach didn’t wait for more to arrive, leaping forward and slashing at Cranulla’s midsection. Cranulla was unprepared for the speed and zeal of his attack but managed to dance back just before he would’ve been cut open. His sneering smile returned as quickly as it had faded. In truth, Roach had retracted his claws at the last moment to ensure any damage he caused to his foe would be superficial. After all, his objective was to lose, and accidentally killing Cranulla would mean he’d fail.

Still, he needed it to look like a real fight; his pride refused to let him be remembered as one who would take their own life.

And yet that’s exactly what I’m doing, he thought, the realization stinging him. He made a clumsy attempt at dodging Cranulla’s counterattack, and the creature’s claws penetrated deep into his shoulder. He twisted away, the claws sliding free, and then Roach kicked at his foe’s back-bent knee, landing a glancing blow that did little to slow him. Cranulla swept Roach’s legs out from underneath him, slamming him onto his back and then pouncing, catlike, atop him.

The youngster hesitated, not because he was having second thoughts about killing him, but because his own arrogance urged him to gloat. “That was far too easy, old man, and yet just as satisfying as I knew it would be.”

He raised his fist, bloodstained claws glistening under the glow of the magelights dotting the cavern’s walls.

Roach stared, his mouth gaping open slightly. Not because he was looking at Cranulla—he was looking past his foe—or facing his own mortality—he wasn’t—but because a face materialized in the crowd of onlookers, watching with what could only be described as keen interest.

Reyals.

All at once, Roach was transported back to that day more than four centuries ago, the last day any of them had seen sunlight, or felt wind, or experienced rain on their skin:

Reyals’ back was to Roach, the leader of the Thousands oblivious to anything but the act of killing, which he did so with all the vigor and efficiency of a warrior wielding a weapon far more powerful than those gripped by his enemies. His shadowblade slashed and stabbed, killing at will, decimating those who dared stand before him.

Roach hated him.

For the night before, Reyals had killed Roach’s spawnmother, Orcices. The vast majority of the Thousands felt no attachment or bond to those who’d spawned them. Roach didn’t even know who his spawnfather was. But his spawnmother…inexplicably, he remembered her face the day he’d sucked life into his lungs. She had stroked his face just once, her touch the most loving thing he’d experienced in the entirety of his harsh life.

It was the only time she’d touched him, but Roach clung to that feeling as he grew and was trained to fight, to kill.

He’d hidden his feelings, because he’d seen what had become of others who’d failed to do so. And yet he continued to hope for a day when she would touch him like that again.

Such a day had never come. Then, last night:

Reyals was accustomed to getting what he wanted, and he’d wanted Orcices. Orcices refused him, shoving him away as he attempted to mount her. Reyals knew why; she was in mourning. The day before she’d lost two of her spawn during the battle. Orcices always mourned her lost spawn when none of the other spawnmothers gave their own children a second thought.

But Orcices was different. Caring, devoted, a true mother in every sense of the word even if she had to hide her own feelings the way Roach hid his.

He was pretty sure there was something wrong with the both of them.

He’d heard the commotion and felt true fear in his heart. By the time he’d arrived at the scene, Orcices was already dead, Reyals standing over her bloodied corpse, chest heaving, claws dripping.

It was only Roach’s cold, calculating desire for vengeance that had stopped him from attacking the Thousands’ leader right then and there. Instead, he’d bided his time until the next day. Now, with Reyals fearing nothing from behind him, Roach crept forward on silent feet. Killing from behind was a horrid, dishonorable thing, but Roach was willing to make an exception for the man who’d murdered the one person who mattered to him.

As he drew closer, he raised his own blade. It wasn’t anywhere close to as powerful as Reyals’ shadowblade, and yet it would sink through flesh and muscle just the same. His muscles tensed as he prepared to kill.

He froze, covering his eyes along with everyone else on the battlefield as light streamed from above, where the figure stood, gripping a blade that was bathed half in shadows as deep and dark as pitch and half in light to rival that of the sun.

He blinked and the world was gone.

Roach never got his revenge. The desire to kill Reyals was the only thing capable of bringing him a sense of joy anymore, but as the years had passed without their paths crossing, he’d begun to wonder whether the ex-Thousands leader was still alive. Until he’d heard about a planned fight to the death, the same that had occurred a few days past when Reyals had killed Grunnin with ease. As far as he knew, Reyals wasn’t even aware that he existed.

Now, as his eyes met Reyals’s in that fleeting moment before he died the death he thought he wanted, he realized something:

I don’t want to die, not if he gets to keep on living.

Just before Cranulla’s killing stroke fell, Roach twisted hard to the side, his foe’s claws stabbing into nothing but hard-packed dirt. Before Cranulla could recover, Roach fought to his feet, curled his arms around his opponent’s head, and jerked it viciously to one side. There was a bright cracking sound, and then silence fell amongst the crowd.

Roach stood over Cranulla’s limp corpse, teeth grinding together, breaths coming in waves. He searched the lines of spectators for Reyals.

Once again, he was gone.

PART III

Drake     Rose     Jarrod

The Blades of Seven were never meant to be, but the moment they came into existence they forever changed the very fabric of what Kingfall is, was, and is meant to be.

Kingfall Revelations (quote attributed to Mage Figmirre)

Thirty-One

Dragonrider Drake

Sunsei, Solarii

DRAKE’S HEART POUNDED IN HIS CHEST; SWEAT DRIPPED FROM HIS CHIN.

Enemies were all around him. Draconus’s roar was distant, fading.

I must protect him! Drake ran toward the sound, clashing with enemies as he went, cutting them down, shoving them aside, moving on to the next. Draconus roared again, but he couldn’t see the beast, only hear his mournful cries. He fought on, defying the will of all comers because his will was stronger; it had to be, it would be.

A final foe appeared before him, her scalp a nest of snakes, her long, flowing dress slick with blood. Her eyes were red and glowing—a demon come to claim him. And when she raised her blade, it dripped dragon’s blood.

“No!” he shouted, charging toward her. He swung his weapon but rather than reaching the woman, the edge of the blade crashed into something invisible a few inches from her body. The sword vanished into mist, tiny droplets of water kissing his face, soothing the heat of his skin. He was so close to her now, all he had to do was reach out, to get his hands around her…

To his surprise, his arms slid smoothly through that invisible shield while the rest of his body remained pinned behind it. His hands reached the dragon killer’s neck, encircling her throat. She didn’t even try to run, didn’t try to protect herself.

He squeezed.

Thirty-Two

Rose Ontarii

Sunsei, Solarii

ROSE COULDN’T BREATHE, THE HANDS OF A MAN SHE’D ONCE LOVED SQUEEZING THE LIFE OUT OF HER. Her half-brother’s eyes were bloodshot, his hair wet with sweat, his lips a slash, teeth clenched together between them. Everything about him burned with hatred. For her. For the world.

And then her guards were there, smashing clubs into Drake’s arms with such force it took her breath away. Still he refused to release her, a guttural, animalistic sound emerging from the back of his throat. Hands that had been so tender with her before were now weapons of destruction, strong and violent.

Stars began to dance before her vision, her brain craving air.

Thump!

One of the guards used his club like a battering ram through the bars, smashing it into Drake’s face. Blood exploded from his nose as his hands finally lost strength. Rose fell back, gasping, wheezing, clutching her throat. She could still feel his rough hands on her skin, squeezing, the memory slow to fade.

Drake was down now, blinking in confusion, staring at his hand, now bloody from the wound to his face. The guards unlocked the door to his cell and charged inside, bringing their clubs to bear…

“Please, no!” Rose tried to shout, but all that emerged was a scraping sound, her voice raspy and weak. The guards set upon Drake, smashing their clubs into his shoulders, his ribs, his legs, punishing him for trying to harm their queen. She swallowed thickly, took a deep breath, and—

“STOP!” she said. That single word seemed to rip a part of her throat out through her mouth. The guards stopped, turning to meet her gaze. “Please, stop,” she croaked, a sob shaking her chest. Tears streaked down her cheeks, splashing into tiny puddles on the rough dungeon stonework.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” one of the guards said. He led the way out, his comrade following, and then locked the door. Beyond the bars, Drake lay on the ground, his knees tucked to his chest, his arms surrounding them. He rocked back and forth like an infant’s cradle. Words formed on his lips, silent and thin, but she couldn’t make them out.

Her heart hurt. Not just to see a man she loved in pain, but because she’d driven him to this point. His dragon was dead because of her. Oh Draconus, she thought. She remembered with fondness the many times she’d flown with Drake on dragonback, a thrilling experience that was almost like strong drink—intoxicating. She’d lied to him when she’d told him she didn’t love him anymore. Love wasn’t like a candle flame, able to be snuffed out in an instant between a pair of moistened fingers. Even discovering Drake was her half-brother failed to do more than make that candle flame waver as though met by a gentle breeze.

And yet, theirs was a forbidden love, one that simply could not be. Especially now, when her kingdom was in turmoil, her grandfather, the Dead King, killed by her own hand, a truth no one could ever know.

I am the queen now. She’d already heard the whispers, the name given to her amongst her people—The Living Queen. I am alive, she thought. And I will not make the same mistakes my grandfather made.

The moment she’d heard Drake was alive, captive in the dungeons, her heart had soared and she’d rushed to his side. Now she regretted that choice, for seeing him like this had only served to distract her from doing her duty, serving her people, those who’d survived the Terran invasion and were now trying to rebuild their lives.

She turned away, marching back the way she’d come, along the length of the dank, firelit tunnel, up the stairs, the way growing lighter with each step until she emerged from the dungeon hovel into the sunlight on the eastern edge of the palace grounds. Warmth spilled across her cheeks and she was reminded why she loved her country, her city, the strength afforded to her by her peoples’ deity, the sun goddess Temperi.

A scream dragged her from that warmth, drawing a line of cold down her spine. Her head snapped in the direction of the sound, which seemed to have come from the royal temple, the only place of worship within the palace grounds. Though her throat still ached something fierce, she issued a command to her guards—“With me!”—and then set off at a quick stride, just shy of jogging. Onlookers, both Solarii citizens and Terran soldiers, stared at her as she made her way toward the structure, which was of the finest construction, bearing marble pillars adorned with the sun goddess’s symbol, a bright orange sun surrounded by swordlike blades of sunlight shooting out in every direction, protecting them from their enemies.

Enemies who were now inside their city, inside one of their temples.

“Out of the way,” she barked, ignoring the ache in her throat, the crowd gathered before the temple’s steps parting before her. Flanked by her guards, she climbed to the top of the staircase and through the open doors.

Inside was a scene that horrified her.

The temple’s priests lay prostrate on the floor, holy garb in various stages of disarray. Their tall, curving hats were crushed and rumpled, askew on their heads or stomped onto the floor. Their long, white robes were rumpled and twisted, the golden-threaded belts ripped free, tossed aside haphazardly.

Several Terran soldiers were kicking the priests, making them twist and writhe and groan.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rose said. Her voice echoed through the hollow chamber, bouncing off stained glass windows and illustrious paintings of the sun goddess that had been commissioned decades earlier at great expense to the crown.

The men stopped kicking, turning toward her. One stepped forward, the other four a half-step behind him, fanning out on either side. He was a brutal-looking man, as though his clean-shaven and well-groomed appearance was a front for something sinister lurking behind the ingenuine smile he offered in her direction. Dueling scars marred the otherwise smooth skin on one cheek. There was something about the way he looked at her—a cruel interest—that sent a chill down her spine.

“Queen Ontarii,” the man said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty. I am General Caltran. I have been ordered by King Gaard to maintain order in Sunsei for the duration of the Terran occupation.”

Anger burned within Rose’s chest. “King Gaard said he was sending a peacekeeper, not a butcher. Where is General Mertin?” Before departing Sunsei, Jarrod Gaard had made a point of introducing her to the man. He’d come across as polite and reasonable, and they’d had several dealings thus far and always managed to reach a compromise. Unfortunately, Mertin had also somehow come into disfavor with the king, and thus it was known he would soon be replaced by another general, this Caltran ogre apparently.

“General Mertin is currently indisposed. He is being disciplined for failure to obey a direct order from a superior,” Caltran said.

“Where is he?” Rose demanded.

“You mean you didn’t see him? You just came from the dungeons, did you not? I’d heard whispers that you’d planned to visit your scaly lover today.”

It took all of Rose’s self-control and sense of propriety to hold back the stream of unladylike words that popped into her mind. “I must’ve missed him,” she said, “but I will be certain to visit the general soon to learn his side of the story.”

“As you wish,” Caltran said, as if what she did in her free time was of no concern to a man of his authority.

“Now, regarding the present situation,” Rose continued. “Surely you are aware that King Gaard has agreed that I will continue to rule my kingdom without interference. The Terran military presence will only remain until the stolen darkblades have been recovered. Mertin understood this, but it seems his understanding hasn’t passed on to his successor, so I will spell it out in no uncertain terms: You have no authority in our temples.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, but my authority extends wherever I deem necessary. These so-called priests are heretics. I determined this after questioning them about the gods. They are of the queer belief that no gods other than their fictitious Temperi exist.”

“So you beat them?”

“They refused to deny their lies…Your Majesty.”

Even the way this man used her honorific came across as an insult, condescension dripping from his tone as his sneering smile remained plastered across his lips. “And what of me, sir?” Rose said. “Like every other citizen of Solarii, I worship the sun goddess and the sun goddess alone. Will you condemn me of heresy as well?”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This cannot be true. The existence of the many gods is documented in great detail in The Kingfall Histories. Would you refute history itself?”

“I refute only that which has been created by the hands of flawed men and women. Only Temperi is flawless.”

“You filthy bitch,” Caltran spat.

“Excuse me? King Gaard will hear of this insult.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the general said, the sugary sweetness returning to his tone. “I spoke out of turn. It’s difficult for my gods-fearing ears to hear such blatant disrespect spoken against Those whose Holiness permeate the very air we breathe.”

There was something false about this man’s claimed devoutness to his deities. He seemed to use it as a shield to justify his own sins. “We must agree to disagree on that point,” Rose said, suddenly anxious to end the conversation. She planned to pen a letter to Jarrod Gaard the second she was free of this horrid man’s presence and demand the general be removed from power.

“Alas, Your Majesty, our disagreement doesn’t change what must be done. These heretics must deny their lies or be put to the sword.”

“What? You can’t do that. These are followers of the One True and Holy Goddess!”

The general continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Because of your unique position, Your Majesty, I will allow you additional time to reconsider your own beliefs. In solitary confinement. Take her.”

Before she knew what was happening, Rose’s guards had been relieved of their weapons and shoved to the ground. A Terran soldier grasped each of her arms at the elbow, pushing her toward the door leading out of the temple. “Get your hands off me!” she demanded, but the hands only tightened. She tried to drag her feet, but they only picked her up and carried her outside into the light.

Rose was suddenly aware of the crowds gathered to watch. I can’t lose control. I must set an example for my people. She stopped fighting, placed her feet back on the ground, and walked. This wasn’t over, not by a longshot. Still, as she was led up the long, steep staircase that stretched toward the palace atrium, she turned her head to look back. The priests had been dragged outside and forced to their knees, all in a row. General Caltran paced before them, speaking words she couldn’t make out. One of the priests lifted his head to say something that caused Caltran’s expression to twist. He raised his sword.

Rose looked away before the blade fell. Oh Temperi, oh Goddess, please, why have you hidden Your Holy Light from us?

She reached the top of the staircase, refusing to look back again. The wind blew, bringing with it an unexpected scent. Smoke.

Even as she was shoved forward into the palace, she knew.

The temple was aflame.

Thirty-Three

Jarrod Gaard

Wolfsgaard, Teravainen

THE RETURN TRIP OVERLAND TO WOLFSGAARD HAD BEEN LONG AND ARDUOUS, so Jarrod was relieved when they made their final approach to the city, its formidable walls a sight for sore eyes. In truth, he hadn’t felt ready to leave Sunsei, not so soon after restoring a tenuous sense of order. After the atrocities a small minority of his soldiers had carried out during the invasion, the mistrust between the Solarii civilians and the Terran troops had been fierce. Even his attempt to mete out justice through the executions of the proven offenders had felt like too little given the extent of the horrors inflicted on the victims.

And yet, he knew his place was back in Wolfsgaard, ruling his people, his kingdom, lest it fall into disarray during an extended absence. More than that, he felt a sense of duty to the throne he sat on behalf of his sister Amari, who the world believed to be dead. He knew differently, though her whereabouts continued to elude him, a fact that made sleep hard to come by. All he wanted was to leave Teravainen in a better situation than when he arrived and then hand over the crown to her, whenever she felt ready to emerge from hiding. Wherever she was.

Also weighing on him was the way he’d left things with General Mertin, a man who’d become his grudging ally after their initial rocky start. The trust that had grown between them had been broken by the crimes committed in Sunsei during the invasion, and thus Jarrod had felt like he had no other option except to replace him with a man named General Caltran who had long served his father with loyalty. After a few months, Jarrod planned to restore Mertin to his position, once Jarrod felt the man had been duly chastened. For now, he would report to Caltran.

Though dusk had already blanketed the land in shadows, Jarrod could tell the heavy city gates stood open before them, some keen-eyed watchman having spied their approach. As they crested the final rise and onto the long, flat road leading up to the city, however, what he saw caused his lips to part.

Torches lined the path, gripped by hands connected to invisible bodies. Hundreds of them. Voices arose in unison, carrying across the distance to reach his ears. “Long live the king! Long live King Jarrod Gaard! All hail the Conqueror of Solarii!”

They reached the parallel lines of torches, faces appearing on either side, bright and smiling. Adoring. They were young and old, men and women. Children balanced on father’s shoulders. Babes were cradled in mother’s arms.

Not knowing quite what to do, Jarrod lifted a single hand in the air, palm opening in a wave. The crowd cheered, continuing their chants, faces flashing past. When they entered the city, he found more of the same, the streets lined with people hailing him, cheering him on, the triumphant conqueror. The crowd pressed in around him, hands reaching out to touch him astride his horse. His companions slowed their own mounts, falling onto either side to ward off the people.

After what felt like hours of fighting through crowds and hearing his name chanted, they reached the palace, the heavy doors slamming into place behind them. Jarrod dismounted, his breath hitching in his chest, which pressed against the inside of his plate, which suddenly felt too tight—far too tight—his heart slamming against the metal like a stick pounded against a hollow drum.

He strode inside, ignoring calls from his men asking for orders. He passed servants, footmen and maids, a countless army of attendants ready to obey his beck and call. He mounted the steps, struggling to get his next breath, clinging to the rail for support, finally reaching the landing and darting left. He passed the room his father and mother had died in, feet treading on the bloodstained carpet where a castle guard had fallen to Aisling’s wrath.

He shouldered through the door to his own lavish quarters, surprising the attendant who was busying herself about his bedroom, dusting and straightening and preparing things for his return, which had probably been announced only moments earlier, the entire palace thrown into a frenzy. “Welcome home, Your Majesty,” the woman said with a curtsy.

“Get out,” he managed to growl, his throat and lungs tight, desperate for another breath.

“Oh,” the woman said, nearly dropping her duster as she scurried past him, slipping through the doorway only a moment before he slammed the door behind her. Jarrod slumped to the floor, back against the door, his entire body shaking, breaths coming in shallow waves. Around him, the walls of the room seemed to compress, closing in. Tighter, tighter. Squeezing. He scrunched himself into a tight ball, sobbing, vision blurred by tears.

This wasn’t how his return was supposed to be. He’d done something remarkable, something not even his father had done. He’d retaken Solarii, not out of vengeance or malice, but to right a wrong against his people, their darkblades stolen by the Dead King in an act of treachery and war. His people were even now flooding the streets—he could still hear them chanting his name in the distance, hailing him their hero king.

Images flashed before his eyes: innocents dead in the streets, their blood pooling beneath them; women shattered and broken, that which could never be recovered stolen by his pillaging soldiers; and finally, Amari’s face as her eyes rolled back in her head, succumbing to the longsleep poison he’d mixed into her tea.

What have I done? he thought. Every step he’d taken since he’d met Aisling all those days ago felt like they’d carried him into another pit. He was surrounded by chasms, always searching for a bridge to cross them but faced with nothing but thin ledges too small to cram his feet onto. Only his desire to improve Teravainen for his sister, wherever she was, prevented him from falling into the abyss.

He wished she were here now, or Aisling, or his mother, back before she’d been stricken by the mysterious ailment she’d suffered the last couple years of her life. But there was no one. They were all dead or chased away by his horrid decisions.

A knock came on the door at his back, vibrating through him. He managed a shaky breath and then said, “Not now.”

“I must insist, Your Majesty,” came Grimfire’s voice, muffled by the thick slab of wood separating them. “Urgent matters require your immediate attention.”

“And I must insist that you leave me in peace. Now.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Your Majesty.” This time Grimfire’s voice was loud and clear. Jarrod looked up to find the royal mage standing before him though he hadn’t moved away from the door to allow it to open. His dark robe hung like a shedding skin from his tall, broad frame. His gray-and-white-speckled beard was a good inch longer than the last time Jarrod had seen him. The mage leaned on his staff as though he would fall without its support.

“How did you…how dare you enter my bedroom without my permission? I could have you—”

“Executed? Like your sister?” the mage interrupted. “There has been too much death already, don’t you think, Your Majesty?”

Jarrod closed his eyes and banged the back of his head against the door repeatedly. “My father would never have allowed such insolence.”

“Your father was a tyrant and a fool,” the mage said.

Jarrod’s eyes opened, surprised by the statement. “You served him for years. You gave him your loyalty.”

“I saved Kingfall from his idiocy.”

Jarrod blinked. He’d known the mage to be condescending, frustrating, self-serving and deceptive, but he’d never known him to be blatantly disloyal to he who sat the wolf throne. Though he had many questions, one pushed ahead of the others. “Why?”

The mage’s eyes sparkled. “Such a simple question with so many complex answers. Maybe one day I’ll give them to you, but now…the matters requiring your attention…” He slid his free hand into one of the many pockets within his robe, drawing out three sealed scrolls.

“If they are sealed, how do you know they require my urgent attention?” Jarrod asked.

“How do I know that despite you having asked such a foolish question you are no fool? Some things are simply known and we must accept them, Your Majesty.”

Jarrod was tired from the journey and from his own self-loathing to argue further. He reached out and snatched the scrolls from the mage’s hand, inspecting them. One was sealed with only an anchor pressed into the dry wax. He didn’t recognize the symbol, so he discarded it for now, moving onto the other two. One was sealed with the wolf and crossed swords, the Terran military sigil. The final scroll was from Odin, from King Normandian no less.

He cracked the military letter first; he was anxious to learn how things were going in Sunsei since his departure. More than three dozen men, Terran soldiers all, had been sentenced and executed for war crimes during the invasion. He was hopeful that the strong message he’d sent would ensure peace for the remainder of his soldiers’ occupation of the Solarii capital city.

His heart soared as he read the letter from General Caltran, who’d apparently arrived in Sunsei shortly after he’d departed. The letter detailed the success of the rebuilding efforts thus far, along with the overall peace and prosperity of the city since his departure. The man lauded Queen Ontarii’s leadership and resilience in the face of great tribulations as she’d successfully quelled no fewer than three separate uprisings by her own people against the Terrans. Because of her swift intervention, no blood had been spilled.

As he rolled the parchment back into a scroll, memories of Jarrod’s fleeting encounters with the young queen played in his mind. There was something captivating about her, something that transcended even her undeniable outward beauty. A sharpness softened only by the breadth of her compassion and strength. During the return journey, he’d thought of her often, even as guilt roiled in his own gut.

“You’re oh for one, so far,” Jarrod said, setting the scroll aside. “All is well in Sunsei.”

“Is it? Hmm, I wonder…,” Grimfire said.

Jarrod ignored the mage’s cryptic statement, determined to prove him wrong as he opened the scroll from Chrysallis. He breathed in sharply as he scanned the letter, which was penned by one of his father’s spies, an Odinian man who was paid in Terran gold in exchange for information on their enemy’s actions. This time, the man wrote succinctly of a dragon attack that left Chrysallis in ruins and Odin’s king and queen dead and buried.

Jarrod looked at the mage sharply. “You knew of this?”

Grimfire met his eyes. “The wind carries many rumors.”

“We must respond. Enemy or no, an attack on Odin by dragons, especially one of this magnitude, presents a threat to all of Kingfall.” The paralysis that had seized Jarrod only a few minutes earlier was gone, the distraction chasing away his anxiety and fear more effectively than any potion or tincture.

“I don’t disagree,” the mage said, folding both hands around his staff.

“And yet you don’t think we should wage war on Travail.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Jarrod wasn’t angry that the mage disagreed with him, only curious as to the reasons behind his unflinching opinion.

“Travailian politics are complicated. There are rumors of dissension within the dragonrider ranks. In the absence of a second attack outside of Travail, I say let the sleeping dragon lie. Also, you have yet to open the third scroll.”

Jarrod realized he’d dismissed the final scroll as unimportant given he didn’t recognize the seal. Now, he gave it his full attention, running his fingers over the anchor before snapping the dry wax in half and unfurling the document. His eyes darted first to the sender, eyebrows lifting as he found the name Mage Quill penned in graceful lines and curves. The last time he’d seen the mage and his quirky partner, Rondo, they’d been headed south in one of his royal carriages, bound for Chrysallis. A city that was now, according to his spy, destroyed.

He started at the beginning, his frown deepening with each sentence he read. When he finished, he said, “Send my scribe to me. I will pen three messages of my own. One to Cernon in Aeromand, one to Osric Normandian, and one to Rose Ontarii. I shall get to the bottom of this before I make a decision on how to proceed.”

This time, the royal mage didn’t offer any further advice. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. Grimfire stood before him as though waiting for something.

“Is there something else?”

“You’re blocking the door, Your Majesty,” the mage said.

“It didn’t stop you the last time,” Jarrod muttered, though he moved aside. “Can’t you just magic your way out?”

“Only when necessary,” Grimfire said, opening the door, slipping through the gap, and then closing it behind him.

Thirty-Four

Dragonrider Drake

Sunsei, Solarii

DRIP, DRIP, DRIP…

Drake pounded his knuckles against his own head. “Stop,” he said. “Stop stop stop stop stop!” He could taste the dried blood on his lips as he muttered to himself. His mind felt like cracked glass, each shard reflecting the light at a slightly different angle, distorting the world around him, turning it into something other than what it truly was.

Drip, drip, drip…

“Where is it? Where is it where is it where is it where is it!?” he demanded, shoving to his feet, stalking back and forth. Searching. Slamming into a wall, slapping it with his palms. Turning the other direction. Searching. Another storm-cursed wall.

Drip, drip, drip…

He ran toward the origin of the sound, the water trickling from a seam in the ceiling, forming one bead of liquid at a time, growing too heavy and then falling. Drake ripped off his filthy shirt, clenched it into a ball and then threw it at the latest drip, just before it would have fallen.

His shirt fell back to the ground, the drip having soaked into its fabric. Drake stared at the seam in the stone. It remained dry.

He exhaled, reaching for his shirt so he could stuff it down his own throat.

Drip, drip, drip…

“Godsdammit!” he shouted. He ran to the iron bars over the front of his cell, slamming his fists against them again and again and again, until they resonated and vibrated from the impact.

Boots thumped against the stonework, crowding into the dungeon tunnel. Men with clubs. He could see that now. Before they were different…clawed monsters protecting their blood-soaked queen. He’d almost killed her, strangled the life out of her. He’d wanted to, so badly.

But why? She’d wielded a blade dripping with dragon’s blood, but his dragon hadn’t fallen by the sword. No, Draconus had been pierced by a hundred arrows. The only sword wielded by Rose against him had been edged with words, as sharp as knives, yes, but not deadly enough to kill. Whyohwhyohwhyohwhy did she say those words?

Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. The men with the clubs are unlocking the door to my cell now. I am ready. I am willing. A sacrifice. Come get me.

As the men fell upon him with their clubs and fists and boots, Drake felt no pain.

For nothing could ever compare to the loss of his dragon.

Thirty-Five

Rose Ontarii

Sunsei, Solarii

SITTING AT THE DESK IN HER BEDROOM, ROSE STARED AT THE BLANK PAGE.

She wasn’t wondering what to say, only wondering if it would fall on deaf ears. Jarrod Gaard had come across as kindhearted, reasonable, good. But what if it had all been an act to placate her, his words carefully chosen to soothe her, making her more pliable. She remembered something her grandfather had once told her before he’d died and been brought back to life. The worst kind of snake is the one dressed as a friend.

No, she thought. Jarrod Gaard had his own soldiers executed for the atrocities they’d committed during the invasion. She’d seen the regret on his face. She’d felt his anger on behalf of her people, his desire for justice. No, the despicable actions of General Caltran were borne of his own cruel intentions, unknown to his own king.

This gave her a measure of hope, even if it was sunk in a bog of despair.

Determination flowed into her fingers and she began to write.

When she finished, she blew on the ink to dry it, scanning her words. Satisfied, she rolled it into a scroll and lifted a candle to drip hot wax across the edge of the page. Then she grabbed the royal seal, representing Temperi in all Her Glory and Grace, and pressed it firmly into the wax. There, she thought. It is done. I will send it and then Jarrod Gaard will give Caltran his just reward.

Holding the scroll, she stood and padded over to the door, opening it a crack. A pair of Terran guards filled the doorway, staring at her. “I would like to request a Wolfsgaard bird. I have an urgent letter to send to King Gaard.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” one of the guards said. There was something off about his tone. “I can send the letter for you.” He extended his hand.

Rose shrank back, trying to close the door. A foot burst through the crack, blocking her. An arm shoved through, reaching for her and forcing her back further. The door swung open so hard it crashed against the inner wall. A third form appeared between the two men, stalking inside, that familiar cruel smile already forming on his lips.

Rose didn’t think, just acted, turning and running for the fireplace. The flames had died long ago as she considered her circumstances, but hot embers remained. Hot enough to turn paper to ash in a hurry. Another three steps and she’d be close enough…

She cried out as strong hands grabbed her around the ankle, throwing her off balance. She fell, her head slamming into the corner of a table set between two chairs and a long chaise in the ‘sitting’ portion of her quarters. Blinding pain shot through her skull, blood sheeting down her brows and dripping across her vision.

She looked back to find General Caltran lying on his stomach, gripping her ankle. He started to scramble to his feet, but she lashed out with her own foot, catching him in the jaw. The blow seemed to stun him for a moment as he reached up to touch his face, and Rose took advantage of the brief respite, scrambling on hands and knees for the hearth, dripping blood the whole way, crumpled scroll clutched tightly between her fingers.

With a curse, Caltran was after her again, this time slamming his shoulder full force into her side, tackling her hard to the ground. One part of her back caught the soft rug while the other smacked off the stone at the foot of the hearth, the breath leaving her lungs in a gasp. Caltran pressed her shoulders to the floor, teeth clenched, seething anger pouring out of him. “Give me the letter, Your Majesty,” he said.

Though she still struggled to breathe and her head throbbed, Rose managed to force defiant words from her throat. “I would, but I’m afraid you might burn your fingers.”

The man’s head cocked to the side for a split-second and then recognition dawned across his face. He released her, turning sharply and diving for the hearth only to freeze just before reaching it.

Rose watched as the last of the parchment burned to ash.

Caltran twisted back toward her, shadows falling across his eyes. “You will live to regret that decision, Your Majesty,” he said.

Rose shuddered. With Drake and General Mertin imprisoned and King Gaard hundreds of miles away by now, she’d never felt more alone in her life.

Thirty-Six

Jarrod Gaard

Wolfsgaard, Teravainen

SOMETHING WAS VERY WRONG.

This Jarrod knew in the core of his being, though if asked to describe what it was he would be hard-pressed to do so. On the surface of it, everything was normal. His three letters had been responded to in kind. Osric Normandian hadn’t even bothered to sign his own response, instead allowing his scribe to sign it on his behalf. His letter had been full of false niceties and vagaries. Whether he planned to respond with force to either of the threats he faced remained unclear. Cernon had also replied, denying the accusations presented by Mage Quill, who he labeled as a ‘very disturbed individual’. Jarrod wasn’t always the perfect judge of character, but his experiences with the young mage had been that he was clever, cautious and methodical in his investigation.

But of the three responses, it was the third that bothered him the most—Rose Ontarii’s. Her penmanship was beautiful, flowing like water and full of whorls and unnecessary flourishes. The letter was almost a mirror image of what General Caltran had told him a week ago in his own message. Everything was wonderful. The Terran soldiers were treating her people like gold. The rebuilding was on schedule due to the generous resources Jarrod had provided. And on and on and on. The letter was a full six pages long and not lacking in details.

And yet none of it felt like anything Queen Ontarii would say. Even her handwriting felt off. The woman hadn’t been one to use twenty words when five would suffice. She attacked the point with a rare ferocity that most people, in Jarrod’s experience, shied away from, skipping around the truth until it faded away or disappeared entirely.

Sitting at the head of the long table in his father’s old war room, he frowned, mind whirring. “Grimfire!” he shouted, hoping the mage was nearby.

“You rang, Your Majesty,” the mage drawled, suddenly appearing beside him.

Jarrod flinched. “You never did that little trick to my father,” he protested.

“That’s because he hated it,” the mage said. “Plus, he thought it was a waste of magenum.”

“It is. But depending on how you answer this next question, I may allow you to use as much magenum as you want. Are you aware of my father ever receiving any documents penned by Rose Ontarii?”

Grimfire raised an eyebrow, considering. “Yes, I believe he did, once. It was a petition for peace. Your father believed the Dead King had put her up to it in the hopes that her feminine charm would soften his heart.”

Jarrod almost laughed at that. “My father’s heart couldn’t be softened by an entire crate of goose down pillows. By any chance, would my father have kept the letter?”

“Oh yes,” the mage said. “Your father never destroyed any of his letters. He always said one never knew when someone’s own words might be used as a weapon against them. I can have one of your scribes search the royal archives, if you wish?”

“Yes, please. And then return to me, if you will. I would very much like your advice on another matter.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Did my response to your question allow me the frivolous use of magenum?”

“For now,” Jarrod said. “Find that letter and all the magenum in Teravainen is at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” In a blink, the mage was gone.

Jarrod breathed out a laugh through his nose. He didn’t think he would ever get used to magic being flaunted so brazenly. The mage was right about that—his father hated that sort of magic use. That was one of the reasons he’d only ever employed a single mage in the castle, when others, like King Normandian, had an entire army of mages to satisfy his every request. And how did that work out for him? he thought wryly. If Quill’s letter was true, and he believed it was, Cernon was as much responsible for Chrysallis’s downfall as the dragons who razed the city to the ground. Though he hated to admit it, there was wisdom in his father’s decision to keep only one mage on staff. Even then, his father had only tolerated Grimfire because he was loyal to a fault.

The war room table was filled to brimming with stacks of papers requiring his review. He’d never realized how much of ruling involved hours upon hours of paperwork. Requests for expenditures from the royal treasury, anything from supplies for the kitchens to commissioning new art for the gallery to ordering the blacksmith to forge more weapons and armor for the military. Thousands upon thousands of gold coins to be spent, right at his fingertips, when so many of his subjects suffered from poverty, disease and over taxation. For the moment, he ignored the piles—he would review them later, separating them into necessities versus luxuries. Only the necessities would be funded. The cost of the luxuries would be set aside to be used in charitable endeavors throughout the city.

Satisfied, he returned his attention to the three letters, scanning each one more time. He set aside Osric’s generic response for the moment. Clearly there was too much animosity and bad blood between their nations for them to engage in any kind of meaningful discussion. He also set aside Rose’s lengthy letter. Until Grimfire recovered another letter to compare it to, he would need to try to put it from his mind.

That left Cernon’s letter. Dismissive. Combative. Cold.

Grimfire appeared again at his side, once more making him jump, knocking a stack of papers—requests by the royal gardener for more seed and pruning supplies—off the table. Jarrod ground his teeth. “One option, and I’m just throwing it out there, is you could wiggle your ears and appear just outside the room and then knock and walk through the door.”

“Now where’s the fun in that, Your Majesty?” the mage said, eyes alight with mirth. “And it’s my nose I wiggle, not my ears.”

Jarrod stared at him. In a way, the mage’s attitude was refreshing. It brought him back to when he was a child and Grimfire was always kind to him, even when his own siblings treated him like little more than a stuffed doll to be used in their schemes. “I require your input on one of the matters I’m struggling with,” he said.

“Aeromand,” the mage said, his voice deepening to a low growl.

“Yes. I know your relationship with the Archmage Council is somewhat tenuous.”

“That’s one way of describing it.”

“And what would be another way?”

“Strained,” the mage said. “The lot of them are cut from the same cloth.”

“What cloth would that be?” Jarrod was genuinely curious.

“The sort that pretends to be one color, but when you wash away the dye, it’s another color entirely.”

“Meaning…”

“You can only trust any of them as far as you can throw them.”

Jarrod was trying to understand but struggling. His entire life he’d been told that Aeromand was a neutral party amongst the conflicts of Kingfall, refusing to take sides. “Do you believe the mages are responsible for the theft of the darkblades?”

“If it comes down to Quill’s word against Cernon’s, I’d choose Quill,” Grimfire said.

“Why?”

“He has no reason to lie. In fact, his accusations led to his imprisonment in Lockspell. Rondo’s too.”

For once, Jarrod understood how his father felt. He wanted to throw something. Something large. Something that would break. “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”

“All things in their time, Your Majesty,” the mage said. “Information is like a sword. Wield it with too much haste and you’ll leave yourself open to attack from behind.”

Jarrod knew reprimanding the mage was like trying to persuade a bird not to fly, so he moved on. “How do you know about Quill and Rondo’s imprisonment?”

“I happen to be acquainted with one of Lockspell’s other occupants. Another mage. His name’s Megrifir. He’s…an old friend. He keeps me apprised of what’s happening inside the prison’s warded walls.”

Jarrod was tempted to ask how another prisoner was able to communicate with Grimfire across miles and miles of ocean and land, but that seemed to be of little importance in the grand scheme of things. Instead, he said, “Then that settles it. We invaded Solarii on the grounds that the Dead King had stolen the darkblades. But if he was nothing but a pawn in the Archmage Council’s villainy, we have no choice but to bring them to justice and withdraw our forces from Sunsei.”

“There he is,” Grimfire said. The mage was looking at him differently, his lips pursed.

“There who is?” Jarrod asked.

“The king.”

When Grimfire returned, through the door this time, Jarrod was bleary-eyed and hungry, his hand aching from signing requisition orders, his inkwell nearly dry. Despite his weariness, his heart leapt when he saw the roll of parchment in the mage’s hand. “Well?” he said. “Did you find it?”

“Yes,” Grimfire said, crossing the war room in three long strides. He located an empty space on the table, unfurling the scroll and using four paperweights in the shape of armored warriors astride horses to hold down the corners.

The elation Jarrod had felt a moment earlier began to fade as he read the letter penned by Rose Ontarii almost two years ago. As Grimfire had said, it was a petition for peace, but that wasn’t what shadowed his heart. The handwriting was all wrong, her penmanship comprised of short, sharp strokes. The structure of the sentences was sparse, her language concise and to the point. There were no long descriptions or generous exposition.

In fact, everything about the letter was the opposite to the one he’d received earlier that very day. Could she have changed so drastically in two years? he wondered, even as he closed his eyes. He shook his head. No, it was impossible. People changed, but not like that. The core of what someone was might take years, decades, to change, if it could be changed at all. His father had proven that Jarrod’s entire life.

A shiver ran down his spine. If Rose hadn’t penned the letter, then who had? “What do you know about General Caltran?” Jarrod asked.

“Your father trusted him completely,” Grimfire said.

“That’s why I chose him to maintain order in Sunsei in General Mertin’s stead,” Jarrod said. “My dealings with him in the past were brief and fleeting, but he always came across as obedient and loyal.”

“Who are you trying to justify your decision to?” Grimfire asked.

Jarrod remembered the chasms that surrounded the thin ledge he clung to. “Myself,” he admitted.

“Stop doing that. Your mistakes are your own, so own them.”

Jarrod wanted to do that, needed to do that, but how did one rule a kingdom and show weakness at the same time? “So you think appointing Caltran to govern Sunsei was a mistake?”

“He is a brutal man. Vicious even. That worked to his advantage with his loyalty to your father. But you are not your father.”

Jarrod wished that were true, but wasn’t a man only as good as the fruit of his labors? Jarrod’s ‘labors’ had resulted in nothing but pain and death, just as his father’s had. “Could Caltran have changed?” he asked. What he knew he was really asking was, Can I change?

Grimfire pulled out a chair and sat in it, the mage’s large frame making the chair appear almost tiny. “I’ve heard people described as a block of clay, malleable, able to be molded into something different over the course of their lives. But I’ve always believed we all begin as a slab of stone, immovable, unchangeable. Or so we appear. Change doesn’t happen from one experience, or even a collection of them. But over years, our experiences, our decisions and their consequences, those who come in and out of our lives, slowly hone us or break off chunks of us, carving us into who we are to become, just as years of wind and storms change the shape of a stone.”

Jarrod nodded. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, and yet it was the answer he needed. He’d changed over the course of his life, was still changing, but was miles from the man he wanted to be. From here on out, he would take responsibility for his decisions, his mistakes—own them as Grimfire had said. And, most of all, he would learn from them. Starting today.

Although it seemed ridiculous to make another long journey so soon after the last one, he knew his biggest mistake had been leaving Solarii too soon. Something wasn’t right, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. “We must return to Sunsei immediately,” he said.

“I’ll arrange your transport,” Grimfire said.

“No. Send Admiral Prescott. We will travel with the armada.”

Grimfire’s eyes were alight as if with fire. “I will oversee the packing and storing of magenum and magepowder. You can’t fight magic without some magic of your own.”

Everything was set, but the armada wouldn’t be ready to sail for several hours still. Jarrod was impatient, his own wooden chests having already been packed and removed from his quarters, leaving him with nothing to do but pace the floor of his own room and grow mad with worry. What have I done? he thought. For all he knew, General Caltran had thrown Rose Ontarii into the dungeons alongside the Travailian dragonrider. I must own my mistakes, he thought. But how?

Others were hurting, so why shouldn’t he? After all he’d done, all the pain he’d caused, it didn’t seem fair that he should sleep on a soft bed, eat rich food, wear luxurious clothes. At the same time, these were the things that were expected of him…

A surprising thought needled its way into his mind. He frowned because it was foolish, nonsensical even. His own physical pain wouldn’t bring back the dead, wouldn’t restore the virtue to the women who’d been abused by his own soldiers, wouldn’t help Rose Ontarii in her current plight.

Nor would it unpoison and unbury his own sister.

And yet.

Needles pricked his mind, which refused to let go of the idea. If nothing else, a bit of physical pain would bring him relief from the demons who seemed to live with him every hour of every day. He rushed to his chest of drawers, crouching to drag the bottom drawer out. He riffled through the contents, mostly clothing he’d outgrown years ago, until his fingers curled around something hard, something he’d hidden away the same day he’d received it—a gift from his father on his eleventh name day.

He drew it out now, remembering…

“Your pony doesn’t fear you, Jarrod,” his father had said as he handed him the small whip. It had a braided leather handle that fit snugly into his hand, nine short, narrow leather straps dangling from the top. “When the beast is disobedient, beat it. Soon it will obey your every command.”

It is a she, Jarrod had wanted to say, but he’d been wise enough to hold his tongue, offering only a “Yes, Father. Thank you, Father,” in reply. To some degree, he knew his father was right. The pony he’d named Clover—though he never spoke her name aloud in his father’s presence—was a stubborn lass, only allowing him to ride her when she felt it was convenient. Even then, she had a tendency to toss him from the saddle just for her own amusement, whinnying gleefully as he nursed his bumps and bruises. Still, he loved her as he’d never loved anything before, sneaking her carrots and apples from the kitchen whenever he could. The thought of hitting her, made him slightly sick to the stomach.

“You can thank me when you’re riding with the wind in your hair,” his father had said. “I will accompany you to the stables.”

His father suggesting they spend time together was such a rarity that Jarrod would normally leap at the opportunity. On this occasion, however, Jarrod wished he could hide in his room. “Of course, Father,” he’d replied.

When they’d reached the stables, Clover had snapped at him, trying to pull the small whip from his grasp. “Hit it!” his father said.

“I-I can’t,” Jarrod had whimpered, shying away from the beast’s snapping teeth.

“Sometimes I wonder whether you’re truly my child,” his father had muttered. “Like this.” He grabbed the whip from Jarrod and snapped it several times, stinging the pony’s snout until she recoiled, stamping her feet and shaking her head.

He handed the whip back. “Now ride it.”

Jarrod had taken a deep breath, feeling determined not to let his father down again. He slipped inside Clover’s stall, murmuring soft, comforting words as he walked toward her. “Good, girl. I’m going to ride you now.”

To his surprise, she shifted until she was in position beside the portable wooden steps. “Good, girl,” he said again, mounting the steps. His legs tensed and then he leapt, throwing one leg over the horse as he reached for the pommel.

At that exact moment, she moved. He was already fully committed, so he fell hard from the steps, landing in a mixture of hay and dung. Before he knew what was happening, his father had stormed inside, snatched the whip from his hands—growling “Useless son of mine”—and begun snapping it repeatedly at the pony, which backpedaled in fear.

When his father was done with the pony, he offered one final snap of the whip—this time at Jarrod—the sting of the leather straps arching his back. His father dropped the whip and stomped away, leaving Jarrod in pain, smeared with dung and alone.

The memory faded. Eventually, Jarrod’s mother had come to his aid, cleaning him up, whispering soothing words to him, and putting him to bed. Just before he’d drifted off to sleep, he’d seen her tuck the small whip away behind his clothes in his bottom drawer. He hadn’t thought about it since, not until this very moment.

Even uncared for, the braided leather handle and straps were in decent condition, not cracked or flaking. He remembered the sting of his father’s blow on his back. At the time, it had been awful, terrifying, but it had also brought him a strange sense of relief. The pony didn’t have to hurt anymore because he was hurting.

Now, he placed the whip on the bed and hurriedly dragged off his shirt, tossing it aside. Then he picked up the whip, easing his fingers into position until he had a good grip. He raised his arm, steeling himself.

And then slung the whip over his shoulder and behind him.

He winced, the pain bright and hot. He moved over to the mirror, standing and looking over his shoulder until he could see a long stripe of red from his shoulder blade to the small of his back. It appeared he’d barely broken the surface of the skin, the blood welling but not dripping. To Jarrod’s surprise, the pain felt…good. Like he was finally receiving the punishment he deserved for his own stupidity, naivete and rash decisions.

The corner of his lip twitching slightly, he raised the whip once more, this time over the opposite shoulder.

Thirty-Seven

Dragonrider Drake

Sunsei, Solarii

“DRAKE.”

Drake startled, his eyes flashing open. He hadn’t been asleep but hadn’t felt fully awake either. Something in between, a place where only those lost souls with nothing left to fight for existed.

He scanned his cell first, and then the area just outside the bars. Both were empty, save for a single rat that scurried along the stone corridor, tiny pink nose twitching every few steps.

Drake snorted out a laugh at his own foolishness. The voice had been conjured by his own imagination, for the voice’s bearer was dead, his demise a product of Drake’s own idiocy and inability to cope with heartbreak. Why didn’t I just fly away, as Dom had done all those years ago? Then Draconus would still be alive and I wouldn’t be broken, at least not all the—

“Drake.”

He scrambled to his feet, whirling about, as if the ghost of his dead dragon might suddenly float through the stone wall at his back.

Of course, there was no one but himself, his shoulders sagging. “Aye, what is left of me,” he said aloud. He couldn’t even kill himself properly, attacking the Terran king and yet somehow surviving to tell the tale. “Why am I alive?” he asked.

He wondered who the question was for, at the same time realizing that he hadn’t finished it. He tried again, “Why am I alive when you are dead?” He’d failed in so many ways, but the worst way of all was that he couldn’t even give Draconus a proper send off, his body burned so his soul could return to the storms. Instead, he was told by one of the guards that the dragon’s body had been hauled out into the sea and then dumped. The man had informed him of this with a smile, as though he’d enjoyed being the one to tell him.

Tears blurred his vision, but he blinked them away rapidly. No. You don’t get to be sad. You don’t get to mourn.

“Drake.”

“Stop it!” he screamed. “Stop it stop it stop it stop it! Leave me alone!” He knew his outburst would bring the guards running again, clubs pumping at their sides. He knew but didn’t care because—

Nothing mattered.

Not his bones being unbroken nor his heart being unshattered nor his mind being unplagued by voices from his ruined past.

As expected, they came, the scuff and echo of their bootfalls preceding their arrival. Drake continued to scream his head off, facing away from them, acting like he was oblivious to the guards’ presence even as a key clinked in a lock, the mechanism clicking as the key was turned, the iron door’s rusty, unoiled hinges creaking as the door was opened, the bed of hay crackling as heavy feet pounded across it, the whistle as a well-swung club arced toward him.

He moved.

The club crashed into the wall, splintering from the impact as bits of shattered stone sprayed across Drake’s feet. But he was already moving the way he’d been trained as a youth who was always destined to be a warrior, a dragonrider, punching his initial attacker solidly in the abdomen. The blow hunched the guard over and Drake followed it up with a forearm shiver to the temple, toppling the man like he was nothing but a stuffed training dummy.

The second guard was already upon him, using a shorter backswing to increase his chances of landing his own blow, which he aimed for Drake’s head to end the contest as quickly as it had begun. There wasn’t time to duck.

Drake raised his hand, the heavy wooden club smacking into his palm with such force it made an audible slapping sound. His fingers ached like they’d been crushed beneath a stomped foot. The guard’s eyes widened, staring at him. Drake kicked the man in the chest, rocking him back so hard he slammed into the wall, his head snapping back and then forward viciously. His eyes rolled into his head and then he went the way of the first guard.

The third and final guard had hesitated, watching his comrades try, and fail, to quell their prisoner’s rage. Now he made the wisest decision of all—he fled. The moment he was outside of the cell, he grabbed the door and tried to slam it shut.

Drake came crashing through just before the door locked into place, the impact jarring his shoulder and sending spikes of pain through his chest. He fared better than the guard, who took a shot from the iron door to the jaw, spinning him awkwardly to the side and causing him to drop his own club.

Drake borrowed the weapon, finishing him off with a knock on the head that would leave him unconscious for several hours. His lips opened, a name on his lips. He hesitated. Thus far, he’d walked the line between madness and sanity, and he felt that speaking the name would put him on the wrong side of that line.

Isn’t that where I should be? he thought, laughing to himself. And then he said it. “Draconus.”

“Welcome back, Drake,” his dead dragon answered.

He ran, not for the exit, but further into the dungeons. It was the last place anyone would expect him to go.

Thirty-Eight

Rose Ontarii

Sunsei, Solarii

HER PUNISHMENT FOR BURNING HER UNSENT LETTER TO JARROD GAARD HAD BEEN SWIFT, BUT NOT WHAT ROSE EXPECTED.

General Caltran had stood, entire body shaking with anger. Then he’d smiled, leaving her on the floor, bleeding from her head injury, as he strode across the room and departed without a word. Shortly thereafter, men had arrived. They’d said nothing as they’d worked, ignoring her questions and demands.

Her windows and balcony door had been barred with wooden boards from floor to ceiling, her door locked from the outside. After the men left, no one else entered and no one exited. The sun didn’t shine, the stars didn’t twinkle in the night sky. Time lost all meaning as her lanterns burned up the last of their oil and she sipped the last drops from her water jug and nibbled the final crumbs from her breakfast from that morning.

Hunger became a gnawing beast in her stomach. Thirst became the dry scales of a snake slithering in her throat. Boredom was her constant companion.

The first day spent in this manner was awful. The second, unbearable.

She wasn’t sure she could survive a third. She hadn’t urinated in almost a day now. Despite the bitterness of the smell, she was tempted to taste its contents if only to wet her tongue and throat, but she couldn’t bring herself to drink her own urine. Tomorrow might be a different story.

She pounded on the door, screaming for someone, anyone, to listen. But no one answered, no one came. Hopelessness swirled through her chest, even as tears bloomed and then flowed freely from her eyes. She captured them with her fingertip and licked them off, relishing the salty taste.

She slumped onto the bed. Exhaustion took her.

She awoke to a sound she couldn’t immediately place, her eyes taking several long moments to adjust to the inky darkness. The sound, she realized, had been the click of a lock being released.

Just as she sat up, the darkness was suddenly broken by a triangle of light as the door cracked open. “I have a gift for you,” a voice said. Caltran’s. Falsely sweet and overly soothing. She expected an attack of some sort, scrambling backwards against the headboard, dragging the covers after her. Instead, there was a gentle scraping sound, and then the door closed and the lock clicked, erasing the triangle of light. However, the room didn’t return to darkness. Instead, a halo of orange light tested the shadows and found them lacking, pushing them back into the furthest corners and beneath the bed.

A lantern rested on the floor just inside the room. Beside it was a tray. On the tray was a fresh jug of water and a plate bearing fruit, cheese and bread.

Rose threw the covers off her, clambered from bed, and crawled to the plate. Her hands trembled as she lifted the jug to her lips, not even bothering to do the civilized thing and fill a glass. Some of the water made it into her mouth and she drank freely, while a portion dribbled off her chin and splashed to the floor. She lowered the jug, gasping and cursing her foolishness. She didn’t know when she might receive another jug—she couldn’t afford to waste even a single drop. More slowly, she used the jug to fill a glass and then drank half of it before turning her attention to the food.

She started with the grapes, which would’ve been the best in the world even if she wasn’t half-starved; Solarii’s vineyards were famous even in lands beyond Kingfall’s shores. She moved onto the bread and cheese, stacking them like tiny sandwiches, eating them one chewy bite at a time and then washing them down with more sips of water. Though her body demanded that she consume more, she saved half, wrapping the leftover food in a serviette that had been neatly folded and set on the tray with everything else. Then she placed the tray on a table and decreased the supply of oil to the lantern until it was a dull glow. That way it would last longer.

General Caltran had referred to the food, water and lantern as ‘a gift’. Was food given to a starving man on the streets a gift? At the same time, she wondered how Drake was being treated in the dungeons. Regret wormed its way into her gut. Or maybe it was just her stomach getting used to being full again. Whatever the case, she felt awful. Could she have handled things with Drake better? Could she have said better words, righter words, ones that would’ve allowed him to cope with the pain, for them to part in a less….abrupt…manner?

And if so, would his dragon be alive and Drake free?

The lock clicking again drew her back to reality. Caltran stepped deftly inside, one hand behind his back. “Your Majesty,” he said.

“General Caltran,” Rose said coldly. “To what do I owe this displeasure?” Despite the confidence she exuded, she felt a shiver run through her at the sight of the man’s scarred face and false smile.

The man chuckled lightly. “I wanted to ensure your meal was appetizing.”

“It was, though I ate so quickly I hardly tasted any of it. I have you to thank for that, I suppose.”

“I have another gift for you.” He stepped closer.

She matched his step with one of her own, placing a chair between them. “More food? I’m quite full, I assure you. I even saved some for later.”

“This gift isn’t edible unless you’re a hound.” Another step.

“The best gift would be a bit of fresh air. It gets quite stuffy in here with the windows boarded and no access to my balcony.” Rose realized she was gripping the top of the chair back so hard her fingers were hurting. She forced them to loosen, allowing blood to flow back to her extremities.

“If you’re well-behaved, perhaps a brief walk in the gardens can be arranged.” He began to circle the sitting area.

She edged away, even though she knew escape was futile. If he wanted to get his hands on her, the fact that she was in a locked, boarded-up room made it inevitable that he would catch her. One of her hands slid behind the chair, closing around the hilt of the dagger she’d previously stashed there, after Caltran had promised punishment and left. There was a space behind the chair’s fabric backing, the wooden structure serving as a natural ledge on which to rest the blade.

Now she prepared to make her stand. She’d never stabbed anything, nor been trained with any sort of a weapon, but she understood the basics of human anatomy. Stabbing him in the throat or the heart would be ideal, but she would settle for opening his stomach if necessary. She steeled herself as he closed the gap between them further.

He stopped. “I believe I have chosen the color wisely. There’s a fierceness to you that reminds me of war. Men killing men, blood unspooling in long threads, intersecting in a thousand places like a massive spider’s web, the corpses caught in it. After all, in war, there are the spiders and the flies. Which do you think I am?”

Option three: a murdering bastard, she thought, trying to make sense of his words. What did he mean by choosing the color wisely? “The spider,” she said.

“Exactly. It’s funny, when you’ve been at war for so long, you begin to treat daily life like a series of battles. For each, there is a victor and the defeated. I make it my purpose never to lose.”

“Intriguing,” Rose said. “I’ve never known a man to speak so freely about war and battle, but I am no stranger to morbid fascinations considering my grandfather ruled Solarii for a number of years after his death.” She hoped the subtle reminder of her lineage would give the general pause in whatever game he was playing.

“Of course,” the general said. “I must remember that though you appear wholesome and virtuous to the untrained eye, you have lived a life of your own for many years before our paths crossed. I have seen your grandfather’s art gallery. So many vivid depictions of death and bloodshed. Not to mention a rumor I’ve heard about your betrothal to one of the dragonriders of Travail. And not just any dragonrider—brother of the dragonmaster himself. Impressive.”

“Yes. Solarii’s ties to Travail have grown stronger by the season. I am certain they will arrive sooner rather than later to assist in continued negotiations with Teravainen.” She hated herself for using her relationship with Drake to protect herself, but what other choice did she have?

Caltran smiled broadly. “Not likely. Travail has problems of its own to contend with.”

“Meaning?”

The general waved away the question. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. You are a princess—”

“Queen.”

“—and should focus on enjoying the finer things in life. Like this, for example.” The hand that had been hidden behind his back emerged to reveal a dress, as red as blood. It didn’t have enough material to be a ball gown, the fabric rather thin. Like a dressing gown or a fancy shift.

Rose stared at it. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Like I said, it’s a gift. I consulted with the royal tailors before I had it made, so it should fit perfectly.” She didn’t like the way his eyes roamed down her body. It took all her willpower not to shrink behind the chair.

“I have dresses. An entire wardrobe of them.”

“Humor me. Put it on. I’ll even turn my back.” He turned around and stretched the hand holding the dress backwards toward her.

Rose’s mind raced. If she lunged at him, could she stab her dagger through his back before he realized what was happening? And if she did, would it do enough damage to hobble him such that he wouldn’t be able to recover? Still considering her options, she said, “I’d rather not. It’s cold in here and that dress is severely lacking in material.”

“After you’re dressed, I’ll get the fire blazing in no time,” he said, still not turning around.

Slowly, silently, she drew the blade out from the chair back. Her heart was pounding, her teeth locked together hard enough to grind. She inched toward him. “Very well,” she said lightly, though she struggled to keep the strain from her voice. She took the dress from him, hating the way his rough fingertips scraped against her hand in the process. “Don’t turn around until I’m finished.”

“Of course,” he said, his arm returning to his side.

“Thank you.” She rustled the fabric with one hand to muffle her footfall as she eased forward a half-step.

His head tilted slightly, but not far enough for him to see her on the edge of his vision. “Almost done?”

“Women’s clothing isn’t simple to remove,” she said, sliding closer. He was within reach now. “There are ties and buttons and layers.”

She gave the fabric another rustle and then silently raised her dagger-wielding hand over her shoulder, eyes locking on a target in the direct center of his back. If she severed his spine, there would be no recovery.

She breathed through her nose, steadying her nerves…

And then brought the blade down with the entirety of her strength, her aim perfect.

He spun faster than she could’ve imagined, his own hand rising with the speed of a striking cobra. He caught her wrist, the tip of the dagger an inch from his chest. Fear struck her but she forced it to transform into rage, into strength, dropping the dress and shoving the knife forward with both hands.

The knife didn’t move.

Caltran smiled. “Like I said, fierce,” he said. “When I said everything is a battle, I didn’t mean it literally, but I can see how you’d make that mistake.”

“I—I’m sorry. I was scared,” Rose said, her fingers opening to drop the dagger. It’s going to be okay. I can talk myself out of this. “I’ll wear the dress.”

“I’m a forgiving man,” he said. “To a point, of course. Being too forgiving means you get walked all over. Or stabbed in the back,” he added with a wink. With a sharp pull, he dragged her forward a step. She fought his grip, but it was like iron. “Women’s bones are naturally weaker than men’s,” he mused, “prone to breaking, to snapping.” With a jerk, he twisted her wrist hard to the left and down.

“Ahh!” she exclaimed, pain shooting up her forearm. “Please. Don’t. I’ll do whatever you ask.” One of her feet had pressed onto the flat side of the dagger’s blade, the metal cool under her heel. If he only loosened his grip on her wrist, maybe she could drop to the floor and retrieve it.

He twisted her wrist further, the bright pain intensifying. Her eyes watered, blurring her vision. “Words are cheap,” he said. She could see the desire in his eyes. This was a man without conscience, a man who gained pleasure from the suffering of others, especially those weaker than himself. “One twist and it breaks. I’ve already made my choice. I am not a man to be swayed by the false promises of a woman.”

“Look, I’ll show you,” she pleaded, hating the tremble in her voice, the fear she knew was evident on her face. She reached up with her opposite hand and began to work the ties at the front of her shirt.

He released her wrist, which was throbbing from the strength of his grip. “I was never planning to break you,” he said. “Not yet. Plus, you’ll look better in that dress with both arms intact.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. Oh, Temperi! The dress is getting wrinkled.” She started to bend down as though to retrieve it.

“Allow me.” Caltran squatted faster, scooping up the dagger and then the dress, draping the latter over a chair. He stood before her, waiting.

“This will take a little while,” Rose said. “And I’ll need to brush my hair and apply some makeup. I’m a bit of a mess. Why don’t you come back later when I’ve had time to make myself presentable?”

Caltran made a tsking sound several times. “I know you are used to getting what you want, Your Majesty, but you need to accept that this battle is already lost. Now, the dress.” His tone brooked no further argument.

Rose closed her eyes. Pretend he’s not here. It will be over in a few minutes. Keep breathing. Live to fight another day. She opened her eyes and began to draw the threads from the front of her shirt, one at a time. His eyes burned into her, but she ignored them. He can’t hurt me with his gaze. He won’t. I won’t let him.

She reached the final two holes, the fabric sagging as it separated, revealing her corset beneath, the stiff material tight against her skin, her heart pounding inside. She was about to let the outer dress fall from her shoulders when a knock sounded at the door.

“Hold that thought,” Caltran growled. He stalked toward the door, thrusting it open wide enough for him to peer outside. “I said not to be disturbed.”

“This is urgent,” a voice said. “The prisoner has escaped.”

Rose’s stomach did a flip. The prisoner? Did he mean…

Caltran’s head twisted to look at her. “Put on the dress. Await my return.” With that, he slipped through the door and slammed it shut, lock clicking behind him.

Rose gripped the front sides of her dress, pulling them tightly together.

Her lips formed a name. “Drake.”

Thirty-Nine

Jarrod Gaard

Wolfsgaard, Teravainen

THE SKIN OF JARROD’S BACK HAD ITS OWN HEARTBEAT AS HE STRODE DOWN THE STEPS TO THE WAITING CARRIAGE.

After he’d finished with his whip, he’d studied the mess of crisscrossing lacerations across the whole of his back. Blood was weeping from the wounds, draining toward the small of his back. He’d used a knife to cut strips from one of his bedsheets, tying them tight around his torso to bind the wounds. Then he’d pulled his shirt back on and tucked the whip beneath several layers of clothes in one of the chests that had been prepared for his ocean voyage. The chest was bright red like the wounds on his back, a fact that felt appropriate.

Now he watched as that very chest was loaded into the back of the carriage. Something about seeing it gave him comfort, centering him as he climbed inside. Grimfire was already sitting on the opposite bench, long legs stretched out to the side, hidden beneath his thick robe. “I’ve been informed the armada is ready to sail, is that correct?” Jarrod said.

“Yes.”

“Are there sufficient provisions to reach Sunsei without stopping?”

“Yes, though I would request we make one stop, in Leeds.”

“Why? What is in Leeds?” Jarrod couldn’t imagine what Leeds had to offer the Terran armada. As far as he knew, it was nothing but a small fishing village nestled in the southwest corner of the kingdom.

“Not what—who,” the mage said. “We have seven barrels of magenum and just as many crates of magepowder. The sailors themselves can use the magepowder to launch their balls of iron, but none but a trained mage can channel magenum into spellcraft.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“Yes, but I am only one mage. If we are going to have half a chance against Aeromand, we will need reinforcements.”

“Are you saying there are mages in Leeds?”

“Yes, several close allies of mine. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting them ahead of our arrival.”

The carriage had begun to move, Jarrod’s lacerated back aching as it bumped against the backrest. While the pain focused him, it also seemed to shorten his patience. “Why wasn’t I informed of this sooner?”

“These mages…,” Grimfire said. He paused, seeming to consider his words carefully. “They haven’t officially practiced magic in many years.”

Officially? Jarrod thought. That didn’t sound good. “So you think a bunch of out-of-practice, rogue spellcasters will be of value in a significant battle?”

“I know they will. Spellcasting isn’t like other pursuits. It is either in you, or not. The mages who have been living in Leeds—”

“You mean, hiding in Leeds,” Jarrod said.

“That is correct. Like me, they are no friends to Aeromand. As I was saying, they are highly experienced. If anything, their recent lack of magic use is to our benefit. One could say they’ve been saving their energy for this exact moment.”

“Sounds like they want revenge,” Jarrod commented.

“Maybe. Or maybe they just want to help restore the reputation of spellcasters across all Kingfall. A reputation that Aeromand seems rather determined to tarnish.”

Jarrod considered this. Revenge wasn’t the worst motivator he could ask for, so long as the mages’ desire for vengeance ran parallel to his own objectives. “Fine. We stop at Leeds then onwards to Sunsei. There we will coordinate with Queen Ontarii. Given Solarii’s proximity to the Isle of Mages and their recent treachery, I suspect she will be open to a temporary naval alliance against the Archmage Council.”

“Let us hope so,” Grimfire said, pursing his lips. “Cernon and the old guard will not go quietly into the night. I fear they’ve been planning this for quite some time.”

Jarrod sensed the mage knew more than he was saying, but he didn’t press him. Grimfire had never been an open book, not even with his father. Void, Jarrod was convinced the mage knew something of his sister’s whereabouts and yet he’d avoided the topic like a bad smell.

Their conversation ceased as the carriage continued to trundle along over the uneven stones, moving east to west across the front wall of the palace. They would exit through Wolfgaard’s westernmost gate and then follow a well-paved road that descended steadily toward the sea in a long, sweeping arc.

They were traveling along at a good pace until, suddenly, the carriage ground to a halt, rattling the chests packed in the rear compartment. Jarrod’s eyes met Grimfire’s and the mage shrugged. “Driver!” Jarrod called out. “What is the cause of this delay?”

“A child, Your Majesty,” the driver shouted back.

Jarrod raised an eyebrow. “A child?”

“Aye. He’s standing in the middle of the road, Your Majesty. He’s refusing to move. Several of the riders in your honor guard charged him but the little cretin stood his ground. Got more courage than good sense, I reckon. Should we have him removed?”

The expected answer was yes, Jarrod knew. What king would allow a mere child to delay him while on an urgent mission? And yet, he hesitated. As a child, he’d been meek and mild, quick to frighten. This child was standing alone against armed soldiers. Jarrod couldn’t help but to admire him for that. “No,” he said. “Have him brought to me.”

“Your Majesty?” the driver said, sounding confused.

“You heard me. I want to see the child. He can ride with us for a while. Any objections, Grimfire?”

The mage’s expression was unreadable. “No, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Good.”

Jarrod heard voices and the clop of horse hooves. Then the carriage curtain was drawn back and a small, round face appeared. The boy had a pale complexion and dark, straw-like hair that fell over his forehead. He wore dark clothing in need of a good cleaning, but his hands and head were uncovered despite the wintry chill in the air.

He said nothing as he climbed in, sitting beside Jarrod as Grimfire’s broad frame filled the entirety of the far bench. “What is your name, lad?” Jarrod said as the carriage lurched forward once again.

“The shadows have no name,” the boy said.

Jarrod glanced at the mage, who was staring intently at the boy. He turned back to the boy. “Why were you standing in the middle of the road? You could’ve been killed.”

“Death comes to us all,” the boy said. “And I was waiting for you.”

“Why?”

“To tell you my secrets.”

Jarrod felt a chill run down his spine, though he wasn’t certain why. All he knew was that something about the quiet, monotone manner in which the boy spoke was unnerving. “What secrets?”

“When the darkness touched me, I should’ve died.”

“Darkness?”

“The sword was made from it. Bleeding shadows from every pore.”

Jarrod’s lips opened, his mouth suddenly dry. “You’re talking about a darkblade.”

“Of course I am,” the boy said, as though that had been obvious from the beginning.

“You’ve seen one? Where?”

“In the forest, after I left Jackaloos.”

Jackaloos? Jarrod thought. But that was miles and miles away. Making the journey north to Wolfsgaard on foot would’ve taken weeks. “Why did you leave Jackaloos?”

“My parents died.”

“How?”

“I killed them.”

For some reason, that statement had the opposite effect to everything else the boy had said thus far, chasing away the chill that had entered Jarrod’s blood. “Why? Were they hurting you?”

“No. They were kindly parents.” He said this matter of factly.

“Then why did you…hurt them?”

“I see the nightmares even when my eyes are open. All of us do.”

“Who?”

“The taken. They were going to kill me, so I escaped. But the shadows followed me. They led me here. To you.”

Logically, Jarrod knew he should discard the boy’s words as the rantings of a child who was confused, or disturbed, or with an especially active imagination. That’s what his father would’ve done. No, Father would’ve had him ridden down in the streets, the carriage bumping as it rolled over his dead corpse. No, Jarrod was determined not to be like his father, even if that meant making his own mistakes. “Who was going to kill you?” he asked.

“The ones wearing the robes. We couldn’t all do what they wanted, so they didn’t need us anymore.”

“Mages,” Grimfire said, speaking for the first time since the boy had climbed in.

Jarrod nodded. The boy’s story was beginning to align with Quill’s warning letter. Even if the Dead King had been involved in the theft of the darkblades, he was but a puppet to the real masterminds behind the plot—Aeromand mages. “What did the ones wearing the robes want you to do?”

“Control the shadows,” the boy said.

“But none of you could?” This question came from Grimfire, who’d leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“One could. A girl. They gave her one of the swords.”

“How did you escape?” Grimfire asked. Jarrod had never known the mage to ask so many questions. He always seemed to know everything, or at least pretended to.

“The shadows hid me,” he said. “But not the others. They died.”

The mage’s eyes bore into the boy, who stared right back. “How did that make you feel?”

“Feel?”

“Yes. Inside here.” Grimfire tapped his fingers against his left breast.

“I felt…nothing,” the boy said. “I’m hungry. Can I have something to eat?”

The boy sat beside Jarrod, munching on an apple. As though he hadn’t just told them a story about children being murdered.

“What do you make of it?” Jarrod asked Grimfire, whose face bore a puzzled look.

“He shouldn’t have survived,” Grimfire said.

“That’s your conclusion?”

“Yes. And also, Aeromand is giving the stolen darkblades to children.”

“For what purpose?”

The mage leaned back, reaching out and grasping his staff, which was propped between the base of Jarrod’s bench and the carriage ceiling. He drummed his fingers on the wood several times before answering. “There is considerable written lore regarding the darkblades. The godblades, too, of course. One widely held belief amongst scholars is that children make the best wielders of the lesserblades. Adult wielders are made stronger, of course, but are unable to unlock the true powers hidden within the darkblades and lightblades. At least, according to the theory. If Cernon believed this, it would explain why he was testing the stolen darkblades on children.”

Jarrod felt ill. Rounding up children to use as weapons of war was sickening enough, but murdering those unable to perform as hoped? It was beyond evil. And yet, it didn’t change anything, only serving to solidify his decision to bring the strength of the Terran armada to Solarii’s southern shores.

“Exiting Wolfsgaard,” the driver called back. With a bump, the carriage rolled over the city’s threshold and began its long, curving descent to the sea.

Forty

Dragonrider Drake

Sunsei, Solarii

THE MOMENT THE UNCONSCIOUS GUARDS HAD BEEN FOUND, THERE WAS A FLURRY OF ACTIVITY, shouts and running feet and slamming doors. Soon the hubbub died down, however, and none of the guards took so much as a step deeper into the dungeons, where Drake continued to hide in the last cell, which was unoccupied, biding his time.

As he waited, he spoke with Draconus, not aloud but in the recesses of his own mind. I’m sorry I failed you, Drake said. He knew speaking to his dead dragon was a form of madness, but it felt so real.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Not ever. The dragon’s familiar voice seemed to fill the whole of him, from his feet to his scalp and everything in between. Hearing Draconus’s voice felt like breathing again after being underwater for a very long time.

But you’re…dead. Because of me. Because of my rage, my sadness. I wanted to destroy something, anything. I couldn’t even send you into the storms.

Would it have helped?

No. I don’t know. Maybe it would have given me some peace. Nothing can help me now.

That’s not true.

It is. I am…lost.

Then why did you expend the effort to escape?

That very question had been orbiting Drake’s mind from the moment he fled down the corridor. I…I don’t know.

Maybe you do.

“Hey,” a voice hissed. Drake froze, holding his breath. “I know you’re there. I saw you run past. Before.”

Another prisoner, Drake thought. He’d been in such a rush after he’d escaped his cell that he didn’t give any mind to the other prisoners. Perhaps he should have. They had the power to give him up to the guards if they chose to. He didn’t leave the cell, but he did peek through the bars, trying to see who had spoken. A pair of hands protruded from the adjacent cell. “What do you want?”

“Your help. That is all.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is General Mertin. I led the Terran invasion of Solarii.”

A fresh wave of anger rose inside Drake. He remembered seeing the man, garbed in a pristine uniform standing near the king. “And you think that information makes me want to help you? I should kill you.”

“I won’t use lies to beg for mercy,” the general said. “I know I have harmed you beyond forgiveness, but I am not your current enemy.”

“Then who is?”

“A man named General Caltran. He is far worse than me. I questioned some of his decisions after he arrived, and now here I am. I fear what he might do.”

Drake understood the insinuation. “You think this man, this Caltran, will harm Rose?”

“I don’t know. He lives his life like a magepowder keg ready to explode. But yes, I fear for Queen Ontarii.”

Before Drake could respond, more noises floated down the corridor, one rising above the others. Shouting. Angry. Then there was the sound of a scuffle, thuds reminiscent of fists and boots hitting flesh. More shouting followed. Drake couldn’t make out most of what the shouter was saying, but two words appeared suddenly, louder than the rest. “…the queen…”

Drake rushed from the cell, suddenly unconcerned with stealth, his heart hammering in his chest. “Wait!” General Mertin hissed. “What about me?”

“You can rot for eternity for all I care,” Drake said. He hurried down the corridor, ignoring a shout from Mertin along with the nonsensical calls from the other prisoners in the cells that lined one wall. Just ahead, a figure stalked away, his back to Drake. Two forms lay between them on the ground, groaning and writhing from the beating they’d been given.

One of them collapsed, unmoving. Unconscious or dead, Drake couldn’t tell which. The second was bleeding heavily from a gash on his forehead. His head lolled in Drake’s direction. Skeins of blood and spit hung from his lips. “You,” he slurred, blinking lazily.

“Yes, me,” Drake said, striding up to him and kicking him hard in the face. The guard flopped onto his back and went still.

Drake sensed the hour was growing late.

And, just as his dead dragon had said, he knew exactly why he’d escaped. She needed him.

He slipped the keyring from the guard’s belt and hurried for the exit.

Forty-One

Rose Ontarii

Sunsei, Solarii

THE DRESS WAS SO TIGHT SHE COULDN’T SQUEEZE HER CORSET BENEATH THE MATERIAL.

This left her feeling almost naked, the plunging neckline revealing the swell of her breasts. The dress didn’t even have half-sleeves, her arms exposed all the way to the crest of her shoulders. At least the material covered her knees, flowing all the way to her feet.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing herself. She’d brushed the knots from her golden hair and let it fall over her bare shoulders. Then she’d drawn lines of kohl beneath her eyes, contrasting their natural turquoise hue. Lastly, she added a pink color to her lips to complete the ensemble. Drake had always loved that color on her.

The finishing touch was hiding the wound to her head she’d suffered when she’d burned her letter to Jarrod Gaard. It was a shallow cut but had bled profusely. First, she’d used a bit of her precious water to clean the clotted blood away. Then she’d applied a powder that matched her bronze skin. She nodded at her reflection, satisfied with the result. She wouldn’t stand before Caltran as a wounded bird.

She turned away from the mirror and from the memories of Drake, refocusing on the task at hand. Though she was certain the guard had been speaking of him when he mentioned an escaped prisoner, there was nothing she could do for him whilst a prisoner herself. Thus, she searched the room for something that could serve as a weapon. Caltran had taken the dagger, and she had no other knives. She eyed the fireplace pokers. There were several—Caltran wouldn’t notice if one were missing. She tucked the iron bar under one of her pillows, her insides squirming at the thought of being anywhere near the general and the bed at the same time.

Next, she considered her hat stand. It was a sturdy contraption, with no fewer than seven wooden arms upon which her numerous sun hats hung. Yes, she thought, it will do nicely. She busied herself removing and stacking the hats, placing the pile behind a chest in the corner before getting to work on the stand itself. First, she lowered it onto its side and then pried off each arm. They were thick and solid but narrow enough that she could get most of her hand around them at their narrowest point, like a collection of makeshift clubs.

Once the arms were removed, she hid each in a different location throughout the room, secreting the final ‘club’ beneath another of the half-dozen or so pillows piled at the head of her bed. The hat stand’s central pole was far too long, thick, and unwieldy to be used as a weapon, so she dragged it under her bed, stopping every few feet to catch her breath. The square base was the heaviest part and unable to fit under the bed, so she covered it with the bed skirt, hoping the general wouldn’t notice the lump.

The next problem was the rug on which the hat stand had been resting. There was a rather conspicuous faded square now. Covering it with one of her potted plants that looked in dire need of water and sunlight felt too obvious, and so she settled for merely tucking the faded portion of rug underneath itself. She tried to make it look as natural as possible, like the rug had accidentally been kicked, bunching up slightly.

She finished not a moment too soon, the door swinging open without warning. She backed away until she ran into the stone surrounding the hearth, the surface’s rough protrusions plucking at the fabric of her dress.

General Caltran entered, a darkness on his face that felt far worse than his usual false smiles. “Where would he go?” he demanded, stalking toward her and letting the door slam behind him.

“I don’t know who you mean,” Rose said, glancing at the remaining fireplace pokers held upright by their iron stand. Suddenly she felt foolish for hiding weapons all around the room, like a child trying to play a game with a monster.

Caltran didn’t stop until he slammed his palms against the walls beside her, pressing his face close to hers. “Don’t lie to me.”

As her back pressed harder against the stone, she wished she could become part of the wall, solid. Instead, she felt like slowly melting butter. “You’re speaking of Drake.”

“Godsdamn right I’m speaking of Drake. He injured three of my guards—almost killed one of them. You knew him better than anyone, didn’t you? Where would he go?” His hot breath splashed across her face as he spoke.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Wrong answer.” His hand clamped around her throat, pushing upward such that she was forced onto her tiptoes lest her supply of air be cut off completely.

“I swear it,” she croaked. “I broke things off with him during the invasion. He was distraught. Then Draconus…his dragon…was killed. I’ve never seen him like that. So…broken. He tried to kill me when I visited him. Like I was a stranger. Like I was nothing.” The words had just poured out of her faster than she could think them, like a waterfall that had been waiting at a precipice until this very moment.

Caltran’s grip slackened and she managed to suck in a breath, her lungs filling. His hand dropped to her shoulder, the backs of his knuckles—which were cut and bloody, she noticed—brushing her hair off her skin. “I believe you,” he murmured, his lips sliding past hers, as close as they could get without touching. He took a step back. “Just look at you. I knew that dress was meant to be worn by you.”

“Thank you. It is beautiful,” she said. Play along, she thought. No matter what, you must play along.

His smile returned, teeth flashing. “Pity you won’t be able to wear it again,” he said.

“What? Why not? I will wear it for you as often as you like.” She wished she hadn’t been so foolish as to position herself out of reach of the pokers. It was as though the fear had paralyzed her.

“There will be other dresses,” he said. “But never the same one twice. Half the fun is in the destruction of such finery, don’t you think?”

“I don’t understand.” She couldn’t feel her feet and she was too scared to look down to check that they were still there.

“I’ll show you.” The hand Caltran had settled on her shoulder slid downward along her bare arm, past her hand and then further. When it rose again, it gripped the knife she’d tried to stab him with earlier. “It’s only fair,” he said lightly. “If you can stop me the way I stopped you, I’ll leave you alone.”

Rose wanted to move, tried to move, but it was like her body had disconnected from her mind, the two separate entities as far from each other as two distinct islands with miles of sea between them. All she could do was watch as Caltran pressed the flat part of the knife to the skin just beneath her throat. It was cold, hard. “No?” he said. “You don’t want to play? Or maybe you like it? How about this?” He slid the blade along her skin, lower, between the sides of the fabric, between her breasts. As he went, he angled the blade slightly, letting its sharp edge draw a white line down her sun-bronzed skin without drawing blood.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? No, no, no. You misread my intentions, Your Majesty. I want to bring only pleasure into your life.”

Gooseflesh prickled her skin. Her voice lodged in her throat. Drake! she wanted to scream, but if he’d escaped, he’d be hiding, fleeing Solarii and all its pain. Fleeing her, not because he wanted to but because she’d pushed him away, the one good thing she had in her life.

Caltran slid the knife back up, beneath the thin strap of the dress he’d given her. With a sudden jerk, he wrenched it upward, severing the material. Half of the dress sagged from her shoulder, revealing the white slip she wore beneath.

Rose finally found her voice. “I don’t want to do this,” she said.

“And yet do this you will,” he said. “Unless…” He let the word linger in the air for a moment, like a prayer. Please oh please, Sunseri, save me and I will worship at Your burning altar every day until I am consumed by Your Radiance! “Unless…you…can…escape,” Caltran continued, tapping her chest with the dagger as he spoke each word. “Yes, that could prove even more exciting, don’t you think?”

She eyed the door. It wasn’t a great distance away but felt like the other side of the world. Furniture blocked her path. Not to mention Caltran was still close enough to grab her the second she tried to squirm free. “Give me some room so we can play your game,” she said.

As he smiled, lifted his hands, and stepped back, her mind raced, playing out the various scenarios in her head. The most direct route was to the left, skirting the edge of the sitting area and then making a beeline for the door. He would expect this, of course, and already seemed to be leaning in that direction to cut off her escape. If she feinted left and then darted hard to the right it might buy her a few seconds, but the added distance would give Caltran more time to recover.

Most importantly, nothing about this game was fair. Even if she managed to defy the odds and get to the door, fling it open, and dive outside before the general got his hands on her, surely he would only have her dragged back in by the guards for another round. When a game is fixed, the only way to win is to cheat, she thought. It was something Drake’s mother, the Dragonmistress of Travail, had told her what felt like millions of years ago. Now she knew that the beautiful, fierce, daring woman had been her mother the entire time, too. That thought, for some strange reason, gave her strength. The fear was still there, but it felt distant, obscured by a fire growing inside her.

She made her choice.

“Just to confirm…,” she said, still pretending to cower against the wall. “…if I win then—”

In midsentence, she feinted left, shoving the back of a chair hard, knocking it into Caltran’s knees as he reacted, sidestepping to match her movement. But she was already going right, not to circumvent the sitting area, but to grab one of the fireplace pokers, lifting it, swinging…

While she’d been gathering her weapon, Caltran had recovered, lunging toward her, reaching her side just in time to take the blow high on his face. He howled, clutching at his eye, which was bleeding profusely through his fingers. The only way to win is to cheat, Rose thought, lining up the poker for another swing, this one cracking off his knee, hobbling him and causing him to drop the knife.

Every instinct urged Rose to run, to quit this place as quickly as she could, but she knew it was just the fear talking, peeking around that wall of fire she’d stoked. Caltran would never stop tormenting her, not until one of them was dead. For the first time in her life, Rose wanted someone to be dead and gone with the whole of her being, so badly that she felt a primal urge rise inside her, manifesting itself in a ragged scream that tore from her throat as she raised the poker high over her head, preparing to bring it down hard on the general’s head.

Perhaps he’d sensed her intentions as well, because just then his arm shot out, grabbing the back of her leg behind her knee and pulling. The force of the motion threw her off balance, one leg kicking out while her upper body overcompensated in the other direction, tumbling backwards. The poker still fell, but with only half the force and none of the aim, glancing harmlessly off his shoulder.

As she landed backwards on the floor, Rose knew she was in trouble, the advantage of surprise stripped from her in one fell second. She skittered backwards like a crab as Caltran suddenly crawled forward, one eye a bloody ruin, the other wide and unblinking and full of undisguised rage.

Once more, she stopped fleeing, firming up her grip on the poker with both hands, swinging with all her strength at the monster dragging itself toward her…

Caltran caught the poker in one hand, flinging his arm behind him, tearing the weapon from her grasp and sending it flying until it clanked to the floor. Their stares locked and he smiled, teeth and lips painted red. Blood sheeted down his cheek and now she could see the damage she’d caused, his eye popping out in a way it shouldn’t, lolling oddly to one side.

“Run,” Caltran hissed.

“No,” she said, refusing to give him the pleasure of the chase. “You want me, come and get me.” Rose didn’t know where the words came from, nor the conviction behind them, but she now knew with all of her being that locked somewhere deep inside her all these years there’d been a fighter, a strong, capable woman who refused to be taken by this or any other man.

Thank you, Mother, she thought, the face of the dragonmistress appearing in her mind’s eyes for a second, her sparkling eyes and small smile vibrant as she nodded once before fading away.

Caltran’s smile vanished as he realized his prey wasn’t going to cooperate. “Either way, I will enjoy this,” he said, and then he lunged.

Rose was ready, her words intended to provoke this exact reaction, her knee already bending, her foot lashing out with force, slamming into his jaw hard enough to send spikes of pain up her leg. Caltran’s head snapped back viciously, his teeth snapping together with an audible clacking sound. He slumped over onto his side, groaning.

Rose knew this was her chance, that she could easily reach the door ahead of him. But what then? The Terran guards subordinate to the general would only stop her, would see what she’d done. She’d managed to fight off Caltran because he’d underestimated her, but she couldn’t escape an entire platoon of trained soldiers.

She stood and reached for another fireplace tool, this one a small iron shovel used for scooping out the excess ash to make room for fresh wood. Caltran was shaking his head as though trying to remove the cobwebs from his mind, one hand feeling the edge of his jaw for serious damage. He didn’t seem to be aware she was still near, perhaps assuming she’d already fled. It helped that he couldn’t see out of one eye, cutting the scope of his vision in half.

She slammed the shovel down on the back of his head, the handle vibrating in her grip from the impact. He dropped flat on his chest, face stuffed into the rug. Rose didn’t know how many blows it took to beat a man to death, but she just wanted it to be over, so she gathered her strength to deliver another forceful hit.

Caltran rolled hard to the left, right toward her. In retrospect, she should’ve expected it. His main advantage was superior strength and she’d only survived this long by staying out of his reach and inflicting grievous damage from afar. Now his body thumped into her ankles, the shovel hitting him weakly. His arms roped around her legs.

She tried to dance free from his grasp, but his grip closed tightly, drawing her legs together like a rope cinched into a knot. Once more, she felt herself falling, dropping the shovel as she tried to get her hands under her to cushion the impact. One hand landed flush on the tile floor just past the edge of the soft rug, slapping against the hard surface. The other hand was a split-second too slow, wedging in between her body and the floor awkwardly, her wrist bent as she hit. She heard something crack, the pain flaring immediately, as hot as a lit coal, as sharp as a knife.

A weight pressed on top of her, Caltran’s body as he slithered like a snake up her prone form. One of his hands threaded through her hair, gathering several locks into a bunch and then yanking it back. She cried out as her chin was lifted off the floor. “Enough,” he said, bloody lips pressed to her ear.

He stood, dragging her to her feet by her hair. Shards of pain continued to assault her wrist, her arm cradled weakly against her chest. Caltran’s other hand slid beneath the fabric of the dress at the top of her back. With a riiip he tore it downward, the material shredding as easily as wet paper. The dress rumpled to her feet.

He shoved her hard from behind, her feet struggling to bear her own weight, tripping on the tangled dress as she stepped out of it. “No,” she growled between clenched teeth, spinning and trying to kick at his midsection. He caught her leg easily, pulling her tight against him. A sob slipped from her lips as the pain in her broken wrist flared once more.

He shoved her again, even harder, and she flew back against the bed, which cut her at the knees and sent her sprawling onto the blanket. Though the pain in her wrist had made her mind fuzzy, the memory of hiding the poker and club beneath her pillows appeared like a beacon of hope. She scrabbled backwards clumsily with only one arm to support her body. Caltran, perhaps sensing danger, charged after her, throwing himself upon her, damaged eye dangling toward her.

She reached beneath the pillow, hoping to feel cool metal but feeling solid wood instead. It would have to do.

She whipped the makeshift club free and swung for his head. He saw it coming, ducking to one side and lifting his shoulder, taking the blow on the meat of his arm. His opposite hand shot back the other way, wrestling the club from her grasp and tossing it aside as quickly as it had appeared. He slammed her uninjured wrist down to the bed, pinning it. He ignored the hand with the broken wrist. It was no threat.

Cruel desire flashing in his eyes, he reached down and rucked up her slip and then unclasped his belt, ripping it free and slinging it aside. Then he drew down his trousers.

Rose shuddered, a soft whimpering sound bubbling from her lips. She closed her eyes, tears leaking from the corners. She went to another place, another time.

Stars illuminated the heavens, Sunseri’s devout followers garbed in gold, green, and red worshipping her from afar. One day, Rose knew, she would become one of them, but not until she’d lived the life set beneath her feet. Draconus’s belly rose and fell beneath her as the dragon breathed.

She laughed. “I think I could pass the night like this,” she said.

“Then you should,” Drake said, head angling toward her.

Rose met his dark eyes, limned by dark, dyed brows. “It wouldn’t be proper,” she said. “Until we are wed—”

“And when will that be?” Drake said. “My brother is as stubborn as a napping dragon and your grandfather would rather die again than see us joined.”

“It will happen,” Rose said, reaching out to cup his jaw in her hand. “I promise. Both of them will see reason.”

“And if they don’t?”

“We’ll run away to some distant land where the people aren’t so archaic in their laws.”

That drew a smile from Drake and he leaned forward to kiss her. When they separated, he said, “I would have nothing to live for if I didn’t have you,” he murmured.

She frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he said.

“What about Draconus? Last I checked he’s more than your pillow. You’re bonded.”

“He wouldn’t have anything to live for without you either,” Drake said, a smile playing on the edge of his lips.

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Rose said, slapping him playfully. “Be serious. Promise me you’ll never do anything rash?”

“Depends on your definition of the word,” Drake said. “I would take an arrow for you, my love.”

She smirked, though his words left her feeling warm inside. “Just an arrow?”

“Or a sword, or a club, or a—”

She cut him off with her lips, which danced long into the night under the light of the fleet of stars.

Rose came back to herself with a gasp. Drake would’ve died for her. Void, he almost did die for her, even after she’d rejected him. His ill-advised charge through Sunsei might’ve been initiated by emotion, but he’d never planned for Draconus to die, nor himself. No, he was only making good on his promise to her, to always protect her, to put himself between her and harm’s way; in this case, harm’s way had been an invading army.

Caltran was still on top of her, still violating her in the worst possible way. He was the opposite of Drake in every way. Cruel, violent, hungry for power, desperate to prove his own strength by imposing it on those he believed to be weaker than him. Well, she wasn’t weaker. Even now, used and at his mercy, she was the lion and he the lamb.

If Rose no longer had a protector, she would have to be her own protector.

With a scream, she snapped her head forward, forehead smashing into the bridge of Caltran’s nose, jets of blood streaming forth as it shattered. She felt his grip on her uninjured wrist slacken and she squirmed free, reaching back beneath the pillow once more, scrabbling around until her fingers curled around metal—the shaft of the poker.

She ripped it free and jabbed it into his remaining eye.

He screamed, hands shaking as he reached up to touch his face. He rolled off the bed, still screaming, hands bloody, face dripping. His cries, Rose knew, would bring the guards running. Thus, she drew her slip back down to her knees and slid off the opposite side of the bed, hoping she could slip past them in the confusion.

As expected, the door opened. Over the bed, she could just make out the pair of guards, their mouths opening as they took in their general’s hunched-over form, his trousers around his knees, his face devastated by injuries. “General?” one of them said. “What—”

Before he could finish the thought and just as Rose was considering springing from hiding and bolting for the door, another form appeared behind them. An impossible form, one that should’ve been miles away by now in his haste to escape the city. Drake’s green-dyed form stepped forward, taking the first guard from behind with a blade drawn across his throat. The second guard turned, sword raised, but died just as swiftly. Both guards fell in short succession.

Drake stalked forward, eyes darting about, searching the room. He’s looking for me, Rose thought. Why is he looking for me?

General Caltran had heard the commotion, choosing that moment to say, “Guards? Bind the girl and then fetch a healer. I will torture her myself.”

“Wrong,” Drake growled.

“What? Who is that?”

“Your executioner.” Drake stepped forward, grabbed Caltran’s head with both arms, and then twisted. The man fell to the ground, hidden from her sight with the other bodies. Drake’s eyes roamed onward, until they landed on hers, barely peeking over the bed. “Rose,” he said, and there was such depth, such emotion in the way he spoke her name that it devoured her breath and stole the beats of her heart.

She stood, a sob choking her as she ran to him, falling into his arms, cradling her damaged wrist between them.

Just existing, for a time.

Forty-Two

Jarrod Gaard

Leeds, Teravainen

AS JARROD THOUGHT, LEEDS WAS BARELY A BLIP ON THE MAP OF TERAVAINEN, a tiny fishing village nestled on the kingdom’s southwestern shores. It had been a three-day journey from Wolfsgaard, the winds favorable in spite of the winter chill they brought with them.

“Stay here,” Jarrod said to the nameless boy as the anchor splashed into the water. The rest of the Terran armada would remain anchored at sea. No one other than Jarrod, Grimfire, and a small contingent of guards would make their way ashore in three small rowboats, one of which would be unoccupied, towed behind the other two. The last thing Jarrod wanted to do was distress the locals more than was required.

The boy said nothing, though that was not unusual for him. He seemed only to speak when he felt compelled to. Not for the first or last time, Jarrod wondered whether he should’ve left him behind in Wolfsgaard. In the end, it was his compassion for the orphaned boy that encouraged Jarrod to bring him along. The boy had no place left in this world, his parents dead by his own hand, his life destroyed by the selfish acts of Cernon and the Archmage Council. Instead of answering, the boy simply sat upon a crate and munched on an apple. At least his appetite is normal, Jarrod thought, sighing.

The ship ground to a halt, the anchor’s tether tightening as it strained to hold its prize in place. The boats were lowered to the water using ropes, hooks and winches. First the guards climbed down the ladder to secure the boats and man the oars. Jarrod and Grimfire followed. When everyone was seated, the hooks were removed and the men began working the oars, turning the boats toward shore and then propelling them forward, scything through the choppy waters of the Endless Ocean.

At first, their progress toward shore seemed slow, but soon the watery distance vanished with each pull of the oars. Finally, their vessels ground onto a beach covered by dark, smooth pebbles. Fishermen taking stock of their daily catch offered them long stares before returning their attention to the fish captured in their nets.

The outer structures of the village of Leeds stood a hundred feet from the shoreline, a black pebble path leading to the water’s edge. Dozens of small fishing boats were pulled onto shore and secured by ropes and wooden stakes driven into the ground. Did that mean the tide sometimes rose past the beach’s edge? Jarrod wondered.

While two of the guards remained behind to secure the boats and ensure they didn’t float away, the rest fanned out around Jarrod as he strode toward the village, Grimfire at his side. “Where are they?” he asked.

“Close,” Grimfire said.

Jarrod looked at him sharply. “Can you sense other mages?”

The mage’s eyes brightened. “No. I can see them.” He pointed toward a cluster of structures apart from the town’s main body. Just outside the buildings, Jarrod could make out movement. Something flashed, catching the sunlight. There was a rumble under their feet as fire erupted from the ground, followed by a blinding flash that forced Jarrod to look away, wincing.

“What was that?”

“Magic,” Grimfire said simply. “It seems the old fools are practicing.”

“And yet you believe these ‘old fools’ will be helpful in a battle?” Jarrod said as they angled off the path toward the jumble of outlying structures.

“As long as they don’t blow the lot of us to the void and back again, yes,” Grimfire said.

As usual, Jarrod had difficulty discerning whether the mage was joking. He chose to think that he was, watching as a mage garbed in a white robe spun, her long, dark hair flashing around her face as she whipped a long staff in the direction of one of the other mages. Something shot from the end of the staff, long and pointy and glittering like an icicle under direct sunlight. The mage being attacked wore a rumpled pinkish robe that strained to cover his short, round body. His staff seemed designed to match his body, as thick as a club and half as tall as the woman’s weapon. He made no attempt to dodge her attack, instead slamming his staff into the ground. Something seemed to crawl from the ground, slithering upward. “Are those…,” Jarrod said.

“Vines, yes. Mage Grub is a rather talented magenta mage,” Grimfire explained.

The crystal shard fired by the white-garbed mage hit the growing wall of vines, some of which were now twisting and curling toward her. She spun her staff so rapidly Jarrod struggled to tell where it ended and began, more crystal spikes shooting outward, slashing through the attacking vines, which flopped to the ground, writhing like pieces of a worm that had been severed from the main body.

Two other mages were there, too, gripping staffs but not using them. They spotted the approaching convoy. One of them, his thin frame hidden beneath a red robe, offered a jovial wave and a smile, as though his other comrades weren’t currently engaged in magical combat. The last mage offered no such wave or smile, her dark-robed form contrasting starkly with her pale-white face and platinum hair. If anything, she seemed to wear a permanent scowl, Jarrod noticed.

“Ho, Grimfire,” the smiley mage said when they were within shouting distance. “You look old. Did the withering sands of time finally catch up to you?” Even speaking the insult, the mage looked as amicable as a jolly old man handing out candies to children in a crowded market.

“Mayhaps,” Grimfire said. “That’s why I recruited your lot. I plan to sip sweet wine below decks while you four do the fighting.”

“You always were a bit of a bludger,” the overly happy mage said. “Even studying in Aeromand. How many times did I let you copy my notes?”

“I don’t recall, but it was more than zero and less than a hundred.”

“That narrows it down, old friend.” To Jarrod’s surprise, the two mages embraced warmly, thumping each other on the back. It was rather jarring. Jarrod had never known Grimfire to show such public affections for anyone. He stood back a few steps, shifting awkwardly from side to side. His guards formed a semicircle behind him, trying to figure out what to do with their hands, most of them settling for placing them threateningly on the hilts of their weapons.

“Well met, Mage Finnerty,” Grimfire said as they separated. He nodded to the pale, dark-robed woman. “Mage Shin,” he said.

“Grimfire,” she droned, lips pulled into a tight line.

The remaining two mages had finally noticed the new arrivals, ceasing their battle and making their way over. Both appeared winded from the fight. When they arrived, Grimfire embraced them just as warmly as he had Mage Finnerty. To Jarrod, it was almost comical watching the stout, pink-robed mage—Mage Grub, apparently—hug Grimfire, the top of his head barely reaching the tall mage’s sternum. The ivory mage, on the other hand, was lean and tall and vigorous as she practically leapt into Grimfire’s arms, peppering him with kisses. “Did you miss me?” she said. Though her cheeks were as lined as the others, there was a youthful exuberance about her that belied her years.

Grimfire set her down, and Jarrod was amused to see the royal mage’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Er, yes, Mage Shard. I believe I did.”

“Of course you did,” she said. “And this must be King Jarrod Gaard.” She bowed so low her dark hair swept the ground at her feet. “Your Illustriousness.”

“He’s barely a man grown,” Mage Shin said, eyeing Jarrod with disdain. He longed to look away from her piercing stare, but instead met it, trying to maintain the cool façade of royalty, an expression Amari had mastered before she was twelve name days old.

“And yet, from what Grimfire has told us, more worthy of sitting the wolf throne than his father ever was,” Mage Finnerty said.

Jarrod frowned as his gaze fell upon Grimfire. Had he really spoken ill of his father in his communications with these mages? Even more surprising was the indication that the royal mage had spoken well of him. He’d always perceived the mage as being unflinchingly loyal to his father while treating him as little more than a child inhabiting the body of a man.

“He is,” Grimfire said, not meeting Jarrod’s stare. “He is the one who will change Teravainen’s trajectory, steering the kingdom away from the brink of destruction.”

Jarrod blinked as Mage Shin said, “Still as melodramatic as ever, Grimfire. It’s good to know that some things never change.”

“And you’re as grumpy as ever, you old crankster,” Mage Shard said. A crystal spike grew from the end of her staff. “Here, slide this under your collar and you won’t feel so hot all the time. “She plucked it off and then tossed it lightly at the black-robed mage. The crystal never reached her, shattering into a spray of chunks that scattered to the ground.

Jarrod gaped as he noticed something. “Where’s your magenum?” he asked.

“Questions later, Your Majesty,” Grimfire said. “We need to get back to the ship. Time is of the essence.”

“It always is with you,” Mage Shin said as she drew her dark hood over her white hair.

The anchor had been raised, the fleet of warships resuming their course south, hugging the coastline as it began to meander eastward. Soon they would need to break free of the land and back into open waters. This would save them considerable distance versus following Teravainen’s southern shores all the way past the Terran fortress at Grandon.

Jarrod sat beside the nameless boy, both watching as Grimfire showed the mages the supply of magenum stored onboard. “They are like the ones who took me,” the boy said.

“Mages?” Jarrod said. “Yes. But these ones aren’t like the others.” Except maybe Mage Shin, he thought wryly. “They are going to help us defeat the other mages.”

“But how can they when they don’t understand?” the boy said.

“Don’t understand what?”

“The shadows.”

Jarrod knew this poor boy had experienced horrible, terrible things. As a result, he might never be able to live a normal life. All Jarrod wanted was to comfort him, to save him from the same turmoil that he himself felt every second of every day. Hidden in his cabin, he’d fought his demons on a nightly basis, the sound of his lashes washed away by the waves crashing against the ship’s hull. “There are no shadows for you, not anymore,” he said. “You’re a child. When this is over, I will find you a place to live. Goodly people to care for you. You will be safe again. I promise.”

The boy turned, their eyes meeting. There was confusion in them. Uncertainty. “You don’t understand either, do you? I thought you were different because of the lashes on your back.”

Jarrod froze. It was impossible. This boy couldn’t know about that. Jarrod had been careful, only removing his shirt when he was alone, the door closed and bolted. It was his secret, his alone. “I think you’re mistaken,” he said, lowering his voice. “I bear no lashes. And I understand that you were forced to endure the shadows, for a time. But they are far away now. You need to see that.”

“No, the shadows are all around us,” the boy said.

With that, he stood and walked away, leaving Jarrod to ponder his words.

Two days later

“You never answered my question,” Jarrod said to Grimfire as they sat staring out at sea.

The mage had the stem of a pipe tucked between his lips. Every so often he would remove it and blow out a ring of smoke. Each ring was a different color, growing larger as they rose skyward. Now it was like an army of rainbows had settled overhead, following their course as they blew steadily south and east. In the distance, a line had been drawn across the sea—the edge of Solarii. They were close now, perhaps a day and a half away at most.

“Even the most experienced mages struggle to understand the fabric of the world,” Grimfire said. Once more, he puffed on the pipestem and then breathed out. A pair of wispy butterflies, one orange, one yellow, chased each other around one of the ship’s masts.

“All I know is that mages require magenum to cast spells,” Jarrod said.

“Close but not quite right. Mages use magenum to cast spells, but they do not require the substance, just as they do not require a staff, though it helps to channel magical energy into various forms. Staffs and liquid magic also reduce the burden on the mages’ energy reserves, allowing them to perform more magic than they would otherwise.”

The mage was right about one thing—Jarrod didn’t understand. “Then why is magenum—”

“So valuable?” the mage finished.

“Yes. My father risked his own son’s life in search of the magenum deposit in the Spine. Why would he do that if it weren’t crucial to spellcraft?”

“Firstly, all mages use magenum, as well as staffs.” The mage tapped his own staff fondly. “They are tools. The better the tool, the more powerful the magic. My friends are merely honing their skills without magenum, like a warrior practicing with a heavier sword so that when he picks up his lighter blade he’ll be even more deadly. Also, because the truth is a well-kept secret,” Grimfire said simply.

“And yet your friends seem in on it. I’ve seen them cast multiple spells without magenum.”

“They are learning, but still many years away from mastering the technique.”

Jarrod raised an eyebrow. The four mages he’d been introduced to and who were now aboard the vessel were all, like Grimfire, in the latter half of their lives. They didn’t have years to master anything. Not to mention Grimfire spoke with the superiority of someone who was far older than them, when the truth was, he’d been trained at Aeromand at the same time. “If it’s such a well-kept secret, why did you tell me? I’m not even a mage.”

“The time for secrets is past,” Grimfire said. “Suffice it to say, my ‘friends’ will be valuable if there is a battle, especially with those barrels of magenum at their disposal.”

With that, the mage stood and rejoined the other mages, who seemed to be locked in a heated argument, though Jarrod couldn’t make out the topic being discussed.

I am out of my depths, he thought. As he stood and headed below decks to rest before they made landfall, he clung to the knowledge that once the Terran armada was joined by the Solarii navy, they would be a powerful force to be reckoned with.

Jarrod hadn’t expected a welcoming committee to greet them when they docked on Sunsei’s massive pier, but he had expected General Caltran to show up. Instead, it was General Mertin with a contingent of Terran soldiers, a fact that buoyed his spirits until he noticed the grave expression the man wore.

“What is it?” Jarrod asked as the gangway was slammed into place by one of the dockworkers. He made his way down the plank, hanging tightly to the handrails as his sea legs wobbled beneath him.

“There has been an incident, Your Majesty,” the general said.

“What sort of incident?” Jarrod asked. Grimfire and the other mages had also made their way down to the pier, and now stood close by, listening.

“General Caltran is dead.”

“By whose hand?”

“The dragonrider.”

“How? Last I heard, Drake was residing in the dungeons.” Jarrod noticed something else in the general’s expression, something haunted. The man had been…affected by something. “What are you not telling me?”

Mertin sighed, and it was a defeated sort of a gesture. “Walk with me. I will tell you everything.”

Jarrod felt like all the blood had drained from his body, leaving him cold and pale. Lifeless. He wanted—no, needed—to go somewhere private and use his short whip on himself. Maybe then the world would twist back into balance.

But now wasn’t the time for that, nor to think about himself. Queen Rose Ontarii had become the victim of a horrendous crime, and all because he’d been trying to punish General Mertin by putting another in charge. A man he barely knew except for the fact that his father had trusted Caltran. This, more than anything else, should’ve been a warning sign.

If it was, I ignored it, Jarrod thought. Because I’m a damn fool. And now Rose…

He closed his eyes. Breathed. Steeled himself. He was on the verge of war with Aeromand; he didn’t have the luxury of allowing emotions to cloud his judgement. What had happened was horrible, awful, but it also couldn’t be undone. Moving forward was the only way now.

He raised his fist, hesitating only a second before knocking on the door. He was alone, leaving Grimfire and the other mages to look after the nameless boy in his absence. This was something he had to do by himself.

The door opened a crack and a thin, wiry man peered through. He was in uniform. Some sort of a royal steward perhaps. “The queen isn’t taking any visit—oh!” he exclaimed, apparently recognizing Jarrod for who he was.

“I would like to request an audience with the queen,” he said.

The man looked uncertain now, his instinct to acquiesce to the request of a king warring with his own sense of loyalty to his queen. In the end, his loyalty won out, something Jarrod couldn’t help but respect. “Queen Ontarii isn’t taking any visitors,” the man said, more firmly this time. He stepped through the gap in the door, pulling it closed behind him. “The truth is, she is unwell.”

“I understand,” Jarrod said. Time was of the essence if they were to mount an assault on Aeromand before the Archmage Council became aware of the forces gathering against them, but his dealings with the queen needed to be handled with the utmost sensitivity given the circumstances. The circumstances, Jarrod thought bitterly. Even in his own mind, he realized, he was using the sort of meaningless, generic language that one used when trying to downplay the severity of a tragic event. Mertin had referred to it as ‘an incident’ and now he was referring to the queen’s current state as ‘the circumstances.’ She was abused, violated, and raped by the man I appointed to maintain order in Sunsei during my absence, he thought. That is what happened. Those are the circumstances.

He realized the steward was waiting for him to continue. “Please give the queen my best and let her know that I have matters of great importance to discuss with her when she is feeling up to it.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the steward said with a small bow before disappearing back inside the room.

Jarrod stared at the door for a moment before turning and heading back down the corridor toward the room he would occupy during his short stay. He’d requested that the red chest be brought up as soon as possible.

He hoped it would be there when he arrived.

Forty-Three

Dragonrider Drake

Sunsei, Solarii

THE MOMENT ROSE HAD TUMBLED INTO HIS ARMS, HER SLENDER BODY TREMBLING LIKE A LEAF, DRAKE HAD KNOWN:

He could never hate her or despise her for the things she’d said.

He didn’t care if she didn’t love him or, for reasons known only to her, couldn’t love him anymore.

He would stand by her no matter what, protect her from the evils of the world.

After General Mertin had been released and resumed command of the Terran forces, his first order was that Drake be permitted to remain with the queen, who shouldn’t be disturbed for any reason. In the short time that he’d known the Terran general, Drake had found him to be surprisingly fair, kind, and genuine, the opposite to everything his predecessor had been.

As Drake sat with Rose day by day, her broken arm in a sling, they hadn’t spoken of what had happened. Instead, they told stories from the past, happy, joyous times that felt like ropes tethering them to something more solid than the present. Drake had even gone so far as to tell stories from his own childhood, back when life was simple and he and his brothers had been as thick as thieves. As he told them, he wondered why he’d avoided thinking about those times for so long. When Rose grew tired, Drake slept in a chair while she dragged her pillows and blankets onto the floor. She’d avoided the bed like it was a nest of snakes.

Several times Drake had awoken to darkness and the sensation that he was being watched. He’d looked up and sworn he could see through the ceiling to the sky, where a lone dragon, scales flashing emerald-green, soared overhead. Drake, the dragon had said. Drake knew what the dragon wanted him to say, but he’d refused to say it, slamming his eyes shut, the memory of Draconus fading into spots of light.

Now, Drake shook his head—Rose had said something, but he’d missed it, his mind wandering as it seemed to often do these days. “You weren’t listening, were you?” Rose said. She was propped up in her makeshift bed on the floor, a mountain of pillows behind her.

It was strange: If Drake could somehow manage to block out the memory of that one awful day, it would be like nothing had changed between them. “No,” he admitted.

“Lost in a daydream again?” Rose asked with a smile. The smile was a reminder that everything had changed and was still changing. It didn’t brighten her face the way it used to, didn’t reach her eyes. Her words were a reminder that he was a different person, too. Broken. Unable to concentrate on a simple conversation.

“Something like that,” he said.

“I asked who you thought is at the door. Steward Piers left. He never leaves.”

It was true. While Drake had at first been annoyed by the man’s constant presence, he’d soon faded into the background, like a piece of furniture. Always there but never involving himself in their conversations unless asked a direct question. “It’s about time,” Drake said, just as Piers stepped back inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Who was it?” Rose asked.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Your Majesty,” the man said.

“Just answer the question,” Drake growled.

The man frowned, his eyes narrowing. Piers had never liked him, even before everything fell apart at the seams. Luckily, the feeling was mutual. At least they had one thing in common: their loyalty to Rose. “Her Majesty needs to rest.”

“Piers,” Rose said pointedly. “I have rested. I’m all rested out. What I need is a distraction, something to occupy my attention other than old stories and the walls of my room.” The first thing Drake had done after Caltran’s body was removed was suggest that Rose transfer to one of the other rooms in the palace. She’d refused, so the second thing he’d done was pry the boards off the windows and from across the balcony door. Initially, Rose had requested that the thick, dark drapes be pulled closed against the sunlight, but lately she’d begun opening them at dawn and closing them at dusk. A few times he’d noticed her staring wistfully through the glass at the sprawling countryside unfolding beside the turquoise waters of the Bay of Sighs.

Piers didn’t look happy at all, but he couldn’t avoid the subject of the visitor any longer. “It was King Jarrod Gaard, Your Majesty,” he said. “But don’t worry, I sent him away immediately. I don’t expect he will return anytime soon.”

“You did what?” Rose said at the same time as Drake said, “Good riddance.” He still vividly remembered his fight with the young king after the Terran soldiers had slaughtered Draconus. Drake had wanted to die during the fight. He was supposed to die fighting alongside his dragon. For some odd reason, the king had spared him and thrown him in the dungeon. Then, apparently he’d departed Sunsei, leaving the city for his wolves to fight over like a scrap of meat while he returned to his stronghold at Wolfsgaard. His return to Sunsei so soon was…unexpected. General Mertin had probably sent a bird to the Terran capital the moment he was freed, but even if Jarrod had departed the palace immediately, he’d still be a day or two away. Which meant he’d left before receiving the news of his general’s death and what he’d done. Why? Drake wondered, the question bothering him.

“I am only looking out for your best interests, Your Majesty,” Piers said.

“My best interests require that I be afforded the option as to who I see and who I do not. Is that understood?”

Piers nodded slowly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Now, please inform King Gaard that I will meet with him forthwith. In the throne room.”

“Your Majesty?” Piers said. “The throne room, you say?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Er, no. It’s just…that particular room still has many memories of your grandfather.”

“I didn’t fear my grandfather during his life, nor after his first death. I sure as void won’t fear him after his second.” During the exchange, Drake’s eyes hadn’t left Rose’s face. He was amazed by her strength in the face of what she’d been through, but he knew he shouldn’t be. Even if her grandfather hadn’t seen it, she was born to rule.

Still, as Piers bowed and departed to carry out her command, Drake worried that meeting with a king, especially one who currently controlled Rose’s own kingdom, might be too soon a thing for her to take on. “What can I do?” he asked.

She started to reach for him, but then stopped, as if realizing what the gesture might mean. “You’ve done more than I could’ve ever asked of you,” she said. “Now it is my turn to do something.”

He marveled once more at her strength. “May I come with you?”

“For what purpose?”

“The king spared my life. I owe him a debt of gratitude. The least I can do is tell him that.”

Rose met his eyes, seeming to consider. “As you wish. But only after our business has been conducted. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Drake said. At last I’ll be in the same room with that bastard, he thought.

Forty-Four

Rose Ontarii

Sunsei, Solarii

ROSE MADE EVERYONE—KING GAARD INCLUDED—WAIT WHILE SHE PREPARED HERSELF. After her lady’s maid finished assisting her with her corset and dress and left the room, Rose realized it was the first time she’d been alone since…

She closed her eyes, fighting back tears as memories assaulted her. Every day she’d relived it. And she knew she would relive it a thousand times more in the years to come. At some point she hoped days, weeks, maybe even months, would pass without her being caught by surprise by the memory of his hand on her wrist, the press of his weight upon her as he took that which wasn’t his to take. But such memories would never vanish completely. They were a part of her now, just like the bed she refused to sleep on.

She felt cracked in a dozen places. Maybe even broken beyond repair. Drake’s presence had been an unexpected blessing, but she didn’t feel worthy of it, not after the pain she’d caused him. She didn’t feel worthy of anything.

She opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of a stranger in the mirror. She breathed in, out, the sound steadier than she felt. I must become someone else, she thought. A queen. I am no longer Rose. I am Queen Ontarii, and this is my kingdom.

They will try to take it from you, a voice said.

They will fail, she thought back.

She dashed the tears away from the corners of her eyes and reached for the kohl with her good hand. This time she planned to use it as a weapon.

Forty-Five

Jarrod Gaard

Sunsei, Solarii

JARROD WAS SURPRISED BY A KNOCK ON HIS DOOR SO SOON AFTER CLOSING IT.

He’d been just about to open it, in fact, to demand to know where his red chest was. All the other chests had arrived from the ship except that one. The one that mattered most. Without it, he felt nervous, anxious, pacing the floor of the lavish room.

He was even more surprised by the message delivered by the steward who’d dismissed him so thoroughly earlier. “The queen will see you in the throne room, Your Majesty,” he said. “I will escort you.”

Jarrod nodded once. “Thank you,” he said, but the man had already turned and started off down the corridor. Jarrod followed, his own guards tailing close behind him. He remembered the way, as he’d trodden it once before, just after the invasion. He also remembered the throne room, which resembled something closer to a dungeon, with its vine-creeping walls and black-painted windows.

As he entered, he found nothing had changed. The lighting was still dim, the stone floor and walls still free of adornments or finery. The sun throne stood empty on the dais, giving Jarrod pause. “Have I arrived too early?” he asked the steward, whose back was still to him.

The man turned. “You will wait,” he said.

Jarrod understood this for what it was—a show of power. His forces might’ve conquered her lands, but Rose Ontarii was no fool. The Terran military was spread too thin, which meant he couldn’t occupy these lands forever, not without an alliance. And after what had happened…

“Very well,” Jarrod said quickly. He strode past the man, stopping just before the few steps leading up to the throne, while his guards took up position on either side of him, in front of two of the thick pillars that stretched to the ceiling. He settled in to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally, after he’d taken to counting the stone blocks on the wall to pass the time, a door at the rear of the dais creaked open. The first to enter was a familiar leathered form, his skin dyed a bright shade of green. Dragonrider Drake met his eyes for a brief moment, giving away nothing with his expression, and then turned back to watch as the queen entered behind him. Jarrod tried to meet her eyes, tried to show her in a single look how sorry he was for the crimes committed against her, but her own gaze seemed to roam past him, perhaps settling on one of the pillars. Her expression was cold, distant.

She wore a bright-gold dress of many layers that plumed out from her waist, tumbling like a sunlit waterfall to cover her feet, the fabric swishing against the stonework as she walked. Her arms were covered by long, golden sleeves that vanished beneath white gloves at her wrists. A tight-fitting bodice drawn tight by laces covered the front of the dress. It was inlaid with jewels—topaz and diamond—and tiny pearls were sewn into the seams. Since ascending the wolf throne, Jarrod had learned more about the cost of material and clothing than he wanted to know, but it didn’t require that level of knowledge to know the dress Queen Ontarii now wore was worth a small fortune.

But it wasn’t her finery nor the dark crown she wore upon her head that captured his attention. The last time he’d seen this woman, she had worn no makeup, her appearance as natural as an undisturbed pool of water. Now, however, dark kohl lined her eyes and the edges of her lips, which were painted blood-red. A dark shade of red powder had been applied to her cheeks and forehead as well. Combined with the stoic expression she wore as she lowered herself into the throne, Jarrod would’ve been hard-pressed to guess her age if he didn’t already know. There was something almost ageless about her appearance now. Void, he’d barely even noticed the way she cradled her slinged arm, such was the authority she exuded.

“King Gaard,” Queen Ontarii said, her voice firm as it echoed throughout the chamber. She finally met his eyes, her kohl-lined gaze sharp and pointed. “I didn’t expect your return so soon. Or at all.”

“I apologize for not sending advance notice, Your Majesty,” Jarrod said. “I returned as a matter of urgency after I received your last message.”

Other than a slight dip of her brows, her expression remained unchanged. “I sent no message.”

“Yes, I discerned the truth by comparing the message I received to one you had sent my father a few years ago. The forgery was done poorly and hastily, revealing the ruse.”

“So you called upon the entire Terran armada to sail to my rescue?” she said. The question felt like it was barbed with thorns, her tone taking on a scathing quality.

Jarrod let his head hang. It was a most unkingly posture, but he didn’t care. This part of the conversation wasn’t about royalty. It was about humanity. When he tilted his chin back up, he forced himself to meet her eyes. She deserved nothing less. “The warships are for another matter I wish to discuss. But first I want to extend my sincere and heartfelt apologies for what happened to you.”

“What happened to me? You mean when I was raped by your man?” He could tell she was trying to hold back her emotions behind the mask she’d painted on her face, but the edges of her lips twitched with rage, her cheeks quivering like a plucked bowstring.

“Yes,” Jarrod said. “I naively believed the executions of my own soldiers who’d harmed Solarii citizens would prevent further crimes against your people. I never expected…” He trailed away as a sudden swell of emotion threatened to undo him. The queen was staring at him strangely. “What I mean to say is that what happened to you—I mean, your assault and rape—was my fault. I unwittingly appointed a monster of the worst kind. I take full responsibility.”

Silence hung for several long moments before the queen spoke again. “It is finished. The monster is dead. Now all I want is for you and your soldiers to be gone from my kingdom. Immediately.”

Jarrod had expected to find a woman broken and lost, more sad than angry. Not this fierce creature making demands. In a way, her spirit gave him hope. “Agreed,” he said. “We have enough ships to transport half of the soldiers. The rest will make the trip overland across the border. Teravainen will make no further claim on your lands.” He’d given this decision a lot of thought during their voyage south. His reason for invading Solarii hadn’t been to conquer or reclaim, but to bring to justice the Dead King for his treachery in regards to the stolen darkblades. Now that his objective had been fulfilled and it had been determined that Cernon was the mastermind behind the thefts, a continued Terran presence in Solarii would only cause more problems. The knowledge that his father was probably rolling over in his grave at this exact moment only served to solidify his decision.

“Good,” Queen Ontarii said. He could hear the surprise in her voice. She’d clearly expected her demands to be met with more resistance.

“There is one other matter to discuss. I assume you received a letter from Mage Quill?”

The queen glanced at the dragonrider, who shook his head. “Caltran intercepted any and all messages. For all I know, he burned the lot of them. I’ll admit I’ve never heard of this mage.”

“I—of course.” For the next several minutes, Jarrod explained what he knew of the situation at Aeromand, their role in the theft of the darkblades, as well as the destruction of Chrysallis by Travailian dragonriders.

When he reached the part about the dragon attack on Chrysallis, Drake took a step forward, face twisting with rage. “How dare you?” he said, stalking forward down the steps.

“Drake, stop,” the queen said, gripping her armrest.

If the dragonrider heard her, he gave no indication. “After all you’ve done already, you have the nerve to come here and spread such lies? I should kill you.”

While Jarrod stood frozen, his guards had not, moving in to protect their king at the first sign of a threat. They stepped in front of him, drawing swords.

“Stop!” the queen shouted, rising to her feet. “Please!” Finally, her voice had been stripped of its coldness, giving way to the fear of a woman who’d lost too much and couldn’t bear the thought of losing anything else.

It was too late. Even as Jarrod finally unfroze, springing into action to grab the shoulder of one of the soldiers from behind to pull him back, the dragonrider charged. Jarrod took a step back, in awe of the man as Drake ducked under one blade, twisting its wielder’s arm until the weapon was dropped with a clank to the floor. He kicked him aside, catching the wrist of his next opponent, smashing his elbow into the guard’s arm before shoving him aside. He spun away from a sword thrust aimed at his heart by the next guard and then launched himself into the man, smashing him back into a pillar.

Having dispatched the guards in mere seconds, Drake turned, his mouth an angry slash.

This time, Jarrod didn’t back away, nor did he draw his own weapon, which dangled from his hip scabbard. He didn’t fight back as Drake closed the distance between them, grabbing him roughly by the front of his shirt and throwing him hard to the cold stones. The impact shuddered through him, blades of pain stabbing through the slashes on his back hidden beneath his clothes and tightly wrapped bandages. The dragonrider fell upon him, hands closing around his neck.

Squeezing. Stealing the breath from his lungs.

Still Jarrod made no effort to dislodge his attacker or fight back. Why should he? He’d brought this upon himself, a just punishment for his many sins. His only wish was that he’d been able to do more to improve Teravainen’s situation before his sister returned to her rightful place on the wolf throne. Relief swelled inside him. Soon it would all be over. The pain. The heartache. The regret.

As spots began to dance across his vision, he was dimly aware of the queen’s face appearing behind Drake, her hands pulling at his arms, trying to drag him off. Her mouth was open as she shouted, her words falling on deaf ears.

Just as the world around him began to blur, one of the queen’s shouts finally broke through the wall of silence. “If you love me, stop!” she screamed, fingers digging into Drake’s arms.

The pressure vanished in an instant and Jarrod’s breath exploded from his lungs. “Don’t stop,” he gasped. “Please. Don’t stop.” While Queen Ontarii and Drake stared at him, lips parted in shock at his words, he curled into a ball and began to sob.

Voices crowded around him. They spoke in hushed tones, their words indistinguishable to his ears. Where am I? he wondered. After Drake had almost killed him and the queen had saved him—Why did she save me?—everything had become a blur. He’d felt his body being lifted, felt the bump-bump-bump of someone carrying him.

Not someone, he thought. Drake. The dragonrider had carried him. Why would he do that?

He vaguely remembered being laid on something soft—a bed. He’d been screaming, shouting something, the same phrase over and over again. What had he been asking for? Everything was blank in his mind after that, until now.

The voices suddenly clarified, an urgency in their tone. “You owe him nothing, Rose.” Drake’s voice.

“You saw how he reacted. He didn’t even try to stop you. And you heard what he said. He wanted you to kill him.”

“Then maybe I should have given him his wish.”

“Is that what you wished he would’ve done to you?”

“He killed my dragon. He gave a monster free reign in your city.”

“I’m not saying he’s guiltless, but his only crime is being too trusting of others. It wasn’t his hand that killed Draconus or slammed me up against a wall.”

“Storms, Rose, if I could kill Caltran a thousand more times, I would.”

“And I wouldn’t stop you. I’d ask for the sword to do it myself. But King Gaard isn’t like Caltran. He’s suffering. Listen, it’s hard to explain, but it’s like if I stop showing compassion for those who suffer, then I’m as bad as Caltran.”

“You are nothing like Caltran,” Drake growled.

“Logically, I know that, but that’s how I feel. King Gaard has already agreed to pull his troops out of Solarii.”

“Aye, if you agree to join forces to attack Aeromand.”

“Maybe I should. If what he said is true, the mages are more to blame than anyone.”

“You don’t have any proof of these things but his word. What if he’s lying, or simply received bad information? Why would this Mage Quill character betray his fellow mages? He was investigating the thefts of the darkblades on behalf of the Archmage Council, remember? Why would Cernon order an investigation if he were behind the thefts in the first place? And how would he coerce my uncle to attack Chrysallis? Travail is its own master. For all we know, Chrysallis stands as tall and strong as ever.”

“Maybe it does,” Rose said. “I don’t have all the answers, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t gather more information. But whatever I decide, I need your support. Do I have it?”

The dragonrider didn’t hesitate. “Yes, of course. Always.”

“Thank you. And no more attacking kings unless I say so. Agreed?”

“A grudging yes to that one too,” Drake said.

“Good.”

There was finally a lull in the conversation, so Jarrod pretended to stir, as if only just awakening. He let his eyes flutter open. They roamed the space, which he immediately recognized as the bedroom he’d been afforded, before focusing on the queen, who stood beside the bed. Though she still wore the thick makeup, her crown was no longer atop her head and her expression was one of concern rather than anger. “King Gaard,” she said. “You’ve been through an ordeal.”

“I tried to kill you,” Drake said from where he stood beside her.

“I remember,” Jarrod said. His voice was raspy, his throat sore.

“I apologize,” Drake said.

“No apology necessary,” Jarrod said. “I’m pretty sure I deserved it. Water?”

“Of course,” the queen said, collecting a glass from a small table beside the bed and pressing it to his lips as he lifted his head. He drank a small amount and then slumped back onto the pillow.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. How do you feel now?”

Jarrod got the sense she wasn’t referring to his throat, which felt rather battered and bruised. “I am…embarrassed,” he admitted.

“I appreciate your candor,” Rose said.

“Then please honor me with candor of your own,” Jarrod said. “Do you plan to use any of this against me?”

“You wound me,” Rose said. “Unlike some of those you surround yourself with, I have a sense of honor.”

“You’re right. I only fear what it would do to my own peoples’ faith in the strength of the crown, of my family name, if they knew I was a coward seeking death.” Speaking these words brought a strange lightness to his body, almost like he was rising from the bed.

“You are many things, King Gaard, some of which have surprised me and others which have disappointed me, but you are no coward. And having a momentary desire for death doesn’t make you a coward—it makes you human.”

“How are you…” Jarrod struggled to find the right word to describe his thoughts. “…fine?” he finished, though it wasn’t exactly what he wanted to ask. It would have to do until he’d cleared his muddled mind.

“I’m not fine, but I don’t have the luxury of a breakdown, not when my kingdom continues to suffer. Have my people not been raped and tormented too? Does the world stop turning for them? No, and it shan’t stop turning for a woman such as I, queen or no. So I must stand up, dust myself off, and soldier on. Even when I feel broken. Even if I’d rather draw the covers over my head and sleep the days away.”

Her words filled his chest, so close to how he felt that tears sprouted from his eyes. “I’ve failed in so many ways,” he admitted.

“Yes, and so have I. And so has Drake. And so has everyone. All that makes us is alive. Should we be defined by our mistakes or how we rise above them? I for one plan to do more with my life going forward than I have in the past. I encourage you to do the same. Do you think you can do that?”

Their eyes locked, and in her gaze, which should’ve been broken, damaged, he found only the steely strength of a woman who’d been wounded but found a way to survive. She gave him hope that mayhaps one day he could claim the same thing. In any case, he owed it to her, to Amari, to Aisling, to himself, to try.

“Yes, I can do that,” he said.

“Good. Now take me through your tale of Aeromand’s treachery one more time. Spare no details.”

Third Interlude: The Deceit of Memories

“YOU KILL WITHOUT JOY.”

The disembodied voice seemed to emerge from the darkness itself, making Roach flinch slightly. After killing Cranulla, he’d pushed through the crowd as they’d shoved and fought for a position near the corpse. Now, he sat in a dark corner of the cavern, where the glow from the numerous magelights dotting the cavern walls couldn’t reach.

Roach knew that voice as intimately as he knew his own, for it lived in his nightmares. “Ending lives provides me with nothing but emptiness.” He stared at the shadows as he spoke, until the edges of a form materialized, peeling itself from the darkness.

“You do realize that is unusual for our kind,” Reyals said.

Roach said nothing. A cold calmness had descended over him like a wintry breath signaling the inevitable arrival of a blizzard.

“I know who you are.”

Roach would’ve frozen if he wasn’t already perfectly still. Still, it required all his strength not to reveal his surprise at the statement. He knows who I am. He knows I am Orcices’ spawn. He knows I hate him for killing her. He knows I tried to end him all those centuries ago on the battlefield. He knows…he knows…he knows…

“You were one of my warriors on The Last Day,” Reyals said. ‘The Last Day’ was what the Thousands called the day they’d been imprisoned in this voidhole.

Roach’s heart stopped racing and he managed to slow his breath. He doesn’t know anything, he realized. To Reyals, Orcices was probably one of a thousand atrocities he’d committed. To Roach, she’d been his entire world. “Yes,” he said evenly. Tucked away inside his knuckles, his retractable claws quivered with anticipation. Though he didn’t take joy in killing Krangar or Cranulla, he would relish every pound of flesh he removed from the foul creature who, at long last, was again within striking distance. “I fought for years under your command.”

Reyals nodded, a streak of magelight radiating off the glassy portion of his face. The scaled side still had a long line etched into it from where Grunnin had kicked him. Roach suspected it would result in a scar. “I’m certain with warriors like you we would’ve eventually won the Godswar if not for the Unnamed Mage and his godsdamned blade of light and shadow.”

Roach didn’t know if that was true, but the bloody affair certainly would’ve persisted for another several years. But not for you, he thought. Because I would’ve stabbed you through the spine that day. Roach said nothing. The tips of his claws slid silently from their hidey holes.

“Old-timers like you and me should stick together, don’t you think?” Reyals said, not seeming to realize the danger he was in. “We’re natural allies in whatever is to come.”

That gave Roach pause, his claws retracting once more. Whatever is to come? What does that mean? What is to come is another four centuries trapped in this foul prison. “Of course,” he said, trying to buy time to think. “You know, you saved my life,” Roach added, mind ticking away.

“Really? How?” Reyals’ eyes fixed on Roach’s, who met his stare without blinking.

“Cranulla had me dead to rights, but then I saw you watching. The reminder of your leadership all those years ago, it gave me the strength to overcome his advantage.” Not to mention you reminded me how badly I want to kill you. “The memory of how you fought during the Godswar burns as brightly as a bonfire in my mind. I can still picture the dark streaks of your shadowblade as you shattered our enemies’ lines, the terror in their eyes as they fled…”

Roach had intended to put the creature at ease by puffing up his pride, but his words seemed to have the opposite effect. Reyals looked away, wincing slightly as though in pain. “That was a long time ago…”

“Yes, it was.”

“How I long to grip that blade again. Without it, I am…not myself.” There was a strangely hollow quality to the creature’s voice now, almost as though he wasn’t even aware he was speaking, his mind elsewhere, perhaps lost in the very memories of the days of glory that Roach had rekindled.

Once more, Roach’s claws began to slide out. Now was the moment he’d waited years, decades, centuries for, a moment he thought would never come even as it sustained his meaningless life. The time for vengeance. Like an unsuspecting fly, Reyals had flown right into the web of a predator he didn’t even know existed, a predator that would make him feel the same pain that a long-forgotten victim had suffered at his hands.

“Her name was Orcices.” To his surprise, his spawnmother’s name felt as natural on his tongue as it always had, when he whispered it in the dark of night when no one was listening.

“Hmm?” Reyals said, his voice still sounding dreamlike, foggy. There was something odd about his countenance, an etherealness that made Roach think of a cold dawn, when ghostly vapors rose from the ground in icy plumes. Roach blinked and Reyals’ form returned to normal, his eyes clearly playing tricks on him.

Roach snorted out a scornful laugh. He’d just exposed his own heart for this creature to see, and he hadn’t heard what he’d said? “What did you mean by ‘whatever is to come’?” he asked. His claws were fully extended now, and he didn’t really care about the answer but knew that the longer he distracted his foe the better his odds of catching him by surprise. And this time he would strike from the front, where Reyals would know exactly who’d killed him and why.

His question seemed to draw Reyals from his trance and back into the here and now. “The walls of this stone prison grow thinner by the day,” he said.

Roach cocked his head to the side. “Is that supposed to be a riddle?”

“A truth, actually. I—can I trust you?”

To kill you? Yes. “Of course. Like you said, those from our generation are natural allies.” Or natural enemies.

Reyals nodded thoughtfully. “I was one of the first wielders of the shadowblades.”

If it was meant to be a revelation, it was a rather mundane one. “Everyone knows that,” Roach said. “You, Hyram Kerr and Jameson Gaard.”

“The Unforgiven,” Reyals murmured, his voice as low as the hiss of a snake.

“What?”

“Nothing. Yes. Me and two humans. Gaard barely lasted a minute before his sword was taken by his nine-year-old son, Sampson. Kerr was stronger, though he was eventually killed by his own uncle, a man named Demetrius, do you remember him?”

“How could I forget?” The treachery amongst the humans had been unexpected, but the Thousands had never meddled in their affairs. So long as their soldiers appeared on the battlefield when they were supposed to, their alliance remained strong.

“Yes,” Reyals said. “Certain things are impossible to forget. Like how one died, for example. And by whose hands.”

Suddenly the entire conversation was beginning to feel off. Reyals’ form had once again taken on that vaporous quality, the edges blurring. “How would you know?” Roach said, blinking several times, expecting the creature’s body to return to normal. If anything, he was beginning to look fuzzier. Roach could now see through him to the stone wall beyond. Chunks of ghostly armor appeared on his arms, chest and legs. A black helm covered his half-glass, half-scaled face. Roach shook his head. Had he hit it harder than he thought when Cranulla slammed him to the ground?

“Because you killed me,” the vaporous form said, his voice tinny as it came through the metal face shield. A sword as black as night appeared, gripped in his gauntleted hands.

Mouth opening in horror, Roach backpedaled like a crab until he crashed into the wall. “I—I didn’t kill you. I tried, I’ll admit it, but never had the chance. The Unnamed Mage sent us here before my killing stroke could fall.”

“Did he? That’s not how I remember it. Our own hopes, fears, desires and perceptions have a way of twisting memories into knots until they’re indistinguishable from the truth.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” The creature that was Reyals, and yet not the Reyals that Roach remembered, raised the shadowblade. No! Roach tried to scream, shoving away from the blow, but no sound emerged from his mouth as the sword sank deep into his chest.

There was no pain, only blindness. It wasn’t darkness, but a gray mist obliterating all vision, swirling around him. What was that? Roach wondered. Was I dreaming? Am I…dead?

The mist began to dissipate, revealing the bloody truth strewn across the battlefield. Miles of corpses as far as the eye could see. Those still living were locked in mortal combat. One stood out more than the others, his blade a slash of darkness as it killed at will.

“Reyals!” Roach shouted, immediately recognizing the leader of the Thousands. Unlike the humans, who were resplendent in their gleaming, polished armor, the warrior looked like a visual representation of a foul taste in one’s mouth.

To Roach’s surprise, Reyals didn’t turn in response to his shout. He was about to shout again when movement on the edge of his vision caught his eye. A form ran on silent feet toward the Thousands’ leader, his own blade pumping at his side. He wore no armor, for it would’ve made too much noise. His errand required stealth, and he would not be denied his vengeance due to a wayward sound caused by clanking plate.

The form was him. A four-hundred-years younger version of him, and yet him just the same. “Wait!” he called to his younger self, because he’d already lived this version of life and knew the outcome. He was denied his revenge and imprisoned for half a millennium. If, inexplicably, this was an opportunity to change such a fate, he would do everything in his power to do so.

But, like Reyals, the younger version of himself either couldn’t, or chose not to, hear him, continuing his preordained path without hesitation. Frantic, Roach ran harder than he’d ever run, not caring about stealth or stumbling, launching himself over corpses with reckless abandon, gaining on his younger self until he passed him, whirling around, blocking his path.

He gasped as the other Roach passed through him without stopping, a shivery sensation filling him. He spun around, helpless to change his fate. His younger self’s blade was already raised, poised for a strike with the potential to take all the pain, all the hurt, all the weakness, and burn it away in the fires of vengeance. And, just as he remembered, he stopped, sword hanging in the air, shards of brilliant light from the edge of a cliff raining down upon him and everyone else on the battlefield, causing hands to be thrown up to shield eyes. Younger Roach was blinded, crying out in fear and confusion. He remembered that feeling of helplessness he’d experienced on that day, the feeling that there were powers that far exceeded his own, which suddenly seemed inadequate to shape his own destiny.

When he’d opened his eyes, everything had been changed.

Now, however, for the first time since that day, he was able to see what had happened in the intervening period. Reyals turned away from light, dark eyes falling upon Roach and the blade he continued to clutch. Realization flooded his features, and he snarled his anger at the treachery one of his own had almost carried out against him. His fist swung through the air, but not to punch Roach. In his mind, he was slashing his shadowblade, planning to remove Roach’s head from his shoulders.

Except he wielded no shadowblade, the powerful weapon gone, leaving his fist empty, gripping nothing but empty air.

Reyals’ mouth opened as he stared at his fist, which he opened slowly.

That was when it happened. Or, more accurately, when Roach made it happen. The blinded, younger version of himself lunged forward, growling, stabbing his own sword—which had not vanished into thin air—forward.

And plunging it through the Thousands’ leader’s heart.

Breath burst from Reyals’ throat, hot and rank, and Roach remembered breathing it in, relishing its stench even as he shoved his blade in further, until it passed all the way through the creature and out his back. He remembered the words on his lips, the taste of them, the sound as they slid from his mouth, like moving water, burbling happily along, the feeling of them, the touch of a spawnmother, so full of love and happiness that it stole his own breath just as Reyals fought for his last gasp. “That was for Orcices,” Roach heard his younger self say. “My spawnmother.”

Reyals, leader of the Thousands and wielder of one of three shadowblades, died.

Roach stared at the scene, uncomprehending, as this other version of himself sank to his knees and sobbed, his eyes as dry as a desert, unable to conjure the tears he desperately needed to moisten his burning vision. Everything he’d blocked out for more than four centuries came flooding back, a torrent of emotions. The bleak and unrelenting sadness as he’d realized that killing Reyals had accomplished nothing, that no amount of vengeance or justice could bring back the one and only person he’d loved in the world.

It was on that day, he now realized, that he’d built the wall, brick by bloody brick, until his memory of this very day he’d been forced to relive had been altered beyond recognition. And when he’d awoken imprisoned by impenetrable walls of stone, only one thing had kept him alive, had allowed him to survive for all these years. It was the lust for vengeance on the very man he’d already killed.

The scene began to spiral, spinning faster and faster, a whorl of striating arcs of light and dark that slowly began to mix until he was once more faced with the entirely unremarkable shades of gray and brown that had been the backdrop of his life ever since that day.

The ghostly version of the armor-clad Reyals stared at him with eyes as dark as unlit coals. “Now you see? You killed me. And now I’m going to kill you.” He raised his shadowblade once more.

PART IV

Quill     Dane     Peony

Jarrod     Drake     Rose

Was he or she who created the godblades a saint, a hero, a legend? Nay, I say. This individual merely was, just as we all are, flawed and imperfect, striving to change the world but not understanding the means by which to do so. Thus, the godblades carry the same flaws and imperfections as their creator.

Kingfall Revelations (quote attributed to Mage Figmirre)

Forty-Six

Peony Normandian

Near Dragonsmount, Travail

PEONY KNEW IT WAS INTENDED TO BE AN HONOR THE WAY THE DRAGONRIDERS HAD KNELT BEFORE HER. She appreciated the gesture, she really did. And she was honored by it. In doing so, they were offering her their swords, their dragons’ wings and fire and claw, their very lives. To ask more felt selfish, greedy.

And yet she felt the stiffness whenever she was in their presence, like she was a rock interrupting the flow that was their river. Laughter and banter would bubble from a group as she approached. But when she stepped into their firelit midst, the joviality fell away, the circle of faces growing serious, their postures straightening, heads bowing as though in deference to a goddess.

They’d never treated Dane like that. They’d respected him as their leader, had pledged their loyalty to him until they’d been led astray by Drudge’s lies, but they’d also acted like his friend, laughing and japing and breaking bread beside him.

Peony had considered bringing it up to Brute, who would probably be understanding, or Star, who would probably be condescending, but the last thing she wanted to do was complain about being treated with too much respect, if such a thing were even possible.

Thus it was that Peony found herself sitting alone again, eating a piece of dragonfire-charred venison and sipping water from a cup filled from the freshwater river burbling a stone’s throw away.

What? My company isn’t enough for you? Daneus said. His form was curled into a crude question mark on a large flat rock that stood beside the river Misery. She’d thought he was asleep, but now that she looked his way, she found his head raised slightly, golden eyes peering at her through the evening darkness.

I’M RIGHT HERE TOO, GEEZ, her brightblade added.

You know what I mean, Peony said.

DO WE? the sword said.

I don’t think we do, the dragon said. All I’m hearing is you’re bored with us.

One of you is invisible most of the time and the other is usually asleep, Peony pointed out.

Asleep is such a strong term…, Daneus said.

INVISIBLE ISN’T REALLY THE RIGHT WORD, her blade added. I’M ACTUALLY IN THE SPACE BETWEEN YOUR EXISTENTIAL PLANE AND THE ONE PARALLEL TO IT. YOUR HUMAN EYES ARE JUST NOT CAPABLE OF PIERCING THE VEIL. IF YOU COULD, YOU’D REALIZE I’M RESTING RIGHT BESIDE YOU, THOUGH EVERYTHING WOULD BE REVERSED, LIKE A REFLECTION IN A MIRROR. MAKE SENSE? SO MY LEFT SIDE WOULD BE MY RIGHT SIDE AND VICE VERSA. WHICH IS UNFORTUNATE, BECAUSE I THINK MY LEFT SIDE IS MY BEST SIDE, DON’T YOU THINK?

Halfway through her sword’s monologue, Peony made a decision. Enough was enough. Her bond to both her dragon and her brightblade were undeniable, as powerful a thing as she’d ever experienced in her lifetime, but she needed something more, something human. The men and women willing to sacrifice their lives for her cause felt like strangers to her and she was tired of it.

Peony? Daneus said.

Don’t wait up, she said, picking her way across the rocky embankment toward the first ring of firelight glowing in the distance. As usual, voices arose, occasionally broken by bursts of laughter. Her heart skipped a beat as she approached, but she took a deep breath, chiding herself for her nervousness. She’d fought at Kerr’s Crossing, faced her own nightmares, battled a squad of mages and their darkblades and undead children at Sunsei, and buried her parents at Chrysallis. What did she have to fear from a group of dragonriders who’d pledged their loyalty to her?

She stepped into their midst just as a rather gregarious man named Fanghorn said, “…the second he laid eyes on Fangarin, he pissed his britches, he did!” which was followed by hearty laughter from the group seated around a roaring fire in the center. The laughter swiftly died away as all eyes fell on Peony. “Dragonmistress,” Fanghorn said, bowing his head slightly. The others did the same, some of them making the sign of dragonfire. “What can we do for you?”

“I’d like to eat,” she said, scanning the faces, hoping to find Star or Brute amongst them; at least then she’d know one of them more than just by name.

Fanghorn frowned. His skin was dyed a deep blue, almost navy, to match his dragon’s dark scales. “Was the venison we sent over not to your liking?” he asked. “We can have another piece sent over immediately.”

Peony shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. The venison was most delectable, albeit almost on the wrong side of burnt beyond recognition.” Silence, all eyes staring at her. Tough crowd, she thought. “I was joking—well half-joking maybe, the meat really was rather charred. Which is fine, of course, if you like your meat to taste like charcoal. Not that I don’t! What I mean to say is I don’t mind a smoky flavor, but…” She trailed off, realizing she’d been rambling, something she tended to do when she was nervous. A legion of eyebrows was raised in her direction. She tried again. “What I mean is, I’d like to eat with you, with all of you.”

“Oh,” Fanghorn grunted, surprised. “Er, yes, of course, Dragonmistress. Let me just, let’s see here…” He stood awkwardly, stumbling over himself like a child rather than the barrel-chested ogre of a man that could’ve lifted a boulder as he tried to carve out a gap for her. Some of the others were doing the same, shifting and cramming together until there was a free space between them about three times bigger than was required for Peony’s slight frame.

“Thank you,” she said, easing down and crossing her legs. The fire was warm against her skin, chasing away the chill in the air. A large piece of meat—the leg of a large buck one of the dragons had downed while hunting—was being turned slowly by another of the dragonriders on a spit over the fire. No one spoke, some of them playing with their fingers, scraping dirt from underneath their fingernails. “The food?” she said.

“Oh, yes, of course, Dragonmistress!” Fanghorn said, using a makeshift pair of tongs carved from wood to lift one end of the spit and draw it away from the heat. He propped it on a large wooden fork planted in the ground and then drew a dagger to carve off a slice of meat. He placed it on a bed of broad leaves harvested from one of the trees to soak up some of the heat and then handed it to Peony. “Careful now, Dragonmistress, it’s hot,” he said.

“Thank you. And please, Peony is fine.”

The man beamed, though his broad smile continued to be somewhat awkward. “Of course, er, Peony.” He turned to the rest of the group. “Who else wants some?”

A chorus of Ayes arose, and the man doled out seconds to almost everyone. Silence save for the sounds of chewing fell once more. Peony noticed a few of the riders whispering to each other and passing around a satchel. Each rider would take something from the satchel and then place it on their meat before passing the satchel onto the next person.

Peony said, “Say, what have you got there?”

The rider, a woman named Vera, froze, eyes widening. Unlike most of the riders’ alluring brown eyes, hers were a distinct shade of hazel, almost a perfect match for her dyed skin. The name of the woman’s dragon eluded her—Verannus? Verano? “Just some hot peppers, Dragonmistress—I mean, Peony. In Travail, meat isn’t meat without peppers.”

It was an example of another thing Peony felt foolish for not knowing and a reminder that she’d barely scratched the surface of Travailian customs and traditions. If she was ever going to endear herself to the dragonriders, she needed to immerse herself in their culture. Starting now. “Then I shall try one,” she said, immediately cursing herself for speaking with perfect diction and the formality of a queen to a subject. That was the opposite of what she was trying to do.

“I would advise against it,” Fanghorn said. “Our peppers are hotter than dragonfire, they are. They require an experienced tongue to endure the heat.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Peony said, extending her hand in the direction of the satchel.

Vera exchanged a glance with Fanghorn, who seemed to be the informal spokesman for the group. He shrugged and took the satchel from her and then handed it to Peony. “Just a small one, eh? Place it on the meat and nibble just the—whoa, Dragonmistress, what are you—”

While he was speaking, Peony had opened the satchel and pulled out the largest of the peppers, which were white with streaks of red down their sides—a warning to those who would dare to eat them. They were called firefruit, she knew, and for good reason—they rivalled the spiciness of the famous peppers produced by Calypso in the Four Kingdoms. Instead of placing it on the meat resting on the leaves in her lap, she took a large bite, seeds and juices spraying into her mouth.

A series of gasps around the circle followed, all eyes on her as they watched her chew slowly. “Mm,” she said, swallowing. “Not as hot as I remembered, but still worthy.”

For a few moments after she’d spoken, there was complete silence. And then…

The group exploded with laughter, some of the riders going so far as to slap their own knees with mirth. “Well I’ll be damned,” Fanghorn said. “You have a few surprises up your leathers, Dragonmistress.”

“Peony,” she reminded sternly. “Growing up, my father enjoyed fine Solarii wines, the sweeter the better. My mother, however, favored things with a bit of heat. Firefruit was her favorite.”

Fanghorn shook his head, a very real smile forming on his lips now. “Your mother sounds like she was a remarkable woman.”

“She was. I suppose I take after her more than I ever realized. Though I don’t mind a nip of wine every now and then, I always leaned more toward my mother’s tastes. I’ve been eating firefruit since I was as tall as your knee.”

The large man puffed himself up, as though trying to raise himself to the height of the trees. “Last I checked, you still aren’t much taller than my knees!”

Once again, the group froze, some hands halfway to their mouths. Fanghorn looked slightly green, as though growing ill as he realized he may have gone too far in insulting their dragonmistress. Peony stood, looking up at the man who, despite towering over her, suddenly looked as meek as a mouse.

And then she burst out laughing. “I’ll have you know, I’m at least up to your hip now. On my tiptoes I might even reach your navel!”

Her response broke the spell on the rest of them, and they joined her in laughter. Fanghorn still looked rather sheepish as he returned to a seated position beside her, accepting the satchel of firefruit when she handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “And sorry about—”

“Insult me again and I’ll have Daneus roast your body on a spit,” she said, just low enough for him to hear.

The man’s deep-blue-dyed face blanched and he said, “Aye, of course, I didn’t mean to—”

“It was a jape,” Peony said, smiling. “I assume you’re too well-muscled for your meat to be anything but tough and gamey anyway.”

He smiled weakly. “A jape, and a good one at that!” he said, selecting a rather small pepper from the satchel before passing it on.

Peony couldn’t help herself. Though she felt her tongue was beginning to go rogue on her, as it tended to do, if she stood any hope of truly becoming one of them, they needed to see her true self: the young woman who didn’t take herself too seriously when she’d left Chrysallis combined with the strong, capable dragonmistress she’d become in the time after reaching Dragonsmount. “You know what they say about a man and the size of the pepper he chooses, right?” she asked loudly.

Several of the women in the group snorted. Vera said, “No, but I have a few guesses.”

“It’s consistent with the length of his attention span,” Peony said, drawing another round of laughter, mostly from the women.

Fanghorn stared at his tiny pepper, shrugged, and then popped it in his mouth. “That’s fair,” he said.

Peony smiled, eating the rest of her own pepper. Though she’d pretended to not be affected by the heat, it burned her tongue and the roof of her mouth and her throat felt like she’d eaten fire itself. She’d been looking to send a message to the riders, but now she was wondering whether it would’ve been smarter to just eat the pepper with the meat to deaden some of the heat. Verazzi! she remembered, the name of Vera’s dragon suddenly coming to her as though the heat of the pepper had cleared her mind.

In any case, she tucked into the venison, which was juicy, flavorful, and less burned than her last piece had been. Despite her presence, the conversation began to flow naturally once again as the riders told farfetched tales that Peony was convinced were at least ninety percent exaggeration. Most of them included a ridiculous ending that brought laughter to her lips.

After a time, the conversation returned to her as Vera asked, “What was it like growing up in Chrysallis, Peony?”

Peony considered the question, as there were many routes she could go with her answer. Being a child in a palace with an army of servants prepared to meet her every need and desire probably sounded like a dream to most people. And, in a way, it was. Peony was more fortunate than so many, those who didn’t know where their next meal would come from, whether they would be able to find shelter for the night, their clothes threadbare and full of holes. But that was only a small part of her upbringing. In that moment, she vowed never to lie to her dragonriders, not about anything.

“It was…lonely,” she started. “I will never complain about anything I had. That would be selfish. I was privileged beyond comprehension, dining on the finest food Odin had to offer, garbed in finery, walking the halls of a crystal palace that defied beauty itself…” Images of the ruined palace and surrounding city filled her mind, but she blinked them away. “I had a magical cat of mage-formed crystal, so there was that,” she said, earning her a few chuckles. “But generally I was left to my own devices while my parents’ attention was focused on ruling a kingdom and defending our borders. When I was younger, I played with Osric, but we had little in common and soon grew apart. I turned to reading books in the garden when I wasn’t studying with my tutors.”

“What sorts of books?” a voice asked. Brute appeared on the edge of the firelight, apparently having heard the last portion of what she’d said. He didn’t seem surprised to find her amidst the group of riders as he squeezed his bulky frame between two of them.

“Fiction,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed academic pursuits, and studying The Kingfall Histories was of interest, but there were times when I wished to escape. During those times I read adventure books, stories of a young man or young woman rising from obscurity to perform heroic feats against the evils gathered before them.”

“What were some of your favorites?” Brute asked, and she remembered how the man had surprised her when he’d revealed his own interest in literature.

More than a dozen titles rattled around her brain, but she settled on three. “The King’s Archer, The Tempestuous Winds of Fate, and The Curse of the Dragon,” she said.

“Oh, I adored Tempestuous Winds,” Vera said. “Queen Herzadian’s defeat of the Stone Goblin at the end made me want to rush off into battle.”

“Yes!” Peony exclaimed. “And when it was revealed that her father was actually half-elf? I almost threw the book across the room.”

Brute grunted. “So your love for the book had nothing to do with Lord Falcon’s tendency to rip off the queen’s bodice in every other scene?”

“You’ve read it,” both women exclaimed simultaneously.

Brute’s face grew red as he realized what he’d admitted. “Er, yes, but I skimmed, of course, especially the romantic scenes…”

“Lies,” Peony said. “I’d bet a dragon’s hoard that you were rapt!”

“The battles were bloody!” Brute protested.

“I never knew books were so…interesting,” Fanghorn said. “Tell me more about these bodice-ripping scenes…”

The conversation seemed to gain a life of its own, spreading its wings and soaring through the night sky, careening over the forest for hours, until, one by one, the dragonriders stumbled back to their dragons to sleep. Finally, only Peony and Brute remained. “The Tempestuous Winds of Fate, huh?” Peony said, raising an eyebrow.

“Aye, I’d place it near the top of my list, too,” the big man admitted. “But don’t tell the others. And I didn’t skim any of it. The words were too much like poetry for skimming.”

“You weren’t fooling anyone,” Peony said. “But if it helps, your secret’s safe with me.”

Brute smirked. “You know something? You are a real breath of fresh air, Peony Normandian. We try to hide it with laughter and japes, but the truth is that the air in Travail has been growing more and more stale for a while now. The riders have been ready for change—any change. Mayhaps that’s why Drudge was able to usurp the throne so easily with his false claims. I don’t know, but I think an outsider with a fresh spirit might be just what Travail needs.”

“Thank you for saying that,” Peony said, feeling suddenly warm on her cheeks, and not from the fire. “But I think you place me on too high a pedestal. Like any of you, I am just muddling my way through life as best I can.”

“That may be true, but it doesn’t change the way you are with people. You form bonds, connections, with people. Not just on the surface, but well beneath it. I think it’s your honesty. Not everyone can reveal themselves the way you do.”

“Someone once wisely referred to it as diarrhea of the mouth,” Peony said.

“See? There you go again,” Brute said, as if her response had proven his point, though Peony didn’t see how. “But know that I see you, Dragonmistress. You are the winds of change and you have my complete and undying support. Goodnight, Peony.”

“Goodnight,” she murmured as she watched him go. The depth of the sincerity of his words had caught her by surprise. Tonight couldn’t have gone better, and yet the entire time she’d still felt like an imposter with her half-dyed form amongst all those who’d been fully dyed for years. Though she wanted more than anything to commit herself fully to Travail, she knew one foot remained planted firmly in Odin. Overthrowing Drudge and his minions and restoring Dane to the dragon throne was only one of the reasons she was leading a rebellion. The other reason was that she wanted to protect Odin from further attacks.

Dammit, she thought. Her loyalties were torn in half. And the only thing worse than no loyalty at all was half-loyalty.

Do you want to talk about it? Daneus asked.

No, Peony said. I want to sleep. Perhaps the morning light will bring greater clarity.

I have a better idea, the dragon said. Return to me. Mount up. It’s time to soar.

The cold wind rushed through Peony’s hair, but she felt only the warmth of the creature undulating beneath her. As he flew, Daneus’s sinuous form seemed to paint the sky itself with the gracefulness of his movements as he swooped and soared and arced across the face of the starlit firmament.

You were right, Peony said. This is better than sleeping.

Of course it is, Daneus said.

Says the one who napped all afternoon, Peony pointed out.

So I could be ready to fly now.

Peony laughed. Are you having fun, blade? she asked.

FUN? the brightblade said, sounding confused.

You know, are you enjoying yourself?

I’M A SWORD RESTING IN THE SPACE BETWEEN PARALLEL PLANES OF EXISTENCE, the blade said.

Is that a no?

ACTUALLY, IT’S A YES. I CAN STILL FEEL THE COOL WIND AGAINST MY SHAFT. IT IS MOST PLEASANT.

Peony laughed gaily, as much because she was talking to both a dragon and an ancient blade as because the ancient blade had just admitted to enjoying the feel of wind against its shaft. The world might be full of uncertainties and mysteries, doubts and fears, but this was one moment she refused to cloud with such negativity.

On dragonback with the wind in her hair made her want to learn, to grow, to discover.

MAGE FIGMIRRE SAID YOU WERE READY BEFORE, BUT HE WAS WRONG, her blade said. YOU ARE READY NOW.

Amidst the excitement and stress of trying to launch a rebellion, Peony had forgotten all about the mage’s cryptic statement about her being ‘ready’ before disappearing as quickly as he’d arrived. He’d also said something about her blade being able to explain what he’d meant. Ready for what?

OUR SECONDARY ABILITY.

I don’t understand. We’ve fought in battles together. You never mentioned anything about a ‘secondary ability’. Why not?

Because you weren’t ready, Daneus interjected. Just guessing here.

Thanks for your input, but I’d like to hear from the blade.

YOU SOUND ANGRY, the blade said.

I am angry. I could’ve died. You could’ve been taken from me. Void, you almost were taken from me in Sunsei. If there was something we could’ve used to our advantage, it would be foolish not to reveal it.

IT WAS TOO RISKY. SOME OF MY KIN OFFER ALL OF THEIR ABILITIES TO THEIR WIELDERS RIGHT AWAY, BUT THAT ISN’T MY WAY.

Is it too late to exchange you for one of them? Peony asked.

VERY FUNNY. LET ME TRY TO EXPLAIN. WHEN WE FIRST MET, A BOND FORMED BETWEEN US, NOT UNLIKE THE BOND YOU SHARE WITH THE DRAGON. I SENSED YOUR STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES. YOUR PRIMARY ABILITY, BRIGHTFORM, CAME SO NATURALLY TO YOU, MORE NATURALLY THAN I EVER COULD’VE IMAGINED. YOU NEEDED NO TRAINING, NO INSTRUCTION. YOU SIMPLY EMBRACED THE LIGHT WITHIN YOU LIKE YOU’D ALWAYS KNOWN IT WAS THERE.

And that is unusual? Peony asked.

IN MY EXPERIENCE, YES. MOST GODBLADE WIELDERS MUST PRACTICE WITH THEIR NEWFOUND ABILITIES, BUILD UP STAMINA SO THEIR STRENGTH ISN’T SAPPED THE MOMENT THEY USE ONE. OVERUSE CAN LEAD TO UNCONSCIOUSNESS OR EVEN DEATH, IF A WIELDER ISN’T CAREFUL. YOU, FOR EXAMPLE, SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SUSTAIN BRIGHTFORM FOR MORE THAN A FEW SECONDS AT A TIME WITHOUT REQUIRING REST. AT LEAST, INITIALLY. OVER TIME, YOU COULD LEARN TO MAINTAIN BRIGHTFORM FOR LONGER PERIODS.

Peony remembered the first time she assumed brightform, dodging dragonriders and dragons before throwing herself over the side of a cliff. If she hazarded a guess, the entire sequence hadn’t taken more than a dozen seconds. But her second stint in brightform had lasted much longer as she’d battled Sampson Gaard and his shadowblade.

EXACTLY, her blade said in response to the memories. SAMPSON, ON THE OTHER HAND, ATTEMPTED TO USE HIS PRIMARY ABILITY, SHADOWBREATH, ON DANE.

But he didn’t seem to lose any strength after using it, Peony pointed out.

PROBABLY BECAUSE HE’D BEEN TRAINING WITH IT FOR WEEKS, IF NOT LONGER. ALL SIGNS POINT TO AT LEAST SEVERAL OF THE GRIZARI LEADERS BEING UNDER HIS CONTROL, THE DIRECT RESULT OF HIS SHADOWBREATH ABILITY. AND HE DIDN’T EVEN ATTEMPT TO USE HIS SECONDARY ABILITY, WHICH MEANS HIS SHADOWBLADE HADN’T REVEALED IT TO HIM OR HE HADN’T YET LEARNED TO USE IT PROPERLY.

Okay, so you’re saying our connection needed to be strengthened before I’d be ‘ready’ to try to use another ability?

SORT OF, BUT IT’S MORE THAN THAT. MAGE FIGMIRRE HELPED US STRENGTHEN OUR CONNECTION TO PROTECT YOU FROM THOSE WHO WOULD TRY TO STEAL ME FROM YOU. BUT STRENGTH OF CONNECTION IS ONLY PART OF WHAT MAKES YOU READY.

What is the other part?

IT DEPENDS ON THE ABILITY. IN THIS CASE, YOUR SECONDARY ABILITY IS BRIGHTSTRIKE, A DEVASTATING POWER IF USED CORRECTLY. BUT IT CAN ALSO DEVASTATE THE WIELDER IF THEY ARE NOT PREPARED.

How do I prepare?

THAT’S THE GOOD NEWS. FACING YOUR INSECURITIES AND FEARS HAS PREPARED YOU. NOW ALL THAT IS REQUIRED IS PRACTICE, PATIENCE AND PERSEVERANCE. YOU’RE STRONG ENOUGH THAT I SUSPECT YOU’LL BE ABLE TO MASTER BRIGHTSTRIKE IN THREE TO FOUR MONTHS.

How about three to four days? Peony said.

IMPOSSIBLE, the blade said.

Any weariness Peony had felt earlier in the night was long gone, her senses heightened. She felt energized, ready for whatever was to come. Fair enough, she said. Then I guess we might as well get started. Tell me what to do first.

The way her blade had described it, using her secondary ability should be as easy as initiating brightform. All she had to do was think about using it, channeling her connection to the brightblade. Speaking ‘brightstrike’ aloud was supposed to help, at least until she’d done it a few times. And then a bright gold bolt of lightning would sear from the sky and slam into whatever Peony mentally chose as her target.

In theory, it sounded impressive. The reality was far less impressive and far more frustrating. “Brightstrike!” she said, pouring as much determination into the command as she could muster after fifty or so previous failed attempts. Nothing. Not even a crackle or a wisp of smoke.

Peony blew out a breath. What am I doing wrong? she asked, as Daneus banked to the left to continue circling high over the forest.

YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN YOUR POWER, the blade said.

You’re talking about conviction. Once, she’d asked one of the ivory mages employed at Chrysallis about how spellcraft worked. Conviction was apparently a major part of it.

NOT EXACTLY. THE GODBLADES ARE POWERED IN A SIMILAR MANNER TO OTHER MAGICAL ARTIFACTS, BUT MERE CONVICTION ALONE IS INSUFFICIENT. YOUR BELIEF, YOUR FAITH, MUST BE COMPLETE. UNBREAKABLE.

It might help if I could see you, Peony said. Whenever I use brightform, you are in my hand.

IT’S TOO RISKY. MY BRIGHTNESS WILL CARRY FOR MILES. AND WHAT DIFFERENCE WOULD IT MAKE? DO YOU BELIEVE IN ME ANY LESS BECAUSE YOU CAN’T SEE ME?

No, Peony said, frustrated. Then why couldn’t she muster enough belief in this new power to actually use it?

Hoom. You’re the Dragonmistress of Travail, Daneus said. The dragon hadn’t spoken for a while, content to carry her on his back while she conversed with the blade.

Er, I’m aware of that, thanks, Peony said.

No, Daneus said. YOU are the Dragonmistress of Travail.

What the void are you talking about? I think I know I’m the dragonmistress. I bonded with Dane when he was the dragonmaster, didn’t I?

Not the ‘dragonmistress’, Daneus said. The Dragonmistress of Travail.

Peony wasn’t certain she understood the difference.

Ever since we were separated with Dane, what has your objective been? Daneus asked.

To restore the dragon throne to its rightful owner, Peony said without thinking. To get everything back to how it was before.

And who is the dragon throne’s rightful owner? the dragon asked.

Peony frowned. She’d known the dragon long enough to know when he was leading her somewhere specific. Er, Dane. Obviously.

And if Dane is dead?

Don’t say that.

Peony, I don’t want it to be true anymore than you do, but if he is? Who is the rightful owner of the dragon throne? I’ll give you a hint: the moment Dane bonded with you, Drake lost his claim to Travail as long as you live, or an heir is produced. You haven’t done the latter…yet…but you are still alive last I checked.

The dragon’s words sank deep into Peony’s chest. She realized she’d been so fixated on believing that Dane was still alive and overthrowing Drudge so that his country could be restored to him the moment he returned from…wherever he was…that she hadn’t considered her own position of power if the opposite were true. I would sit the dragon throne, she said.

Because? Daneus prodded.

Because I’m the Dragonmistress of Travail.

Hoom. Indeed you are. Now, believe in brightstrike like you believe in your position and all will be well.

The wind blasted her leathers just as the sun crested the horizon, spraying the sky with a multitude of colors—pink and gold and orange. Peony closed her eyes, releasing Daneus’s neck spikes with one hand, which formed into a fist as she raised it skyward. In her mind’s eye, she could see her brightblade gripped in that hand, its brightness streaming off its gleaming surface, making the sunrise pale in comparison. And then she screamed, Brightstrike! but not aloud, in the confines of her head, where only she, her dragon and her sword could hear it.

She opened her eyes just as a jagged spike of golden lightning stabbed from the sky.

UH OH, her blade said, which wasn’t exactly the thing you wanted your magical sword to say just after you use your connection to it to summon your secondary ability.

Before Peony could react, the lightning struck her full in the chest, her entire body jolting, shaking, and then going as rigid as a wooden board. “Ur?” she said, confusion washing over her thoughts.

She lost all strength, toppling from the dragon’s back and into empty air.

Peony awoke, feeling groggy.

She was lying on her back on a familiar-looking stone. Water burbled nearby. Daneus’s long neck rose above her, his piercing eyes staring down at her. Hoom, he said. Are you alright?

Peony remembered what had happened. She tried to move her arms and legs. Everything felt surprisingly…normal. Wonderful, she said.

IT WAS A GOOD FIRST EFFORT, her blade said.

Good? I almost killed myself with a bolt of lightning.

YOU WERE NEVER REALLY IN ANY DANGER. I WAS ALREADY INFUSING YOU WITH HEALING POWER, EVEN BEFORE THE BOLT HIT, JUST IN CASE.

Just in case? You knew this might happen?

I THOUGHT IT WAS LIKELY.

Thanks for the warning!

THE LESSON WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN AS EFFECTIVE HAD I WARNED YOU.

You call getting struck by lightning a ‘lesson’?

YES. OF THE DANGERS OF BRIGHTSTRIKE, BOTH TO YOU AND THOSE AROUND YOU. WHAT IF YOU HAD STRUCK SOMEONE YOU CARED ABOUT? EVEN I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO SAVE THEM. THERE WOULD BE NOTHING LEFT OF THEM BUT A PILE OF ASH AND A SMOLDERING CRATER.

Good to know. In that case, I plan to never attempt brightstrike again, lest I turn one of my friends into a pile of ash.

Don’t forget about the crater, Daneus added helpfully.

THAT WOULD BE MOST UNWISE. BRIGHTSTRIKE IS A FORMIDABLE WEAPON IN YOUR ARSENAL. IT HAS THE POTENTIAL TO BE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN VICTORY OR DEFEAT.

As long as I don’t accidentally kill someone I know. Or myself. Or both.

THAT’S WHERE PRACTICE COMES IN. WHY DO YOU SUPPOSE YOU STRUCK YOURSELF?

Peony remembered the precursor to her latest attempt. She’d had a very serious conversation with Daneus about her role amongst the dragonriders. She’d been focused on herself and her belief in what she was capable of. Because I forgot to focus on a target, she said. I was thinking about myself.

EXACTLY. THIS IS WHERE THE RISKS COME IN. WHEN USING BRIGHTSTRIKE, YOU MUST BE ENTIRELY FOCUSED ON YOUR TARGET. THE SLIGHTEST DISTRACTION AT THE WRONG MOMENT COULD RESULT IN DISASTER.

Don’t think about me, Daneus said. Preferably, ever again.

As a matter of course, I strive to never think about you, Peony said.

Liar, Daneus said.

Okay, maybe just a little.

Double liar.

Peony sighed and sat up. I don’t know if it’s worth the risk.

JUST TRY AGAIN. WE’LL CONTINUE WELL AWAY FROM THE DRAGONRIDERS.

Except she’ll be riding me, Daneus said.

At least you have natural armor, Peony pointed out.

THE DRAGON IS RIGHT. YOU HAVE TO DO THIS ALONE.

Peony sighed again as she stood. Very well. But after breakfast. Brightstrike makes me hungry.

Forty-Seven

Dane

Over the Godsbridge, Godstown

DANE’S HEART LEAPT AS DOMI SOARED OVER THE GODSBRIDGE, HIS THREE PASSENGERS CLINGING TO HIS NECK SPIKES.

The bridge defied imagination, stretching from the northern tip of Loslandia for miles upon miles, supported by stone pillars carved into statues of the fallen gods, their backs hunched against their burden. Plain-looking structures were clustered at the bridge’s center, their exteriors whitewashed, their roofs flat and studded with catchments that likely provided the residents with their drinking water whenever it rained. Nestled amongst the village structures were several town squares, one of which contained a flourish of greenery like a bright emerald eye amongst a sea of white. Dane was impressed that the Godstowners had learned to grow their own food so far from land. On the other hand, those who inhabited the Godsbridge were well known to be religious zealots and suspicious of outsiders.

The village passed beneath them in seconds as Domi’s powerful wings carried them steadily northward. The surface of the northern part of the Godsbridge was empty until they neared its end at the Odinian border city of Truro. Just before they made landfall, Dane spotted three travelers walking abreast. As they soared past, the travelers craned their necks skyward to watch them.

Despite the distance between them, Dane swore his eyes locked with the form in the center, who stopped. A weight pressed upon his shoulders, like an ox’s yolk. “Take us down,” he said.

“What?” Dom said. “We can’t land here. We’re too close to Truro. After the dragon attack on Chrysallis, we’ll cause a panic.”

HE’S RIGHT, his shadowblade said, catching him off guard. The blade hadn’t spoken since helping them escape the Moth Queen’s army of fluttering demons back in Mothswood.

But that woman… How do I even know she’s a woman? he wondered. She’s barely more than a speck from this height.

YOUR SENSES ARE HEIGHTENED BECAUSE OF ME. NOT YOUR SIGHT OR HEARING, BUT OTHER SENSES, THE KIND THAT ARE INDESCRIBABLE. I SENSE HER TOO. MAYHAPS YOUR PATH WILL CROSS HERS EVENTUALLY, BUT THIS IS NOT THE TIME.

How do you know that? Dane asked. He was subconsciously aware of Dom and Gwen conversing, but their words were as distant as the stars, while the voice of his blade was as near as a torch gripped in his hand, impossible to ignore.

I DON’T KNOW. I JUST DO. NOW FORGET ABOUT HER. IT’S TIME TO TRAIN.

Train?

YES. YOU ALMOST KILLED YOURSELF BACK IN THE FOREST. YOUR STAMINA IS PITIFUL. YOUR JUDGMENT IS LITTLE BETTER THAN THAT OF A WORM.

Gee, thanks. I’ve never felt so confident.

MY PURPOSE ISN’T TO STROKE YOUR EGO. MY PURPOSE IS TO PREPARE YOU.

For what?

WHATEVER IS TO COME.

Dane considered this. The last thing he wanted was to return to Dragonsmount, shadowblade in hand, only to have a recurrence of what had transpired in Mothswood. In that light, a bit of training seemed like a reasonable notion.

OF COURSE IT IS, his blade said.

Are you always going to read my mind? Dane asked.

IF YOU KEEP THINKING SO LOUDLY IT’S ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE NOT TO.

I suspect you’re going to get along grandly with my dragon. He likes to insult me as much as possible, too.

SOUNDS LIKE A WISE CREATURE.

He is. Thinking about his dragon made Dane instinctively reach for him using their bond, hope blooming in his chest. For all he knew, his dragon could be soaring over southern Travail at this very moment, so close he could almost see him if he squinted.

The feeling vanished as Dane felt nothing but hollowness in his chest, in his mind. What if Daneus was dead?

THOUGHTS LIKE THAT SERVE NO PURPOSE, his blade said.

You’re probably right, Dane admitted, turning his attention back to training. A distraction might be exactly what he needed. Where do we start? Shadowform?

OF COURSE YOU WANT TO RUN BEFORE YOU CAN CRAWL, the blade said. It almost sounded like the sword was muttering to itself. NO. SHADOWFORM IS TOO DANGEROUS FOR YOU RIGHT NOW. YOU’RE STILL WEAK FROM THE LAST FIGHT.

Dane didn’t feel weak, but this was all new to him, so instead he said, So, er, shadow…warrior?

IT’S CALLED SHADOWGUARD.

Aye, that’s the one. How do I…summon the shadowguard?

JUST LIKE BEFORE. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS DESIRE FOR YOUR SHADOWGUARD TO APPEAR.

Dane closed his eyes, concentrating on that shadowy version of himself he’d seen in the wood. In front of him, Gwen gasped and exclaimed, “By the steady drumbeat of Orion’s iron heart!”

Dane opened his eyes to find the armored woman shrinking away from a shadowy form facing backwards on the dragon’s back, nestled just behind Dom. His brother turned upon hearing Gwen’s voice, his mouth opening to say something. He flinched back, startled.

“It’s just my shadowguard,” Dane said, feeling his heart leap in excitement. I did it!

HURRAH FOR YOU, the shadowblade said wryly. BUT YOUR SHADOWGUARD IS NOT ‘JUST’ ANYTHING. IT IS SHADOW AND STEEL, INFUSED WITH THE BEST PARTS OF YOURSELF.

Dane remembered the paralyzing feeling of loss when the shadowguard had been destroyed back in the forest; it had felt like a vital piece of him had been ripped away and tossed into the fire. It had almost driven him to despair, only his blade’s encouragement dragging him from the pit before it closed over his head. He never wanted to experience that feeling again.

YOU WILL. YOU MUST, LEST YOU SUCCUMB TO IT IN BATTLE AND DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH. NOW TELL YOUR FATEMARKED FRIEND TO SHOOT AN ARROW THROUGH YOUR SHADOWGUARD’S HEAD.

What? No. I can’t do that. What if the shadow creature tries to defend itself and hurts her?

IT WON’T. THE SHADOWGUARD’S ONLY MOTIVATION IS TO PROTECT YOU FROM DANGER. SHE DOESN’T WANT TO HARM YOU, SO SHE IS NOT ITS NATURAL ENEMY.

Dane took a deep breath. Fine. I’ll do it. “Gwen?”

The woman, who’d pressed back into him to escape the shadowy creature, twisted halfway around, keeping one eye trained on the shadowguard. “Yes, Dane?” she said flatly.

“Will you kindly shoot my shadowguard in the face?”

“What? Are you mad? That thing looks like it wants to eat my face.”

“It won’t, I promise.” You promise, right? he asked his blade.

I THINK SO, BUT ONE CAN NEVER BE CERTAIN OF ANYTHING, CAN THEY?

Very funny.

I WASN’T TRYING TO BE FUNNY.

“Are you sure?” Gwen asked. “It kind of looks like you, in a weird, fun-with-necromancy sort of way.”

“I’m sure,” Dane said, feeling anything but.

“What if my arrow hits Dom—”

“I’ll duck,” Dom called out. Now that he’d seen the shadowguard, he seemed as keen to be rid of it as anyone.

“—or Domi,” Gwen finished.

The dragon made a chuffing sound and Dom said, “Don’t worry about the big lug. He says his scales are hard enough to repel even an Orian’s arrow.”

“You won’t miss,” Dane said encouragingly.

“Of course I won’t,” Gwen said. “I never miss. But that…thing…doesn’t exactly seem solid. More like wisps of smoke.”

“It is,” Dane said. “It might not look it, but it’s as solid as any of us. Now, please, shoot my shadow doppelganger in the face.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Gwen said, almost elbowing Dane in the face as she reached back to draw an arrow from her quiver and unsling her bow. With blinding speed, she nocked the arrow to the bowstring and drew, sighting the shadowguard down the shaft. Dane heard the twang of the bowstring at the same moment he saw the arrow enter the shadowguard, hitting the space right between its eyes—or at least the dark pits that resembled its eyes.

With a mournful shriek, the creature vanished, the arrow hanging for a split-second before dropping. Gwen’s arm snapped out, her reflexes catlike, and she caught the arrow before it bounced off Domi’s scaled back and fell toward the ground far below.

Just as her fingers curled around the arrow’s shaft, Dane felt a chasm open inside his chest. It was like the despair he’d felt when Dom had disappeared, and his parents had died, and he’d learned of Lei’s death, and Drake’s betrayal during his trial…all of it mashed together and rolled up into a single, tortured feeling and then multiplied a hundred times over. It was loss, and failure, and regret, and madness, and torment, and—

“You’re okay, Dane,” Gwen’s voice came, soothing in his ear. He felt strong, armored arms rope around him and then pull him close. “It’s over. You’re all right. Just breathe…”

He realized he was choking on his sobs, tears streaking down his cheeks and dripping from his jaw and chin. He felt like a little boy being held in his mother’s arms after falling and scraping his knee. He felt weak and pathetic and incapable of taking care of himself much less throwing his uncle from off the seat of the dragon throne.

And where was his blade? It was like its voice had vanished, even though when he looked down at his hip, the blade was there, silent and dark. His bout with despair ended as the feeling was replaced with the fires of anger, his temper flaring. You abandoned me!

YES.

Why would you do that?

DID YOUR FATHER NOT LET GO OF YOU AS YOU MADE YOUR FIRST SOLO FLIGHT ON DRAGONBACK?

You are not my father.

NO, I AM NOT. AND NEITHER WILL I CODDLE YOU. OUR TIME IS LIMITED. YOU MUST LEARN QUICKLY. NOW THINK ABOUT THAT FEELING. REMEMBER iT. WE WILL TrY AGAIN IN SEVERAL HOURS.

You heartless bastard.

BASED ON THE TRADITIONAL DEFINITION, THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE. I HAVE NO PARENTS. I WASN’T BORN OUT OF WEDLOCK. I WASN’T BORN AT ALL. I WAS CREATED, FORGED OF MAGIC AND SHADOWS. AND AS FOR A HEART, I HAVE NO CHEST WITH WHICH TO HOLD ONE, NO BLOOD THAT REQUIRES PUMPING THROUGH VEINS.

Dane realized Gwen was still holding him, stroking his hair gently. He straightened up, quickly dashing the tears from his cheeks. Gwen searched his face. Behind her, Dom was doing the same, concern written all over his expression. “I—I lost myself for a second. I will need to practice losing my shadowguard. I need to learn to cope with it. Will you help me?”

“Of course,” Gwen said.

“Whatever you need,” Dom added.

Dane was grateful to have them with him. “Thank you,” he said.

Domi angled toward the west, the red spires of the Soullands appearing on the horizon. At long last, Dane was going home. Once more, he reached for Daneus through his bond.

He found nothing but emptiness.

Forty-Eight

Quill

Somewhere in the Bay of Sighs

QUILL WANTED TO GRAB HOLD OF THE WORLD AND TEAR IT FROM THE FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE. To hurl it through the cosmos until it crashed into the sun or a star and burned them all to ash. The strength provided by his anger sustained him for a time as he flew over the Bay of Sighs. Eventually, however, his strength ebbed, his arms flailing at his sides as he fell.

He hit the icy water with a splash. He couldn’t swim in his robe, the sodden material thick and heavy, an anchor trying to pull him into the depths. He shrugged out of it, instantly feeling lighter in only a white vest and thin pants, but also strange. He hadn’t worn anything but the robe outside in years.

Once more, he concentrated on those swirling motes that were in the air around him, unlocking the power within them to rise from the water.

He flew.

Riding the wind just over the sea’s surface should’ve been the experience of his life, but instead he hated every second he was airborne, for the cost of his flight was greater than he could bear. Again, his strength failed him, and he came crashing down into the water, a spray of bubbles bursting from his nose and mouth as he exhaled.

He wondered about the birds that had met their demise because of him, the world forcing itself back into balance. For each time he flew, he knew, he stole the gift of flight from some poor and unsuspecting bird, its wings failing, causing it to slam into the ground and die. Once, he might’ve felt sorry causing the destruction of an innocent creature. But now, their deaths felt like such a small thing next to the life that had been lost upon Lockspell’s cold, bleak shores.

(He refused to consider that it might’ve been a dragon, rather than a bird, that came crashing down because of him.)

Still, knowing he was nothing more than a common thief, his power reliant on stealing from another, wore on him. He’d done the unthinkable—escaped from Lockspell—and yet it didn’t matter. (How could anything matter when Rondo wasn’t by his side?)

Quill’s body sank into the depths.

As the sea’s surface grew more and more distant, he heard a voice. Quill.

He knew the voice for what it was, that shadow creature that was somehow living inside him like a parasite, feeding off his hopes and fears and desperation, emerging only when everything and everyone else had failed him. I hate you, Quill said.

As you should. But I am not your enemy.

No? Haven’t you returned to Kingfall to finish what you started centuries ago?

You know who I am?

At first Quill was so spooked by the ghostly visage that he hadn’t even considered its identity. But somewhere between leaping from the cliff and his dozen or so attempts to fly, a line had been drawn in his mind between the creature and something he and Rondo had read in Kingfall Revelations back in Chrysallis before the dragon attack. You are one of the Unforgiven, the original wielders of the shadowblades, Quill said.

Very good, but which one?

Quill had given this a lot of thought too. The ghoul had been a human, that much was true, so that disqualified the creature known as Reyals who had led the Thousands after Erif Mirg was struck down in battle. That left only two options, both kings whose lineage had carried their kingdoms—Teravainen and Avadon, respectively—forward to present times. Not Hyram Kerr, Quill said.

Why not?

Call it a hunch.

You are correct.

Jameson Gaard, Quill thought. The ancient king’s role as the first wielder of one of the shadowblades was barely a footnote in The Kingfall Histories due to his swift death. Witnesses stated he’d been swallowed by a dragon, cut his way out, and then fallen from so high his body had been shattered on the plains. His only son, Prince Sampson Gaard, had claimed the blade for his own at the ripe age of nine and gone on to fight for years before the war had ended. It was said the boy king had killed hundreds, if not thousands, with the shadowblade before it had vanished during the penultimate battle that ended the Godswar after one hundred years of violence and bloodshed.

I’ve waited a long time to return from the void, the ghost of Jameson Gaard said now.

Quill had been underwater for too long, his lungs heaving, demanding air. What happens to you if I die? he asked.

I will find another host. My life force is tied to the shadowblade I once wielded. As long as it exists, I will endure.

Even hearing that, the depths called to Quill. What was the purpose of any of what had happened? Where was the meaning in Rondo’s death? All Quill could see was darkness.

His mouth threatened to open, to breathe whatever was available, even seawater.

Just breathe, the Unforgiven said.

I will die.

You don’t have to.

I don’t understand.

I think you do.

Quill’s brows knit together, his oxygen-starved brain trying to grasp hold of some idea that continued to elude him. Just breathe…

It hit him like a punch from the icy water. Balance, he thought.

Yes, Jameson Gaard said. Balance. This world is built on it. But that balance is crumbling. Which side do you want to be on when the scales shatter?

Who will struggle for breath if I breathe? Quill asked. He was forced to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep his lips from opening. His body convulsed, caught in the throes of suffocation.

It is random.

Will they die?

It is only one breath.

Quill peered into the water, really seeing the sea for the first time since he’d begun to sink. He saw past the liquid, the bubbles, the fish flitting about him. He saw to its core, to the tiny, colorful motes that made up everything in existence. He reached for them, gathering what strength had been restored to him.

And then he breathed.

Despite his growing knowledge of the truth about spellcraft, he expected water to swarm inside his mouth, forcing its way down his throat, flooding his lungs. It didn’t. Instead, soothing, life-giving, beautiful air filled his chest, cooling the fires that had begun to burn.

He closed his eyes, relishing the feeling.

Until he remembered:

Rondo would never feel the sensation of air filling his lungs again.

I don’t want it, he thought.

No? the Unforgiven said. You would rather die while those responsible for Rondo’s death survive?

Quill froze, picturing Cernon and the other Archmages, the haughty confidence in their own invincibility plastered across their expressions. To them, he was little more than an ant to be stepped on. They vanished, replaced by Megrifir, the mage who’d taught them the truth about magic, only to abandon them at the most crucial moment. Had he stayed, had he helped them, mayhaps Rondo would still be alive.

He hated him. He hated Cernon. He hated the Archmage Council.

He hated himself for his own failings.

What do you want? he asked.

Blood. Revenge. Power. The life I once had restored.

Why?

Because I can.

That answer, more than any of the others, resonated with Quill. He had escaped Lockspell. He had flown through the air. And now, he had breathed underwater. Why couldn’t he avenge Rondo’s death too? Once, his doubts and insecurities would’ve reminded him he was only a mage, rank two, while his enemies were all mages, rank seven. They outnumbered him, outpowered him, outranked him. Void, they’d already outwitted him, sent him to scream and wail in a stone box built to inflict an eternity of torture. His chances of success were as close to zero without being impossible that daring to hope for anything other than failure would make him a fool.

Then I guess I’m a fool, he thought. He reached for the colorful motes and breathed once more before beginning to kick for the surface.

No, Jameson Gaard said. You are alive.

Forty-Nine

Peony Normandian

Near Dragonsmount, Travail

PEONY AWOKE, GASPING FOR BREATH.

Peony! Daneus cried. What’s the matter?

Peony couldn’t think about responding as, for several long seconds, it was as though her lungs were failing her, unable to draw air into her chest. Helplessly, she flopped onto her side, mouth gaping open as she struggled.

MAYBE I CAN HELP, her brightblade said. Peony tried to warn the blade off, but it was too late, the sword suddenly appearing in her hand, its light piercing the darkness of the night, illuminating the trees standing sentinel along the shores of the river Misery. Peony felt the warm pulse of the blade against her palm, a feeling that was usually calming, comforting.

Not now. Though the warmth from her blade coursed through her, it did nothing for her lungs, her chest beginning to ache as her entire body clenched in fear at its inability to breathe. If she didn’t breathe soon, she was going to pass out. Spots were already dancing before her eyes. The next step after that would be death.

Why can’t I breathe? she wondered desperately, clutching at her own useless throat.

And then, like a passing shower giving way to warm sunlight, the sensation disappeared, a rush of air filling her. Her mind racing, she focused on breathing, wondering whether her lungs would betray her again.

They didn’t.

Hoom. Are you okay? Daneus asked.

I—I think so. Did you do that? she asked her blade. Did you save me? Her heart continued to hammer in her chest.

NO, her blade said, light fading as it returned to its hidden sheath. I WAS AS HELPLESS AS YOU AGAINST THAT DARK MAGIC.

Magic? Peony said. There are no mages amongst us. Are you certain it was magic?

NO, BUT MY INSTINCTS TELL ME IT WAS.

Who could do such a thing? Drudge?

Drudge is no mage, Daneus said. His ritualistic killings may be a form of magic, but his power ends there.

Then who?

Neither the blade nor the dragon responded this time. Peony sighed just as a large, brown face appeared, peering down at her from a standing position. “Peony? Are you alright? I saw a bright light. It extended all the way to the sky.” Brute’s broad brow was wrinkled in concern.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. She considered whether to tell him what had transpired, but quickly decided against it. For one, she didn’t know how or why it had happened. For all she knew, she’d had a nightmare and her body had simply reacted out of fear. The last thing she wanted was to be a distraction on the eve of their planned assault on Dragonsmount.

Nearly a week had passed since the twenty-three riders and their dragons had joined Peony, Star and Brute. Although it felt like a meager number from which to stoke the flames of a rebellion, their spirits were high as they plotted and planned and ate and drank and fished and japed. They watched the skies, too, wondering if Drudge and his minions would search for them here. Thus far, the skies had remained empty of anything larger than a hawk.

During the days, Peony had trained with brightstrike. Since her first failed attempt, she’d only struck herself on one other occasion. She’d also managed to hit several boulders, chunks of rock shrapnel spraying from their flanks. Of course, most of the time she’d been aiming for a different boulder than the one she’d hit, but it was a vast improvement from hitting herself.

For the first time since arriving in Travail, Peony had truly felt like she was one of them. It wasn’t like the dragonriders hadn’t been welcoming, but in her short time living at Dragonsmount she’d struggled to shake off the feeling of being a stranger amongst strangers. Now, to her surprise, existing amongst the dyed riders and their brightly scaled dragons felt more natural than she’d ever felt living in the glass palace at Chrysallis. At night, she joined them around their fires, until her presence was no longer a surprise but what was expected.

Star’s face appeared next to Brute’s. “I saw a light,” she said. “Your blade?”

“Yes, but it was just a nightmare, I think,” Peony said. “Nothing to be concerned with.” More faces crowded around—evidently the blaze of light had interrupted everyone’s slumber.

SORRY, her sword said. I DIDN’T THINK, JUST ACTED. I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO—

You were only trying to help me, Peony interrupted, preferring not to think about what would’ve happened if she’d been unable to breathe for a couple minutes longer.

“The dragonmistress is fine,” Brute said to the dragonriders trying to peer past his large frame to get a look. “False alarm. Thank you for your concern but you can go back to bed—the lot of you.”

As the crowd began to disperse, Peony asked, “How bright was the light exactly?”

“Like the lovechild of the sun and a star,” Star said.

“Aye, times one thousand,” Brute said, turning back around. “I thought the entire world was exploding. Your sword isn’t that bright to your eyes?”

“Not exactly. More like a candleflame. I’ve grown more and more tolerant to its brightness over time.” Peony closed her eyes, inwardly cursing. Opened them. Asked, “How far do you think the light carried?”

“Miles and miles,” Brute said. “It reached Dragonsmount for certain.”

That’s what Peony was afraid of. She pinched her thumb and forefinger on the skin between her eyes. A headache had formed there, possibly because of the moments her brain had been deprived of oxygen. As soon as the headache formed, it vanished. Thank you, she said to her blade, dropping her hand once more. Her eyes flicked between Star and Brute. “He’s going to come for us,” she said. Almost as if responding to her statement with a question, a large white owl released a cry of Who? before taking flight, large wings carrying it into the night. With the night hunter’s passing, Peony could almost see their carefully laid plans vanishing with it.

“Yes, he will,” Star said. “My father can be as patient and cunning as a spider, but if his attack on Chrysallis taught us anything, it’s that his patience is waning. Now that his power is at risk, he won’t hesitate to squash our little rebellion before it truly gets started.”

“Then shouldn’t we leave immediately?” Brute asked. Both Star’s and Brute’s eyes looked toward Peony to answer the question.

She considered the suggestion. Everyone was already awake. All they needed to do was take to the air again. They could fly eastward, staying well ahead of their pursuers until they gave up, and then circle back around overland via the Soullands or seaward over the Bay of Sighs. Then again, what if Drudge didn’t call off the pursuit? Worse, what if they led the human-dragon crossbreeds to Odin and they satisfied their anger by torching a town or two? More innocent lives would be lost.

Also, Peony was tired of running.

“No,” she said. “It’s time to make our stand. Get Flint, Fanghorn and Vera. We’ll need their help if this is going to work.”

Fifty

Dane

North Soul, Travail

DANE’S CHEST SEEMED TO GROW TIGHTER AND TIGHTER THE FURTHER NORTH THEY TRAVELED. It was strange, as they’d passed over the Soullands and night had fallen, everything was utterly familiar, and yet Dane felt as though his memories of this place were from a dream rather than reality.

When he tried to explain that feeling to his brother, Dom said, “Now take that feeling and multiply it by a thousand.”

At first Dane didn’t understand what he meant, but then it dawned on him. “That’s how you feel?” Of course he did. He’d been gone for years, while Dane had only been away for weeks.

Dom said, “In truth, I never planned to return.”

“I’m glad you did.”

They passed over North Soul, which had once been a heavily guarded fortification used to defend the Travailian border. In the last few decades it had been abandoned, its stone structures still standing but already showing signs of disrepair. The outer walls were moss-covered, the wind- and storm-battered stones chipping away, crumbling into growing piles of rubble. If not for the relentless march of storms from the west, the fortress at North Soul might’ve stood for centuries. Instead, it was a reminder of a darker time in Travail’s history, when war was always on their doorstep.

WAR IS INEVITABLE, his blade said. NOW MORE THAN EVER.

The sword’s words bothered him. Why couldn’t cooler heads prevail? Over the course of his lifetime, his father had managed to secure a strong alliance with Solarii and maintain a truce with Odin due to their shared defense of the Soullands’ Rift. Why couldn’t peace be restored again in such a manner?

Another question entered his mind, one he’d been avoiding for a while now. He aimed it at the shadowblade: What will happen when you and I are reunited with Peony and her brightblade?

I DON’T KNOW, the blade said.

The answer surprised Dane. To this point, his sword had seemed to have all the answers, even those to questions Dane hadn’t asked. But you’ve met her brightblade before, haven’t you?

IN BATTLE, YES. WE FOUGHT ONCE. MY PREVIOUS WIELDER WAS A MAN BY THE NAME OF HYRAM KERR, PERHAPS YOU’VE HEARD OF HIM?

Of course Dane had. Kerr had been one of the most notorious leaders during the Godswar, joining Erif Mirg and his Thousands even before Teravainen had become part of their warmongering alliance. His posterity had carried on his tradition of greed for generations to come, none more than Avadon’s current leader, Glynn Kerr. I will not fight Peony, Dane said. She is my bondmate. I love her.

LOVE, the shadowblade said, distaste in its tone. LOVE IS NOTHING BUT A HUMAN INVENTION. LOVE MAKES A MAN MAKE FOOLISH DECISIONS. HYRAM KERR UNDERSTOOD THIS.

If you are saying I’m nothing like Kerr, then I’ll take it as a compliment.

I’M SAYING YOUR ACTIONS MUST BE DETERMINED BY LOGIC AND RATIONAL THOUGHT, NOT SOME UNPREDICTABLE EMOTION.

Dane wondered whether Peony was being given similar advice by her brightblade. The truth was, Peony had told him very little about her conversations with the sword. He just knew that he’d always felt uncomfortable in its presence.

BECAUSE YOU WERE ALWAYS DESTINED TO WIELD ME, the shadowblade said.

I won’t be her enemy. I will cast you aside first.

THE WORDS OF A LOVESTRUCK FOOL, the blade said. Dane’s teeth ground together, his hands curling into fists. ANGER, GOOD. THAT I CAN WORK WITH. ANGER CAN BE HONED, TARGETED AT ONE’S ENEMIES. PERHAPS NOW IS A GOOD TIME TO TRY CONJURING YOUR SHADOWGUARD AGAIN.

Dane realized with a sigh that his blade had been purposely baiting him the entire time, trying to strike at his nerves, get his hackles up. Get him ready for another training session. Fine, he said after only a moment’s hesitation. Dragonsmount was still more than a day’s journey away, and he might as well pass the time doing something useful. “Gwen, you ready to kill another of my shadow twins?” he asked.

“Sure,” Gwen said lightly. “Will I also have to cradle you like an infant afterwards?”

“It’s possible,” Dane said, just as the first signs of dawn’s light appeared on the horizon. “I apologize in advance.”

As it turned out, his next attempt went better. The moment his shadowguard ‘died’, Dane was hit by that overwhelming sense of loss. But this time he jammed his eyes shut and dug his fingernails into his palms until the sensation passed several seconds later. Only a single tear escaped his eyes and tracked down his cheek, and Gwen’s head-cradling services weren’t required.

MUCH BETTER, his blade said. PERHAPS NEXT TIME YOU SHOULD TRY TO KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN. CLOSING YOUR EYES IN THE MIDST OF BATTLE IS A GOOD WAY TO LOSE YOUR HEAD.

Fair point, Dane said. When can I attempt shadowform again?

NOT FOR A WHILE. THE LAST TIME WAS A CLOSE CALL.

Aw, don’t tell me you care what happens to me? That’s so sweet.

I ONLY CARE BECAUSE I NEED YOU TO WIELD ME. I DON’T KNOW WHEN ANOTHER WHO IS ABLE TO WILL COME ALONG. IT COULD BE YEARS.

Always nice to know when you’re being used, Dane said.

IT’S NO DIFFERENT THAN YOUR PLANS TO USE ME TO OVERTHROW YOUR UNCLE.

Dane was about to reply when a bright column of light in the distance clamped his lips shut. He stared at it, unblinking. Could it be?

“What the void was that?” Dom murmured.

“My thoughts exactly,” Gwen said.

Dane had seen that light before, and though it had appeared to burst from the ground miles and miles away somewhere in north Travail, there was no doubt as to its origin:

“Peony,” he breathed. And then: “Domi, fly like the wind. Make for the column of light!”

Even as the command fell from his lips, the column of light vanished.

Fifty-One

Peony Normandian

Near Dragonsmount, Travail

FLINT, FANGHORN AND VERA HAD LEFT A HALF AN HOUR EARLIER, YET STILL NO ENEMIES had appeared to mar the perfection that was the blue sky on this rare sunny day over Travail.

“What is taking so long?” Peony muttered.

“Maybe Drudge is waiting for us to come to him?” Brute suggested.

Fear lanced through Peony’s heart. If he were right, then she’d just sent three of her own into the spider’s web. She’d instructed them to be cautious, but if Drudge set a good enough trap, they could easily be fooled.

“No,” Star said. “He would’ve been surprised to see the light. We might only be a half-hour flight away, but he would’ve required time to prepare his soldiers. You’ve forced his hand. If he does nothing, his allies will begin to question his courage. Trust me, I know my father. He will come, sooner rather than later.”

The dragonrider’s words helped to comfort Peony, but still she paced across the stone. She was tempted to dunk her head in the river just to shock her system into a calmer place. She’d made her mind to do just that when a voice shouted, “There!”

All heads lifted toward the sky. At first Peony saw only an unmarred cerulean sea, but then, as she squinted, small dark forms appeared, moving steadily closer. “How many?” she said aloud. And then, in her head. Daneus! How many?

The dragon lifted his head, gazing in the same direction. His eyesight was far better than hers and he would be able to discern details well before she could. Forty-three, he said. No, forty-four, one was hidden behind another. Forty-four enemies.

Peony didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to. And how many are astride their dragons? Daneus wasn’t moving, his massive jaws clenched tightly together, an occasional plume of smoke bursting from his nostrils as he breathed. Daneus, you must tell me, Peony said. She needed to know how many of their enemies rode dragons and how many had already killed and transformed into their dragons.

None of them, the dragon said.

“What?” Peony said aloud. She turned to meet Star’s and Brutus’s expressions, which she was certain mirrored her own. Shocked. Horrified. Disgusted. “So many,” she said.

“For all we know, he threatened them or coerced them in some other manner,” Brute said. Peony understood what he was trying to do—she felt the need to do the same. Justify the unjustifiable.

“Doesn’t matter,” Star said, her voice strangely calm. “They are our enemies now, and we must treat them as such. We can spare no mercy for those who would murder their own dragons and steal their scales. No matter their reason, what they’ve done is unforgiveable.”

After the enemies had been spotted in the sky, the dragonriders had begun gathering on the large stone occupied by Peony, Star and Brute. Now she turned to address them. “Star is right,” she said. “Those who would twist the sacred bond between rider and dragon are an abomination to the great and proud history of this order. And as such, they require no trial to be accused and convicted of their crimes. The only justice left for them is the swift and decisive execution of all of them, lest any others fall victim to Drudge’s spell. We are outnumbered, but the truth of the storms is in our favor. We must trust in our fellow riders to succeed in their own mission and return to us in time. Who is with me?”

A cheer went up, fists rising to lips and then breathing out the sign of dragonfire.

Peony returned the gesture and then shouted, “Now mount up! Today we ride with claw and wing!”

Peony drew her sword, light splitting the sky in two just as her body began to glow. She took two steps and launched herself into the air, landing astride Daneus in a single bound. The dragon was ready, springing into the air with a roar, powerful wings carrying them over the forest, higher and higher into the sky.

The approaching human-dragon crossbreeds had closed the distance in a hurry, their smaller wings not seeming to affect their speed in the least. If anything, they seemed faster than the dragons they’d once ridden. They were close enough that Peony could see them in more detail now, from their pumping, leathery wings to their scaled humanoid forms to the claws sprouting from their bare feet and hands. Each of their scales were a different color—the color their dragons had once claimed.

She immediately spotted Drudge, with his bright crimson scales, holding position at the center of the line of winged attackers. She glanced at Star, who’d also noticed her father, her eyes burning into his form as he raced toward them. “Steady, Star,” Peony said, fearing the woman and her dragon might make their charge before Peony commanded it.

Star’s gaze remained steadfastly ahead. “I am as steady as the storms,” she said, jaw tensing.

Peony redirected her own gaze back toward the enemy lines, searching for any other familiar forms. Her eyes skated past Semp, Ivan, Morticia—three of the first to follow Drudge down his twisted path. She froze. “What the void?” she said, staring at the form she’d spotted several positions off center from Drudge, the creature’s magenta scales catching the sunlight, shimmering slightly.

There was no mistaking—it was Serennia, her wings beating behind and over her shoulders.

Anger burned through Peony at seeing the woman like this, her features warped, her body scaled and clawed and fanged. When Peony had learned Serennia had been caught and, supposedly, made an example of by Drudge, she’d mourned her. The fact that she’d helped them kindle the fires of rebellion amongst the dragonriders Peony now flew beside felt like a small thing next to her betrayal. For Serennia had done far worse than join Drudge; she’d killed her own dragon, the mighty Serennator.

Why would she do that? Daneus asked. The dragon sounded slightly dazed.

It’s a sickness, Peony said. They are sick, all of them.

“Get ready!” Peony shouted aloud, firming up her grip on her brightblade. All around her, weapons were drawn, the line of dragons like a wall of scales standing before a coming wave. Approximately half the riders were archers, something that Peony hadn’t really thought about given she’d never fought with them before. It made sense, given they would do most, if not all, of their fighting from dragonback.

Their enemies were closing fast, drawing their own weapons—daggers and swords and other hand-to-hand combat weapons that told her they planned to force the fighting into close quarters. Just as Peony was able to see her enemies’ eyes, she said, “Attack!” raising her brightblade in the air, light shooting forth, piercing the sky.

Daneus led the airborne charge, his wings churning the air for several seconds before extending into a graceful coast as he rode a gust of wind. In that moment, several of the smaller, swifter dragons, including Star’s own Starrus, shot past, scything through the air. A wave of arrows joined them, arcing overhead and then falling amongst the enemy lines. The crossbreeds dodged and dove, avoiding the worst of it, though one was struck in the shoulder, a flesh wound that barely slowed his flight.

Now that both sides were moving in opposite directions, the distance between them evaporated faster than a drop of water on a hot stone. Be careful, Peony said to Daneus. We don’t know exactly what to expect from this enemy.

It is they who should be careful, Daneus said, unspent violence heavy in his deep-throated growl. He pumped his wings again and then turned slightly, one of the enemies appearing dead ahead. Come on! Daneus shouted, his common-tongue words punctuated by a very real roar from his maw, followed by a torrent of fire, shooting toward their opponent.

Peony expected the human-dragon to turn away, to dodge the heat-filled blast, but instead the creature flew straight into it, vanishing amidst the flames. Daneus, clearly also surprised, pumped his wings backwards, pulling them into a hover. He clamped his mouth shut and his flames vanished.

Their opponent was still coming, unscathed by the dragonfire, gripping a sword with two clawed hands, extending it outwards like a lance as he careened toward Daneus’s eyes. Peony didn’t think, just acted, racing up her dragon’s neck, using her one free hand to grasp spikes as she went, boots finding purchase in the spaces in between his large platelike scales. She reached the dome of his head at a full gallop, but she didn’t pull to a stop, instead planting one foot firmly and then leaping into the air just as the winged creature reached them.

She whipped her sword hard to the left, shattering his sword in a spray of metal and then back even harder to the right, tearing through his leather armor and scales and bone on one side before continuing the pattern but in opposite on the other side—bone, scales and then armor. The top of him separated from the bottom, blood spurting, crimson droplets spraying into the air in Peony’s wake, filling the sky with a bloody rain.

She fell, her heart leaping in her chest, but not far; as she’d counted on, Daneus’s bond to her had allowed him to recognize her unspoken intention a second before she jumped, the dragon diving for the earth, scooping her up onto his back a few seconds later.

One down, she thought, scanning the aerial battlefield. What she saw horrified her. As she had been, the rest of her dragonriders and their dragons had been caught off guard by their enemies’ imperviousness to fire. She watched as one of the crossbreeds exploded from a blast of dragonfire, twisting around the dragon’s neck and then breathing out fire of his own. The dragonrider, a woman named Lari who Peony had gotten to know a bit over the last week, fell from her mount, wreathed in flames.

Peony’s breath caught as she watched the woman fall, waiting for her blue and white striped dragon, Lariana, to do something, to catch her and then carry her down to the river to douse the flames. Lariana tried, she really did, but by the time she reached her rider she was already gone, nothing left but bits of ash spread by the wind.

Join the storms, Peony found herself thinking, heart heavy.

Lariana’s wings seemed to fail her then, hanging limply as though they’d been broken, the majestic form twisting and spinning as she fell amongst the trees, shattering branches until she landed with a heavy crash. The dragon wasn’t injured—not physically, anyway—and yet she might as well have been, the loss of her rider akin to a stab wound to the heart.

All around Peony, others fell. Two, three, four, five…their numbers dwindling so fast it took her breath away. She spotted one of the dragons diving to escape a trio of crossbreeds sending blasts of fire toward the rider. As the dragon swooped over the top of the forest, some of the fire struck the trees, which immediately burst into flame. Daneus? Peony said, hearing the confusion in her own voice.

It’s not over, the dragon said, pumping his wings once more, charging back into the fray. The next foe they encountered, Daneus didn’t even try breathing fire, instead snapping at the yellow-scaled form with his powerful maw. The crossbreed’s smaller size, however, also seemed to make her more agile, and she dodged easily, stabbing at his neck. Her blade clanked against his scales several times before finding a gap between his natural armor, sinking deep. The dragon roared in anger, trying to twist its head around to get to her. The only problem: she was in a sort of ‘safe zone’, the dragon unable to reach her with his jaws or claws, or even his tail, which snapped upward, the spikes whistling past just short of its intended target.

Peony? Daneus said. His voice sounded as lost and confused as hers had a few moments before, even as the woman raised her blade and struck again, in the same spot, driving the blade in even deeper this time.

I’m coming, Peony said. Can you do that again with your tail after I reach it?

The dragon didn’t answer, instead releasing a mournful cry, presumably because the woman had landed another blow. Hurry, Peony encouraged herself, scrambling down Daneus’s back, dodging spikes. She reached the largest nest of spikes at the very end of his tail and then said, Daneus, I need you to throw me!

The dragon releasing another cry of pain but then the tail, and Peony on it, whipped upwards rapidly, air rushing past. As before, the tail’s trajectory would leave it just short of its target, but that didn’t matter now that Peony was a passenger. Just as the tail reached its penultimate point, she jumped.

The yellow-scaled creature was so focused on drawing her blade and stabbing it into the next weak chink in the dragon’s armor that she wasn’t even aware of the wingless figure flying toward her. Peony stabbed her through the spine just before the woman’s next blow fell, her back arching as she howled with pain. The brightness of the blade seemed to tear through her, bursting from her edges, her seams, and then her body tore apart, the explosion full of such power that it blasted Peony away from Daneus and into empty air.

Once more, she fell.

Nothing was going as planned, Peony thought as she fell, the wind buffeting her body, making even the skin on her face—her cheeks—snap wildly about. Daneus! she called as she realized the dragon hadn’t yet turned and started his dive to save her.

Peony? the dragon said. He sounded confused, like someone who’d just woken up from a long dream.

A little help?

Of course! Urgency returned to his voice and she watched as, high above her, the dragon twisted in the air and then shot directly downward into a dive. The front of his neck, just below his chin, was an apron of dark blood.

HE’S NOT GOING TO MAKE IT IN TIME, her blade warned.

He’ll make it, Peony said. She trusted Daneus with her life.

Hoom, the blade is right, Daneus said, even as he continued his precipitous dive toward her. I got a late start.

A jolt of fear hit Peony in the chest. Am I going to die? she asked.

NO, her blade said. I WILL BEGIN HEALING YOU EVEN BEFORE YOU MAKE CONTACT. BUT IT WILL HURT. A LOT. JUST TRY AND AIM FOR SOMETHING SOFT—LIKE A BUSH. PREFERABLY ONE WITHOUT THORNS.

Are you serious!? Even within the safety of her own mind, Peony could hear the hysteria that had slipped into her response.

YES. WELL, MOSTLY. JUST TRY NOT TO HIT BARE ROCK. REPAIRING A BROKEN SKULL OR SPINE WILL TAKE LONGER AND SAP MY STRENGTH. EVEN SMASHING INTO A FEW BRANCHES ON THE WAY DOWN WILL HELP SLOW YOUR DESCENT.

Peony twisted her body in midair, finally taking her focus off her dragon, who was supposed to catch her, to the ground, which suddenly didn’t appear so distant, the forest appearing to rise to meet her halfway. It’s not like I can steer, she said. I don’t exactly have wings!

DO YOUR BEST, her blade advised.

Oh gods, Peony thought. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods…

It was one of those moments where you can see the inevitable about to occur, but you are powerless to stop it. Like a glass vase knocked from a shelf, just out of reach, careening toward the floor where it will shatter. During those moments, Peony remembered, time usually felt like it had slowed down, as though someone was playing a trick on you, mocking you, making it seem like you still had a chance to do something. But no matter how fast you were, or how quickly you reacted, the vase was fated to break into a hundred shards, broken forever.

Except in this case the vase is me, and I’m the one going to break, Peony thought. Also, time didn’t seem to be slowing down at all. If anything, it was speeding up, the fiery forest rushing toward her faster and faster. She knew she was supposed to try to contort her body to hit some branches or aim for something soft or at least something not hard, but Peony gave into her instinct, which was to close her eyes, tuck her knees to her chest, and brace for impact.

Peony, watch out! Daneus cried.

Peony’s eyes flashed open just in time to catch a glimpse of a reddish-purple streak barreling toward her. She tried to bring her brightblade to bear but was too slow, the form crashing into her, arms roping around her from behind a split-second before she would’ve gone crashing through the forest’s tangled canopy.

The arms around her were strong and determined, but in brightform, Peony was stronger. She began to pry one of Serennia’s arms away…

“What are you doing?” Serennia shrieked. “I’m trying to save you, you idiot!”

Peony stopped fighting. Beneath them, branches and leaves streaked past as they skimmed over the enflamed forest. Smoke was spouting from the wood in long chimneys, black at their base but dissipating into gray and then white tendrils. Because the woman-dragon-creature was holding her from behind, Peony couldn’t see her face. “Save me?” Peony spat, coughing as some of the smoke crawled inside her mouth. “You murdered your own dragon. The last person I need to save me is you.”

She felt Serennia’s body shudder and then she swooped into a long, downward arc, weaving expertly through a gap between the trees before landing in a small clearing well away from the worst of the forest fire. She released Peony, who leapt free, whirling about and raising her brightblade.

Peony? Daneus said.

I can’t right now, Peony said. But I’m fine.

Serennia shielded her eyes from the light with a hand as her leathery wings tucked behind her. Her other hand dashed tears from her cheeks. “Kill me,” the woman said. “Please, just kill me.”

Peony thought of the gorgeous dragon this woman had once been bonded with. This despicable woman had stolen the dragon’s goodness and life, all for what? So she could breathe fire and fly around like a vicious bird of prey? “Serennator deserved better,” Peony said.

“I know. Now please, kill me. I’m ready.” More tears streaked down Serennia’s scaled cheeks.

“Gladly,” Peony said through clenched teeth. “But first, tell me why.”

“It won’t change anything.”

“I need to know. Tell me.”

“I won’t make excuses for my actions.”

“There are no excuses. Just tell me what happened.”

The creature that was once Serennia took a shallow, shaky breath, fangs glinting inside her mouth. “I wanted to spread the word further. There were a few more riders I suspected would be on our side, especially after they read the book you gave me. I made a mistake—I was wrong about one of them.”

“Oren,” Peony said, remembering what Flint had told her almost a week ago.

Serennia nodded. “Drudge was livid. I tried to escape, but they bound me. Serennator—” A sob choked from her throat and she closed her eyes, seeming to gather her emotions. Peony stared at her, frowning, trying to understand. She was clearly distraught by her dragon’s death, and yet it was she who’d murdered the creature or else the transformation wouldn’t have occurred. Her eyes opened and she continued. “—Serennator tried to save me. He fought for me, but there were too many other dragons loyal to riders who were loyal to Drudge. I heard his cries of pain as they dug their claws into him and bit him, pinning him down. Drudge was going to kill him, and then me. I couldn’t have his death be for nothing, I couldn’t let anyone else be the one to end the beautiful life that was his, it had to be—it had to be me. He asked me to do it—why did he ask me to do it?” Her body shook on the last word, her body wracked by sobs. “So I lied,” she continued, voice cracking, tears cascading over her chin and sliding down her neck. “I told Drudge I wanted to walk the Path of Storms. I thought maybe I could make Serennator’s death matter by pretending to join him and then work against him from the inside. So I killed him, my beautiful, perfect dragon, my bond, my life. I killed Serennator. So now you see? You must kill me. I deserve to die.”

Any anger Peony felt for the woman vanished in an instant, her heart breaking for her. She couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like, how strong she would’ve had to be to carry out her dragon’s final, dying request. Even worse, to have the reminder of what she’d done adorning her very body every second of every day.

A roar drew their attention skyward and reminded Peony that she’d lingered too long in the clearing. She needed to return to the sky, to help the others.

“I won’t kill you,” Peony said. “Because you don’t deserve to die, even though I understand why you ask it of me. I would ask the same of you if our situations were reversed.”

“Please,” Serennia said. “Please.”

The hopelessness in her voice stabbed at Peony’s chest, but her mind was set. It was her fault—all of it. If she’d not asked so much of Serennia or come up with a different—better—plan, mayhaps things would’ve turned out differently. Mayhaps Serennator would still be alive. “If you deserve to die, then so do I,” Peony said. “But we are not dead. And there are other dragons still alive, ones we can save. I can’t do it alone. Will you help me?” Peony extended her free hand in Serennia’s direction.

Serennia stared at her fingers, confusion knotting her expression. “I…I don’t understand.”

“I know. But you don’t have to. Drudge must pay for what he’s done. The others too, those who chose to kill their dragons because they wanted to. Then, once they are defeated, if you still want me to kill you, I will.”

Serennia’s eyes, wet and red, burned into hers. “Swear it.”

“I swear on Daneus’s life,” Peony said.

Serennia breathed through her nose. Then she stepped forward and took Peony’s hand, her scaled fingers cool to the touch. “Then I swear on Serennator’s memory that I will help you kill Drudge.”

Peony nodded, their pact complete. “Fly me back to Daneus,” she said.

Serennia had returned Peony to Daneus’s back, and now they assessed the ongoing battle. While they’d been in the forest, the situation had grown even worse. Two more dragons and their riders were missing, either dead or injured badly enough to be unable to fly. Their disadvantage in numbers was worsening.

Peony spotted Starrus and Brutus, the dragons streaking across the sky. They converged on one of the enemy crossbreeds, Ivan, Starrus snapping at him while Brutus swung his massive tail hard from the other side. Ivan managed to dodge the tail but wasn’t quick enough to avoid Starrus’s jaws, which clamped onto his body.

When the dragon’s mouth opened, Ivan’s wings were mangled, his body bent awkwardly as he fell toward the ground. Peony immediately realized that the pair had a plan far beyond teaming up against Ivan, their dragons swooping in the same direction.

Toward Drudge.

Peony’s heart leapt. Though the crossbreeds continued to hold the advantage in numbers, if they could kill Drudge, the loss of the enemy leader had the potential to sow seeds of confusion that may turn the tide in their favor. Go! Peony shouted to Daneus, but she needn’t have, his wings already churning them toward the others. Serennia zipped past them, her speed impressive.

Peony’s brightblade drew their enemies like moths to a flame. First there were three, then six, then ten enemies encircling them as they flew, darting in to stab at Daneus while he tried to hold them at bay with snaps from his jaws or flicks of his tail. Serennia also helped, darting this way and that, meeting her own kind’s blades with her own, which she drew from a hip sheath. She cut down one enemy, then another.

The sheer numbers of their opponents, however, soon became too much for her. Morticia met Serennia from the front, while Semp circled behind. Peony shouted a warning, but it made no difference. Serennia blocked Morticia’s blow and then tried to spin to deflect Semp’s stab, managing to bring her blade up in a cross-guard position, catching his sword on the broadside of her own. That was when Morticia struck again, stabbing her through the back, the blade slipping between scaled plates and penetrating flesh.

“No!” Peony cried, watching as Morticia withdrew her blade, blood dripping from its edge.

As Serennia’s wings failed her and she fell, her eyes met Peony’s. Her lips formed a single, soundless word: Go.

It was an impossible decision. If they dove for the ground now, maybe they would be fast enough to save Serennia, who had already saved her from a brutal crash landing. But they were being harried by other enemies on all sides, their own lives in danger. Not to mention Star and Brute were on a collision course with Drudge, which meant they needed any support she could provide.

This is what it means to be Dragonmistress of Travail, she thought, the responsibility weighing heavily on her shoulders. The responsibility to decide who lives and who dies. A term she’d heard her father use before, ‘the greater good’, rattled around in her head. When she was a young girl, she’d asked him about its meaning. His response had been: “To put the lives of the masses above the lives of one.”

She knew what she had to do. Without being commanded, Daneus charged after Brutus and Starrus.

Serennia

The fiery forest engulfed her, branches slashing at her from all sides as she fell. The pain from her wound ached in her back, paralyzing her. She knew her wings were undamaged, but she refused to make them beat. No, this was her time. She’d earned this the moment she’d begun to carve through Serennator’s neck, vision blurred with tears that could never fall.

Her hip clipped a thick branch, sending her spinning, the world spiraling about her like a child twisting the colors of a kaleidoscope. It was, Serennia realized, so beautiful. How can the world still be beautiful when he is dead? she wondered to herself, righteous anger rising inside her. How dare it? It should be dark and miserable and full of shadows and ruin.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t.

Even the death of a creature as magnificent as her dragonbond couldn’t deny the world its beauty. In that unexpected moment of realization, of truth, Serennia realized something else:

She didn’t want to die.

Her wings, which were tucked tightly behind her, unfurled, catching the air, pumping as she tried to gain control of her fall. But she was too close to the ground already, her breakneck descent made worse by the way her body was twisting end over end. Using her wings helped slow her pace, but she was unable to force her legs beneath her as she careened into a crash landing in the river as it cut a narrow path through the greater forest.

Icy water churned around her. She could let it pull her under, waiting until the last possible second to kick for the surface. She would run out of breath before she made it. It would almost be easy. No, she thought, another wave of determination crashing through her. She pulled downwards, forcing the water beneath her as she shot upwards.

With a gasp, she emerged, the current carrying her rapidly downstream. Despite the cold of the water, her back felt like it was on fire. Don’t think about it, she thought, kicking toward the near bank, where a rock jutted out into the current. She reached for it, but wasn’t close enough, the water dragging her swiftly past. Just ahead was a series of whitewater rapids bubbling between stones sanded smooth by the river’s persistent march.

Serennia kicked harder for the nearest embankment, which had veered away from her after passing the large rock. She wasn’t going to make it. But then she spied a branch that had broken, perhaps during a storm, its leafy entrails having fallen into the water, partially submerged. The upper portion of the branch, however, was cracked but not fully severed, still tethered to the tree’s thick trunk.

She kicked as hard as she could, pain lancing through her with each movement, teeth grinding together as the submerged leaves flashed past.

She lunged, clawed fingers groping for anything that would slow her passage. There! Her hand closed around a fistful of leaves, which made her body swing through the water like it was attached to a pendulum. The leaves began to tear free…

She threw her other arm out, managing to grasp hold of the actual branch this time, albeit the narrowest part, which bent under her weight and the relentless drag of the river. Growling from the back of her throat, Serennia worked her way hand over hand along the branch, the embankment drawing ever nearer.

Finally, her muscles burning and exhausted, she pulled her way up onto one of the rocks, flopping onto her chest. Just breathing, her back on fire. For some reason, she tilted her head to gaze down into the water, which was surprisingly calm below her as it formed a small pool out of the river’s main current. She saw her own hideous reflection staring back at her.

At first all she saw was a stranger, a terrifying, unnatural creature that shouldn’t exist—that should’ve never existed—its skin all wrong, its features distorted, its mouth filled with horrifying fangs…

But then she found her own eyes. She flinched, surprised. For the eyes staring back at her were not those of a stranger at all, but her own, unchanged. I’m not dead, she thought. Not yet.

Blood coating her hand as she clutched at the hole in her back, she stood.

Dane

As it had turned out, Domi had flown faster than the wind, Travail’s unforgiving, rocky terrain passing beneath them in a blur. As they flew, Dane searched the horizon for another blast of light, questions cycling through his mind. Was it really Peony or someone else wielding a brightblade? And why had the light vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared? Was she hurt?

The scariest question of all resulted from his attempt to connect to Daneus through their bond. An attempt that, like all the others, failed. If the light had been caused by Peony’s brightblade, then where was Daneus? Dane was more than close enough to connect to the dragon now, assuming the dragon was anywhere near the spot where the column of light had originated.

At some point, the light had reappeared, but not in the form of a column—more like a general glow around the distant forest, which Dane knew to be the wood just to the east of Dragonsmount. Soon after, smoke began to pour from the top of the wood, too much to be from a mere campfire. It was obvious: the forest was afire. Dane tried again to connect with Daneus, but the result was the same. It didn’t make any sense. The answer continued to elude him as the forest drew closer and closer.

Specks appeared in the sky in the distance, just as they reached the edge of the wood. “Are those…,” Dom said, the question trailing off as he squinted.

“Yes, dragons,” Gwen said, her keen Orian eyes gifted with the long sight to rival a dragon.

“Is Daneus there?” Dane asked quickly. “His scales match the dye of my skin.”

“Yes,” Gwen said. “I see him. There is someone mounted on his back.” She paused, leaning forward slightly. “Her skin is half his color, half pale white. She wields a blade made of light.”

Dane’s breath caught in his chest. Peony. Oh gods, is it really you? “What is happening?” he asked.

“It appears to be a battle. There are—oh! By Orion’s crooked staff, what evil…”

“Tell me,” Dane said, preparing himself for the worst.

It was far worse than he could’ve imagined, Gwen’s description of the dragonlike humans like something out of a nightmare. Daneus! he shouted. Hoom! Daneus!

No response. Why couldn’t he connect with the dragon through their bond? He was close enough to see him now, Daneus soaring in the opposite direction, harried on all sides by the winged abominations Gwen had described. He could even see Peony, brightblade gripped in her hand as she clung to Daneus’s neck spikes.

Other dragons clarified, ten or maybe twelve of them, including Starrus with her tiger-striped scales and Brutus’s muscled brown form. Daneus and Peony chased after them, the trio charging toward one of the winged creatures painted the color of blood.

Drudge.

“It’s him,” Dane breathed.

“Our uncle,” Dom agreed. “He is behind this evil. Of course, he is.”

As they rocketed toward the battle, the trio of dragons and their riders clashed with the winged creatures amongst columns of smoke. Peony’s godblade flashed to life.

Peony

Peony felt helpless on Daneus’s back as their enemies swirled around them, constantly trying to slip within the dragon’s defenses to slash at his throat, which was bleeding so profusely it was like a constant red waterfall dripping off his flanks. He’d lost a lot of blood already. He wouldn’t be able to last much longer.

I’m fine, Daneus said. Don’t worry about me.

I will always worry about you, Peony said, an idea popping into her head. Blade, what happens if I throw you?

AS LONG AS NO ONE ELSE CLAIMS ME FOR THEIR OWN, I WILL RETURN TO YOU UPON COMMAND.

Now that’s useful, she thought. More useful than hitting myself in the head with a bolt of lightning.

IT’S CALLED BRIGHTSTRIKE, AND ONCE YOU MASTER IT, YOU WON’T BE SO QUICK TO MAKE JOKES.

Maybe so, Peony said. But I need something I can use now. Which means throwing you. Any chance you’ll be able to ensure you fly point first?

THAT’S MY FAVORITE WAY TO FLY, the blade said.

It was a good enough answer for Peony. She watched as one of their enemies scythed toward them, blade shining in the sunlight. She tracked the creature’s movement as he began to slow, preparing to evade the dragon’s defenses.

He wasn’t ready for a ranged attack from the dragon’s rider, however.

She raised the sword over her shoulder, muscles tensing, her brightform pulsing slightly in anticipation. With a jolt, she brought her hand forward sharply, releasing the blade. She lost brightform the second the hilt left her fingertips, her color dimming back to normal.

She watched in anticipation as the blade flew toward its target in a blaze of light. Her enemy realized the danger too late, the blade punching into his gut as he tried to twist away, a blast of light searing through him.

The blade vanished.

Return, Peony said. She gasped as the blade appeared in her grip once more, light pouring off it like glowing smoke. Brightform. Light coursed from her own body again, strength rushing into her limbs.

As Daneus charged forward, searching for another enemy, Peony scanned the sky. Another two dragons and their riders were down, their numbers dwindling at a faster rate than their enemies. If the trend continued, they would soon be wiped out, their fate sealed by the logic of basic math. Drudge was still too well-protected, his winged army cutting off Brute’s and Star’s attempt to get close to him on dragonback, forcing their winged steeds into a hover as they fought off attacker after attacker.

Brutus in particular was struggling now, one of his wings torn in several places, having to pump twice as fast as the other wing just to keep the heavy dragon aloft. Just as Peony realized the danger the brown dragon and his rider were in, so did their enemies, temporarily ignoring everything else as they charged for the laboring beast. Hurry, Daneus! Peony cried.

She felt hope slipping away, but then another cry drew her attention. She spotted one of the other riders on his dragon. He was pointing toward the west. She followed his gaze, seeing nothing but bright, blue sky and then—

There! she shouted to Daneus.

Yes! the dragon said. I see them!

For there they were, still distant but closing the gap quickly, a legion of dragons. At least twenty, by Peony’s count. Flint, Fanghorn and Vera had arrived with reinforcements, those dragons and their riders who had been imprisoned when they’d been unwilling to murder their own dragons.

A shout from the opposite side returned Peony’s focus to the battle at hand. Brutus was still being attacked from all sides. Daneus wheeled about, making for the large dragon at the same time as Starrus attempted to do the same thing. Two winged creatures were hacking at Brutus’s throat now, and two more slipped past a heavy slap of his spiked tail, landing on his back. Brute released his dragon’s neck spikes, swinging his powerful sword at the stowaways. They had a major advantage, however, using their wings to take to the air, dodging his attempted slashes and then flanking him. One stabbed him from the left while the other stabbed him from the right, their swords crossing in the middle as they sank all the way through him.

A moment later, a half dozen more enemies slashed at Brutus’s one good wing, tearing off ribbons of leather that flapped like banners in the wind. Brute and his dragon hung in the air for a moment. And then fell like a dropped stone.

Dane

They were still several hundred feet away from the heaviest fighting—which surrounded Peony, Star and Brute—when Dane saw Brutus tumble from the sky.

“NO!” Dane shouted. “Domi, down! We must go down!”

“It’s too late,” Dom said sadly. “You can’t save him.”

“We have to try,” Dane said. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

“What about Peony and your uncle?” Gwen asked.

Dane had already spotted the reinforcements arriving from the west. He didn’t know who they were or why they were here, but they were riders on dragonback, not the gruesome abominations his uncle and his followers had become. He had to trust that they would arrive in time. He had to trust that Peony and Daneus would be safe.

He did trust them, more than anything.

“We’ll return to the sky as soon as we can,” he said. “Now please.” Brutus had already plummeted into the burning forest, entire trees shaking as the dragon crashed amongst them.

“Domi,” Dom said. “Do what my brother said.”

The dragon angled his long snout downward and dove for the forest.

Peony

As Peony fought warring emotions—jubilation at the sight of Flint and the others coming to help and horror as Brutus’s massive form vanished amongst the forest’s dense foliage and flames—she caught sight of something else on the edge of her vision. She turned rapidly, spotting a streak of black just as it, too, disappeared into the smoking wood.

She’d thought it looked like a dragon. Did you see that? she asked Daneus.

Not with my own eyes. But I caught a glimpse through yours. I agree, it looked like a dragon. Should we investigate?

Peony shook her head, twisting her gaze away to refocus on the battle at hand. Now that Brutus had been taken down, their enemies were targeting Starrus, swooping in from all sides and forcing the more agile, tiger-striped dragon to duck and dive to avoid their blades and claws. No, we need to help Star, she said. All we can do is hope Brute and Brutus survived.

I agree, Daneus said. Once more, they flew into the thick of the battle.

Dane

The moment Domi landed, Dane leapt off his back, landing awkwardly and tumbling hard onto his side. Ignoring the bite of pain in his hip, he shoved to his feet and charged through the smoky wood in the direction he’d seen Brutus disappear, calling, “Brute! Brutus!”

There was no answer except the sounds of his brother’s and Gwen’s boots as they dismounted behind him and gave chase.

“Brute! Brutus!” he tried again.

This time he thought he heard a sound. Not an answer exactly, but a low groan or a growl perhaps. He made for the noise, slapping branches and brambles away with his arm, gritting his teeth against the pinpricks of pain from the meaningless slashes cut into his skin.

Hearing a noise to the left, he stopped, searching the undergrowth. A massive tree with roots crawling in every direction blocked his sight forward. Its uppermost boughs were cloaked in flames, creeping down the trunk. He scrambled around it, spying Brutus’s enormous brown form first, rising just ahead like a spiked hill.

The dragon wasn’t moving.

A smaller form was pulling himself toward the dragon using only his arms, dragging dead legs behind him. His body was singed and smoking.

“Brute!” Dane exclaimed, hurrying forward to his friend’s side. “Brute, you need to rest and—” He stopped when he saw the twin blades penetrating the man’s thick chest and poking from his back, a sheet of blood drenching his leathers. Blood dribbled from the edge of his lips. “Oh Brute. Oh no,” Dane said. “We need to get you help. I will get you help. You’re going to be fine, I swear it.”

“It’s too…late,” Brute murmured, more blood trickling from his mouth. With a groan, he rolled over onto his back. “Brutus is already gone. I need to go with him.”

“No,” Dane said, blinking away tears. “No, I refuse to let you give up on yourself. You will survive this. You will.”

“You are my…best friend,” Brute said. “So I demand that…you listen to me. I want…to touch…Brutus. Please.”

Dane shook his head but wouldn’t refuse his friend’s wishes. “I’m sorry, this is going to hurt,” he said, bending his knees and working his arms under Brute’s knees and armpits, his friend’s heavy arm flopping around his neck. With a groan of his own, he lifted the large man into his arms, staggering slightly before moving forward toward the dragon. Brute hissed through his teeth with each jolting step.

When he reached Brutus, Dane lowered his friend as gently as possible to the ground. “Thank you,” Brute said, placing his hand on the dragon’s scales and closing his eyes. “There. Right where I…should be. Now leave…me. I am one with…Brutus. Go to her, to Peony. You must hurry.”

Dane touched his shoulder, his grip firm. Brute’s eyes opened and met his. Dane knew what his friend saw on his face. His fury. His determination. His vengeance.

Then he stood and ran.

Peony

The reinforcements had arrived with the roaring of dragons and thumping of wings and cheering from those of the rebels still alive. The arrival of more dragonriders and their mounts had an immediate impact, forcing Drudge’s winged army to spread themselves out to avoid being killed in groups. The air was filled with arrows sent speeding from the bows of the newcomers, many of them hitting their targets or at least distracting their enemies and forcing them into a defensive posture.

Slowly, the tide began to turn.

Peony spotted Star, who, buoyed by the reinforcements, made another charge toward her father, who hovered high in the sky, protected by a trio of crossbreeds. The guards attempted to encircle Starrus, one holding his position while the other two flanked from each side, but the tiger-striped dragon was a force of nature, barreling straight ahead, clamping her jaws around the enemy in the center before he could react. In the same motion, she flicked her spiked tail hard to one side, impaling one of the flankers with no fewer than three spikes. Star herself dispatched the third opponent with an expertly flung dagger to the throat.

Drudge was suddenly exposed, unprotected.

Peony reached Star’s side just as her dragon drew herself into a hover across from Drudge’s winged form. “He is mine,” Star said, not looking at Peony as she stared at the man who’d given her life, who’d raised her.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Peony said. “You are not alone.”

“If you want to help, make sure we’re not interrupted.”

“Just…be careful,” Peony said.

Finally, Star looked at her. For a brief moment her serious expression vanished, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, Dragonmistress. We’re not friends, remember?”

“Of course not,” Peony said dismissively. “I’m worried about Starrus, not you.”

Star laughed. “That’s fair. Now, seriously, hold off any other enemies while I murder my father.” Starrus’s wings beat the air and the dragon leapt forward, shooting toward a waiting Drudge.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Daughter,” Peony heard Drudge say. “All you have to do is join us. Together we can rule the skies!”

Star’s only response was a shout of defiance as Starrus charged forward, jaws opening.

Drudge waited until the last possible second and then flew out of the way of the barreling dragon, ducking to avoid the flick of her spiked tail she offered behind her. The dragon curled around, preparing for another attack.

Incoming! Daneus shouted. Several of the crossbreeds had noticed the breach in their leader’s defenses and were now flying toward the area. Daneus had already spun in midair and was now racing to cut off the newcomers’ approach.

Ready to fly again? Peony asked her blade.

OR…A WELL-AIMED BRIGHTSTRIKE MIGHT DO JUST THE TRICK, the blade suggested.

No. I—I can’t. I’m not ready for that.

SUIT YOURSELF. THROW ME HARD AND TRUE!

The enemy flyers were closing in fast, spreading themselves out to ensure at least a few of them managed to skirt past Daneus’s range. Something about the way they were positioned stood out to her, like it was a formation of sorts, almost like a…

Flock of birds, she thought, noticing the distinct V they’d formed, with one at the head and two angled on each side, staggered slightly further back. How do you feel about three for one? she asked.

I CAN DO IT. BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO THROW ME EXTRA HARD, FULL BRIGHTFORM HARD. UNDERSTOOD?

What are you two going on about? Daneus asked.

Just hold us steady—no sudden turns.

I’m always steady, Daneus said. You and that bondmate of yours are the flighty ones.

Peony ignored the dragon, focusing on the angles of her enemies, waiting for them to come into alignment with Daneus’s path. Somewhere toward the west she heard a roar that sounded like it came from Starrus, but she didn’t turn toward it. Star didn’t need to be rescued. She needed time, and Peony was determined to give it.

Wait for it…, Peony said as the gap closed even further, the angle almost perfect… Now! She released Daneus’s neck spike, widening her stance for balance, and then threw her brightblade as hard as she could, aiming for the lead flyer but on an angle. The brightblade flared even brighter as it flew, slicing through the gusts of wind as though they were nothing but gentle breezes.

The lead rider never stood a chance. The blade sank into his chest with a blast of light that was bright even to Peony’s eyes. As the light dimmed, the crossbreed was gone while the blade continued to fly. The second rider’s eyes widened, and she tried to veer out of danger, but this only caused the blade to sink into her shoulder with another flash that left Peony temporarily blinking spots away from her vision. Once more, the rider was gone and the blade flew true, headed for the final flyer in the line.

This time, the winged creature was ready, already diving down several feet, the blade slicing harmlessly overhead. Daneus, however, had not been idle while the blade had been cutting down their enemies. The dragon had banked sharply toward the combatants, almost as if he were expecting at least one of them to escape the thrown blade. Thus, as the third flyer craned his neck upwards, watching the blade scythe past, Daneus was already swinging his mighty tail.

Thump! Peony had to look away, cringing as the crossbreed was massacred in midflight, his mangled body twisting awkwardly as he dropped. It was a brutal kill, and yet this was war. Sometimes, this was what it meant to stand up for that which was right and good.

There were still two more enemy flyers, and now they shot past before either Peony or Daneus had a chance to react. Return, Peony said in her mind, and the blade appeared in her grip, as bright and beautiful as ever. She turned toward the escaping enemies, preparing to throw the blade again.

With an ear-splitting roar, Fanghorn’s and Vera’s dragons dropped from above, each taking one of the crossbreeds, crushing them between their powerful jaws. The dragons, Fangar and Verazzi, released their prizes, the bodies bent and broken as they fell toward the forest. Then they wheeled about and flew past Daneus, who carved a space between them. “Thanks for the assist,” Peony hollered. Vera only smiled while Fanghorn beat his chest with one meaty fist.

Daneus shot forward once more and Peony was able to refocus on Star and her father, who continued to play an aerial game of cat and mouse, with Starrus attacking and Drudge evading her time and time again. He’s trying to tire the dragon out, Peony thought.

Yes, Daneus agreed. He’s using their anger against them.

It might’ve worked, too, except for one thing: Drudge underestimated his own daughter’s will to tear him from the sky. On Starrus’s next pass, which Drudge easily dodged again, Star wasn’t content to bide her time on dragonback, launching herself off the dragon’s scaled form and into empty space, as though she were the one with wings rather than her father.

She slammed into him, grabbing hold of Drudge with one arm and stabbing at him with a dagger gripped in her opposite hand. At first, Peony thought she was going for his head or chest, trying to land a killing stroke, but then she realized the courageous, tenacious, foolish dragonrider was hacking at Drudge’s wings, trying to cut them from his very back. Drudge seemed to recognize his daughter’s intentions at the same moment, managing to twist just enough to keep his wings out of reach, but then Star screamed and brought the blade down once more.

Drudge froze, eyes going wide as he realized what had happened, his own daughter’s dagger tearing through his left wing. Star’s teeth clenched together as she dragged the knife’s edge toward her, carving through the thick, leathery skin.

There was a moment where Drudge’s right wing continued to beat furiously, keeping them aloft, but as more and more air poured through the widening rend in his left wing, gravity took hold. The pair fell, bodies twisting as they continued to grapple for control of the knife.

Dive! Peony shouted. Daneus reacted instantaneously, head angling down, drawing the rest of his body behind him as he plummeted. Peony was forced to release her blade, which disappeared in an eyeblink, as her legs flung up behind her and she gripped the dragon’s neck spikes with both hands.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Starrus, the dragon’s tiger-striped form having also shifted into an all-out dive as she raced after her rider. She was smaller, faster, and was just starting to pull ahead when Drudge’s right wing shot out, catching the wind and causing the duo to swoop toward the west, skimming just over the tops of the trees. The maneuver slowed their descent but wasn’t enough to stop it completely. As Daneus leveled out of his dive, Peony could do nothing but watch as the woman and her father crashed through the forest canopy.

Starrus charged after her, entire trees shaking and then toppling as the dragon thundered toward the ground. Should I follow? Daneus asked.

Peony felt frantic. Every instinct urged her to scream, Yes, you fool! Go, go, go! but she hesitated. There was a reason that dragons didn’t recklessly crash into thick parts of the forest, instead searching for carefully selected clearings large enough to squeeze into. A broken tree trunk could quickly turn into a dragon-sized spear capable of skewering one of the beasts. There wasn’t time to find such a clearing, which could be a great distance from where Star and Drudge had landed. Even if it meant great pain for her, she wouldn’t put Daneus at risk unnecessarily.

No, she said. And then: Brightform! Her blade reappeared in her hand, her body already starting to glow. Rejoin the battle, Daneus. This ends today.

And then she jumped, hoping it wouldn’t hurt as much as she thought it would.

Serennia

The air was thick with smoke as Serennia staggered onwards, clutching her wound, trying to apply pressure but feeling her own strength ebbing away with each step. Half of the forest felt like it was on fire now, not that it mattered to her, living flames that had once been her dragon’s roiling inside her. Flying would be easier, but she was too weak, and anyway, the wings protruding from her back were not hers to use.

She vowed to never use them again.

Just ahead, she saw a crimson form careen through the trees, body twisting, wings beating awkwardly, barely managing to slow its speed before thumping to the forest floor. She would recognize that bright red color anywhere, though there was something strange about it now, flashes of orange and black amidst the red. Star! she thought. It had to be.

She bit off a cry, fighting the pain and ignoring the pump of blood between her fingers as she loped into an awkward run, pushing for the spot she’d seen the conjoined forms come crashing down. She stopped suddenly, lurching back as a much larger form came thundering from above. A tree wreathed in flames snapped like a toothpick, slamming to the ground across her path, just where she would’ve been had she kept running. Sparks exploded in all directions, setting several new fires.

The dragon came next, powerful hind legs crushing the enflamed tree underfoot, crunching it to hot cinders. Starrus’s head twisted around, searching the forest, searching, searching and finding her.

Less than ten feet away, the dragon’s eyes met hers, narrowing slightly. The dragon’s mouth opened and she roared, a blast of hot air rushing over Serennia, the sound so loud she was momentarily deafened. She should’ve been scared, as this dragon was supposed to be her enemy now. To her surprise, she was calm, perhaps the calmest she’d ever felt in her life. The most certain. “Kill me if you must,” she said. “But I only want to help Star.”

The dragon roared again, and in that sound Serennia could hear pain and anger and frustration and fear. And in its wake, agreement. The dragon twisted around and lumbered in the opposite direction, trees bending and snapping before it.

Serennia ran after her, ignoring the heat of the coals beneath her scaled feet.

Peony

The fiery forest rushed past Peony on all sides, a blur of green and brown and red and orange. Her heart was lodged somewhere in her throat, her breath trapped in her lungs, her teeth clenched as she braced for impact, the ground rushing up toward her.

I’VE GOT YOU, her blade said, words that might’ve provided comfort if not for the fact that she was falling at breakneck speed into a fiery inferno.

She’d been prepared for the worst, and yet the reality was even more horrible than her wildest imagination. She heard the bones of her legs snap in half as they slammed into the ground and she was thrown violently forward, her body twisting and contorting wildly as it was flung amongst the brambles of a spindly bush. Some of the bush’s branches snapped before her while others stabbed into her skin, one penetrating all the way through her hand. Another punched into her throat, making her gasp. Her entire world was pain, her mind unable to focus on anything else. Somewhere she heard someone shouting for her, but the voice might as well have been a whisper in the midst of a tempest.

“Ahh,” she moaned as she lay broken amongst the brambles. Somehow, her arms hadn’t broken, her legs bearing the brunt of the brutal landing. She growled as she dragged the bramble from her hand, staring at the hole in her palm. Remarkably, the amount of blood from the wound was small, barely a trickle.

As she stared, the wound began to glow, the tattered edges of her skin brightening as the hole closed. NOW YOUR THROAT, PEONY, the blade said, its voice finally penetrating the thick layer of fog that had settled over her mind.

Peony tightened her jaw, counted to three, and then grabbed the branch with both hands. She tasted copper in her mouth and there was a squelching sound as she wrenched the stick from her neck. Blood pumped from the wound like water from a hole in a damn, spreading down her chest. Just as soon as it had started, however, the flow of blood slowed and then stopped completely. The pain vanished with the flow of blood. Breathing became easier. Peony spat the blood from her mouth and raised her hand to her throat, feeling the smooth skin that had replaced the ragged flesh that had been there a moment ago.

NOW THE LEGS, the blade said. AFTERWARDS, I WILL NEED TO REST. YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO USE BRIGHTFORM FOR A WHILE. UNDERSTOOD?

Yes, Peony managed to think back. Losing brightform was a small loss compared to her broken legs. She craned her neck, cringing as another wave of pain threatened to drag her into the darkness. Her legs were bent the wrong way, splinters of bone protruding from her flesh and poking through her battle leathers.

Her legs began to glow.

Star

Star had been willing to die, if that’s what was necessary to end her father’s reign of terror. She’d shown her anger to Peony and Brute, but not her sadness. Every second of every day since her father’s transformation she’d felt like someone was repeatedly punching her in the stomach.

She stood at the same time as he did, his crimson scales made brighter by the firelight shining all around them. The heat was almost unbearable, but she barely noticed it as they circled.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Drudge said. Even his voice was different now, still deep and confident, but with a hollow sound to it, as though he were speaking from inside a cave. Flames licked his lips as he spoke, smoke roiling from his fang-filled maw.

“What you did is unforgivable. What you continue to do. The dragon to rider bond is sacred. It is everything. And you’ve twisted it into something foul and disgusting. You disgust me, Father.”

Drudge had yet to draw the sword sheathed at his hip, and now he took a step toward her, lifting his clawed hands. “You say these things only because you don’t understand. Let me help you understand. The Path of Storms will not destroy your bond with Starrus, it will enhance it. I’ve never felt closer to Drudgea than I do now!”

Star hated the maniacal excitement in her father’s eyes. “Drudgea is dead,” she said.

“No,” Drudge said, shaking his head. “I can still hear her voice. She strengthens me. She wanted this, too. To become one. To achieve the True Bonding! It’s a beautiful, glorious thing!”

Something broke inside her at his words. This was the man who’d loved her unconditionally, encouraged her unfailingly, believed in her completely. He was all the things to her that her mother had failed to be. To see him so confident in his delusions clawed at her heartstrings. She didn’t want to kill him. She wanted to help him.

But what if she couldn’t? What if he was too far gone? Allowing him to live would put all of Travail at risk as his lies and false promises led others astray. The blood of dragons would be on her own hands.

She couldn’t be responsible for more spilled blood.

She leapt forward, clamping one hand around his throat and pressing the tip of the dagger against his skin close beside it. To her surprise, he didn’t fight her, his eyes meeting hers, the only part of him that had been unchanged by his horrific transformation. “If you need to do this, then do it, Daughter. I will not try to stop you.”

Star’s entire body tensed. All she had to do was shove the dagger forward an inch, maybe two, and it would be over. But his eyes. His eyes were not those of the creature he’d become, but of the man she’d loved. A man she still loved, a man who might be trapped inside there somewhere.

She hesitated, breathing slowly through her nose, the tension beginning to ebb from her body as she thought of the words that might get through to him.

That’s when her father launched his own attack.

One of his clawed hands slashed out, digging into her arm and forcing her to drop the dagger. She sprang back, caught off guard, shocked by the depth of the cuts in her arm. As blood dripped from her flesh, she could see the white bones beneath. “You are no daughter of mine,” Drudge said. “Not anymore.” His words were like knives, hurting far more than the bone-deep gashes he’d opened in her skin.

Drudge unsheathed his sword.

Star didn’t care if she lived or died, not in the wake of her father’s betrayal. But she wouldn’t go alone. No, he was coming with her one way or the other.

Serennia

Almost as soon as she’d made it, Serennia broke her vow. Her wings open and she took to the air, wind rushing past as she wound a way around the lumbering dragon—who was far less graceful on land as she was in the sky. She shot forward, bursting with speed through a wall of flames standing before her, emerging into a small clearing.

She took in the scene in a heartbeat.

Star stood weaponless, gritty determination plastered on her expression. Facing off across from her was Drudge, a sword raised, ready to strike.

Serennia didn’t think, just acted, wings thumping behind her as she raced toward the empty space between the father and daughter.

Drudge swung, blade painted with red and orange streaks, reflecting the firelight that surrounded them.

Serennia screamed, gaining even more speed and then lunging just as the sword slashed toward Star’s neck.

She felt the bite of steel and then the stab of pain and then the impact of her body against the ground. A curtain of darkness fell over her eyes, the world fading.

A purple light appeared, glowing, moving, motes of color trailing behind it like a star shedding its dust into the ether. A sob shook Serennia as she formed a single word—a name—in her mind. Serennator?

I—I’m here. I’m here…somewhere. Come to me.

Tears flooded Serennia’s face. You still…want…me?

The dragon drew closer, moving like watery swirls through the expanse of darkness. His majestic face clarified, fathomless azure eyes focusing on her. She couldn’t meet them—not this time. Maybe not ever again. Shame burned through her like an inferno. What she’d done was unforgiveable. Irredeemable. You set me free, Serennator said. The dragon’s deep voice was full of more kindness than she deserved. I am one with the storms again.

Serennia frowned. That’s impossible. The ritual wasn’t completed. You weren’t burned to ash with dragonfire. Your soul is lost.

Do I look lost? There was a hint of humor in the dragon’s voice now. Serennia knew it might just be a hallucination caused by the injury she’d sustained, her blood draining out of her like water from a spilled cup. If so, it was the most beautiful hallucination she’d ever experienced.

You look…perfect, she said.

And you look like void, Serennator said, wide, dark lips forming a toothy grin. Never fear. When you join the storms you will be made whole again. Now come. Ride me like you once did.

Even as darkness began to close over her once more, Serennia reached for her dragon. The last thing she was aware of before unconsciousness took her was a voice. “You monster,” Peony said.

Peony

After her legs had been healed, Peony had stood, testing them out and finding them to be, if anything, stronger than before. Incredible, she thought.

I DID WHAT I COULD, her blade had said. Its voice had sounded weak, strained. BUT NOW I MUST REST.

You have done enough, Peony had said. She’d started forward through the wood in a low crouch to avoid the worst of the smoke that was pressing down from above. She’d been just trying to get her bearings when she’d heard a sound, turning quickly and charging through the undergrowth in its direction.

When she’d burst through the clearing, the last person she’d expected to see throwing herself in front of Drudge’s blade was Serennia, and yet there she had been, saving Star’s life by giving her own, the impact wrenching the blade from his grasp as she landed atop it.

“You monster,” Peony said now. “She’s your daughter.”

Stars eyes darted between Peony and Serennia’s crumpled, unmoving form, her mouth slightly open. Then she spun around, searching the trees. A moment later, Peony heard the snap of felled trees, their leaves and branches whispering as they crumpled to the forest floor. Something big was coming. Peony took a step back, while Star took a step forward, raising her hand just as Starrus’s head burst through the trees, nuzzling against her hand.

Peony breathed a sigh of relief, but then sucked in a sharp breath when she saw Drudge’s mouth open, his lips roiling with flames while his daughter stood with her back to him. Peony started to run, though she knew the distance was too great to cover before—

A jet of flames burst from Drudge’s mouth, shooting toward Star and then encompassing her. Peony kept running, not toward Star who she couldn’t help now but toward Drudge, closing the gap between them just as the last of the fire leapt from his lips and then disappeared, leaving only a wisp of smoke curling from his mouth.

She crashed into him shoulder first. In brightform, she knew she would’ve sent him flying. But he was strong and scaled and probably outweighed her at least two to one. The impact knocked him off-balance and back a few steps, but not off his feet like she’d planned. Blade! she shouted in her mind. I need you!

I—I can’t, her blade said. I’m still recovering. Need more time.

There was a loud whump! followed by a blast of air from the side. Peony twisted around to find Starrus leaping into the air, wings already beating. Star was in the dragon’s maw, her body still brimming with flames.

Sensing danger, Peony whirled back around just as Drudge swung a claw at her face. She arched her back and flung her head back, knifelike claws shredding the air as they passed. Blade! she cried again, stumbling backwards as Dane’s uncle stalked toward her, pressing his advantage. This time, her blade didn’t even manage a response.

Time, she thought. The blade needs time. She danced back more quickly and then turned to run to the opposite side of the clearing. She stopped midway when a streak of red flew past and Drudge landed, blocking her path forward. One of his wings was torn, damaged too badly to allow him to fly more than a few feet, but even that was enough to give him an advantage.

“Without your dragon and blade, what are you?” Drudge said with a sneer. “You are nothing, don’t you see that? I won’t try to persuade you that the Path of Storms is the right path, as Daneus is not truly your dragon. Only Dane could complete the True Bonding with him, but, alas, he’s no longer with us.”

“You don’t know that,” Peony spat.

“Oh, but I do. The storm that passed after I left him chained in the Stormlands was one of the worst I’ve ever seen. No one could have survived it, especially not wounded.”

“Even if he did,” Peony said, “Dane would never kill Daneus. Only someone as sick and disturbed as you would carry out such an atrocity and encourage others to do the same.” She knew her words meant nothing to this creature, but that wasn’t what mattered. Time was what mattered, and she was determined to keep him talking.

He stepped toward her and she stepped back. He smiled a twisted, unnatural smile, seeming to enjoy his little game. “You have a fool’s courage, I’ll give you that,” Drudge said. “I must admit, I never expected you to return and form a rebellion. That was my mistake. But it’s over now. Dane is dead. Brute is dead. Star is dead. The rest will soon follow, leaving only those riders who are loyal to the Path of Storms. But we will find others who will be more…accepting of the truth. Our army will grow. And once it’s large enough, Travail will thrive. The whole of Kingfall will be ours for the taking.”

Peony continued her backward trek across the clearing as he spoke, advancing. “Twisting history to benefit your own foul intentions doesn’t make it any righter,” Peony said. “Pa Stormy—”

“Is an outcast, a heretic, a madman. All these years, he knew what we were truly capable of becoming, but like the fool that he is, he hid this knowledge from those with the vision to walk the Path of our ancestors.”

Peony stumbled on a stick and Drudge took advantage of the distraction to leap forward and slash at her abdomen. His claws raked across her leathers, cutting deep trenches into them but coming up just short of penetrating all the way through. Blade? she said. Blade?

Still no response. She sidestepped another slash and then bolted away to give herself more breathing room. Drudge laughed, a rasping sound that carried flames with it. Peony understood what came next, already taking two hard steps to the side and then diving into a forward roll, a blast of flame chasing her from behind and following her as she landed, rolled and returned to her feet. Behind her, the ground was scorched but, thankfully, the flames had vanished as Drudge ran out of breath.

She might not be so lucky the next time. Drudge was already gathering his breath for another blast of fire…

I’M READY, her blade said, its voice finally emerging from the void of silence.

Peony knew what she had to do. Now was the time to take a risk, even if she wasn’t certain she was ready to unleash her secondary power. “Bright—” she started to say, just as another form stepped out from the fiery woods.

“—strike,” she finished, her thoughts dancing between Drudge and the forest and the blue-painted form that couldn’t be here, that had to be a conjuration of her own vivid imagination, a real-life representation of her hopes and fears and desires and yearnings.

Dane flinched back as the blinding bolt of golden lightning struck the ground between him and his uncle, tearing a crack through the forest floor.

Peony slumped forward, feeling exhausted from using brightstrike and sick to her stomach that she’d missed her mark—Drudge—and elated that Dane was alive. He was really, truly alive, because his lips opened and he said something that only he would say after almost being incinerated by a bolt of magical lightning created by a godblade wielded by his own bondmate. “Whoa,” he said.

A sob escaped the back of her throat as she fell, exhausted, to her knees. “Dane,” she whispered, head spinning now.

“Peony, watch ou—”

Even if he’d warned her sooner, there was nothing she could’ve done in her current, weakened state. Drudge rushed behind her and slid his claws around her throat, pressing their sharp edges to her skin. “Ah, the fool son of my fool brother returns, alive and well!” Drudge said. “Here to save the day, eh? Unfortunately you’ve arrived just in time to watch me slit your bondmate’s throat instead.”

“I’ll kill you,” Dane said.

“Yes, yes, I’ve been hearing threats like that a lot lately, but that’s all they are—threats. Not even you, with your many lives, can stop what was always meant to happen. The Path of Storms must be trod. It is the only way to cull the dragonrider ranks and separate the weak from the strong. There’s still time to join us, nephew, though I suspect your mind is already set. You’ve always been stubborn, just like your father.”

Peony was struggling to focus on the conversation now. She felt the bite of Drudge’s claws against her throat. She met Dane’s eyes and it was like no time had passed at all, that look so familiar, so warm and loving even if it was tinged with the iciness of fear.

Dane stepped toward her.

She frowned as she noticed a line of shadows collecting around his hip. A line of shadows that could only be described as a sword.

Dane

“Another step and I’ll finish her,” Drudge said.

Dane’s mind was spinning. As he’d traveled north, his biggest fear had been that Peony and Daneus were already dead. His second greatest fear was that she would reject him because of his shadowblade, that it would somehow drive a rift between them. Even now, he saw her eyes focused on the blade at his hip, could see the slight narrowing as she tried to make sense of its presence, its existence.

But none of that mattered. She could hate him for the rest of her life, as long as she had a life beyond this moment in time, her beautiful spirit continuing to shine forth on a world that was only good because she was in it.

His own life compared to hers was forfeit, worth being risked if it meant she could live.

Ignoring his sword’s warnings, he drew the shadowblade and slipped into shadowform, stepping behind his own shadow cast by the wall of roiling flames at his back. To Peony and Drudge, he knew it would appear as though he’d vanished, but to him the world was still as it was, save for the slightly gray pallor that had fallen across everything. He skirted the edge of the long shadow, which stretched all the way to where his uncle had Peony by the throat.

Just as he reappeared, however, Drudge seemed to realize the danger and he stepped back, pulling Peony with him, claws digging deeper into her throat. Dane reappeared from the shadow, searching for another slice of darkness to pull himself inside so he could circle behind his uncle.

“You disappear like that again and I’ll kill her,” Drudge said.

Dane froze, considering. He didn’t doubt his uncle would do it, but could he stop him before he followed through on the threat? And if he were too slow, wouldn’t Peony’s brightblade heal her? He sensed something had changed when she’d fallen to her knees, something about that queer bolt of lightning that had struck the ground had seemed to take her very knees out from under her. He couldn’t trust she would be healed by the blade, and thus, he hesitated.

During his hesitation, another form stepped out from the trees. It took him a moment to recognize her, much of her leathers burned beyond recognition, her skin, including half of her face, badly scorched, raw and red and blistering. But then she raised a finger to her lips, and he saw the orange and black stripes dyed on the unburnt portion of her skin.

It was Star.

Star

Starrus had saved her life, flying to the river Misery and dumping her into its cool waters, dousing the flames. Her leathers had protected her vital areas, though her arm and face had been badly burned.

Even after the flames had disappeared, it felt like her skin was on fire.

Starrus had wanted to fly her far, far away, to take her somewhere safe, where she could rest and heal. She wanted to say yes, to cry, to scream, to be taken care of. But she had also known that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she did that.

So instead, she’d told Starrus to trust her, and then she’d stolen back into the forest, making her way toward the clearing. As she’d approached, she’d been shocked to see Dane standing just inside the empty space. In her heart, she’d believed him to be dead. She’d seen the storm. Only a miracle could’ve spared his life.

So when she stepped silently back into the clearing and raised her finger to her lips, it took all of her self-control not to run to him and throw her arms around him. It took even more strength not to cry out as pain tore through her skin. She gritted her teeth and bit her tongue and clenched her fists, treading softly toward her father, quietly drawing another one of the daggers from her belt.

Dane didn’t look at her, instead helping to distract her father by focusing on him. “If you kill her, I’ll kill you,” he said. “So it seems we’re at an impasse.”

“So it seems,” Drudge echoed, his eyes flicking to the shadowy sword in Dane’s hand. Star wondered about that, too, but she filed it away in her mind for later consideration.

“If you release her, I won’t try to stop you from leaving,” Dane said. “You can slip away, live to fight another day.”

“No,” Peony said. To Star’s surprise, the dragonmistress’s voice sounded weak. Was she injured? “You must kill him. Travail should be your priority.”

Star was only five steps away now, four if she lengthened her strides. She steadied her breathing, taking long slow breaths through her mouth.

“Travail is my priority. And Travail isn’t worth anything without its Dragonmistress.”

“Very touching,” Drudge said. Star was three steps away now. Two. She raised the dagger.

She wasn’t sure what alerted her father to her presence, perhaps the glint of firelight on the edge of her blade, but he turned suddenly. At the same time, things Star couldn’t explain happened. Dane vanished, only to reappear beside Drudge, grabbing his arm and ripping it free of Peony’s throat, one of his claws drawing a large track of red across her skin. They fell back hard, even as Drudge lifted his opposite hand to slash at Star.

This time, she didn’t hesitate.

She stabbed him through the heart, stopping his claw in mid slash, his eyes widening, his mouth gaping. “I’m sorry,” she said, tears already blurring her vision as she shoved the blade in further.

She tore the knife free and he slumped to the ground.

Fifty-Two

Jarrod Gaard

Sunsei, Solarii

IN THE END, QUEEN ROSE ONTARII HAD WEIGHED ALL OF THE INFORMATION and agreed to help Teravainen wage war on the Isle of Mages. With the combined strength of their navies, of which Solarii’s was the largest in all Kingfall, they would stand half a chance, or so Jarrod hoped. And whether they achieved a grand victory or a crushing defeat, afterwards the Terran soldiers currently occupying Sunsei would leave the city and Solarii would resume its status as an independent kingdom.

These thoughts and more circled Jarrod’s head as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was naked from the waist up. The skin of his chest and abdomen was smooth and unmarred, while bruises matching Drake’s fingers ringed his neck.

Jarrod was ashamed that he’d begged for death. Hated himself for wanting such a thing when all his problems were of his own making. He picked up the short whip, already feeling a sense of relief by what it represented. Punishment. Pain. It was what he deserved.

Rose, on the other hand, had done nothing to deserve her fate, and yet she stood strong and resolute while admitting to being broken on the inside.

Because it is required of her, Jarrod thought. Just as such outward strength is required of me. I need to be better than my mistakes, better than my past. I need to do better. Starting now.

He raised the whip, hesitating. Was this better? The answer, the truth, was there, as it always was. But, as always, he refused to look at it, afraid of what it might tell him.

And yet even as he tried to look away from it, Rose’s words repeated in his head, turning him toward that greater truth.

You are worthy.

“No,” he said between clenched teeth. “No. No. No.”

Yes.

“Stop it,” he said, tears already welling. “I deserve nothing but pain.” He firmed up his grip on the whip and raised it higher.

Amari’s voice replaced Rose’s in his head. I don’t pity you. Nor hate you.

“You should,” Jarrod said, snot running from his nose. Spit flecked his lips. All he had to do was bring the whip crashing down over his shoulder and the voices would be silenced. So easy. So—

Aisling’s voice replaced Amari’s. You are most kind, Jarrod. He could feel her hands on him now, her lips. He remembered that stolen night with her. It had been the best of his life. It had ruined everything. Had he been happy since? No, he thought. Not for one second of one day.

He raised the whip higher, feeling like he was on the precipice of a cliff, preparing to jump. He could feel Rose and Amari and Aisling watching him, three of the strongest women he’d ever known. His mother joined them, her eyes not disapproving but sad. So sad.

His fingers opened and the whip fell as he sank to his knees.

When he rose a while later, he was ready to be more than his past, even if it killed him.

Fifty-Three

Rose Ontarii

Sunsei, Solarii

IF ROSE CLOSED HER EYES AND LISTENED TO THE SUN WARMING HER SKIN, she could almost convince herself that nothing had changed.

“Rose?” Drake said, drawing her back to reality. A reality that made her flinch when his hand settled gently on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, withdrawing his hand. A hand that had once calmed her, warmed her heart, made her feel safe. Now it was her enemy. That more than anything else reminded her that everything had changed.

“Think nothing of it,” she said, lifting her chin and turning to the throng of Solarii citizens that had gathered on this morning, news that their queen wished to make an announcement spreading through the city like wildfire.

Along with Drake, King Jarrod Gaard stood alongside her on the dais. Though his eyes still had a shadowed look about them, he seemed far stronger than he had only a day earlier, regaled in full, gleaming plate, sword sheathed at his hip. They had both agreed that his role was that of a silent partner on this day.

Rose wore a flowing white dress studded with rose quartz gemstones along the face of the bodice. Her sunray crown sat gently on her head. She stepped forward to address the sea of bronze-skinned Solarii, a hush falling over the crowd. “This has been a trying time for us all,” she started.

“Long live the Living Queen!” someone shouted. Scattered applause and cheers followed.

“Thank you,” Rose said. “I cannot express in words how grateful I am for your support. My grandfather led Solarii faithfully for many years.”

She was interrupted again, this time by shaking fists and cries of, “Thief King!” and “Down with the Twice-Dead King!”

Rose waited patiently for the crowd to silence themselves. She understood the strength of their emotions on this day. They’d been through so much, too much, over the last fortnight, none of it caused by their own actions. “My grandfather was once a great king, and I would rather look upon his legacy with Sunseri’s Gracious Light rather than darken his life with the shadows of his tumultuous end. For King Draymond Ontarii was not himself during his last days, no.” She shook her head, gathering her thoughts. “Like you, like me, he was the victim of evil lurking in the shadows, evil seeking to sow seeds of chaos in every corner of Kingfall in their own bid to grab power.”

A murmur moved through the throng as Rose gave them several seconds to digest this new information. “What evil, Your Majesty?” someone finally shouted.

“Aeromand,” she said simply. “The mages are responsible for our present situation. They twisted my grandfather’s mind and used him to steal darkblades from our neighbors to the north and east. After his father’s death, King Jarrod Gaard was prepared to make peace with Solarii, until he learned of this treachery. He had no choice but to bring war to our borders, this I understand. But all the while, it was the Archmage Council laughing on their floating island, watching us kill each other.

“But it doesn’t end there. As many of you have likely heard already, Chrysallis has been destroyed by the dragonriders of Travail. Again, it is our belief that the mages are ultimately responsible, the Odinian mage-controlled defenses failing them.”

More murmurs, confusion spreading across the throng. Rose understood; it was a lot to take in, especially when Aeromand was supposed to be neutral, lending its service to those kingdoms willing to pay but never involving themselves in politics or power struggles between nations.

“I will not stand by and do nothing,” Rose said. She was no warrior, the sword at her hip nothing but ornamental, but she drew it anyway, lifting it into the air. “We will not go quietly into the night! We will not be a victim, not ever again! Along with our Terran allies, today we declare war on Aeromand!”

“War! War! War!” the people began to chant, more cheers erupting amongst them.

Rose sheathed her sword and turned away, the crowd’s chant growing fainter and fainter behind her.

Fifty-Four

Drake

Sunsei, Solarii

“THIS ISN’T YOUR FIGHT,” ROSE SAID ONCE THEY WERE BACK IN HER QUARTERS.

She drew the layers of her dress around her knees as she flopped onto her makeshift bed on the floor. As she’d entered her private room, Drake had noticed how Rose’s shoulders had slumped, her chin had dipped, and the steel had faded from her eyes. It was like she’d been temporarily wearing a different skin, or a mask.

He hated seeing her like this. “I won’t leave you,” he said.

“And I won’t make you,” Rose said. “But it is your choice. I need you to understand that if you leave, it is with the full blessing and gratitude of the Solarii throne…”

“Rose, stop,” Drake said.

She didn’t. “…and none will judge you or seek to imprison you again. You may return to Dragonsmount or sail somewhere else entirely. Solarii will pay for passage on the vessel of your choosing.”

“Stop!” Drake shouted.

Rose recoiled, reaching for her pillow, clutching it in her hand.

“I—I’m sorry,” Drake said. “Ever since…my temper has been quick. But that’s no excuse. I don’t want you to fear my voice or my touch or—”

“I don’t fear you,” Rose said. “Not any part of you.”

“In the throes of my hallucination, I tried to hurt you,” Drake said.

Rose frowned. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter who told me. All that matters is that I’m sorry and I understand why you’re scared of me. I understand why you’re pushing me away again and that you need to protect—”

“I’m not scared of you, I’m scared of him,” Rose blurted out.

It was Drake’s turn to frown. “Who? Jarrod Gaard? I wouldn’t exactly consider him a friend, but I hardly think he’s a danger to you.”

“Not Jarrod Gaard,” Rose said with a heavy sigh. She’d dragged the pillow in front of her, holding it like a shield. “Him.”

It took Drake a moment to understand. “But Caltran’s dead,” he said.

“Not to me, he’s not,” Rose said. “He’s in every shadow, every touch, every raised voice. He’s in every knock on my door, every strange sound in the night, behind every blink of my eyes. He is my constant companion, shadowing my every step, his hands on every inch of my body. I can never escape him.” A tear had broken loose from one of her eyes, tracking down her cheek.

“I—I didn’t know,” Drake said. “I mean, I knew the fear wouldn’t just vanish overnight, but I thought his death might help.”

“Oh, it does,” Rose said. “But it’s not the end. Caltran isn’t the first bad man and he won’t be the last. What happened to me happens to women every day. In Solarii, across Kingfall, on distant shores. I am not special because I was raped, and yet I fear it will be the only thing that truly defines me for the rest of my life.”

“It won’t,” Drake said. “You are so much more than that. I watched you address your people just now. You were a queen in every sense of the word. Strong. Certain. Loved. Trusted. You are the face of Solarii now. You will be remembered as a great queen, a great leader, a woman as beautiful as she is intelligent and resilient. An advocate for her citizens, refusing to bow to larger nations who seek to assert their will on her.”

“You always did know how to compliment me,” Rose said.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Drake said. “Look, I know you think we cannot be together because your entire focus needs to be on leading your kingdom, and I understand that, I truly do, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I will not get in the way, I swear it. I will only strive to support you, to protect you. We don’t have to wed right away, we can wait until after—”

“We will never wed, Drake, I need you to understand that,” Rose interrupted.

The last time Rose spoke like this, Drake had accepted her words in the only way he knew how—by throwing his pain, his sadness, into a mad flight into battle. It had resulted in the death of his dragon and almost himself. He’d wanted death. But now…he felt like he had a second chance to react better, to prove to this woman for whom the sun seemed to rise every day, that he was worthy of her love. “I don’t accept that,” he said. “I won’t accept that.”

“You must.”

“Why?” he demanded, taking a step forward.

“Because you’re my half-brother!” she shouted suddenly.

Drake had finally been rendered speechless, his eyes locking with hers. Her expression was so serious, her cheeks pink from the vehemence behind her statement. He laughed, shaking his head. “You almost had me there,” he said. “But I’m going to require a more reasonable explanation if you expect me to give up on gaining your affections.”

“You always had my affections,” Rose said softly. All the fight had been stripped from her voice now. “From the moment I met you, I knew we were connected. Just not in the way either of us had hoped.”

“You’re speaking in riddles now,” Drake said. “Your words should give me hope and yet they feel like a noose closing around my neck.”

“I don’t mean them to be like that,” Rose said. “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“Then you have a funny way of going about things,” Drake said. He’d meant to add a bit of lightness to an otherwise serious conversation, but Rose only stuffed her face into her pillow and released a muffled scream.

When she removed the pillow, she looked as wretched as Drake had ever seen her. An icicle of fear painted a track down his spine as he realized something. “Rose, what are you not telling me?”

“I already told you, but you didn’t believe me. My mother is your mother. She had an affair with my father a long time ago.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Drake said. “My mother wouldn’t do that to my father. And I love you.”

“Yet you must stop loving me, just as I must stop loving you.”

He didn’t miss the implication in her words. “You still love me?”

“Of course I do, you damned fool!” Once more, Rose covered her face with her pillow.

“Then we can believe what we choose to believe,” Drake said, clinging onto the thread of hope he felt like Rose had unspooled for him. “Whatever lies your grandfather told you are of no consequence.”

“That’s the problem,” Rose said. “I believe him. What he said makes so much sense and explains so many things I struggled with growing up. I think it also explains why I gravitated toward you.”

“You mean it wasn’t my rugged handsomeness and charming personality?” Drake said.

“Stop deflecting. You can’t draw me in again. I won’t let you.”

Drake knew she was right. If he stuck to lighthearted banter, he wouldn’t need to consider the truth—a truth that made more sense to him than he wanted to admit. All the time his mother had spent away from Travail when she was supposed to be the dragonmistress. As a child he always just thought she had a strong sense of the place she’d grown up, but now…

Why, Mother? Drake thought. Wasn’t Father enough for you? Weren’t we enough for you?

Drake realized that Rose was watching him while he’d been lost in his thoughts. “I won’t try to draw you in,” he said, looking away.

“Oh, Drake.”

“Don’t,” he said. “If this cannot be, if we cannot be, then I need it to be a clean break. If I look back, I’m afraid I won’t be able to leave.”

“Where will you go?”

“I wish to sail with the Terran armada, if King Gaard will allow it.”

“Drake, no,” Rose said.

“This is my choice. You cannot let me go and pretend to care at the same time.”

“I do care. I will always care. Learning the truth cannot change every aspect of my heart.”

“Then care enough to honor my wishes,” Drake said. This time he met her eyes. They were so beautifully sad. So beautifully her. He looked away, knowing full well that if his gaze lingered for too long he would fall into those eyes forever.

“Please be careful,” she said.

“I will fight. Not just because Solarii has been wronged, but because Travail has been wronged too. Today I will fight for both my parents’ kingdoms.”

With that, he bowed slightly, turned, and departed without looking back.

Fifty-Five

Jarrod Gaard

Sunsei, Solarii

FINAL PREPARATIONS WERE WELL UNDERWAY WHEN JARROD SPOTTED DRAKE’S GREEN-DYED FORM STRIDING UP THE GANGWAY.

He wore a rather determined look. Then again, he always wore a determined look.

As the man boarded the warship, two Terran soldiers stepped in front of him, drawing swords. “I mean you no harm,” Drake said, trying to look around them.

“It’s fine,” Jarrod said. The soldiers hesitated but then parted. They took a single step back, sheathing their weapons. Each of them maintained a hand on their hilts, however. Word of Drake’s attack on their king had spread amongst his men, so Jarrod couldn’t blame them for their overprotectiveness. “Why have you come? Is Her Majesty alright?”

“Rose—I mean, Queen Ontarii—is fine.” There was something stiff about the way he said it. “I wish to add my sword to those under your command.”

It was the last thing Jarrod expected the ex-dragonrider to say. “Why? Wouldn’t you prefer to act as Her Majesty’s personal guard?”

“She doesn’t need me,” Drake said. “Not anymore. I feel I can best protect my own people by helping your efforts during the battle. What say ye?”

Jarrod considered. Their relationship had certainly had its ups and downs, and yet he felt they’d reached an unusual middle ground founded in mutual respect. And having an extra sword certainly wouldn’t hurt. “I would be honored to have you aboard. Soldiers! Show Drake where he can be of use.”

Drake nodded and then followed the soldiers, who eyed the dyed man with mistrust.

Jarrod made his way over to Grimfire, who was sitting idly and puffing on his pipe. All about the various decks, there was a flurry of activity as weaponry and supplies were hauled aboard and positioned. The entire harbor was full of similar ships, both Terran and Solarii, though the Solarii vessels outnumbered the Terran ones by a count of three to one and were generally larger with at least half again as many cannons and ballistae. “Where are the other mages?” Jarrod asked the dark-robed mage.

Grimfire spoke around the pipestem. “On other ships, along with a portion of the magenum supply. It would be most unwise to carry all our magical firepower on one vessel.”

Jarrod nodded in agreement. “And the boy?”

“I haven’t seen him for a while. But I saw him heading below decks a while ago.”

“Thank you,” Jarrod said. “I need to introduce him to the woman I’ve arranged to care for him during the battle. She’ll be arriving any moment. We set sail within the hour and the boy cannot be onboard when we do.” He turned away and headed for the staircase descending into the ship’s bowels. Despite the cool breeze, he felt hot inside his armor, and he didn’t mind the opportunity to escape the sun’s heat and glare.

After reaching the base of the steps and the narrow corridor, his first stop was his personal quarters, which he’d been sharing with the boy. He frowned when he opened the door and found the room empty. Closing the door, he headed back the other way, suspecting the boy had discovered the general hammocks used by the ordinary sailors. The lad was unusual, but he was still a boy. And even an unusual boy would likely enjoy swinging in the soft slings while the ship rolled over the waves.

Several sailors looked up when he entered. They were halfway dressed wearing only their underclothes but then straightened up when they realized who he was. “At ease,” he said. “Have you seen the boy I’ve been traveling with around here? I was told he was somewhere below decks.”

One of the soldiers spoke up. “Yes, Your Majesty. He passed by here a while ago. He was headed for the cargo hold.”

Jarrod felt a sense of relief wash over him. He was beginning to worry they would be forced to raise the anchors with the boy still missing somewhere on the ship. “Thank you,” he said, starting to leave. He stopped and turned back, remembering himself. “And thank you for your service to the kingdom.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. It is our honor.”

Jarrod moved back out into the corridor and turned in the direction of the cargo hold. Why the boy would go there was beyond his comprehension. There was food, of course, but none of it was prepared and Jarrod had already informed the vessel’s cook and his staff that the boy’s hunger should be provided for to his satisfaction, no questions asked. Another possibility dawned on him, a small smile creeping along the edges of his lips. Perhaps the boy wanted to try a nip or two of ale; that’s something the cook would not have been willing to give him. As Jarrod hurried forward, he hoped he wouldn’t find the youngster too drunk or else he’d spend his first time off the ship with his head in a bucket as his breakfast made an unexpected second appearance.

As expected, the broad door to the cargo hold stood ajar. Not wanting to give the boy a fright, Jarrod announced himself. “It’s only me,” he said, pushing the door open, eyes scanning from one side of the hold to the other, skirting the edges of the numerous crates and barrels stacked in neat, even rows. Nothing moved except motes of dust caught in the sunlight filtering through the barred ceiling that allowed for easy access from above.

And then, a sound:

It was whispery, like the shuffle of papers or the shifting of leaves in the wind.

Jarrod frowned and moved further into the hold, peering around crates, trying to determine the source of the unusual sound. He stopped.

The boy was on his hands and knees, crawling about in the dust, muttering under his breath in little more than a whisper. “Hey,” Jarrod said. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s time to go.”

No response, the boy continuing to crawl about the space, inaudible words flowing from his mouth in a constant stream. The boy was moving away now, skittering around the edge of one of the walls of crates and into a small, dark crawlspace between the cargo and the wall. Jarrod followed, peering into the gloom.

Wispy cobweb banners fluttered in the draft let in by the open door. The boy seemed oblivious to them, even as they stuck to his hair and clothes, the local eight-legged residents scurrying away to avoid being crushed. Jarrod said, “Hey. We need to go. The anchor will soon be raised. I need to get you to safety.”

Once more, it was as though the boy couldn’t hear him. He pushed onwards into the gloom, whisper-soft voice growing slightly louder now, harsher, until Jarrod could make out a few words. “…thicker here, so much thicker…all around…gathering, gathering…until…too late…far too late…must hurry…death comes on shadowed feet…pain and blood…pain and blood…pain and blood…”

Since Jarrod had allowed the boy into his carriage, he’d been an unusual lad, but this was out of character even for him. And they were out of time. The anchor would be raised any minute, and the boy needed to be safely on the dock in the hands of a woman who would ensure he was cared for until Jarrod’s return. “Come on, it’s time,” Jarrod said, squeezing into the tight space to pursue the boy. He slapped cobwebs from his face and tried not to think about how it felt like the sides were pressing in on him.

“…pain and blood…pain and blood…,” the boy repeated, over and over again, until his whispery voice became sort of a chant. “…PAIN AND BLOOD…PAIN AND BLOOD…” He was screaming now, his shrieks surely reaching the ears of those on deck through the ceiling grate.

“Dammit, boy, come on!” Jarrod said, throwing himself forward with abandon, scrabbling for the boy’s legs.

“…SHADOWS AND DEATH…PAIN AND BLOOD…SHADOWS AND DEATH!”

Jarrod’s hands clamped around the boy’s ankles. The boy kicked at him, screaming even louder. “GEROFF ME GEROFF ME GEROFF ME!!!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Jarrod said. He dragged the boy backward through the crawlspace, the lad still screaming his head off. Not words, but simply noise, loud and piercing in Jarrod’s ears as he hauled him out and slung him over his shoulder.

“AHHHH!” the boy screamed, his hands and feet punching and kicking, his entire body bucking about, as though he’d been seized by some sort of a fit. Jarrod didn’t know what to do, so he simply clutched the boy as tightly as he could, absorbing the impact of his hands and feet, and ran.

Through the door, down the corridor, nearly crashing into sailors poking their heads from rooms to see what all the commotion was about, turning, up the stairs, onto the ship’s decks, ignoring the stares from the sailors and dockhands and Grimfire, who continued to sit, silently smoking his pipe.

Down the gangway, where a startled woman stood wearing a white apron over a sunny yellow dress. He recognized her immediately as the woman he’d hired to look after the boy while he was at sea. “This is him,” he gasped, swinging the boy back down and manhandling him forward while he continued to squirm in his grasp, shrieking like a restless ghoul.

“Full refund,” the woman said, her face as white as chalk as she shoved the pouch of coins Jarrod had prepaid into his chest. It was all he could do to maintain one arm on the boy while grabbing the pouch before it tumbled to the wooden planks.

“Wait,” he said, but she was already gone, hurrying down the dock and out of sight behind the milling dockhands. “Shite,” he muttered. It was too late to find someone else suitable, and he refused to leave the boy with someone he hadn’t properly vetted. The boy had been through enough already.

But he also couldn’t take him with him on a ship about to sail into battle, could he?

To his surprise, all the fight suddenly went out of the lad and he slumped to the dock, arms roping around his knees. He began to rock back and forth, unshed tears shimmering in his eyes.

Jarrod crouched beside him. “It’s okay, lad. It’s okay,” he said soothingly.

“Don’t leave me,” the boy said. “Please don’t leave me.”

And Jarrod found himself answering in a way he never expected to. “I won’t. You are safe. I won’t leave you.”

The boy was sleeping, finally.

As he’d carried the boy back up the gangway and onto the ship, the lad had clung to him so tightly Jarrod had found it difficult to breathe. And when he’d gently laid him down on his own bed inside his own cabin, the boy had shoved backwards with such force he’d gone crashing into the headboard, his eyes wide and wild.

“Shh,” Jarrod had said soothingly. “You are safe now. You are safe. I’m not leaving. Now rest, lad. Please, rest.”

The boy’s eyes had darted about, seeming to look past him, through him. At first, Jarrod had thought the eye movements were random, but then he realized there was a pattern to it, the boy methodically searching every corner of the cabin, squinting into the darkest corners as though something untoward might be hiding there.

And then, as quickly as the fit had seized the boy, it left him, his entire body slumping as he exhaled. “Not here,” he’d muttered. “The shadows aren’t gathering here.”

“I don’t understand,” Jarrod had said.

“You will,” the boy had said, his eyes finally landing on his, the black spots in the center narrowing into pinpricks as they focused. With that said, he’d promptly slid beneath the sheet, drawing it up to his chin, and then closed his eyes.

Jarrod shook his head and eased onto the bed. His entire body felt stiff, and he realized his muscles had been tensed from the moment he grabbed the boy back in the cargo hold. He exhaled, forcing his muscles to retract, to loosen. What was that? he wondered to himself. It was like the boy had been caught in the throes of a living nightmare, one only he could see. Would he ever be able to live a normal life? Or had what had been done to him ruined him forever, stealing what was left of his youthful innocence? Jarrod hoped not, for otherwise what was the point of it all if children were forced to bear such burdens?

After watching the boy’s breathing grow slower and more even for a few minutes, Jarrod sighed and stood. He quietly pulled the door open and slipped outside into the corridor, dragging it closed behind him. For the boy’s own safety, he used his key to lock the door from the outside. With any luck, the boy would sleep for hours.

Just as he started up the staircase, a heavy sound reverberated through the vessel. The anchor had been raised. A thrill filled Jarrod. He was finally doing something that felt right. He wasn’t forcing his will on anyone else, but part of a thoughtful alliance with another kingdom against the forces of evil.

Would victory earn him the redemption he sought? No, he knew, but it would be a step in the right direction.

With that in mind, he mounted the final step and emerged into the sunlit day just as the first shout of “Pull!” was raised, the men on the oars slowly maneuvering the ship out into open waters.

Fifty-Six

Rose Ontarii

Sunsei, Solarii

ROSE WATCHED AS, ONE BY ONE, THE SOLARII AND TERRAN WARSHIPS LEFT THE HARBOR, BOUND FOR WAR.

She had no doubt Drake had managed to talk himself onto one of them. She wondered which one. She wondered what he was doing at this very moment. She wondered if he were thinking of her as she was of him.

Of course he isn’t, she thought. He’s forgotten you already. You made certain he would.

She turned away, reentering her quarters. Alone. She didn’t know what to do with herself. In a way, she wished she were on one of the ships, too. She might not be a warrior, but at least it would feel like she was doing something. Waiting around was far worse.

She approached her bookshelf, perusing the titles. None of them appealed to her now, not even those she’d read more times than she could count. She idly made her way over to her dressing table, her form coming into view slice by slice in the looking glass.

She froze, staring at her reflection. Outwardly, she was everything a queen should be: her eyes were dark and certain; her lips were pursed, her expression aloof; her chin was raised as though confident in her own power and status.

It was a mask. A mask she’d learned to wear as a child. A mask her real mother had worn her entire life. She wanted to rip it off and stomp on it, to wail and rage and punch something until it shattered. She eyed the pillows piled on the floor. She pictured herself tearing into them, sending goose feathers flying everywhere. She took a step toward them, tempted.

She stopped, releasing a derisive breath through her nose. She wasn’t going to rip apart any pillows. She was a queen now. How would she explain the mess to her attendants? I was minding my own business doing queenly things, when all of a sudden, a rabid goose-feather-pillow-eating raccoon climbed into my room and fell upon them like a starving man upon his last meal. I swear it by Sunseri’s Life-Giving Light.

Rose snorted at her own vivid imagination. It’s exactly the sort of thing she would’ve shared with Drake on one of the many nights they’d lain on a blanket in the royal gardens, gazing up at the red, gold and green stars, waiting for the twin moons to pass each other on their travels. He would’ve mocked her mercilessly, and then they would’ve snuck up to her quarters and disemboweled each and every one of her pillows.

The imagined memory faded, leaving her feeling hollow inside. Who was she to share such mad thoughts with now? There was no one left.

“Damn it all to the void,” she cursed. “I am Queen Rose Ontarii, First of My Name. I will not hide in my room while my own navy sails to war.”

She lifted her chin, stalked toward the door, and threw it open so hard it smashed against the inner wall. “Guards,” she said to the men waiting outside, standing sentinel on either side of the door. “Accompany me into the city. I wish to walk amongst my people.”

At first, there was something freeing about exiting the palace grounds and stepping into the bustling city. That feeling quickly vanished, however, as her citizens recognized her, their eyes drawn to her passage because of the dozen or so soldiers bearing the sun-crest patch on their uniforms.

They pressed in on all sides, arms reaching for her, not wanting to miss the opportunity to touch the shoulder of their queen. The guards surrounded her, holding back the mob, but it soon became too much even for them. Why had she wanted to do this? Why had she wanted to come to this place? “Please!” Rose cried. “Please stop!”

Her voice was lost amongst the shouts of the soldiers and the shriek of steel from scabbards as swords were drawn. Someone shoved one of the soldiers back into her, his hand thumping against her chest.

Hot breath against her face, strong hands groping at her body, weight pinning her to her bed like a fly against a board, pressure and pain and fear.

“No no no no no NO!” she screamed, throwing herself to the cobblestones, curling into a ball.

Silence. So much silence.

And then the scrape of feet against stone as the stunned crowd was pushed back by the prod of swords and the bark of soldiers.

Rose heard none of it, her world narrowing into a pinprick moment, a moment where she’d felt like little better than an animal to be used and then thrown away. She’d told Jarrod that, as queen, she didn’t have the luxury of a breakdown, that she needed to stand up and dust herself off and carry on as though her entire world hadn’t been picked up, twisted around, shaken viciously and then thrown into a bottomless pit.

But how could she do that when she couldn’t stand something as simple as the touch of another human? How could she be even a shadow of the woman she was expected to be when her darkest nightmares had been made real, forming memories that haunted her even during the daylight when her eyes were wide open?

“Let me through,” a voice said, breaking through the fog that had surrounded Rose’s mind. “Please, I can help her. Your Majesty!”

Rose’s eyes fluttered open. She tilted her head, surprised to find she could still command herself to perform even such a simple act. A woman was being blocked by two of the soldiers, her face pressed between them. There was something familiar about the look in her eyes.

Because I’ve seen that same look when I stare into the mirror, Rose realized. “Let her through,” she said. Her voice didn’t work. It was little more than a whisper. She tried again. “Let her through.” This time her words emerged clearly, if not particularly strong.

“Your Majesty?” one of the guards said.

“Do it.”

The pair of guards exchanged a glance but then complied, separating for just long enough for the woman to squeeze through before closing the ring once more. The woman approached, lowering to her knees close enough to speak to Rose without shouting, but not so close that Rose felt uncomfortable by her nearness. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Rose met those familiar eyes. “You said you could help me.” She heard the plea in her own voice.

“I can. Me and others like you.”

“Like me?”

“Hurt where the world can’t see.”

Rose stared at her. How did this woman know the secrets of her heart? “I—you’re mistaken. I merely twisted my ankle.” She pretended to hobble to her feet, favoring one foot over the other. “Guards, please send for my palanquin. This has all been an unfortunate accident. I shall require rest and a healer.” Turning back to the woman, who’d also returned to her feet, she said, “Thank you for your kindness, but I will be fine. Sunseri willing, I will be walking again in no time.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the woman said, bowing and backing away.

Disappearing into the crowd.

Rose thought about her words for the rest of that day and into the night.

Me and others like you.

Hurt where the world can’t see.

Rose slept.

Fifty-Seven

Quill

Somewhere in the Bay of Sighs

THE BAY OF SIGHS WAS KNOWN FOR THE DEADLY SEABOUND PREDATORS THAT PATROLLED ITS WATERS. Each time Quill splashed down, strength waning, they circled closer, growing bolder with each pass, occasionally snapping at him as he scrambled to grab hold of the colorful motes swirling overhead, to drag himself free of the water once more.

The creatures were following him, growing in number by the hour as more joined in the pursuit. They had become his enemy, just as Megrifir and Cernon and the Archmage Council had become his enemy. He would be forced to label a brick wall as his enemy if it stood between him and his vengeance. And then he would blast his way through it.

So the next time he felt his strength ebbing away as he flew just over the surface of the sea, he forced himself to drop earlier than was strictly necessary. In doing this, he saved a measure of his energy for a second spell, one more natural to one of viridian magehood. It was a spell of the mind, which he directed at several of the sharp-toothed predators. More specifically, at their minds. He probed inside them, sensing their insatiable hunger, their desire for blood, their need to tear into flesh. He saw himself through their eyes; to them, he was nothing but a way to satisfy their hunger. In a way, it helped him understand them, fear them less. They didn’t kill out of malice or anger—they killed simply because that was what they were born to do.

Alas, it won’t save them, he thought as he planted a seed into their minds. A seed which swiftly grew, sprouting into the belief that the taste of their fellow predators would satisfy their hunger far more completely than one measly human ever could.

The frenzy began, the creatures tearing into each other, blood swamping the waters, a crimson torrent of death and rage.

Quill flew once more, growing stronger and stronger. Deep inside him he was aware that a portion of this strength was lent to him by his silent passenger.

Somewhere in the distance, a large mass seemed to rise out of the water, though he knew it was just the horizon and the sea playing tricks on his eyes. No, what he saw had hovered over the water for years upon years, long before his own birth.

Eyes set on Aeromand, he flew onward.

Fifty-Eight

Drake

The Bay of Sighs, Approaching the Isle of Mages

ROSE, DRACONUS SAID AGAIN.

“You’re not really here,” Drake said to himself, casting his eyes about to be certain none of the sailors were close enough to hear. “I saw you die.” Beneath his feet, the ship moved as it rolled down the backside of a wave.

Rose, was the dead dragon’s only response.

“Stop it,” Drake said. A few minutes earlier, he’d picked his way absently along the ship, feeling rather useless as other sailors performed their duties with the naturalness of those born to this salt-stained life. His domain had always been the sky. This world was foreign to him, and now he was wondering what purpose he expected to serve on a ship. Eventually, he’d found a quiet place to stew, well away from the general hubbub. That’s when his dead dragon had decided to break the silence. Now, Drake pounded the heel of his hand into his head several times. “Just stop.”

Rose, ROSE, ROOOOOSE.

Drake released a growl, fingers biting into the skin of the back of his neck as he clutched his head between his arms.

“Drake?” a voice said, startling him. His arms dropped and he spun around to find King Jarrod Gaard standing before him, brow furrowed into a frown.

“Yes. Do you need something?” Drake said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

The king seemed to search his eyes for something. “No, I just saw you…never mind. I am about to make the announcement for all hands on deck. According to the navigator, we will reach the boundary of the mage’s territory within the hour. We do not know whether we will encounter resistance, but we should be ready.”

“Of course. Is that all?”

The king hesitated, but then said, “For now. I will see you on the quarterdeck shortly.” He turned and departed, leaving Drake alone once more.

What the void is a quarterdeck? he thought wryly.

Rose, his dead dragon said.

Fifty-Nine

Jarrod Gaard

The Bay of Sighs, Approaching the Isle of Mages

JARROD HAD SENSED THE TURMOIL WITHIN DRAKE, BUT DECIDED IT WASN’T HIS PLACE TO PRY. He had enough to deal with as it was, and there would be time for soul searching later. Or so he hoped. If whatever was to come turned against them, there wouldn’t be time for anything but trying not to drown.

He had to admit, the Isle of Mages was impressive up close. From a distance, it had looked more like a large, dark storm cloud hovering over the sea, but now that they’d drawn within striking distance, it was incredible seeing earth—actual dirt and stone and grass and trees—floating over the sea. More like miraculous, really.

It was also a reminder of the force they’d set themselves against, an army of spellcasters capable of lifting an entire island into the sky and keeping it there for every second of every day for the last hundred or so years.

“It’s truly magnificent, isn’t it?” Grimfire said from beside him.

“A floating rock?” Jarrod said. “Pretty boring if you ask me. Now if it was spinning, too…”

Grimfire said, “Ha,” unexpectedly, removing his pipestem from his mouth for the first time in hours. “You know, you’re right. I should’ve suggested that when I still lived in Aeromand.”

“Wasn’t that, like, several centuries ago,” Jarrod said.

“Hmm,” Grimfire mused. “Several decades, more like, but you are right to label me an old man. I have seen much during my lifetime.”

“That experience will serve us well today,” Jarrod said, growing serious. He really was glad to have the mage by his side, the only person from his childhood that had remained a constant through everything.

“Unfortunately, I won’t be fighting,” Grimfire said.

“What?” He fired a sharp look toward the mage. “You must fight. How can we defeat mages without mages of our own?”

“Alas, I am here as an advisor and friend, only. And you have mages. That is why I insisted we stop in Leeds.”

“You said it yourself—they are out of practice. I command you to fight. You must. I need you to.” Jarrod could hear the most unkinglike note of begging that had entered his voice, but he didn’t care. This was unacceptable.

The mage didn’t seem bothered by his tone, his eyes sparkling. “One day, perhaps, I can explain my reasons to you, but for now I need you to place your trust in me.”

“Trust? Why are you even here if not to fight?”

“My purposes are my own,” Grimfire said. “Now, Your Majesty, the time is nigh. The border approaches.”

Jarrod turned, staring in the direction of the floating island. He wouldn’t force the mage to fight. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. He moved away from Grimfire, locating the navigator. “Navigator Jarls, where are we?”

The navigator was a thin, spectacle-wearing man who Jarrod had yet to see without a thick roll of scrolls under his arm and a bronze compass dangling from his wrist. Right now, he was hunched over a table, several pieces of parchment spread out, corners weighed down by miniature iron anchors. The man’s attention continuously cycled from the compass to the page and then upwards toward the sky. As he worked, he moved the fleet of tiny ships forward across his map fingertip by fingertip. A large mass on the map represented the Isle of Mages. “Look here, Your Majesty,” the man said, gesturing for him to gaze upon the map, where one of his fingers pointed to a line. One of the tiny ships was already past it. “By my calculations, the lead ship has already crossed the boundary. Our vessel will cross within the next several minutes.”

Jarrod peered at the map, immediately seeing what Jarls meant. A half a dozen ships were already over the line, while the rest of the fleet was spread out from northeast to southwest, almost right on top of it. Had their fleet of warships really passed into mage waters without meeting any resistance? “Thank you,” he said, moving over to the railing, where many of the men were staring toward the floating island. Without being told, a spyglass was handed to him when he reached for it. He raised it to his eye, taking a few seconds to get his bearings, at first seeing only endless ocean. He lifted it higher, locating one of the ships, the one leading the rest of the fleet. It was a Solarii vessel, well-constructed and made for speed, prow skimming across the water with ease.

Jarrod angled the spyglass higher, the underside of the floating isle coming into focus. For the most part, it was a slab of rock bearing the weight of the island set upon its shoulders, but he also noticed a manmade feature—an iron platform attached by long metal arms pounded into the stone. The platform was empty. However, all around the edges of the island, something else captured his attention. Robed forms hovered in the air, gripping staffs between their hands. The familiar turquoise glow of liquid magenum being channeled surrounded them, pouring from the tips of their staffs. Jarrod tried counting the glowing forms but stopped when he passed a dozen. There were at least double that many, positioned approximately equidistant from each other. None of them moved, their concentration complete. What are they…, Jarrod thought, but the question trailed away as his mind clamped down on the truth. “They’re keeping the island in the air,” he said aloud.

“Yes,” Grimfire said, having apparently followed him over to the ship’s starboard side. “To be an Isle Bearer is considered an honor amongst the mages of Aeromand. Many of those on the Archmage Council started their careers in this exact manner.”

“Before they decided to steal darkblades and start wars, you mean?” Jarrod said, lowering the spyglass to eye the mage. He was still annoyed with him after his announcement that he wouldn’t be joining the battle.

“Yes, before that,” Grimfire said.

“What would happen if one of the mages fails to perform his duty?” Jarrod asked.

“Nothing,” Grimfire said, surprising him.

“Nothing? I don’t understand. Why are they needed then?”

“Only twelve are needed. The other thirteen are only a precaution. If the island were to ever fall into the sea…”

“Aeromand would be destroyed,” Jarrod breathed.

“Yes.”

“Then all we must do is kill at least fourteen of those mages and victory is ours,” Jarrod said excitedly. The mage should’ve told him this sooner, but now wasn’t the time to scold him. Instead, he was about to charge around the ship, telling everyone within earshot to focus their efforts on the mages hovering beneath the island, but Grimfire stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Killing those mages is the key to victory,” Grimfire said. “But they are well protected.”

“No, they’re not,” Jarrod said, once more lifting the spyglass to his eye. “They are exposed and without armor or shield. They are so focused on their task that I cannot imagine them using magic to protect themselves. They are like sitting ducks.”

Even as the last words spilled from his lips, there was a blinding flash made worse by the magnification of the spyglass. He cried out, wincing and slamming his eyes shut. “What in the void…,” he said, blinking away spots. Shouts had arisen all around him, not just from their ship, but from others, too, though they were more distant.

As his vision slowly cleared, he understood the cause of the commotion. The lead ship, which had been speeding unblocked toward the floating island, was afire, sails burning as men leapt from its flanks, taking their chances with the large sea predators that patrolled these waters. As Jarrod stared on in horrified awe, the ship listed dangerously to one side and then crashed into the water.

In less than one minute, it was gone.

Rose

Since the incident in the city, Rose hadn’t ventured outside of her own quarters. She was ashamed, sad, and horrified that she’d appeared so weak in front of her own citizens. Worse, she was scared that she’d never be able to leave the palace grounds again, ruling from behind stone walls as the Dead King had always done. Living in the shadows. She imagined herself slowly losing her mind.

But she could be a stubborn woman, something Drake had never failed to point out when she refused to back down during an argument, many of them involving his brother and her grandfather’s refusal to grant them their respective blessings to wed. Now that stubbornness made her stare at the door to her balcony. It was a small thing, but sometimes big things only came about after a series of small things had been completed first.

She opened the door, took a breath, and then stepped out onto the balcony. The cool, winter’s wind hit her. It was exhilarating, a reminder that she wasn’t dead, even if it felt like that way sometimes. She closed the door behind her so it wouldn’t be slammed shut by the wind, and then pressed forward until her fingers closed around the marble railing. She looked out over Sunsei, the people so distant they were like small dots moving about.

Sounds rose up, and at first she thought it was the normal hustle and bustle of a city going about its daily business. After all, the war she’d declared would be fought hundreds of miles away to the southeast, the floating Isle of Mages atop which Aeromand sat barely visible from Sunsei.

But something about the sounds gave her pause. They were too high-pitched, for one. And also too loud. She’d stood on this balcony hundreds of times in her lifetime, sometimes taking her tea out here where the air was fresh and sweet, the sun warm on her skin. Never had she considered the sounds of the city to be so…frantic.

As she stared, more dots began to appear in places where there had been none. Places surrounded by high stone walls set into neat squares on the outskirts of the city. Places that usually only had a few people in them, visiting the graves of their loved ones. Now, suddenly, those places, those graveyards, were full to brimming.

Rose raced back inside, the fear of her past erased by a greater fear, one that was now pouring out into the city streets.

She’d lived with a dead man for most of her life, long enough to understand what was happening.

The Solarii dead had been awakened.

Drake

From the moment the first ship had sunk after crashing into an invisible barrier, chaos had reigned onboard all the ships. Most of them had managed to turn to avoid the same fate, but two more hadn’t been so fortunate, bringing their prows about too slowly. They, too, were now at the bottom of the Bay of Sighs. Jarrod had ordered their own captain to maneuver their ship close to where the three ships had vanished, a desperate bid to rescue those poor souls who’d been onboard.

By the time they arrived, however, the sea was a frothing mass of fins and teeth, the ocean so red it appeared to be more blood than water. The sight had caused several sailors to lose their breakfasts over the sides.

As they coasted past the grisly scene, Drake became aware of a conversation between Grimfire and Jarrod, their voices raised. “You should’ve told me about the shield,” Jarrod snapped.

“You needed to understand the power we are up against,” Grimfire replied, his own voice calm.

“Hundreds of men are dead so I could understand?” the king fired back. Drake was surprised to find himself siding with Jarrod.

Drake stepped forward, his own anger rising to the surface. He might not be Solarii or Terran, but none of those men had deserved to die like that. “How do we know your mage isn’t working with Aeromand?” he interjected. “How do we know where his true loyalty lies? He might’ve been a spy within our very midst this entire time.”

Jarrod shook his head. “I may not always agree with Grimfire’s methods, but he has been loyal to my family for decades. He is no spy.”

“Your mind is clouded by history. You cannot truly know someone, no matter how close you believe you are to them.” Drake knew this better than anyone.

“How dare you?” the king said. “My mind is clouded? You almost choked the life out of Queen Ontarii.”

The rising heat inside Drake’s chest grew hotter at the king’s words. “And you abandoned her, leaving behind your feral dog!” he growled, taking a step toward him. Soldiers immediately stepped between them, drawing swords. Drake drew his own blade, the urge to charge them washing over him, consequences be damned.

Rose.

Drake flinched at the voice, jamming his eyes shut, willing the hallucination to stop. For that had to be what it was. There was no other explanation.

“Drake?” The king’s voice seemed to echo from a long way off. “Drake, are you unwell?”

Rose. Rose. Rose. RoseRoseRoseRoseRose!

“STOP!” Drake screamed. He ran, not toward the king and his guards but in the opposite direction, nearly tripping in his haste as he threw himself up the steps and stampeded across the deck toward the railing. He didn’t know what he was going to do, only that pushing his body to the limits seemed like the only effective way to escape the voice that should not be.

Just as he skidded to a stop before the railing, chest heaving, there was an explosion of water as a massive creature launched itself from the sea, brutal jaws opening, seeking flesh and blood and—

Drake stumbled back, mouth dropping open. “No,” he said. “No no no…stop…please stop.”

Rose, the dragon said in his mind as Draconus’s dark wings unfurled, seawater sluicing off the edges, hundreds of tiny waterfalls returning to join the throng below them. Drake closed his eyes, willing the living dream to be gone when he opened them.

It was not. Draconus hovered before the ship’s prow, wings undulating hypnotically. The dead dragon’s scales were no longer green, but dark gray, marred by dozens upon dozens of bloodless scars, holes where Terran archers’ arrows had hit their target. Go away, Drake said. You are not real.

ROSE. ROSE. ROSE. ROSE. ROSE. ROSE!!!!

The dragon’s final iteration of the queen’s name was a roar that reverberated through Drake’s skull, so real he couldn’t deny it, couldn’t chalk it up to a hallucination or grief or stress. This creature, impossibly, was Draconus. Alive. Or, more appropriately, not dead.

In the wake of the dragon’s roar, a strange calm fell over Drake. He took a step forward, then another. Draconus, he said, his own dragon’s name sounding as familiar to him as it ever did, something he never thought would be true again. Is it really you?

Drake, the dragon said. Rose. Drake. Rose.

If the voice of his dragon was real now, maybe it was real before. And the last time Draconus had repeated his name and then Rose’s, she was in serious trouble. Is Rose hurt? Does she need my help? he asked.

Need help, the dragon said. Though it was Draconus’s voice, there was so much different about it. The dragon sounded confused, like he’d taken one too many hits to the head. But that didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was that the dragon was here—somehow, someway, here—changed but still Draconus. Still Drake’s dragonbond. And Rose might need his help. Whether she was the love of his life or his half-sister or a combination of both or something else entirely was a conversation for another day.

As he moved closer to the dragon, Draconus lowered his head, placing it beside the ship, parallel to the deck.

Drake climbed onto him, his spiked, scaled form as solid as stone but as cold as ice.

A living corpse.

The dragon launched himself into the air, releasing a roar as he climbed the sky.

Jarrod

Jarrod wasn’t alone as he gawked at the dragon—which, last he checked, was supposed to be dead—climbing higher and higher into the sky, Drake’s lone form clinging to the creature’s head. With a final screech, the dragon wheeled about and flew away, heading back the way they’d come, northwestward in the direction of Sunsei.

“Well you can paint me green and call me dragonmaster,” one of the soldiers murmured. “Ain’t never seen anythin’ like it.”

Jarrod was certain none of them had and they would never see anything like it again, but it also didn’t change anything. Drake and the dragon were gone, already little more than the size of a gull and growing more distant by the second. Standing before them was a floating island and an invisible shield that had destroyed three ships already, sending hundreds of soldiers into the deadly waters of the Bay of Sighs, brimming with vicious predators hungry for fresh meat.

Which leaves us where? Jarrod wondered. He turned toward Grimfire, who continued to puff calmly on his pipe as though his failure to alert the fleet to the invisible shield hadn’t just sent hundreds to their doom. As though the opportunity to teach Jarrod a lesson was more important than the lives of those who fought for king and country. He stalked up to the mage, grabbed him by the front of his robes, and said, “How do we destroy the shield?”

“It has never failed,” Grimfire said.

Jarrod hated that even being manhandled by him the mage’s voice and mannerisms were insufferably even keel. “That’s not what I asked.”

“And I don’t have an answer I can give.”

“Meaning you don’t know?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Jarrod’s impatience and frustration boiled over, and he shoved the mage aside. “Fine. Have it your way. But know that this is the end of your relationship with the wolf throne. After this is over, you will leave Teravainen and never return.” He searched the mage’s eyes, hoping for…something…some sign that the man was affected by his words and that he wished to change his own future.

Instead, the mage nodded and said, “I understand.” His expression showed not even a hint of emotion.

Then it is done, Jarrod thought, turning his back on the mage that he’d begun to think of as more than someone under his employ. “Fire all weapons at the shield! Raise the wolf flag! Spread the word!”

His command finally seemed to snap the men out of their stupor, and they scrambled to carry out his orders. Soon the wolf flag had risen from half-mast to full mast, which signaled to the other ships that the attack had begun in earnest. Jarrod stepped forward and grasped the railing to steady himself just as a blast from the first cannon shook the ship.

Propelled by the ignited magepowder, the sphere of iron shot forth at a remarkable speed, barely even beginning to arc before—

There was a blaze of light from the point of impact, the invisible shield spraying tendrils of gold in every direction. The cannonball was stopped dead in its tracks, hanging in midair for a moment before dropping toward the water and entering with a splash. Jarrod gritted his teeth. If Grimfire wouldn’t provide a solution to breaching the Aeromand defenses, he would take his own approach: blast the damn thing to void and back again until it shattered. “Fire at will!” he shouted.

A cheer went up, followed swiftly by the sounds of dozens upon dozens of cannons and the whistle of long bolts sent spinning through the air by their ballistae.

Rose

After the last time she’d left her quarters, fresh fear threatened to consume her as Rose threw open her door and rushed into the corridor. “The city is under attack,” she said to the surprised guards who turned in her direction.

“Your Majesty, you’ve been through quite an ordeal,” one of them said. “You need to rest. We are at war, but the battle will be far from our shores.”

Rose didn’t have time for this, not when people were already dying in the streets. “If you wish to survive this day, you will listen to me and obey my command. Gather every guard in the palace, and then gather every able-bodied servant. Arm them. When you run out of swords and knives, give them sticks and clubs and anything else that can be used as a weapon. Lead them to the palace gates.”

The men stared at her, shocked. “And then what?” the guard who’d previously counselled her asked. At least she had his attention now.

“Then we wait,” she said. She wouldn’t send any of them out into the city to die, but she would prepare them to defend the castle and anyone in it.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the pair said, hurrying off down the hall to carry out her command. Rose breathed deeply, placing a steadying hand on the wall. The thought of leaving the palace again made her want to scurry back inside her room, lock the door, and hide under her bed.

Me and others like you.

Hurt where the world can’t see.

For some reason, the woman’s words from earlier that day repeated in her head. For some reason, they made her feel less…alone. For some reason, they gave her strength.

She took another deep breath, turned away from her room, and raced down the corridor.

Drake

The journey that had taken so long via the sea was much faster on dragonback, the miles vanishing beneath Draconus’s powerful wings.

Drake had tried communicating with the dragon several times, but all he received in response was Rose and Drake. It was like the dragon, upon returning to life, had lost his senses and been struck dumb. And yet there was also something in the way he said those two names that felt…important, an urgency that spoke of a creature simply trying to be heard, to be understood.

He tried again. Draconus, I watched you die. I mourned you. How are you…still here?

Drake, the dragon intoned. Drrr… The dragon’s maw opened and he roared in what sounded to Drake like frustration. No fire or smoke brimmed his mouth or snaked from his nostrils. The fires that had once burned inside his chest had been snuffed out for good when he’d breathed his last breath. Drrr…, he said again. Can’t.

Can’t what? Drake asked.

Just…can’t.

Draconus, you are the strongest creature I have ever met, even amongst dragons. There is nothing you cannot do. Nothing, do you hear me? You’ve already cast death aside like a piece of rancid meat. Your mind is your own. Yours to command.

I…I-I-I-I-I—

Another frustrated roar, the dragon’s wings beating harder, carrying them higher. Almost too high. Drake felt the pressure building in his ears. His head started to hurt. It’s okay. We need to go a little lower. Can you do that?

Y-Y-Yes. The dragon seemed relieved to have gotten the word out as he swooped lower. Drake swallowed and the pressure in his ears popped out.

Is Rose in trouble? Drake asked, trying a different tactic.

Rose…y-yes.

Drake put a comforting hand on the dragon’s brow. His scales felt the same as they always did, except now they were stripped of their usual warmth, as cold as stone in winter. You did good, he said. I was a fool for ever leaving her side. It seems I’m not capable of learning from my mistakes, eh?

Fool, Draconus said.

Drake’s heart melted in an instant. For a brief, fleeting second, it almost felt like nothing had changed, that his dragon was still his usual self, full of witty insults and the clever banter that had bonded them over the years as they’d become more than rider and dragon, their undying friendship built on love and loyalty. Of course you would have no trouble remembering that particular word, Drake joked back. But you’re not wrong. I did many foolish things before you died. After…I’m afraid I was an even bigger fool in more ways than I can count. Your death destroyed me.

I-I-I-I’m sorry.

Drake fought off tears. No. No. You have nothing to apologize for. Not ever. I failed you. I failed you and Rose and Travail and Dom. I am the one who is sorry.

Never…f-f-failed…m-m-m-me.

Drake finally let his tears fall, tiny droplets splashing onto the dragon’s cold, gray scales, like rain on a bleak, distant shore.

The silver line of Solarii’s shore drew ever closer. And nestled against one of its heads, the sunlit spires of Sunsei’s palace.

Draconus released another roar and flew toward the city.

Jarrod

Streaks of light continued to spike along the surface of the invisible shieldlike wall preventing the fleet from getting any closer to the floating island. Hundreds of magenum-propelled cannonballs had already crashed into its surface, fired by the dozens of Solarii and Terran vessels holding position before it. Entire flocks of arrows were sent toward the island, only to be repelled as easily as pebbles tossed against stone. Heavy ballistae blasted iron spears, joining the rest as they fell into the ocean.

If they were having any effect, Jarrod couldn’t tell, the wall every bit as unbreakable as it had appeared when the first three vessels had crashed into it and sunk to the bottom of the sea. Every so often, Jarrod spotted a streak of a different kind of light, fired from one of the other ships. The handiwork of the mages they’d picked up in Leeds, no doubt, perhaps testing the wall for weaknesses. But even their attack spells failed to do more than create different shades of color, eventually fading away into nothingness.

Jarrod had issued commands until his voice had grown hoarse, but no amount of persistence or strength of will seemed to matter, not against an enemy they didn’t understand. They needed a better plan. They needed a real strategy. “Lower the flag!” he shouted. Cannons continued to blast away, arrows and iron bolts continued to fly. But someone had heard his command, the flag slowly descending to half-mast, where it stopped. As keen-eyed scouts on the other ships noticed the flag’s new positioning, the attack dwindled down to nothing, the final arrow clanking off the magical shield’s surface with a small flash of yellow before plunking into the water and vanishing.

All was still. All was calm. Soldiers’ eyes fell upon him, waiting for his next command.

Jarrod turned, sensing a presence behind him.

The boy stood several paces away, watching him like all the others.

“This is no place for you,” Jarrod said. He started toward him, planning to usher him back below deck where he’d be safe. He stopped when he realized something. He’d left the boy in his cabin with the door locked from the outside. How had he escaped?

“I was wrong about the darkness gathering here,” the boy said, eyes unblinking.

“How did you get out of the cabin?” Jarrod asked.

“That’s why I couldn’t find the shadows, no matter how hard I looked,” the boy said, ignoring his question. “The darkness was near, but not here.”

Something about the boy’s cryptic words suddenly felt like they made sense. Perhaps not logical sense, but finally Jarrod understood what the boy meant. Or at least he thought he did. The boy’s experience was not unique, as there were other children who’d been abducted in the black of night and forced to grip the stolen darkblades. What if this boy, because of his own time spent holding a darkblade, could sense things that the rest of them couldn’t? What if the ‘darkness’ he spoke of had something to do with those darkblades?

“Now you understand,” the boy said.

“I think I do. You say the darkness is near, but not here. Does that mean the darkness isn’t onboard this ship?”

The boy nodded.

“Then where?”

The boy raised his arms and motioned around them, like there was something in the very air that only he could see.

A moment later, the screams began.

Grimfire

Grimfire heard the screams, but he was already gone, slipping into seams connecting the fabric of reality, seams that, to others, were as invisible as the wind itself, but which he’d learned to see many, many years ago. To others, the magical shield felt almost impenetrable, but to him it was little more than an open door.

More than anything, he’d wanted to stay onboard the vessel, by Jarrod’s side, to show him the way to defeat the shield. To defend him with his own life if necessary. But to do so would risk everything he’d painstakingly accomplished thus far without breaking his oath. Even being onboard the ship felt like a risk, and he wouldn’t stretch the boundaries any further for fear they would break.

Onward he flew, the mages and mage acolytes drawn to the fireworks display in the waters beneath their home oblivious to his presence. Most of them were innocent, plucked from small towns and villages across Kingfall after their innate talent for spellcraft manifested itself in them as children. Many of them were still little better than children, naïve and pure and full of hope.

Grimfire pitied them. Hope was for the weak, for those too incapable or small minded to exact change on their own. Knowledge ruled the world, and Grimfire held more knowledge than anyone else. He’d lived entire lifetimes as their generations had passed by in ignorance.

He scoffed at his own arrogance. He spoke of those too incapable to change Kingfall’s fate, but that included him, did it not? For all the knowledge in the world didn’t change the promise he’d made centuries ago, back when he believed he had no choice but to sacrifice his own free will in exchange for a weapon that could bring balance to a world teetering on its axis.

Now, he knew, there was always another choice to be made.

Stop, he chided himself. It had taken him entire centuries to cast off his regret and refocus on what would one day be required, a day that was finally here, all but two of the Blades of Seven having found their way back into the light at long last.

A shining pyramid appeared between the other buildings, resting on its point rather than its base, angling outwards, growing wider as it climbed into the sky. The All-Seeing Eye seemed to stare at him, noticing his approach when all others saw nothing but a trick of the light bending around the edge of their vision.

Grimfire passed through the Eye, for it held no power over him.

Inside, mages hurried hither and thither, a commotion likely caused by the warships blasting at their shield, the first attack on Aeromand in its history. Grimfire ignored them, moving on with a single-minded focus. He passed through the walls and into the room that had long been the beating heart of Aeromand, a room occupied by the strongest, most powerful mages who had ever lived—save for him, of course.

They were engaged in heated discussion, plotting the demise of the warships and Sunsei. They were arrogant, too, believing that they couldn’t be stopped, that the destruction they reaped was justified because of their superiority. Once, Grimfire might’ve agreed with them. But his brother had accidentally taught him that absolute power had the potential to corrupt even the most noble, well-intentioned mind.

Grimfire slid from the seam he’d followed to this point, his form materializing before the archmages, most of whom flinched back, shocked by his sudden appearance.

Cernon, however, did not, tenting his fingers before himself calmly as though he’d been waiting for his arrival. “This is your doing, I suppose,” the Speaker said. “I should’ve known.” He didn’t sound angry, just tired. Grimfire understood why: He’d been a thorn in Cernon’s side for many years.

“I wish I could claim credit, but it was your own stupidity and overconfidence that alerted Quill to the truth,” Grimfire said. “His message reached the right ears, and, unlike you, they listened.” He could hear the pride in his voice. He quickly swallowed it down. Quill had succeeded despite him, not because of him.

“Yes, yes, you always liked to cut us down. Mostly because no one ever seriously considered you for a spot on the Council,” Cernon said, waving him away dismissively. The other archmages had recovered from their shock and now glared at him with such heat he feared he might burst into flame.

“Then you misunderstood my intentions. I never sought to be one of you. I only sought to show you a different way. A better way.”

“Your arrogance knows no bounds,” Cernon said. “Right now, the darkblades that were always rightfully ours are being used to kill the mundane, untalented pawns that you thought could tear our island from the sky.”

“And, predictably, you underestimate nonmagical folk,” Grimfire said.

“Only nonmagical folk?” Cernon said. “You don’t think I noticed the friends you brought along with you? If you think your Aeromand outcasts will make any difference, then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”

“I taught them about the true nature of magic,” Grimfire said. “Unbeknownst to you, they’ve been training for this very day for many years.”

“I grow weary of this conversation. Why are you here? To kill me? If so, your particularly uninspired brand of magic will face our boring old spells that rely on our use of staffs and magenum. Will you stand and fight this time? Or will you run, as you always do?”

Grimfire wished he didn’t have to stay his hand, wished he could do more than poke and prod and guide, but to do so would risk breaking his oath. Instead, he said only, “The fall of mages is upon you and you don’t even know it.”

Cernon stared daggers into his eyes and, for several seconds, Grimfire thought the archmage might actually attack him. But then Cernon’s lips curled into a smile. “A mage speaking of the fall of mages like it’s a good thing. I fear your delusions have only worsened over the years. Now, if there’s nothing else…we have ships to sink and a city to conquer. Sunsei shall become our new stronghold, the first of many Kingfall cities ruled by mages.”

“Of course,” Grimfire said. “I would hate to distract you.”

Cernon’s eyes narrowed, but Grimfire was already gone. He hadn’t really done anything but show up and discuss topics that wouldn’t be considered more than just idle talk between rivals. And yet, he had done something of vital importance.

He’d distracted them just long enough.

Quill

At first Quill had thought it was a trick of the sunlight on the whitecapped sea, sort of like a mirage in the desert, but as he’d drawn closer to the floating island, he’d seen the truth:

Aeromand was under attack. Even more surprising was the fact that the ships gathered against the mages flew flags of two different kingdoms, the Terran wolf standing beside the Solarii sun. Something about the sight gave him a measure of strength. He hadn’t failed in every way, as he’d thought. The messages he’d sent throughout Kingfall had been received and, in at least two cases, believed. Kingdoms that had warred for several years were now allied against a common enemy far deadlier because of the power wielded using the staffs of its soldiers.

As Quill approached, he searched the motes of light, realizing something else. The shield that surrounded the Isle of Mages had been changed, altered. The magic imbued into it should be evenly spaced, providing equal protection on all sides. Now, however, the magic was concentrated in one place—the section standing before the ships. It was the equivalent of taking stones from one part of a wall to build a second layer in front of another part of the wall. One was made stronger while another was weakened almost to the point of nonexistence. So long as your enemies threw themselves against the stronger part of the wall, the decision made sense. But if they realized there was an easier route…

Quill’s objective after escaping Lockspell had been to reach Aeromand, infiltrate the All-Seeing Eye, and kill every archmage, but now that he was here, he saw another opportunity.

He splashed back down into the water, gathering his strength for several moments before flying toward the ships.

And all the while, the undeniable feeling he’d always had whenever he was near the floating island pulsed heavy in his chest. It felt like coming home.

Rose

As Rose emerged from the palace, looking down upon the large courtyard just inside the castle gates, she almost lost her nerve and went back inside. Already there were hundreds gathered, some of them looking experienced and ready—soldiers—while others looked scared and confused—palace servants, many of them gripping common items that would now have to serve as weapons: pitchforks, brooms, rolling pins…

More continued to join the throng by the minute. Though a trickle arrived from within the palace itself, the steadiest flow was now from without the castle bounds, Solarii citizens seeking refuge from the dark tide now sweeping through the city, as evidenced by the distant screams that could be heard by all ears.

The thought of walking amongst so many, brushing against them, hands potentially touching her…Rose sank into a crouch, feeling ill. Her hands were shaking, and she threaded her fingers together to try to steady them.

I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this…can I?

A commotion drew her focus away from herself and to the gates, where shouts could be heard. The human tide seemed to ebb and flow, bodies moving back and forth in what might’ve been misconstrued as a strange dance if not for the evidence of violence—bodies sprawling, fists swinging, weapons raised…

“No!” Rose shouted, pushing to her feet. She started down the steps, shouting the whole way. “No! No! NO!”

At the base of the long, stone staircase, surprised bodies turned, instinctively parting in their center as she strode forward, determined to pretend she was the queen until she was able to believe it. It was a game she’d played as a child made real, and she was surprised when her subjects seemed to join in, moving aside one by one at first and then in waves, opening a wide path for her to walk through.

“Stop! I command it!” she shouted as she reached the fray, the mass of bodies pushing and shoving, some of them brandishing weapons, steel meeting steel. Another version of her might’ve stopped just short of the brawl, shouting at the top of her lungs until someone listened, but this version was exhausted from shouting into the void, was tired of waiting for another bad thing to happen, powerless to do anything but watch and scream.

She didn’t stop, lowering her good shoulder and barging into the back of one of the Solarii soldiers trying to shove his opponents backward. “Stop it, godsdammit!” she shouted, surprising even herself with a rare curse. She turned to the right and used her uninjured hand to shove another broad-shouldered soldier, and then repeated the motion to the left, until, finally, she was seen and heard, the tussle slowing and then stopping, all eyes falling on her.

She spun in a circle, cradling her injured arm in its sling, eyeing those who’d been fighting with disgust. “The enemy is on our doorstep,” she said, seething, adrenaline still firing through her veins. “Fighting amongst ourselves does us no good.”

One of the Solarii soldiers stepped forward. “With due respect, Your Majesty, we weren’t fighting amongst ourselves. It was them that was the problem. They were trying to get inside the castle wall.” He pointed disdainfully toward those on the other side, who Rose now realized were all Terran soldiers left behind by Jarrod Gaard to help defend the city if the battle against the mages turned against them and Aeromand decided to invade Solarii.

“They are our allies,” Rose said. “They have every right to be here. And we need every soldier we can get.” The screams were getting closer. Now that the fight that had temporarily stalled things had died down, more and more Solarii citizens were trying to push inside the gates, their eyes white with fear. “Now make a path, keep the refugees moving. And soldiers—get out there and bring back as many of our citizens as you can. Your queen commands it.”

Drake

What do you see? Drake asked Draconus as they approached the city. Drake could tell something was amiss—there were too many dark spots marking people moving through the city for this time of day—but the dragon’s eyes were far keener than his.

D-D-Dead things, the dragon said. Draconus’s ability to communicate was improving the more he spoke, but he still struggled to form more complex thoughts. It was like the act of dying had cast a fog over his mind, and he was only just beginning to emerge back into the light.

I don’t understand, Drake said. What does that mean?

L-Like…mmmme.

Drake frowned, trying to make sense of his dragon’s statement. Dead things like me? What does that even me—oh. Oh. You’re talking about necromancy. The dead have been brought back to life?

Yes.

Drake saw only white for a moment as fear stabbed into his chest. Rose had been through enough—too much—and now this? All he wanted to do was swoop down, scoop her up, and carry her away to somewhere she could be safe for the rest of her life. He shook away the fanciful thought and asked, How many dead are there?

How many? Draconus echoed. It almost sounded like he was simply repeating what had been said to him.

Yes, like a number. Fifty? Seventy? A hundred? Drake hoped it wasn’t that many.

I-I remmmmember a number. N-Not a hundred. Relief filled Drake until the dragon spoke the next word. More. Th-th-thousands.

Drake gripped Draconus’s spikes harder as the dragon began his descent.

Jarrod

Jarrod felt helpless as he watched the mayhem. One ship was already ablaze, and another’s sails had suddenly unfurled, its prow coming around as it charged for the invisible shield that had already destroyed three separate vessels. Two of the other ships maneuvered themselves until they were parallel to each other, their cannon ports lining up. And then they fired.

Wood and bodies were shredded as iron balls larger than fists punched through the ships’ sides. Smoke and screams filled the air.

Nearby, the ship on fire lurched and began to sink. Soldiers threw themselves wildly into the predator-infested waters. Soon, blood filled the sea once more.

The ship that had suddenly charged toward the floating island crashed in a blast of light and the crunch of snapping wooden planks. Water poured through the hull until it was too heavy. More soldiers took their chances in the water, the feeding frenzy beginning anew.

Jarrod stared at the carnage. What in the name of the many gods is happening? he thought. Four ships had been destroyed in a matter of what felt like seconds. He sensed whatever was happening wasn’t over by a longshot. Almost in response to his thoughts, more screams reached his ears, originating from other ships amongst the fleet. Then he remembered what had preceded the chaos, the words spoken by a young boy who’d escaped his locked cabin. The darkness is near, but not here. Could his guess have been right? Could the stolen darkblades and their young wielders truly be aboard these ships that were now in distress? He whirled around, eyes falling on the spot where the unusual boy had stood a moment ago.

It was empty.

He scanned the silent deck, passing the faces of shocked soldiers watching their comrades die in droves, devoured by the hordes of ravenous teeth that had risen from the depths. Jarrod almost missed the boy completely, his body wreathed in a long shadow cast by the main mast, almost as though the boy had sought out the darkness in which to hide.

Except he wasn’t hiding. He was standing on the ship’s narrow railing, his arms flat against his sides rather than outstretched to keep his balance. Yet, somehow, he didn’t even wobble, his balance perfect. He was staring toward one of the ships, head cocked slightly to one side.

Instincts fired and Jarrod ran, shoving soldiers aside in his haste to reach the boy before—

One of the lad’s legs lifted, stretching forward, not to jump but simply to take a step over the side. A step that would carry him all the way to the sea and the death incarnate that lived there. As Jarrod ran, time seemed to slow, the boy’s leg hanging in the air. And then he fell.

Jarrod was still several steps away, but he lunged forward, arms outstretched, reaching…

His left arm hooked around the boy’s waist just as his center of gravity failed him, more of his body on the seaward side of the railing. Jarrod pulled as hard as he could, but the truth was he was a step or two too slow, his momentum moving in the wrong direction entirely, the boy already dead to rights.

Jarrod landed with a thump and the rattle of his armor, head twisting about, expecting to watch the last of the boy disappear over the side.

Instead, the boy tumbled into his arms, eyes wide, face as pale as a new sky. “The darkness calls to me,” the boy said, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Jarrod pulled him tight against his chest. “I know, son, I know. But you’re safe with me. I swear it on my own life. You’re safe.”

Jarrod had found his cabin door unbroken, still shut with the lock engaged. How the boy had escaped remained a mystery, one that would have to wait until another time to be solved. Locking him in again would be foolish. Instead, he crouched down and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “How can I keep you from seeking the shadows?”

“Knock me out,” the boy said, tapping his knuckles against his own skull.

Jarrod shook his head. “I’m not doing that.”

“Then you must bind me. Have two guards watch me. If I try to escape, they can hit me in the head.”

Again, Jarrod shook his head. “That’s…I can’t…”

“Please,” the boy said, tears once more shimmering in his eyes. It was a rare occasion where he looked his age. Young. Innocent. “I don’t want to die. There is no other choice. The call of the darkness is…so loud. I can’t escape it, can’t hide from it.”

It felt so…wrong…to tie up a child, but these were drastic times. Their fleet was under attack by a force beyond any of their reckoning, their attack on Aeromand a complete disaster so far. If Jarrod had any hope of turning things around in their favor, he needed his entire focus to be on the battle and not worried about where the boy was. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.”

It is done, Jarrod thought as he mounted the last step and strode back above decks. The boy hadn’t complained once as he’d bound his legs together and his arms tight against his body. Two soldiers had been left with him under strict orders to give him a gentle but firm knock on the head if he tried to escape.

Jarrod felt sick but relieved.

The captain was waiting for him. “Your Majesty, we’ve lost another ship to the drink. I fear it is only a matter of time before whatever evil besieges them comes for us.”

“I know,” Jarrod said, mind spinning. This was usually when he would seek Grimfire’s counsel, but the royal mage hadn’t made an appearance since their argument. Not that it mattered. Grimfire had been about as helpful as a parasol in a typhoon. If the attackers on the other ships really were wielding darkblades, and he was all but certain they were, they needed more than swords and ballistae to combat them. They needed magic. “Signal the mages on the other vessels,” he said. “Assuming they are alive,” he muttered under his breath as the captain strode off to carry out his command.

It didn’t take long for the mages to arrive. Apparently traversing the short distance was simple for mages of their ability and experience. The first to appear was Mage Shin. He didn’t actually see her appear, because she did so when he blinked. “Weeping Gods,” he exclaimed.

“You rang, Your Majesty,” the pale, dark-robed woman said. Her silver hair was pulled and tied into a ball on her head, her cowl loose around her shoulders.

“Yes, I—”

Before he could finish, Mage Finnerty arrived, also out of thin air, lips pulled into their usual smile, though there was a tightness in his expression now. His red robe was smudged with ash and Jarrod wondered whether he’d been on the ship that had burned and sunk into the ocean. A second later, the plump, magenta-robed Mage Grub appeared, followed closely by Mage Shard, her cheeks pink with exertion, her eyes as sharp as her name, as though she were seeking a target to hit with her stare.

“Where’s Grimfire?” Mage Finnerty asked, eyes flicking about.

“He’s gone missing,” Jarrod admitted.

Mage Shin rolled her dark eyes. “Of course he has,” she droned.

“Then he must have his reasons,” Finnerty said.

“You always did like to defend him, even if doing so required you to step off a cliff,” Shin said.

“Grimfire hasn’t led us astray before, and I’m certain he—”

“Look around you,” Jarrod interrupted. “Grimfire isn’t here. Ships are sinking faster than we can count them. Our enemies are using darkblades to—”

“Darkblades?” Mage Grub said, confusion lining his broad forehead.

“The king is right,” Shin said, wrinkling her nose slightly, as though it left a foul taste in her mouth to admit such a thing. “I saw one. It was gripped by a child.”

“A child?” Mage Shard said, bright blue eyes wide with wonder. “Then the revelations are true!”

“Of course, they are,” Finnerty said. “Grimfire foretold it.”

Mage Shin cursed under her breath. “Grimfire isn’t a god,” she said. “So save your worship for the temples.”

“Grimfire knows things no one else knows. He’s earned our trust and I think a modicum of respect, you self-righteous, arrogant—”

“Enough!” Jarrod shouted. “I don’t care about your petty feuds. I care about the men who are dying this very second while you bicker amongst yourselves. How do we stop the killing? That’s all I want to know.”

The mages exchanged glances, but none of them offered an answer.

“Are you saying you don’t know?” Jarrod said, the last of his hope slipping away at the mages’ befuddled expressions. Screams and cannon blasts provided an appropriate backdrop.

Jarrod was about to ask the mages to offer up any ideas they had, no matter how insane, when he spotted something just over Mage Shard’s tall form. It was flying toward them like a bird, except it had no wings and seemed to be struggling to stay in the air. It almost looked…

Human, Jarrod thought. The mages had noticed his expression and turned, following his gaze to the figure careening toward their ship. Jarrod drew his sword, suddenly on high alert as the form arced through the sky, mouth opening in a silent scream.

Wooden posts snapped in half as the form failed to rise high enough to avoid the railing, splinters exploding all around it, clinging to its sodden clothes as the figure tumbled end over end before coming to rest. All around, soldiers drew their weapons.

The figure lifted its head, revealing a familiar dark-skinned face. “Nice to see you again, Your Majesty,” Mage Quill said.

Quill

It wasn’t exactly the entrance Quill had been looking to make, but he’d misjudged the height of the railing and an unexpected gust of wind had caught him by surprise. At least I’m onboard, he thought, dragging himself to his feet. His clothes felt like they weighed ten stone as waterfalls streamed onto the wooden deck, but they were far better than wearing a soaked robe, even if its absence made him feel somewhat naked, especially standing in front of the other robed figures who appeared to be mages.

“Mage Quill,” King Gaard said. “How are you—why are you—I don’t understand. Cernon informed us you’d been imprisoned in Lockspell.”

“I escaped,” Quill said simply. Even if he’d had a mind to explain things in more detail, there wasn’t time.

“You flew all the way from Lockspell?” one of the mages said. He was a vermillion mage, his crimson robe smudged with what appeared to be ash. His voice was incredulous. “Where is your staff?”

“Yes,” Quill said. “I flew. I had no other choice. And they don’t allow staffs in Lockspell, for obvious reasons.”

“Then how…,” the mage said, trailing away. “You can see them, can’t you?”

Quill stared at the mage. “See…what?” he asked slowly.

“The motes of light.”

Quill nodded. “I didn’t know there were others who could, well, except Mage Megrifir…” The thought of the mage who had taught him so much only to turn his back when he needed him the most left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Megrifir? You met him in Lockspell?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t bring himself to say more, the wounds too fresh.

“And your friend…,” King Gaard said. “Ah, Ronson was his name?”

Rondo. His name is…was…Rondo. All Quill could do was shake his head.

“I’m sorry,” the king said, understanding. He sounded genuine, not that it changed anything.

“Listen,” Quill said. “I know you’re trying to breach the shield. I know how.”

“And I’d love to hear your advice, but right now we’ve got bigger problems. Those stolen darkblades you were hunting? They’re onboard some of the ships.”

Quill’s heart hammered in his chest. “Who?” was his only question. If Cernon was wielding one of them, he would find him and use the blade to cut out his heart.

King Gaard exchanged a look with the vermillion mage. “Children,” he said. “They’re being wielded by children.”

Quill closed his eyes. Everything felt like it had come full circle. He was back in a small town in Teravainen, being told tales of deathmares and children vanishing in the night. Time flew forward and he was hunched over a small desk in one of the largest archives in the world, poring over an old tome written by authors with names bearing interchangeable letters—Figmirre, Megrifir, Grimfire.

Names bearing the same letters as the most infamous villain in history: Erif Mirg.

None of it made sense. He’d met Grimfire and Megrifir, and Figmirre was long dead. Same for Erif Mirg, thousands of witnesses watching as he was struck down on the battlefield, his Legacy Sword destroyed into the shards that were eventually used to forge the godblades and lesserblades, some of which were now being used against them by Cernon and his ilk.

Think, he urged himself. Somehow these facts had to connect, had to matter when placed all in a row. Coincidences were always a possibility, but his instincts told him there were too many here. There had to be a common thread running through it all. He wished Rondo were here to help. Together, maybe they could solve this riddle. Stop it, he thought harshly. He’s not here. It’s on you now. You must do it for him. That’s what he would want. “Where is Grimfire now?” he asked.

“Gone,” King Gaard said. “Now, how can we defeat those wielding the darkblades?”

“I have an idea,” Quill said. “But I’ll need the help of all of the mages. How many more do you have?”

“This is all of them,” the king said.

Quill tried not to react, though he feared it wasn’t enough. It will have to be, he thought. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do…”

Rose

More and more citizens poured through the castle gates, some under their own strength and some assisted by soldiers, both Solarii and Terran. They were young and old, men and women, healthy and sick. They were her people, all of them.

Rose helped them, occasionally flinching when her skin met that of another, but she gritted her teeth and cast aside her demons for the greater good.

The screams and shouts of terror grew ever closer.

She’d just assisted a young man with a broken leg to safety when the sound of pounding footsteps drew her attention without the castle. She hurried to the mouth of the gate and peered out into the streets. Dozens of soldiers pounded toward her. Some of them carried children. In their midst were normal citizens, too, their faces white with fear.

Rose was about to call out to ask what was happening, but then she saw past them, where a form had emerged around the corner of a building. Just one, running like everyone else but in an awkward, jerky manner, as though controlled by a deranged puppeteer teasing his strings one at a time.

His eyes were missing, his mouth a dark slash. Tattered clothes clung to his skeletal frame, bits of dirt and grass staining the threadbare material. Rose didn’t flinch, because she’d seen the living dead before, had lived with her deceased grandfather for years, suffering his gray pallor, moldy flesh and scarred skin day after day after day.

This man was like that, except he’d been restored from the dead long after his death, whereas her grandfather’s necromancers had brought him back almost immediately. “Get inside,” she called to those running toward her. “Hurry. We need to close the gates.”

She watched as the first of the dead was joined by dozens more, charging around the corner, stumbling into each other in their haste to taste blood and flesh.

Soldiers and citizens alike raced through the gates, a stampede of bodies. So few, Rose thought. There should be more. So many more. She could only hope there were other survivors out there, those who’d managed to hide or escape the city before it was too late.

Half of the remaining refugees were inside now, only the slowest—those injured or old or sick—still picking their way slowly toward the castle. “Help them!” Rose cried, grabbing soldiers who were standing idly by the arms and shoving them forth. “Carry them for Sunseri’s sake!” She would do it herself, but most of those struggling were too heavy for her to pick up, especially with one of her arms still useless in its sling.

But then one form began to separate from the others, unmoving. A young girl wearing a sundress, no more than five, having fallen in her haste, her knee bright with blood. She was crying and reaching for those who’d left her behind. Rose didn’t think, just began to run.

She was never particularly large or strong, but she’d always been fast. As the soldiers she’d ordered to help stopped to assist others in need, she charged past them, squirming through the throng of refugees like a fish swimming upstream against the current. Her small size made it easier, but she still felt like she couldn’t breathe, like she was going to suffocate if she didn’t escape the press of bodies soon, but then she was free, breath bursting from her lungs.

The girl was there, still crying, blood streaming down her leg.

Just behind where she sat, a wave of death prepared to crash upon her.

Rose knew she wasn’t going to make it in time.

“Go,” she urged herself, pushing herself to a whole other level of speed despite the awkward feel of one arm cinched tight against her chest, heart trying to pound itself through the inside of her skin. The girl’s eyes, wet and red, locked on hers. “Come on!” Rose cried. “Get up! You can do this! You are strong!” Every word was breathless. Every word was a prayer.

The girl rubbed the back of her hand across her snotty nose.

And then she stood.

The background was death, while the girl stood before the wave of destruction, the epitome of life—beautiful, struggling, strong life.

She began to run.

The distance between Rose and the girl closed faster now. The girl was fast for her size, little legs churning like a waterwheel through choppy waters. And then she was there, Rose scooping her up into her arm, the dead so close she could make out horrific details—missing limbs, chests torn open, rotting skin oozing from bones like mud. She turned her foot sideways and stabbed it between the cobblestones, pushing back in the opposite to arrest her forward momentum. Then she turned and ran back in the other direction, fighting off the burn in her muscles, the heave in her lungs, her body’s every desire telling her to stop and rest, get your breath.

She wouldn’t stop. She refused. Not only for this young girl who had so much life ahead of her, but for herself.

She did it for herself too.

The heavy iron gates were already being cranked shut when she reached them, spilling between the remaining gap and collapsing in a heap, holding the girl tightly to her chest, ignoring the sharp bite of pain as the girl’s weight slammed into her injured arm.

A snarl drew her attention behind her, and she turned just in time to see one of the dead, the first one she’d seen with the missing eyes, leap inside the castle bounds. One of the Terran soldiers stepped forward, stabbing his sword toward the creature’s head. The creature moved faster than the soldier expected, ducking the blow and then reaching up to wrest the blade from his grasp before sinking it into his stomach.

The man doubled over, gasping. More soldiers fell on the creature from behind, eventually cutting its head from its neck. Headless, the strength that had been restored to its body seemed to abandon it, and it toppled over.

The gates clanked shut and Rose sank back with a sigh.

That’s when the pounding began.

Drake

Astride his dead dragon, Drake soared over the streets of Sunsei. Like the last time he’d flown with Draconus over this great city he’d once called home, bodies littered the streets. So many. Rose’s people. His mother’s people, once.

How? was the question that resounded in his mind. It would take a veritable army of necromancers to bring so many back from the dead, a planned and coordinated attack. His question was answered when he spotted a dark-robed form striding along one of the streets, the only thing moving in a sea of corpses. He’d spent enough time around the Dead King and the necromancers who served him to know an obsidian mage when he saw one. Sure enough, as he watched, the mage approached one of the corpses, tapping his staff to its body. Dark whorls encircled them, and before they vanished, the corpse had risen, shaking itself several times and then taking off, heading northward.

The only thing in the northern part of the city was the castle.

Hurry, Drake urged his dragon, though Draconus had already pumped his gray wings several times, swooping just over the tops of the city structures, the castle’s spires growing steadily closer. As they flew, Drake spotted more and more necromancers—ten, twelve, fifteen, more—picking their way through the city, bringing the dead back to life—or at least a version of life, one in which they apparently lusted for the blood of those who were truly alive.

When they skirted the last of the tall structures and the castle wall came into view, Drake’s mouth gaped open. The dead were pounding on the gates, swarming over each other to try to get inside, throwing their own deteriorating bodies against the iron, clambering on each other’s shoulders like mice fighting over a scrap of food.

Others were climbing the castle walls. Hundreds of them.

Soldiers lined the parapets, shooting arrows and dropping heavy stones, knocking the attackers off in droves.

It wasn’t enough. There were too many, and even those repelled simply dusted themselves off before beginning to climb once more.

The first of the dead to reach the top threw itself over with speed, crashing headfirst into one of the defenders. It tore into the man’s throat with its own teeth with an animalistic fury, cutting off the man’s scream before it could reach full timbre. The other soldiers collapsed on the enemy’s position, swords stabbing into the creature from all sides. They backed away in shock as the dead man stood, mouth dripping blood, no fewer than five swords bristling from its back and chest like the quills of a porcupine.

It launched itself at them, taking down another soldier before one managed to extricate his sword from the dead man and then use it to slice off its head. Finally, the dead man collapsed, unmoving.

The distraction had allowed a dozen of its fellow dead to clamber atop the wall, with many more tight at their heels. There was no doubt: The castle was about to be overrun.

Take them, Drake said.

Draconus dove for the castle walls.

Rose

Rose heard the shouts atop the castle walls, and she knew what they meant.

“Fall back!” she cried. “Everyone but the soldiers retreat inside the palace!”

She followed her own command, working her way across the crowded courtyard toward the palace, still holding the young girl with the scraped knee in her arm. The girl clung to her so tightly her fingers were digging into Rose’s skin. With only one good arm to use, the girl’s weight was beginning to become a burden.

More screams atop the walls drew her attention, dozens upon dozens of the dead springing up and over. Heavy fighting ensued and then a body was flung off the wall, twisting through the air until it landed with a vicious crack on the stonework. Rose turned away, pushing toward the staircase, which was already flooded with Solarii citizens. Behind them, the soldiers formed up ranks, preparing for battle.

Thighs burning, Rose reached the landing in the middle of the steep staircase leading up to the palace entrance. Once more, she turned. More bodies toppled from the wall, but this time they weren’t thrown. No, they had jumped, leaping off like it was nothing but a short fall to the courtyard and not a death sentence. There was something odd about the jumpers…

They weren’t alive.

She covered the girl’s eyes with her hands just as the dead splatted onto the stone. One hit headfirst, its skull exploding in a mess of bones. It didn’t move. The others hit in other positions, however, shattering arms and legs. Those that could, stood, advancing on the lines of soldiers.

Rose was about to turn and continue her climb up the staircase when a roar erased all other sound. It was the roar of a dragon, that much was obvious, but it was so much more to Rose, because she would know that roar anywhere, even if she knew it was impossible, beyond impossible.

“Draconus,” she breathed, gaping as the dragon she knew and loved soared over the ramparts, his scales all the wrong color, gray rather than green and pocked with bloodless wounds caused by the dozens of arrows that had pierced his flesh during the Terran invasion.

Atop his head was another familiar form, green-dyed skin vibrant against the blue-skied backdrop. Drake, how are you here? Rose wondered. How are you riding Draconus? It was a sight Rose thought she’d never see again, at least not outside the confines of her dreams. She watched as the dragon clamped his jaws around one of the dead, carrying the corpse high into the sky and then dropping it from such a distance it couldn’t possibly survive. With another roar, the dragon dove for the wall once more, using its claws and spiked tail to crush enemy after enemy, stone shrapnel exploding from each impact.

In the courtyard below, the first line of soldiers broke in the center as more and more dead dropped from the wall, landing atop each other, those at the bottom cushioning the falls of those that followed. They scrambled to their feet and threw themselves upon the soldiers’ swords with reckless abandon, caring nothing for their own second chance at life. All they seemed to care about was wreaking havoc and tasting flesh.

Rose realized she was all alone on the landing now, the other citizens having fled past her in their panic. The last few fought over the final steps and then disappeared. Her shock at the sight of Draconus’s undead form had caused her to linger too long, risking the life of the girl she’d saved on the streets.

Gathering her breath, she started climbing once more, just as the dead horde came crashing through the final line of soldiers, leaping onto the steps. Weighted by the girl attached to her, Rose began to growl to herself as she fought for each step, hazarding a glance back when she was halfway from the middle landing to the top. More than a dozen dead were already on the landing, taking the steps three at a time, leaping upwards with seemingly superhuman strength.

“Come on!” Rose shouted, pushing harder. Five steps to go, four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Just as her right leg crested the final step and planted firmly on the portico outside the palace entrance, something grabbed her left ankle. She cried out, falling forward. With a cry, the girl tumbled from her arms. “Go!” Rose shouted, even as she felt herself being dragged back.

The girl’s lips quivered, but she bravely found her feet and ran, disappearing inside the palace.

Rose twisted around, kicking at her attacker, whose strong fingers clawed into her skin. The creature snarled at her, its eyes full of maniacal fury. Wispy locks of long hair floating from its skull, several of them stuck to its gaunt cheeks with smears of clotting blood from those it had already killed to reach this point.

A high-pitched sound emerged from the back of Rose’s throat as the creature scrabbled at her clothes, grabbing fistfuls as it pulled itself upon her. She swung at its face with her hand, making contact with its jaw. There was a cracking sound, its chin tilting on an odd angle. It looked stunned for a second, but then snarled again, snapping at her throat. She grabbed its front, screaming as she tried to hold it at bay, her fingers sinking into its soft, desiccated flesh until she felt bone.

Still its teeth bit at her, trying to taste her flesh, a rank, fetid odor wafting from its mouth. Its strength was too much for her, gaining inch by inch until she could feel the brush of those wisps of hair against her face. She shrank away, willing herself to push through the stone at her back.

She closed her eyes.

Draconus’s roar was so close it deafened her for a second, her eyes opening just as the weight was lifted from her chest, the creature’s body dragged higher and higher by the dragon, which, with a twist of its talons, sent it flying back over the wall. Rose scrambled to her feet, watching as the dragon curled back around, swooping toward her.

Her eyes met Drake’s and it was like he’d never left, like she always knew he would return, that no words, no actions, no reality could ever separate them, not ever again.

The dragon landed with a thump on the staircase in front of her, crushing several of the dead and sweeping his spiked tail, impaling several more.

Draconus roared and roared and roared.

Quill

Quill cast aside the familiar feeling that had been building in his chest the closer he’d gotten to the Isle of Mages, that feeling of being home, of being in a place he was supposed to be. When he’d arrived here as little more than a sapling of a boy, he’d loved that warm feeling. Now he hated it.

He steeled himself, leading the mages across the space between the ships, leapfrogging from one to the next, searching. He flew using his ability to channel the power of the colorful motes that connected everything, the building blocks for the very world itself, while the other mages relied on magenum and the solidity of their staffs to tap into that same power. Somewhere, Quill knew, birds fell from the sky, their wings failing them.

Each ship they landed on told the same story: The soldiers had heard the screams, had seen the other ships sinking, the men dying, but they’d been unaffected. So far anyway.

As time wore on with them no closer to their quarry than when they’d begun, Quill grew frustrated. Show yourselves, dammit, he thought, even as they landed on the deck of another ship. It was one of the Solarii ones, its sun-crest flag snapping wildly in the stiff breeze.

Quill immediately sensed a difference here. For one, the deck was deserted, though there was no evidence of a struggle. No bodies. No blood. No dropped weapons. It was simply…empty, like a derelict ship long abandoned. The wind whipped down the staircases connecting the various decks and chased itself around the masts, from which the sails hung limply, having been tied and stowed.

“They’re here,” the vermillion mage said. Finnerty was his name, Quill remembered. The one who always seemed on the verge of smiling even when the situation was grave, like it was now.

Quill nodded. “Be ready.”

The pale, obsidian mage named Shin targeted him with a skeptical stare. “Are you sure you can do this?” she asked.

Quill might’ve been offended by her obvious doubt in his abilities, but he understood why she asked. To these four he was certain he looked young enough to still be an acolyte, greener than the grasses on the Odinian plains. But experience wasn’t all dependent on age, it was about the life you lived, the choices you made, the loss and pain you experienced. Quill had all these things in spades. He offered a nod. “As long as I have enough time, I’ll be able to do it.” I hope, he added in his head, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. The truth was, this was the part of his training that had always bothered him. Being a viridian mage was all about playing tricks on others’ minds. Doing that to Lockspell guards felt entirely different to invading the minds of innocent children being used by his enemies.

He shook off the thought and gestured toward the staircase leading below decks. They made for the steps, slipping down them on quiet feet, Quill at the center. The ivory mage, Shard was her name, took the lead. From what he’d seen so far, she seemed rather fearless. Behind her waddled magenta Mage Grub, his cheeks rosy from all the searching. Finnerty and Shin completed the line.

Halfway down the staircase they were forced to step over the first body. Shard checked the soldier’s throat for a pulse and then shook her head. As Quill passed the corpse, he could see that the soldier’s head was twisted too far in one direction. Hopefully that meant he’d died quickly and painlessly.

At the base of the steps, there were more bodies. One had a sword piercing his chest, his armor partially unstrapped. How an assailant could manage to unstrap the armor during the fight and then stab him was beyond Quill’s comprehension. Another dead man’s face was unrecognizable, like it had been pounded repeatedly with a club. Quill had to look away, fighting off nausea. Three other bodies completed the ensemble of death.

Before continuing their search, they stopped to listen. Muffled sounds emerged from somewhere to the rear of the vessel, echoing down the corridor. Mage Shard plunged in that direction, quickly outpacing Grub, whose heavy breathing proved how much the plump mage was beginning to labor. Quill and the others raced past Grub, and he caught a glimpse of Shard just as she slipped beneath a large archway to the right.

There was no doubt: the sounds were coming from inside, louder now. Grunting and thudding and heavy breathing.

Quill stopped just shy of the doorless entrance, pressing his back to the wall to allow the others to pass. Grub had fallen well behind now, cursing under his breath. “Hurry!” Quill hissed, and the mage shuffled forward faster, sweat sheening his round face.

And then he, too, plunged inside the space with the noise.

Quill waited a moment, took a deep breath, and then followed.

He took only one step inside, clinging to the shadows while the other mages were illuminated by several lanterns set into wall sconces. They stood there, frozen, heads cocked slightly to the side. Just watching. Beyond them, Quill’s eyes narrowed on the source of the sounds: Solarii soldiers locked in battle. Not with some foreign enemy, but with each other. Some fought with swords, while others used their fists, punching each other repeatedly in the head and face. A dozen or so bodies littered the area already, but as they watched, another soldier fell, his body finally succumbing to numerous injuries.

The other mages seemed unsure what to do, something Quill understood. These weren’t the enemies they sought. Should they try to break up the fights? What if the soldiers turned on them? They might be forced to kill them to defend themselves.

Nothing made sense. Clearly these men’s minds were being controlled by some other force, a talented viridian mage capable of causing hallucinations similar to what he himself had experienced while imprisoned in Lockspell. Unless…, he thought, his mind trying to draw upon information he’d come across while reading a book during their investigation into the stolen darkblades. It was something regarding lesserblade lore, but he couldn’t quite lock onto it, his mind spinning in circles while the soldiers killed each other.

He remembered. He couldn’t quote the passage verbatim, but it had something to do with those who were able to connect with a darkblade or lightblade gaining certain abilities that could be perceived as magic. Each blade seemed to offer its wielder a different ability. No more detail was provided than that, but it was certainly possible one of the darkblades could give its wielder viridian mage-like abilities.

Which means the darkblade is here somewhere, Quill thought. Along with its wielder.

Naturally, all their eyes had been drawn to the lighted area in the center of the space where the men were locked in combat, but now Quill skirted the edge of the space, eyes boring into where the thickest shadows collected.

The heaviest shadows came from a spot at the far end of the space, an impermeable darkness that would only have been natural inside the deepest bowels of a cave. “There,” he breathed. Then louder: “Over there!”

The others turned away from the fight, following the direction he was pointing. The second they did, something moved from the shadows. At first it was just a blur of shadow racing along the wall, but soon the small legs of a child emerged, supporting the spindly body of a young girl, her blond ponytail streaming behind her like a banner. She was no more than eight. In her hand was a blade limned with shadows—a darkblade.

Mage Shard was the first to spring into action, spinning her staff and then aiming it in the girl’s direction. Liquid magenum glowed as she uncorked one of the vials, wispy tendrils seeming to draw into the tip of her staff. There was a blast of pale light as crystal spikes shot forth.

At first Quill feared she’d forgotten the plan and that the child was about to be skewered, but Shard’s aim was perfect, the crystal spears hitting the wall just ahead of the girl and sticking fast. They forced her to change direction, even as vines burst from the floor, crawling between gaps in the wood, swarming toward her, groping at her legs. Grub may have been exhausted when he’d entered the room, but now he showed no signs of weariness, his face tightening into a mask of determination.

The darkblade-wielding girl swung the blade with such speed it was hard to track her movements, leaving severed vines in her wake as she once more changed direction.

Quill had been too busy watching the mages at work that he’d forgotten his own role in the fight. They were the distraction—he was the finisher.

He split his focus between the girl and the motes of light floating all around them, searching for a path of sorts, a way to connect himself with her. Specific motes glowed brighter, painting a curving twisted line between them. He whispered a spell, the words seeming to take shape as they met the first mote in the line.

Quill closed his eyes, concentrating. In his mind’s eye, the lights changed, swarmed, brightened, all the while closing in on the girl’s fleeing form. And then:

Burrowing, penetrating, worming their way into her mind.

Quill cried out and fell to his knees as a force shoved back, piercing his own mind. Stabbing. Clawing. She is mine, a voice said.

For several long moments, Quill was stricken by that force, unable to move or do anything but clutch his own head and grit his teeth against the wave of pain that washed over him. He wanted to cry out for help, to alert the other mages to his distress. Maybe they could make the pain go away. But no. This was his battle, while theirs was on the outside. It was like he’d been preparing for this very moment his entire life.

He pushed back, taking all the pain and fear and self-doubt, and reversing its course, sending it outward rather than inward, firing it along the bright line that tethered his mind to that of the girl who was little more than a slave, a victim being used against her own will.

Burrowing, worming, invading.

Inside, shadows twisted and writhed, dark ropes binding the girl’s thoughts and desires, her very spirit trapped inside her. Quill was determined to free her, so he began to cut, chopping away the ropes, releasing pieces of her bit by bit. The only problem: Each time he hacked away one dark rope another rose to replace it. He cut faster, but speed didn’t seem to matter, the tangled nest of shadowy tendrils as infinite as time itself.

He was dimly aware of what was happening outside the girl. Just ahead of her fleeting form, a dead soldier was reanimated by Mage Shin’s obsidian magic, reaching for her. One of the dark ropes slashed from side to side, moving her darkblade in tandem. The undead soldier’s head was severed from his neck and he fell, never to rise again. The girl leapt over him and kept going, forced to turn again as a wall of flames burst in front of her—Mage Finnerty’s handiwork, no doubt.

The shadowy tendrils seemed to be active now, as though the presence inside her was agitated, building up to something, an explosion of violence that would dwarf anything they’d witnessed thus far.

Come on, hurry you dolt, Quill thought to himself, chopping fruitlessly at the ropes, as though trying to free a mess of knots with no beginning and no end. He felt like he was missing something, but he couldn’t stop, not when this girl’s life depended on him, not to mention the lives of the soldiers being controlled by the power she wielded.

In the end, it was a stroke of luck that saved him. As he fought through the mess of tangled, twisted ropes, something glinted in a crack between them. Something darker, more formidable, there and gone again, the path forward blocked once more.

Ahead, the nest of ropes grew even thicker. Something is trying to block me, Quill thought, which meant he was on the right track. If he could only…

He charged forward, slashing a path straight through her mind, feeling the ropes snapping at his sides, trying to twist around his neck, seeking to bind his arms to restrain him.

He could not be stopped, severing them in droves that tumbled into pools of shadow at his feet as he splashed past them, finally breaking all the way through, where—

He froze.

The area past the barrier of ropes was a dark void, empty save for its centerpiece, a black blade stabbed into the ground.

Quill stepped forward, reaching for the blade’s hilt. You are the one I’ve been waiting for, the voice said.

I am, Quill said, though he wasn’t certain why he said it, the words forming on his lips without thought.

I understand.

Quill took the hilt and pulled. The sword was impacted so deeply in the girl’s mind that it held fast, refusing to budge. Quill pulled harder, pouring all his pain and anger and frustration into that single act.

The sword began to move, slowly at first but then faster, until it slipped free, glittering darkly in his grasp.

Outside of her mind, the girl’s hand opened and the blade slid free of her fingertips, clunking to the floor.

Quill expelled himself from her mind, falling backward and clutching his head, which was aching something fierce. He opened his eyes, taking in the scene before him. The girl was in Mage Shard’s arms. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she wept. The soldiers who’d been fighting stood idly, looking confused as they stared at their own bloodstained hands and weapons and the bodies strewn around them.

The darkblade lay still on the floor nearby, pulsing slightly as shadows roiled around it.

We did it, Quill thought.

“Come on,” he said, shoving to his feet. “There’s more work to be done.”

The other mages stared at him with raised eyebrows.

Jarrod

From what Jarrod could tell, things were going well for the mages. Three children had been relieved of their darkblades already, Mage Shard taking the lead in carrying the youngsters back to Jarrod’s ship to be looked after. Now they sat bunched together, nibbling on crusty rolls and sipping water from tin cups. With the dark bruises and sunken cheeks under their eyes, they had haunted looks about them.

His heart had soared at the sight of them, however, because Mage Quill had made good on his promise to defeat their darkblades without harming them.

Jarrod hadn’t heard any screams in a while, which either meant there were no more darkblade wielders onboard any of the ships, or they were hiding. He hoped it was the former but feared the latter. Keeping one eye on the children, he watched the mages fly onto the deck of the last ship to be searched. From what he could tell, there were no soldiers on deck. Nothing moved except the ship itself, rolling over the waves.

As had happened on the other ships, the mages disappeared from sight, likely heading below decks to conduct a thorough search. He waited impatiently for their return.

The breath rushed out of him as he spotted a form emerging onto the deck a few minutes later. It’s over, he thought. He hadn’t decided whether to continue the attack on Aeromand, but regaining control of four darkblades felt like a victory in and of itself.

His eyes narrowed as he refocused on the form that had emerged onto the deck. Something wasn’t right. For one, it wasn’t joined by any other forms. And secondly, it was too small to be one of the mages. No, he was certain: it was a child.

“Out here!” Jarrod shouted, hoping his voice would carry over the distance between the vessels and the slap of the waves against the ship’s hull.

The child turned toward him, and though he or she was too distant for him to make out any details, he felt as though their stares locked, the tiny pinpricks boring into him. The small form raised a darkblade overhead, the sword holding still for a moment, and then slammed it into the ship’s deck.

Oh no, Jarrod thought, watching as shadows began to tear themselves from the ship, as though every shadowed nook and cranny had suddenly come alive. They took on dark, winged forms, soaring into the sky. They spiraled once around the ship’s mast, almost like a flock of birds, and then separated, charging outwards toward the other ships, falling upon them as the soldiers dove for cover or hacked at them with their swords.

One creature dove for the child, grabbing his or her shoulders and lifting them into the air. The shadow creature soared directly for Jarrod’s ship.

He started to back away from the railing. All around him, his soldiers were doing the same, firming up their grips on their weapons as they prepared for combat. “Don’t hurt the child!” Jarrod commanded. “Seek to disarm only!”

The winged shadow fell upon the ship, returning the child, which turned out to be a sandy-haired boy of about ten, to his feet. His freckle-faced expression was cold and uncaring as he faced them, darkblade held before him. He stalked not toward Jarrod, but toward the three children hunkering down at the base of the steps leading to the next deck. Jarrod sidestepped, blocking the boy’s path. “Drop your weapon,” he said.

The boy said nothing, only raised the sword again and then brought it slamming down into the deck. Once more, shadows burst from all around, taking to the air. Jarrod didn’t move, watching as the winged creatures chased each other for a moment before diving for the deck. One clawed at his head but he managed to duck, the foul terror passing just overhead. Other soldiers weren’t so fortunate. He caught a glimpse of one man being hauled into the air and then dropped into the sea. Another fell back, the creature tearing at his face.

A whimper drew his attention back to his immediate vicinity. The boy had used the distraction to stride past him, his pace steady and unhurried. The three children shrank against the steps, their food and water forgotten in their laps. “No, please,” one of them said, a golden-haired girl with a long ponytail who’d been the first child rescued. “We don’t want to go back into the shadows.”

“You must,” the boy said, advancing another step.

“Leave them alone,” Jarrod said, regaining his feet. He reached for the boy, grabbing at his shoulder to pull him away. The boy’s elbow snapped back, crashing into Jarrod’s jaw with such force—a force that should’ve been impossible based on the boy’s small stature—that it rocked him back and sent stars spinning across his vision. He tripped over something and fell.

“Stop,” a voice said. Head still spinning, Jarrod turned to find the boy that had traveled with him all the way from Wolfsgaard. Somehow, he’d escaped the ropes Jarrod himself had tied around him. Somehow, he’d slipped past the guards assigned to keep an eye on him.

Somehow, he was here.

“No,” Jarrod tried to say, but his mouth wasn’t working right because of his damaged jaw, his words slurring. All he wanted was to stand and grab the boy and carry him to safety, but he could barely see, the pounding in his head blinding now.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” the other boy said, pointing his darkblade toward the newcomer. “You weren’t chosen. I was. They were too. Leave us.”

The boy Jarrod had grown to care about stepped further forward. “No. I will not.”

The darkblade-wielding boy snarled, a vicious, animal-like sound that belied his youthful innocence. He strode forward, bringing his darkblade to bear.

Jarrod’s heart pounded as he searched for the strength he couldn’t find a moment earlier, managing to fight to one knee, then the other. Just as the boy swung the blade, he lunged forward, grabbing him around the ankles. It was a weak effort to trip him, but it did divert a measure of his attention, eyes glancing downward as he tried to kick himself free of Jarrod’s clutching hands.

By then, the lad Jarrod had traveled so far with had grabbed the sandy-haired boy’s wrist. A tussle ensued, one that should’ve favored the boy wielding the darkblade, his strength amplified. And yet, the struggle seemed evenly matched, neither boy giving an inch as they fought for possession of the sword. Slowly but surely, the boy’s fingers were being pried open.

Suddenly, the blade tore free of his grasp and he tumbled back, landing hard on his bottom. He stared at his empty hands for a moment. And then he started to weep.

Jarrod turned away from him to look at the other boy, now gripping the darkblade, his eyes seeming to shine next to its roiling shadows. “I—I can feel its power,” he said. “It calls to me now. I have been chosen.”

“Please,” Jarrod said. “Please give it to me.” He extended his hand in the boy’s direction.

The boy turned toward him. “Give it to you? So you would have it for your own? It is mine.” The boy raised the blade, teeth clenching together.

“I don’t want it,” Jarrod said. “I swear it. I only want to keep it away from others like you. Children.”

“Lies,” the boy spat. “You think me a fool!”

Nothing about the boy’s words were real, the darkness of the blade seeming to pour out of him. Jarrod had tried to protect him from this. He’d failed. Why do I always fail to protect those I love?

Love? Did he really love this boy he’d only met a short while ago, a boy who he barely knew, barely understood? Mayhaps not, but he did feel a strange connection, a kinship to him. A responsibility to protect him from the evils of the world. “Come back to me,” he said. “Come back from the darkness, son.”

The boy’s head cocked to the side, a confused expression washing over him. “Why would I do that? I—why are you saying that?” He firmed up his grip on the blade.

And then he struck.

Jarrod thought it was over—how could it not be?

Time stopped, the tip of the blade hovering over his eye, so close it blurred and split into two separate blades. No, he thought. Time didn’t stop. The boy’s hand did. He stopped himself.

With a whimpering sob, the boy tossed the blade aside with a clank and fell into Jarrod’s arms, chest heaving.

Jarrod’s vision blurred again, but this time with tears of joy. He hadn’t failed. Not this time.

When he blinked the tears away, he found himself encircled by the mages. His gaze landed on Quill, who nodded and collected the final darkblade. Then he said, “This is not your fight. Return to Sunsei.”

“What will you do?” Jarrod asked.

Quill pursed his lips and then said, “Finish it.”

Sixty

Quill

Aeromand

NOTHING FELT TRIUMPHANT ABOUT HIS RETURN TO AEROMAND. And yet every instinct told Quill he was meant to be here, in this place, at this time. For what purpose, he knew not, only that someone needed to pay for Rondo’s death. With their blood.

As he landed on the street between the structures that had always felt so magical to him, he felt the stares, heard the whispers behind cupped hands. He knew lies had been spread about him. Lies that would follow him amongst his peers to the end of his days.

He faced them now, spoke to them, warned them. “Leave now. Save yourselves. This will not end well.”

They stared at him like he was a madman. Maybe he was. After all he’d been through, all he’d done, he couldn’t decide whether the world was mad or he was. Maybe it didn’t matter. He walked on, striding toward the great All-Seeing Eye staring toward him. Shadows coiled around his lower body, making his gray pants appear black. The shadows seemed to originate from the canvas bag he gripped in his right hand. Five figures approached down the center of the mage-lined road, not willing to wait for him to come to them. Cernon was in their center, Aryan and Wizaro on one side, Miro and Shasta on the other. They were the archmages responsible for everything bad that had happened to him from the moment he was granted the magehood he’d coveted for years.

Cernon stopped, his expression smug. “Bravo, Quill. Escaping Lockspell is no small feat. And in such dramatic fashion, I might add. It will be talked about for years, dare I say centuries, to come. You have clearly made your mark on this world. It’s too bad Rondo isn’t around to experience it with you.”

“Do not speak his name,” Quill said.

“Ah, the wound is still fresh, I see,” Cernon said.

Quill wasn’t in the mood for the typical sniping exchange of words that the Council Speaker seemed to enjoy so much. Instead of responding, he reached inside the bag and plucked out the darkblades, one by one, tossing them before him with a series of clanks. Murmurs arose from the mages gathered on either side.

Cernon’s eyes narrowed. “Now those don’t belong to you,” he said.

“Nor to you. Have you told any of these mages how you had them stolen? That your ultimate goal is to control all of the lesserblades? Do you plan to stop there, or will you seek to obtain the godblades too, to kill their wielders and take what is theirs?”

“They are magical artifacts!” Cernon snapped. “They belong to us!” More murmurs filtered through the throng of mages. Cernon glanced about him, seeming to realize his tongue had betrayed him. He altered his tone, restoring it to the haughty certainty he preferred to exude. “The Archmage Council has been planning this announcement for some time now, but it appears we can delay things no longer. Our role in the world is changing. The lust for power amongst our non-magic counterparts can no longer be ignored. Terran forces led by their new king invaded Sunsei, raping and murdering civilians. Travailian dragons destroyed Chrysallis, leaving hundreds dead. And now the entire power of the Solarii navy is gathered at our doorstep when we have done nothing but support them for years. Is this right, I ask you? My fellow archmages and I argue that none of it is right. Only those with a greater understanding of the true nature of power can fix that which has been broken. It is our duty, our responsibility. And we shall, but only by protecting the innocents from those who abuse those instruments of power that have lain dormant for these hundreds of years.”

Quill shook his head. He shouldn’t have been incredulous at the audacity of the man, but he was. Cernon’s arrogance alone was an insult to the magic he wielded so callously. “Would you follow a man who seeks to elevate himself to godhood? For years, he’s withheld the very nature of magic from us. From me, from you. Do I wield a staff? Nay. Do I have magenum hidden away in my pockets? Nay. And yet I escaped Lockspell using the very fabric of the world around us, the true source of magic. I am willing to teach any who wish to learn.”

“What this fool speaks of is dangerous. He abuses the most potent form of magic like a plaything. The reason this so-called ‘true’ magic isn’t taught to acolytes or even lesser ranked mages is because of its instability. The destruction such magic could cause could tear down the very mountains, level cities, kill thousands upon thousands of innocents. Under mage law, only rank 7 mages are permitted to practice this sort of magic.”

“Criminal!” a voice shouted from the crowd. Quill whirled to try to locate the source, but all the faces pressed together, bobbing above their many-colored robes. “Send him back to Lockspell!” another voice cried. More and more voices crowded around the first two, hurling insults and threats in his direction.

Rondo was good. Rondo was pure. These men and women, while force-fed propaganda for years, could not be considered blameless. Were a lying dictator’s loyal followers guiltless? Or did their willful ignorance shoulder a portion of the blame for the evils carried out by their leaders? A year ago, Quill might’ve struggled to answer such questions. But not anymore.

No, this place of magic and learning had been twisted into a shadow of itself, like a reflection in a mirror that was all wrong, all backwards.

He had come here to kill Cernon and the other archmages. It wasn’t enough. Others would only rise to supplant them. The movement toward mage superiority would only grow, Cernon becoming a legend, a martyr.

If Quill was going to restore the world to the balance it had once enjoyed, he needed to do more. He blinked, escaping his own mind and realizing that the mages were pressing in on all sides now, gripping staffs. Some were holding warded ropes and tethers. How did they…, Quill thought. Understanding filled him. He’d never had a chance to convince them. This was all a set up. Cernon had been alerted the moment he’d escaped Lockspell. He’d planned for Quill to return here for his revenge, sooner rather than later. He’d turned everyone against him.

I was the arrogant one, he thought, leaping skyward, grabbing hold of the swirling motes as he flew. He’d thought his newfound power would allow him to take whatever he wanted, to mete out his righteous vengeance with none powerful enough to stand in his way.

As the shimmering ropes coiled around his body, tearing him from the air before he could escape, he cursed his own stupidity. He slammed into the ground with force, pain shooting through his body, chasing away any thoughts of revenge.

He closed his eyes and silently cursed the world.

They didn’t kill him, at least not right away. They also didn’t speak of returning him to Lockspell. The latter didn’t surprise him. Cernon wouldn’t risk him escaping again. Instead, they paraded him through the city like a living sacrifice, holding his struggling form over their heads. He tried several spells, even tried to infiltrate their minds to see if he could twist some of them in his favor, but they repelled his flimsy attacks. It was another example of how ready they were for him, prepared well before his arrival by their leaders, with Cernon at their helm.

Exhaustion weighed heavy on his shoulders now.

They marched him outside of the city, following a road that Quill remembered traversing with Rondo by his side, back when they were keen and eager young mages seeking to make a name for themselves amongst their peers. As naïve as a pair of tiny fish in a big pond filled with deadly predators.

And yet.

And yet, even as he was shoved over the edge of the long shaft drilled through the center of the island, Quill couldn’t deny that feeling he’d always had on this island in the sky, the feeling that existing here was his life’s very purpose. This fact, more than anything else, puzzled him under his current circumstances.

“Any last words?” Cernon asked.

“Not for you,” Quill said.

“Very well,” Cernon said. “Release him.”

With a cheer, strong hands forced him into the shaft, gravity sucking him downward so fast it stole his breath and pulled his stomach into his chest. The shaft swallowed him, the magelights doused, thrusting him into complete darkness. It lasted only moments as the shaft spat him out beneath the island, leaving the ocean as his only net, seeming to charge toward him like the frontlines of a whitecapped army.

He tried to grasp the motes of light flashing past on either side, but he was too weak, too broken. Defeated by his enemies.

The impact was pain and blindness and deafness, his body feeling like it had been crushed into shards on rock, a feeling that felt fair and right after he’d failed to save Rondo from a similar fate.

Somehow, impossibly, he wasn’t already dead as he sank into the depths. Or maybe he was dead, but his mind just hadn’t realized it yet. Or maybe death was too good for him, the void rejecting him, instead sentencing him to an eternity spent drifting, torturing himself with memories of his many mistakes.

Motes of light twirled and danced around him, almost as though trying to get his attention. I’m too weak, he thought. He needed to breathe but felt powerless now. He knew he could use magic to breathe underwater—he’d done it before—but to do so now would require an act of the gods.

AND SO YOU SHALL HAVE ONE, a voice said, seeming to resonate through the water itself, the tiny motes vibrating slightly. In its wake he was filled with strength, the pain ebbing away.

He breathed, his lungs filling with air rather than water. Somewhere, some person or creature would lose a breath, but they wouldn’t die from it. He needed it more.

He sank deeper, the pressure growing. He felt like his head might pop, but it didn’t. Measure by measure, the pressure receded, leaving him floating. That voice…, he thought. Who are you? Are you a god?

SOME BELIEVE SO. OTHERS CONSIDER ME A TOOL OF THE GODS. BUT I AM NEITHER. I WAS CREATED BY A HUMAN, LIKE YOU. BUT WHAT IS INSIDE ME IS OF THE GODS IN THE SAME WAY THAT EVERYTHING AROUND YOU IS OF THE GODS.

Instinctively, Quill knew the voice was speaking of the motes of light. Of magic. Magic was in everything, in the water they drank, the air they breathed, the very fabric of the world built upon the twinkling lights. Without them, there would be no existence, no creation.

Why do the gods allow such evil to exist? Quill asked the voice.

I DO NOT KNOW. ALL I KNOW IS THAT THEY PROVIDE US WITH THE MEANS TO DESTROY EVIL. ALWAYS.

What means?

COURAGE. VALOR. MERCY. AND, WHEN NECESSARY, THE BLADE.

Quill noticed the motes of light coalescing into a thick stream, painting a swirling track leading ever downward. He was still bound, unable to use his arms or legs to guide himself, but his body drifted into the stream, as though drawn to it like metal to a magnet.

Down, down, down he descended, the colors thick around him—viridian, turquoise, vermillion, ivory, obsidian, magenta. The colors of magic, painting his skin.

Something appeared below, a black column pressed between the various colors.

A sword made of shadow.

A shadowblade.

His body slid into perfect position beside it, the blade slicing through the warded cords without so much as tearing a thread from his vest. The cords fell away.

He reached for the blade’s hilt, drawing the sword from where it had stood embedded in the ocean floor beneath Aeromand for centuries, the mages living above oblivious to its presence. And Quill knew what it meant.

He’d been given a second chance.

Shadowblade in hand, he kicked off the bottom and swam out of the depths.

Moments later

On the shores of the kingdoms surrounding the Bay of Sighs, thousands watched as the Isle of Mages and all the inhabitants living on its flanks crashed into the sea.

In Sunsei, Rose and Drake’s fingertips were almost touching but not quite. The last of the living dead were being hunted down by Draconus and finished off, along with the necromancers who had stalked the city streets.

In Chrysallis, Osric Normandian sat alone, a single tear slipping from his eye and sliding smoothly down his cheek.

Atop Dragonsmount, Peony and Dane embraced, determined not to let go for as long as the world allowed. They both knew it probably wouldn’t be very long at all. Soon they would send Brute and his dragon into the storms, more friends found and then lost again.

Aboard a ship several miles from where the island had crashed down, Jarrod Gaard gazed in awe at the sight. Waves were churned up, rolling out in every direction, so large they would capsize every ship in the fleet and flood the cities perched along the shoreline to the north, the east, and the west. But then, inexplicably, the waves crumbled, sinking back into the ocean, the waters of the Bay of Sighs as still and calm as anyone had ever seen them. “Turn back!” Jarrod cried, because, in the end, it was who he was.

Grimfire hovered high above it all, his form changing depending on the angle. Now Megrifir. Now Figmirre. He took on other forms as well, a woman covered head to toe in moths, a woman tattooed with a thousand staring eyes, a necromancer diving into the depths to raise a dragon from the dead. Countless forms over the centuries since the Godswar ended, each placing a tiny mark on the world, tiptoeing near to but never across a line that he himself had drawn all those years earlier when he’d felt he had no choice. And, finally, a man of myth and legend, his name known by all who lived upon the great continent of Kingfall.

Erif Mirg.

In appearance, he was everything like him. In mind, they were little better than strangers.

The man wearing Erif Mirg’s face stared down upon his son, the conqueror, the mage, the shadowblade warrior, the courageous, strong boy named Quill, and he was equal parts proud and scared. For him. For Kingfall.

Quill also hovered above the sea, but not so high as the father he’d never known. He continued to grip the shadowblade in his hand, watching the island sink into the sea. After he’d used the blade to destroy the magenum supply for each of the twenty-five mages holding the island aloft—cutting them free from their moorings and sending them tumbling into the ocean—the mass of earth and stone had simply dropped. It had almost felt too…easy. He’d considered allowing the massive waves to wash over a great portion of Kingfall, destroying entire cities, washing the lands clean of so much pain and heartache, evil men and women who continued to choose power over good, personal wealth over common prosperity.

In the end, he’d thought of Rondo. Rondo had wanted him to make Cernon pay, he’d said as much at the end. But Rondo had also always been a good person who wouldn’t harm anyone, even one who might deserve to be harmed. Allowing those waves to destroy so many innocents when, buoyed by the strength of his shadowblade, he had the power to prevent it…Rondo would’ve been ashamed of him.

He couldn’t bear the thought of that, so he’d calmed the waters, which were full of motes of color just like everything else. That final act of mercy had sapped all but the last of his strength but hearing the muted cheers from those onboard the distant ships was well worth it.

Now, exhausted, he watched as the All-Seeing Eye of Aeromand vanished into the sea, the end of an era.

In the island’s wake, he saw Rondo’s face, his cheeks imprinted with inky words because he’d fallen asleep on the pages of one of his books…again; Rondo’s shocked expression when he’d succeeded in binding the darkblade-wielding mage in the forest; Rondo’s unveiled excitement as they’d pored over Kingfall Revelations in Normandian Hall.

And, finally, Rondo’s face at the end, calm, courageous, concerned. Not for himself, but for Quill, who was about to lose a dear friend. “I love you,” Rondo said.

Quill fought off tears as he kissed the tips of his fingers.

He wheeled about and charged off into the unknown.

Epilogue: Into the Fold

REYALS’ LAUGHTER SLAMMED INTO HIM AS ROACH CRINGED AWAY FROM THE SHADOWBLADE.

“It’s not real,” the ghost said, slashing the night-dark blade through his own ethereal arm. It passed through harmlessly and then disappeared into the rocky ground. “Not yet.”

“How are you…”

“Here? Still in existence?”

Roach nodded.

Another laugh. “I would love to claim that it was my strength that allowed my soul to persist, to eventually rise from the darkness of the Void where you sent me.” His tone had become darker, rougher, his form alternating between being translucent and opaque. “Let me guess—the last four hundred years have been so horrible trapped in this stone prison, blah blah blah. Well, Roach, this place is a godsdamned palace compared to the Void. In the darkness there is no rest, no comfort. Because of you, I was forced to die a million excruciating deaths.”

“You can feel pain?” Roach asked, genuinely curious.

“That’s your question?” Reyals scoffed. “Does it bring you comfort knowing how I’ve suffered?”

To Roach’s surprise, the answer was, “No.”

“Pity,” Reyals thought. “I’d hoped at least some good would come of my untimely death at the hands of a traitor.”

The fear was beginning to ebb away from Roach now that he realized this undead creature couldn’t hurt him. Or could he… “If you’re a ghost, how did you kill Grunnin?”

Reyals’ lips curled in amusement. “Honestly, I surprised myself with that one. Void, how good it felt to have power over life and death again. The short answer is: I don’t know. But I do have a theory. You’ve never wielded a shadowblade, have never known what it feels like to commune with the darkness and have the shadows permeate all the hollow places of your soul. If you had, you would understand that my lifeblood is tethered to the blade. Even death couldn’t sever our bond, nor could our years apart. When the shadowblade I once wielded was found, the Void began to lose its grip on me and my brothers.”

“Brothers?” Roach said. The term was foreign to him and his fellow Thousands. Technically he had spawnbrothers and spawnsisters, but it meant nothing.

“The other two original wielders of the shadowblades, both of whom were killed on that fateful day, one way or another. The Unforgiven.”

Roach’s breath caught in his lungs. He hadn’t thought about those times in what felt like forever, but which was probably closer to a decade. He could still remember the excitement of the day that the shadowblades were revealed to the Thousands and their allies—the humans hailing from Teravainen and Avadon. The memory rose to the surface now, when Reyals stood before the teeming masses and lifted his shadowy blade high in the air. The men on either side had mimicked him, raising their own dark blades over their heads. Hyram Kerr and Jameson Gaard they’d been called, leaders of nations. The trio had killed thousands of their enemies between them, until they’d met their match in their counterparts across the battlefield, the threesome bearing brightblades. The result had been a stalemate that had persisted until that final half-dark, half-bright blade had been cast from the cliff on the day Roach had killed Reyals.

Reyals had waited patiently, watching him with narrowed eyes. Now he spoke again. “The shadowblades have been hidden from the world, but now they are rising again. Just like the Unforgiven. Just like the Thousands.”

None of this was making any sense. “The Thousands are not rising,” Roach pointed out. “We’re killing each other by the day.”

“And yet your numbers continue to rise.” Reyals spoke of his own kind like they were something other to him now. Maybe they were.

“But that doesn’t change anything,” Roach pointed out. “We are prisoners, guarded by the godbeasts, creatures who can crush us with little more than a sneeze.”

“The godbeasts will be taken care of.” Reyals said it with such conviction Roach couldn’t help but to believe him even if he didn’t understand how such a thing was possible. Reyals explained: “Once all three shadowblades are recovered, their new wielders will be drawn like moths to a flame to the Dreads.”

“The Dreads?” Roach shook his head in wonderment to think that this entire time, years without end, they’d been imprisoned on the massive island off the northern coast of Calabria. All that stood between them and Kingfall were the icy waters of the Frozen Passage.

“Yes, for that is where you’ve been all these years. Out of sight, out of mind. The humans have painted The Kingfall Histories with all sorts of delusions of the Thousands’ demise so they can sleep at night.”

“Who? I don’t understand. Who did all of this? Who threw the blade from the cliff? Who imprisoned us? Who stole the shadowblades?”

Reyals cocked his head to the side, as though surprised by the question. “You haven’t figured it out yet? It was the man who gave us life to spit in the face of the gods. Our creator.”

Roach stared at him, unblinking. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. There was one name that struck hope into the hearts of even the most wretched of his kind, for none of them would exist without the powerful mage who’d stood against the gods in combat, wielding the Legacy Sword at the head of an army so vast and deadly that nations who despised each other managed to form alliances to stand before them.

“But he died,” Roach said. He’d been there that day, fighting alongside the rest of his kind and their human allies. Every so often he’d find himself staring at Erif Mirg as he swept his sword in deadly arcs, killing their enemies in droves. Even outnumbered, their leader, their creator, was a force of nature.

Until he wasn’t.

The day the Legacy Sword was shattered and Erif Mirg was struck down, an impenetrable silence had fallen across the corpse-littered battlefield for several long seconds. When the silence had been broken, it was by cheers from their enemies, whoops and shouts of pure glee. The Thousands had retreated, and for several long months they’d laid down their arms, forlorn and broken, mired in a despair born of watching a living legend die.

But then one of them had stood again, defiance in his form and in the words that emerged from his needle-toothed maw. Reyals had pulled them from the depths and led them back into battle.

“I don’t know when it happened, or why, but at some point our creator began to regret his actions. He regretted us,” Reyals said. “So he began to plan an end to the Godswar, beginning with faking his own death.”

“It’s not possible,” Roach said, voice barely a whisper.

“He expected us to withdraw, to leave Kingfall, but we didn’t. Even worse, we used the shards from the Legacy Blade to forge weapons so powerful humans have long mistaken them for swords created by the gods. If anything, his death escalated the war. When Mirg realized this, he spent years forging his own blade, one constructed of the best and worst of the world, the shadows from the darkest caves and the brightness of lands that basked in the sunlight. And when he breathed life into that blade, he stole what wasn’t his to steal. Our creator couldn’t kill us all—we were too many—but he managed to imprison those who survived in the Dreads while the godblades were buried in stone and bone and water and wood. He couldn’t destroy them, though he tried, so hiding them away was the next best thing. For years he’s influenced politics in Kingfall, taking on many forms in many different places. He’s been called a saint and a heathen, a visionary and a madman. He has walked with kings and beggars, humans and Grizari and faeries. But everything he’s done since his death has only delayed the storm on the horizon, a storm that is now releasing its first few raindrops over Kingfall. And we, my spawnbrother, will be the lightning and thunder.”

Spawnbrother? It was impossible, because if Orcices had given life to Reyals, too, then that meant he’d killed his own spawnmother.

And it meant he’d killed his own spawnbrother, all those years earlier.

“What are you saying?” Roach said. “Speak plainly.”

“Erif Mirg is alive. And we’re going to kill him.”

POSTLUDES

Charlotte   Glynn     Ginny

The following are three FREE short stories that form an integral part of The Kingfall Histories, highlighting the origins of some of the most pivotal characters in the story. They will give you, the reader, a greater understanding of the history of the world, thus preparing you to read the fourth book in the series, Nightfall.

Postlude 1: Charlotte Kerr

Dunadin- 415 A.W.

NINE-YEAR-OLD CHARLOTTE KERR STARED UNBLINKING AT THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SIGHT SHE’D EVER SEEN.

“What is it, Mama?” she asked the woman standing beside her. In her usual way, her mother hadn’t said a word since they entered this place of beautiful, glowing columns of turquoise liquid. Charlotte had heard the whispers about her mother more times than she could count. How she was unusual, eccentric—worse things had been said, too, but she did her best not to think about them—but to her the silver-haired woman was simply her best friend.

“Ma-gee-num,” her mother said, pronouncing the word slowly so Charlotte could hear every syllable.

Charlotte’s eyes widened as they met her mother’s. Magenum! Charlotte thought excitedly. Though she’d never seen it before, her whole life she’d read tales of the magical liquid used by mages to perform spells. Trained spellcasters could create fire from thin air, make the very wind obey their beck and call, and even, if the stories she’d heard were true, fly like they were birds. “Can I…touch them?” she asked.

Her mother nodded, a small smile creeping onto her lips upon seeing her daughter’s unbridled delight. Waves of dark hair that matched Charlotte’s crashed upon a dress as black as obsidian. Her face was a pale, full moon at midnight.

Charlotte’s mouth opened slightly as she stepped further into the room, a room that, until today, she’d never been permitted to enter. The next time she saw her father she planned to hug and kiss him in gratitude for finally acquiescing to her requests to see what was behind the great iron doors that were always locked and barred. Truth be told, she was surprised he’d given in. More like shocked. Her father never gave in. As the saying went in Avadon, it was Glynn Kerr’s way or a one-way trip down a mineshaft.

With the exception of the four glowing columns, the windowless room was dark, the walls devoid of sconces or lantern hooks. Despite the lack of additional lighting, Charlotte found the space to be as grand as she’d hoped, with a high ceiling that stretched together from all sides to form a broad dome. The room was unexpectedly circular, a fact she couldn’t have known without entering. She’d walked the outside of these walls before, searching for another entrance. On the outside, the walls were squared off, making a pair of corners at one end and hiding the room’s true nature.

Something else caught her eye. There was a thin ridge that started where the wall met the floor. The ridge angled along the wall, like a tiny ramp too small for anything but mice to traverse. Because of the circular nature of the room, the ramp wound around her on all sides, like a spiral. It wound and wound, climbing the wall and then the underside of the domed ceiling, each curl slightly smaller than the one before, until it reached its apex. Where the ridged spiral ended, a small vial hung from a hook, glowing turquoise liquid shimmering.

“The first vial of magenum ever harvested from the Spine,” her mother said, having followed her gaze. “Little did your ancestors know, it was just the beginning of the largest deposit of magic Kingfall had ever seen.”

Charlotte spoke without turning, her eyes returning to the glowing columns. “But there are no mages in Avadon,” she said. She stepped closer to the nearest column, one arm stretching outwards, fingers reaching, reaching…

“Well, your father sells most of it at a tidy profit to mages in faraway kingdoms,” her mother said. “And you know how your father enjoys profits.” Charlotte did. She was all but certain he would sell her off if he felt like she would fetch a high enough price. Her mother continued, “Also, there are no Aeromand-designated mages in Avadon…”

To Charlotte, it felt like a rather odd thing to say given Aeromand was the home of the Archmage Council, which was the governing body for all things magic. They were also the ones responsible for granting magehood, and that only happened after many years of training on their floating island. Charlotte knew all of this from books. Alone in her room, she dreamed of one day having one of those powerful mages appear in Dunadin to inform her parents she had the natural ability they were searching for and then whisking her away.

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said. Her fingers were so close to one of the columns now. A strange sensation seemed to bridge the gap, thrumming through the air. It felt like a physical representation of power. A power she’d only dreamed of feeling, of experiencing. Raw and untapped and waiting.

For her.

“Aeromand magic is only one brand of magic,” her mother said, her voice sounding more and more distant now. “The Archmage Council wishes to control magic and those who use it. But they cannot control us.”

Charlotte paused, considering her mother’s words, her fingers a hairsbreadth from the glass, the thrumming sensation stronger now, making her fingers vibrate like the plucked strings of the lute she rarely played gathering dust in a corner of her room. The way she spoke of magic sounded almost…personal. Something occurred to her, making her heart do a backflip. “Mama, have you performed magic?”

Her mother didn’t respond, but Charlotte didn’t turn because all she wanted now was to bridge the small gap between her fingertips and the magenum. She did, her skin pressing against the glass, which was surprisingly cool and calm rather than the warm, pulsing she’d expected. The thrumming sensation vanished, and she felt—

Nothing.

Her heart sank and she finally turned back toward where she’d left her mother standing.

She was gone.

Charlotte spent the rest of that day and the next in her room, refusing to come out, not even for meals. Instead, servants brought food on polished silver trays that were now beginning to pile up in one corner of the room. Her father was away on business of some sort, but even if he’d been home, he’d barely have noticed her absence. But her mother…she never went a day without seeing her daughter.

Until now.

She’s disappointed in me, Charlotte thought, sitting cross-legged on her bed. All this time, my dream has been her dream. That I could perform magic. Charlotte was certain as to the answer to the question she’d asked just before her mother had snuck silently from the room with the columns of magenum. Could her mother perform magic? Yes, of course she could. It explained why she came across as an eccentric. She probably had more power inside her fingertip than most people had in their entire body. And she’d thought Charlotte had inherited that power, only to learn her daughter was as ordinary as everyone else.

Charlotte sighed, eyes roaming her room. It looked as though a tornado had come passing through. Books were piled up everywhere, not in neat little stacks but haphazardly, the corners sticking out at odd angles, some of them seeming to defy gravity as they teetered on the verge of collapse. Between the stacks there were unfurled scrolls weighted down by a fortune’s worth of gemstones that she’d been given as name day gifts over the last few years. If her father knew she was using the priceless stones as mere paperweights his heart would probably stop beating in his chest just before he disowned her. Charlotte had filled any remaining clear space with dirty clothes she was supposed to place in a basket to be laundered by one of the greathouse servants. Just to get to her door, she was forced to trod on what used to be fine dresses and skirts, now rumpled to the point where they might be mistaken for common rags.

Charlotte sighed, considering whether to go on a rampage through the room, knocking all the towers of books over and tearing the scrolls into tiny bits she could scatter about like a layer of freshly fallen snow. Instead, she slid from bed and snatched the first book she spotted off the top of one of the towers. The remaining books in the stack wobbled, but then miraculously settled back into place.

Charlotte hopped back up onto her bed and placed the book before her, fingers tracing a path along the letters of the title carved into the threadbare cover. The History of Kingfall Magic, it was called, and she’d practically memorized every word. She even knew the basic spells the book provided and had practiced them in front of her mirror on countless occasions, pushing as much conviction into her voice as she could muster, like she was a real mage acolyte training in Aeromand. Of course, without a proper staff and magenum, nothing ever happened, but still she practiced, always believing that one day she’d have the opportunity to try them for real.

The moment her fingers had pressed against the glass columns filled with magenum, those dreams had vanished. The nothingness she’d felt had been worse than if she’d never laid eyes on magenum in the first place.

Now she opened the book, flipping idly through the pages, not looking for anything in particular. Just distracting herself from what had happened. Or, more appropriately, what had not happened. For some reason, she stopped on the page with the list of basic spells taught to first-year mage trainees at Aeromand. She spotted one of her favorites right away, the one used to create fire. She’d practiced that one more than any of the others, imagining flames bursting from the palm of her hand, growing into a ball of fire she could toss about as easily as a round stone. Even now, she felt the urge to speak the spell, longed to feel the familiar form of the spell on her lips and tongue.

Instead, she pressed her lips tighter together. Who was she to pretend to cast a spell when she couldn’t even feel the power of magenum when it was at her very fingertips?

Still seeking a distraction, she scanned the rest of the basic spells, vowing never to speak any of them again. Though she normally gravitated toward certain ones—like the spell for making an object levitate, for example—her eyes lingered on a spell she’d never paid much attention to before. Her lips silently mouthed the single word: deluminus. She frowned, realizing she’d never practiced that spell in front of the mirror before. Not once.

She pressed a finger to the page and slid it downwards, touching each spell until she’d reached the end, confirming her suspicion: Deluminus was the only spell on the list she’d never spoken aloud. “Because it’s useless,” she said to herself. Well, not completely useless, she thought. If one were reading in bed and got too tired to get up and blow out the lanterns, they could use the spell to douse the lights. The translation provided by the book told her the ancient word literally meant ‘without light’. To her it had always seemed like more of a parlor trick.

“Deluminus,” she said, trying it out and breaking the vow she’d made only a few moments earlier. A shiver ran down her spine, as it always did after speaking a spell. She giggled at her own foolishness. To a non-mage, it was just a nonsensical word. Even if she had a ready supply of magenum and a staff fit for an archmage, the word would hold no power for her.

She closed the book with a sigh, remembering that moment just before she’d touched the glass, when she’d felt the thrum of power in the air. Had it been her imagination? Or had her mother realized the whole time that her daughter would feel nothing, walking away in disgust?

Something her mother had once said swam to the forefront of her mind. The stone walls of Dunadin will never contain you, my daughter. You are destined for so much more than sitting like a doll on a shelf. Nothing can stop you from that destiny. Nothing but you.

At the time, it had been one of those warm moments between mother and daughter that Charlotte enjoyed on a daily basis. She’d given it little thought since, but now those words felt as powerful as a spell. Her mother had believed in her then, so why was she so quick to assume that belief had evaporated because of a single moment of failure? Hadn’t her mother always taught her perseverance? Hadn’t she encouraged her daughter to be herself even as her father preached adopting an aloofness worthy of her station?

“Why didn’t I speak one of the spells in this book?” she asked herself now. Her mother had given her the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance to commune with a massive magenum supply that would turn even the mages at Aeromand green with envy, and what had she done? Nothing. She’d wasted it. After her mother had left, she’d followed, closing the door behind her.

Suddenly, she felt frantic, anxious to turn back the wheel of time and return to that moment. Would the outcome have been any different? Maybe not, but at least she wouldn’t have given up so easily.

Now Charlotte scrambled from her bed, tromping over clumps of dirty clothes and winding her way between stacks of books until she reached her door, which she flung open. She raced down the hallway, nearly crashing headlong into a servant who barely managed to flatten herself against the wall. She passed her mother’s room, knowing the woman wouldn’t confine herself between four walls at this time of the day. Reaching a staircase, she bounded down the steps two at a time, slamming onto the landing and using the banister to swing herself down the next set.

She hit the ground-level corridor at full speed, slapping the wall with her palms before cutting left. Her father’s private quarters stood at the end of the hall, but she turned right before she reached it. More doors flashed past on either side, but she ignored them, focused on the open archway just ahead. She spilled into the open-air courtyard her mother loved so much, stopping only when she reached the stone, claw-footed bench upon which her mother sat, watching her daughter with interest but not surprise, despite Charlotte’s harried and disheveled appearance.

“Mama,” Charlotte said, trying to catch up to her breath, her chest heaving from the speed of her flight through the house. Her mother waited patiently for her to continue, head cocked slightly to one side. Charlotte sucked in a deep lungful of air as she used a hand to tame escaped locks of dark hair that had fallen across her face. And then she said, “I want to try again.”

Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, there she is. There’s my daughter.”

If trying was conquering, then Charlotte Kerr would’ve built an empire that stretched from the Frozen Passage to the Sacred Sea, from Crimea to the Endless Ocean. Instead, the countless hours she spent in the darkened room under the turquoise magenum glow felt like losing a hundred battles, each bloodier than the last.

She couldn’t conjure fire.

She couldn’t make objects so much as wobble.

She couldn’t create even a single glass crystal.

She was certainly no necromancer; the dead bug she’d tried to breathe life into was still flat on its back, unmoving.

Though her least favorite of the categories of mages was magenta, she’d even tried growing a flower. She’d wanted it to be black, but at this point she’d take the most sickeningly pink flower in the world if it meant she’d grown it from magic.

Her mother never checked on her, waiting for Charlotte to come to her at the end of each failed day. Charlotte would offer only a shake of her head and then sit beside her mother in silence, watching the sun vanish behind the walls of the courtyard. Her mother never offered encouragement or chastisement or advice. They just sat, listening to the crows announce the coming of nightfall.

Six days passed in this manner. Six days that should’ve been a dream come true for Charlotte, the most glorious days of her life. Instead, they were days full of frustration, failure, and lost dreams. On the morning of day seven, she decided it would be the last. She’d tried her hardest, but she knew from the books she’d read that you couldn’t force magical ability into your bones. It either came naturally or not at all.

She entered the domed room, a hollow booming sound echoing as the door slammed shut behind her. Everything was dark save for the four glowing columns of magenum. Over the course of the week, she’d tried each of the columns, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. She’d tried touching them, not touching them, and even moving around them while reciting each spell from memory. Not once had she felt that thrum of energy from the first day.

Today she sat in the direct center of the space, each of the columns equidistant. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Opened them, her eyes locking on the small, smooth, black stone she’d placed on the floor in front of her. Concentrating.

Her lips opened and she willed herself to believe. Not in herself, but in a world that was supposed to be full of magic, even if she’d never seen it with her own two eyes. The words in her books were real—they had to be. She spoke the word from heart, a basic spell mastered by mage trainees in Aeromand during their first year. “Levitanus.” Her voice emerged too high-pitched, nervous, and breathy, barely pushing back against the will of the silence that seemed to cloak everything in this space. She tried again. “Levitanus.” Louder now, but still not right even to her own ears. She was saying a word that deserved so much more than a sad little girl with a father who cared nothing for her and a mother who loved her and believed in her but who couldn’t do this for her. “Levitanus!” she said, more forcefully. And yet it was still the squeak of a mouse, meek and mild. Weak. Pathetic. She thanked the gods there were no real mages here to witness her failure.

The stone was laughing now, she swore it was, a cackle of glee at her attempts to move it. She fought off the urge to lunge forward, grab it, and throw it hard against the wall to stop its laughter. Mostly because she suspected its laughter would only intensify at such a futile act.

She allowed herself another deep breath to steel her nerves. It was now or never. Make the damn stone move or march back up to her room, pile her books in the hearth, and light a match.

“Levitanus!” she shouted, her voice bouncing from wall to wall, taunting her. “Levitanus! Levitanus! Levitanus!” Her own voice was scraping the inside of her throat raw, as though a small clawed and scaled creature had crept inside through her mouth. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t speak for a week straight to recover if that’s what it took. “Levitanus! Levitanus! Levitanus!” The word had become a chant now, a plea to whomever or whatever might be listening.

But magic didn’t want a beggar. Magic wanted a commander, one who feared nothing but being weak and powerless against the pull of her own fate. Charlotte stood, scooping up the stone in the palm of her hand, holding it at eye level. “Levitanus!” The rock’s laughter continued, bold and merciless and mocking. “Levitanus!” She could hear the command in her voice now, the defiance. It buoyed her strength, because, for a single moment, it had sounded like the voice of her mother. “Levitanus!” Her mother’s voice vanished, and she was shocked to find a new voice in its wake, one that was hers and yet not.

It is me, she thought. A new me. The me I need to become. The me I must demand to become.

That word—demand—resonated with her. It felt right, almost holy. Because this damn stone wouldn’t move from a simple command, especially one devoid of the true conviction she’d read about countless times. No, she needed to demand that it move, because how could the will of an inanimate object, even one as cruel as this stone, defy her own will?

“It can’t,” she said aloud.

And then: “Levitanus.” She didn’t shout the spell this time, but demanded it in a steady, even tone that was hers and yet not. It felt like someone else had entered her body and spoken the word through her, using her tongue and lips. It felt like…power.

The stone moved.

Or did it? Her eyes narrowed as they bore into the faceless rock. She swore it had wobbled ever so slightly, but was it her imagination? Or had she subconsciously moved her own hand to give the stone the appearance of having moved? Wait. Wait. Wisps of glowing turquoise smoke were curling from the columns. Not from one, or two, but from all of them at once, twisting and writhing around each other and then around her, prodding and probing, as though trying to discern the nature of the creature who’d disturbed them from their slumber.

She watched the tendrils with wide, unblinking eyes, in awe of their beauty and the grace with which they moved. Am I doing this? she wondered, or did the magenum have a mind of its own? “You are mine,” she said aloud, refocusing on the stone. “Levitanus.”

The wisps of magenum reacted instantly, stabbing toward the stone. There was no doubt this time, the stone beginning to wobble back and forth though Charlotte’s hand was steady, as unmoving as the cold floor beneath her feet. The stone stopped moving, balancing on one edge, a feat that should’ve been impossible given its rounded sides. She could feel it pulling away from her palm, defying gravity. Any second it would lift away completely and hover before her just like…

Just like she’d demanded.

I’m not a failure, I’m not unworthy, I’m performing magic—real magic—and I can’t wait to show Mama and—

The door crashed open, destroying her concentration as it swung on well-oiled hinges and smashed into the wall. The stone rolled back into her palm, settling into a natural depression in the curve of her hand. Still. Dead.

A large form she would recognize anywhere was silhouetted against the well-lit backdrop of the area behind him. “Father, I didn’t realize you were scheduled to return tod—”

“Get out,” Glynn Kerr, master of Avadon, said. He might’ve been speaking to a servant rather than his own daughter, his tone harsh and angry.

“But Father, you should’ve seen it, I made the stone—”

“GET OUT!” her father shouted, taking a threatening step forward.

Tears already blurring her vision, Charlotte closed her fingers around the stone and ran, shadows racing just ahead of her, cutting across the turquoise-sheened floor. Her father didn’t stand aside, so she was forced to push past him in her haste to escape.

She ran, refusing to stop until she was back in her room with the door shut tight. She threw herself onto her bed and slung a blanket over her head. Tears continued to streak down her cheeks, but then she remembered the stone still gripped in her hand. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers, until she could just make out the stone’s smooth curves in the darkness beneath the blanket.

They were glowing, faintly.

“I did magic,” she said.

Cheeks still wet, she smiled.

“I’m beginning to think you’re doing this on purpose,” Glynn Kerr said. There was a sharpness in his tone, one Charlotte was all too familiar with. Even though the statement wasn’t directed toward her, it made her feel cold and empty.

Charlotte hadn’t planned to eavesdrop, only to visit her mother to tell her about what she’d done—or, more accurately, almost done. If her father hadn’t barged in when he did, she knew she would’ve made the stone levitate. This she knew in the very marrow of her bones, a fact that made it difficult for her to contain her excitement, which was almost bursting out of her.

But when she’d arrived at the door to her mother’s room, she’d found it ajar, words drifting through the gap and into the corridor where Charlotte now stood, straining to catch what was being said.

“Doing what on purpose, dear?” Charlotte heard her mother respond. It was something her mother liked to do—turn her husband’s words back on him—and Charlotte couldn’t help the grin that curled the edges of her lips.

“You gave Charlotte permission to channel the magenum.”

Charlotte perked up, realizing they were talking about her. When her mother had told her she could enter the forbidden room for the first time, she’d assumed it was with her father’s blessing. “She is talented. Her abilities will be a boon to Avadon one day.”

Warmth filled Charlotte, chasing away the cold emptiness that had burrowed its way inside her chest. The entire time she’d thought she was failing, her mother had believed in her, maybe had even known she would succeed. “Like your abilities help Avadon, my wife?” her father retorted. “She is a child.”

“Age is meaningless in this equation, my husband,” her mother said. “That’s something the old fools at Aeromand have never understood.”

“As usual, you’ve carefully avoided the question.”

“Only because you won’t like my answer.”

“You said you could find one of the godblades. You said if we wed that you would lead me to it. That was twelve years ago. My patience grows thin.”

Charlotte froze. Godblades? she thought. The godblades couldn’t be found, not by anyone. They’d been lost centuries ago. Everyone knew that. The fact that her mother had made such a foolish promise surprised her. Even more startling was that her father had believed it, going so far as to marry her because of that absurd promise. And yet, at the same time, it explained so much. Her father and mother were as different as steel to water and Charlotte had often wondered how they’d ended up within the bonds of wedlock. This was the answer: It was a business arrangement, nothing more.

“Your patience was thin to begin with,” her mother said. “And I never said I could find one immediately. It doesn’t work like that. I can sense the presence of magic. Need I remind you how much of your magenum reserves are because of me?”

“Need I remind you that I dragged you from poverty and obscurity to make you the wealthiest woman in all of Kingfall?” Her father’s tone had grown harsher, rougher, like the warning growl of a dog trained to attack an intruder.

Charlotte crept closer, until she was able to peek with one eye through the gap. A sliver of the room came into view. Her father was standing over her mother, who sat calmly in her reading chair, hands folded across a book in her lap. “Menacing will not get you what you want,” she said evenly, meeting her husband’s stare without blinking.

Charlotte’s father’s chest rose and fell, his hands clenching and unclenching. This was as angry as she’d ever seen him, and yet, as it usually did, practicality and greed won the contest with his temper. He stepped back, where Charlotte could no longer see him. She watched her mother instead, who lifted her book and opened it, using her finger to find her place. When her husband made no move to depart, she looked up. “Was there something else?”

“Yes. Tomorrow I’m leaving on an exploratory expedition to central Spine, near Neck.”

“So soon after you’ve just returned? Pity.”

“I wasn’t done. You’re coming with me. It’s time for you to uphold your end of the bargain.”

“I’d rather not. Far too much to do here. Plus, there’s Charlotte to think about.”

“Charlotte will come too. It’s about time she saw a bit of the world.” Her father’s voice had softened somewhat. “It will be a chance for the three of us to spend time together.”

Charlotte’s heart leapt, not at the prospect of spending more time with her father, but of leaving Dunadin for the first time in her life. Of course, it would also mean she wouldn’t be able to practice with the magenum until she returned, but there would be time for that later. She held her breath, waiting for her mother’s response.

“Very well, dear,” her mother said. “Maybe a bit of fresh, mountain air will do us all some good.”

“Excellent. Inform Charlotte. You should pack your things tonight. We leave at dawn.”

Heart pounding, Charlotte barely had time to race down the hall and disappear around the corner before her father pushed through the door.

Charlotte closed her eyes, grinning into the cool wind blasting through her hair. Her father had insisted that she and her mother ride in one of the wagons filled with mining equipment, so naturally they were at the head of the column astride black destriers. With a cry of “Gee up!” her mother had dug her heels into her steed and Charlotte had followed, pounding after her for a solid mile before slowing to a more sustainable pace.

Now, Charlotte opened her eyes to find her mother watching her with a knowing smile. She glanced back, seeming to gauge the distance between them and the rest of the group, which was creeping along more slowly, keeping pace with the slower wagons. “Daughter, tell me everything,” she said.

Charlotte’s smile widened. The night before, she’d waited for her mother to come to tell her about the expedition, but instead she’d sent a servant. Which meant they hadn’t had a chance to talk about what had happened in the forbidden chamber before her father showed up. Like the waters of a burst dam, the words poured out of her like a flood. “It was incredible, Mama, the magenum swirled around me like flying snakes and I could feel the power, so raw, so real, like it was in me and through me and part of my voice and I made a stone move, Mama, actually move, without touching it, well I was touching it because it was in my hand but my hand wasn’t moving and it wobbled—can you believe it? actually wobbled!—and then sort of stood on end and was about to rise, I swear it was, but then Father came crashing through the door like an entire herd of rampaging elephants from southern Sonaria and then—”

“An entire herd?” her mother interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“Mama! You know what I mean. He broke my concentration or that stone might still be floating. When we return to Dunadin I want to try something bigger, like a larger stone or an apple or perhaps an—”

“Elephant?” her mother said, struggling to conceal another smile.

“Mama! You’re teasing me!”

“Yes. Yes, I am. But I’m also proud of you, Charlotte, so proud. Just remember, sometimes you need to learn to walk before you can run.”

“But last night you said—” Charlotte clamped her mouth shut, realizing her error.

“Did I speak to you last night? Hmm, I wonder…,” her mother said, a bemused look crossing her face.

Charlotte lowered her voice, glancing back to ensure her father wasn’t within earshot. The rest of the column had continued trundling along well behind them. “You knew I was listening?”

“Of course. I always know when my own blood is near.”

My own blood. Charlotte liked the way that sounded. “If you knew I’d heard, then why did you send a servant to inform me of today’s expedition?” she asked.

“For appearances,” her mother said. “We wouldn’t want your father suspecting you were sneaking about after hours, now would we?”

“No, Mama.”

“Good. Now, do you have any questions for me?”

“Questions?”

“Yes. About anything you…overheard?”

Charlotte did have questions, but she didn’t know where to start. She hadn’t been prepared for this conversation. “Er, Father said something about godblades…,” she said, hoping she wouldn’t have to elucidate.

“That’s not a question.”

“No, it’s not,” Charlotte said.

Her mother chuckled. “Sometimes I forget how similar you are to me. I thank the gods nightly for creating you from more of me and less of your father.” Charlotte wasn’t sure what surprised her more, that her mother prayed nightly or that she thought they were similar. “What you overheard is true. I was living on the streets when Glynn—your father—found me. I scratched out a living by telling fortunes to those gullible enough to believe I could predict the future.”

Charlotte stared at her, dumbfounded. She’d never heard any of this. She couldn’t reconcile the strong, stoic woman riding beside her with this tale of a common fraud. “Then how…”

“Did I end up with the most powerful man in all of Avadon?” her mother finished for her. Charlotte nodded. “As you may know, your father despises deceivers and imposters, of which I was both. Evidently my reputation grew a bit too large. I had enough regular customers by that point to secure lodging above an establishment of ill repute, one he frequented about once a month. That’s where he heard about the soothsayer, yours truly. He sought me out with plans to have me tried and jailed. I told him I would go without a fight if he let me tell his fortune.”

“And he agreed?” Charlotte asked. That sounded most unlike her father.

“I can be quite persuasive,” her mother said simply. She didn’t go into any more details. “I had planned to give him the usual bollocks about how his wealth would grow until the day he died and how he would face an unexpected danger in less than a year and how he should beware of black cats and thunderstorms. But then…I sensed it.”

“What, Mama?”

For the first time since she’d begun her tale, her mother paused, staring into the distance. “Since I was a little girl, like you—”

“I’m nearly a woman grown!” Charlotte protested.

“Right you are, my dear. Since I was a young lady, like you,” she corrected, “I was able to sense certain…things. Darkness and shadows, but also streaks of light, bright pulses amongst the gloom.”

On their surface, Charlotte recognized how odd her mother’s words should have sounded. Almost mad, if she was being honest. And yet, she knew exactly what she meant. As she considered this, Charlotte realized her mother was staring at her, as if waiting for her to say something. “You’ve sensed these things, too, haven’t you?” she asked.

Charlotte nodded.

“Tell me,” her mother said. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

Charlotte knew that to be true, but she’d never spoken of such things before because to do so felt like it would make them real. Her father’s cold, stern demeanor wasn’t the only reason she’d never felt a bond with him like she did with her mother. “A shadow falls over Father’s heart. Not just sometimes, or when something is blocking the light. All the time. The shadow is over him all the time.”

Her mother didn’t so much as frown or raise an eyebrow, merely nodding as if this was no surprise to her. “And you’ve never sensed anything like this in anyone else?” Charlotte shook her head. “You certainly are my daughter. Yes, I also sensed this shadow when I first met the famous Glynn Kerr. And I’ve sensed it every day since.”

“But what does it mean?”

“I don’t know for certain. But I believe your father will come into contact with a shadowblade. I don’t know how, or when, only that this explanation feels right, even if it defies logic and reason. And if he does, Avadon and Kingfall will suffer.”

“Then why did you promise to find him a shadowblade if he would marry you?”

“I promised a godblade, not a shadowblade specifically. And I did so to prevent him from ever getting near one. Every so often, I pretend to have visions of where a godblade may be buried. And each time it turns out to be a new magenum deposit, which I’ve always had the uncanny knack for finding. But my motives are not purely selfless. I was also saving my own skin. At best he would’ve made me a slave. At worst, he might’ve had me killed. Your father is one of the cruelest men I have ever met.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Charlotte was beginning to wish she hadn’t eavesdropped at all.

“Because you are ready. Because I will not be around forever. Because when I am gone, you must bear the burden I’ve born all these years.”

“I don’t understand, Mama. Why not? Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. But no one lives forever, not even the wealthiest woman in Avadon. Now, enough talk. I fear we’ll be forced to suffer your grumpy father’s company if he catches up. Let’s gallop!”

With that, she dug her heels into her horse and took off, leaving Charlotte tasting the dust kicked up behind her.

Two weeks later

After passing over the tumultuous rapids of Roughwater River via Kerr’s Crossing, they’d angled northeast across the plains. The ridged mountains of the Spine seemed closer and larger at the start of each new day, as though they’d crept toward them during the night as they’d slept. Finally, after almost a week, they reached the foothills, turning dead east, cutting a path parallel to the range. Another week or so and they reached the rugged mining town of Neck, which sprawled just beneath the central portion of the Spine, well north of Beggar’s Canyon, which, if it were a sword, would’ve slashed through Avadon’s gut. They didn’t linger even a single night in Neck, instead leaving their horses to rest and be cared for while they resumed their journey on foot up the mountainside.

Since that first day riding south from Dunadin, Charlotte and her mother hadn’t spoken of godblades or her father’s shadow, but they had spoken of magic whenever they were out of her father’s range of hearing. Charlotte loved these conversations because they reinforced what she had always believed and dreamed. Her mother finally confessed that she could perform basic spells when necessary, a talent she hadn’t realized she had until after she married Charlotte’s father and gained access to magenum. A talent she’d apparently passed onto her only child. Not that either of them had been able to practice much over the last decade.

“But how was I able to perform magic without a magestaff?” Charlotte had asked during one of these conversations.

Her mother hadn’t had an answer, something that had weighed on her ever since.

Now, however, her attention was focused on her father as his broad frame crested a rise just ahead of her. His shirt was soaked through with sweat as the day was hot and they’d attacked the lower portion of the mountain with the same intensity her father attacked his entire life. At Neck, one of her father’s mining foremen had informed him of an unexplored cave on this portion of the mountain. Their objective had been to reach the cavern before nightfall.

Standing on a shelf of rock with the cave mouth behind him, the shadow that followed her father everywhere took the form of a long cut across his heart. Charlotte couldn’t help but to stare. In the past, the shadow had been subtle, almost invisible, and yet ever present, seeming to fade in and out depending on the angle. Not anymore. It was as dark as clotting blood. A stain that stared back at her like a narrowed eye.

Her mother drew close and whispered in her ear. “I’ve never seen it like that either,” she said. “Something draws near. Do you sense it?”

Charlotte frowned, concentrating. A cool breeze wafted over her. Tiny stones shifted under some of the miners’ feet, tumbling down the mountainside. Her own breaths rasped through her nose. She didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary.

A column of darkness rose before her vision, blotting out everything else, the entire mountain vanishing as though plucked from the earth by a god’s massive hand. A hissing, scraping sound found her ears, awful and grating. It was a snake’s warning and a wolf’s howl into the void and the scratch of metal tongs against iron plate. At first it was nothing but noise, random and garbled, but then, all at once, the sounds coalesced into a single chilling voice, resonating deep inside her. A voice that said, NOW YOU ARE AN INTERESTING LITTLE THING, AREN’T YOU?

All Charlotte wanted was to slam her ears shut to that sound, that voice, to run screaming from its presence, to leap upon her destrier and gallop all the way back to Dunadin, which she never should’ve left in the first place. Instead, she stood frozen, stricken with fear.

YOU ARE…FAMILIAR TO ME, the voice said. OH. OH. YOU ARE ONE OF HIS DESCENDANTS, ARE YOU NOT? YOU ARE A KERR.

“Charlotte!” The voice was like a ray of sunshine bursting through a canopy of dark cloud cover, chasing away the shadows and the cold. The column of darkness vanished, while the voice trailed away, leaving behind only a single word: YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Charlotte’s vision cleared and she blinked until her mother’s face materialized, hovering overhead, concern etched into lines around her eyes she’d never noticed before. “Charlotte? What happened? Are you alright?”

“I—yes. I’m just tired from the climb,” she said, closing her eyes for a long, steadying blink. When she opened them, she saw someone else, a figure standing above them on a rock shelf. Staring down, eyes narrowed, expression tight with concentration, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Her father offered a single nod and then turned away.

“Your father has requested our presence below,” her mother said the next day, while Charlotte sat on the rock shelf just outside the cave that was really the entrance to a tunnel descending into the tower of rock. After an evening spent hunkering down in the cave while sheeting rain assaulted the mountain, Charlotte’s father and a crew of miners had arisen at dawn, gathered their tools—picks and hammers and chisels—lit torches, and marched into the tunnel. They’d been down there for the better part of the day already, while Charlotte avoided her mother’s gaze and her questions about how she was feeling.

The truth was, she felt unnerved after her strange experience the day before. She shook her head, realizing she was lying to herself. ‘Unnerved’ was the wrong word. Frightened. She was frightened.

“Charlotte?” her mother said. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, Mama,” Charlotte said, beginning to rise but stopping when her mother placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You know, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” her mother said. “I can go alone.”

Charlotte met her mother’s eyes, searching for…something. An answer to a question she couldn’t quite formulate. “I don’t want to go down there,” she admitted.

“Then you shan’t,” she said, squeezing her shoulder slightly before rising and departing. Charlotte watched her go, until she disappeared inside the tunnel, escorted by one of the torch-bearing miners.

Charlotte sighed and twisted back around to gaze out at the sweeping landscape spread before her. The skies were clear, as though the previous night’s rains had cleansed the very air itself. From this vantage point, it felt like she could see the whole of Avadon rolled out before her like a map made real. From the shimmering waters of the Sacred Sea a hundred miles to the south, to the vast plains bordering Crimea to the east, to the edges of the stone walls at Kerr’s Crossing, she took in the land of her inheritance.

Once, such a sight might’ve excited her, thrilled her even, but now…

The memory of that hissing voice rushed through her mind, like the churning waters of the Roughwater, ever moving, ever shouting, ceaseless and undeniable. The beautiful sight before her left her feeling exposed, like a dozen archers were aiming down the shafts of their arrows with her as their target. Her skin crawled. Her stomach roiled. Her heart pounded too fast.

She jammed her eyes shut, refusing to open them, fighting the horrid feeling with pleasant memories of time spent with her mother over the years. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that with her eyes closed, but it must’ve been a while, because the next thing she knew she heard raised voices echoing from the tunnel.

She opened her eyes and turned to find her mother stride from the tunnel, sharp words on her lips. “It doesn’t work like that!” she snapped.

Charlotte’s father appeared soon after, his expression full of rage. “It doesn’t work at all!” he fired back. “Unless you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not. Mayhaps the godblades don’t want to be found, did you ever consider that?” Her mother stopped, turning back toward her husband, hands on hips.

“Oh, because they’ve grown legs and move about, hiding in the shadows? Is that it? They are like gold or magenum or anything else that’s been buried or lost over the years. Waiting for someone committed to finding them. I will not fail because of you. I will not fail at all.” Her father’s gaze slipped past her mother, landing on her. “Charlotte,” he said. “Come with me.”

“She’s still recovering from overexertion. She needs to rest.” Though her mother hid it well, Charlotte detected the hint of fear that had entered her voice.

“She’s a godsdamn Kerr,” he shot back. “She’s had enough rest. What are you worried about, wife? That your own daughter will succeed where you have failed?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother said, managing a scornful laugh. To anyone else, Charlotte knew her mother’s act of indifference would be believed. But she could see the concern on her mother’s face, even if it was hidden behind the mask she’d perfected. “Charlotte is a child. Take her below if you must, but she won’t tell you anything different than me.”

“I guess we shall see,” her father said. “Charlotte!”

Charlotte rose, smoothing out the parts of her skirt that had creased. She lifted her chin and walked toward her father, passing close by her mother, who opened her arms as if to embrace her. Charlotte paused as her mother’s arms encircled her, lips brushing against her ear. “Lie through your teeth,” she hissed. “Please. You must.”

She released her without meeting her eyes, walking toward the spot Charlotte had been sitting. Charlotte took a deep breath and followed her father into the tunnel.

Something about the fact that the tunnel would’ve been completely dark if not for the light cast by the torches comforted Charlotte. She almost wished she could blow out a huge breath and douse them all. Her father wouldn’t like that at all.

The tunnel curved slightly, maintaining its downward course. It wasn’t a particularly wide or tall tunnel, barely large enough for a man to walk fully upright. No more than two men could walk abreast of each other without scraping their shoulders against the rough-hewn walls. Eventually, the tunnel ended in a small cavern that, at first glance, had no other entrance or exit. But then Charlotte noticed the small, inky pool of water at the far side. The water wasn’t stagnant, but moving slightly, implying tunnels hidden beneath its dark surface. She liked that thought.

Glynn Kerr turned to face his daughter. “Tell me, Charlotte, how are you feeling after yesterday’s episode?” There was a hint of concern in his voice, but nothing about it was genuine.

“I am fine,” Charlotte said.

“Your mother worries too much. She doesn’t understand what it means to have Kerr blood running through your veins. It means strength. It means fortitude.”

“Thank you, Father.” Charlotte didn’t point out that she also had her mother’s blood running through her. That meant more to her. Far more.

“Tell me, what do you think of this place? What do you see?” He said it casually, waving a hand toward the bare wall of rock standing before her. Chunks had been carved out of it, pocking the surface. Gray and brown rocks were piled up in one corner. There wasn’t a hint of anything out of the ordinary.

And yet…

Without seeing anything unexpected, she knew that dark presence that had overcome her yesterday was here. Somewhere. She sensed it like she sensed the flow of blood through her own veins. How it was possible, she knew not. Lie through your teeth, her mother had said.

“I don’t understand the question, Father,” she said. “I see a rock wall. I see mining equipment. My eyes are no better than yours.”

From the corner of her eye, she could tell her father was watching her as she spoke, but she pretended not to notice, looking only at the bare rock. “Of course not,” her father said. “But you are my daughter. You have my instincts.” I am mother’s daughter, she corrected in her head. I have mother’s instincts.

“Do you think there is gold here?” Charlotte said, pretending to be excited by the notion as she finally turned to meet her father’s stare. “Or magenum?”

Her father’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though judging his supper and finding it lacking. “The foreman feels this is a dead end. There is no indication of anything worth mining, not even copper.”

“That’s awful,” Charlotte said, forcing her lips into a pout. “I would love to be there when you make your next great discovery!” I would rather watch paint dry, she corrected in her head.

“Well, it won’t happen today. If this is a dead end, it’s time we moved on. There are dozens upon dozens of unexplored caverns and tunnels within the Spine. Hopefully some of them will be more fruitful than this one.”

Charlotte’s mother hadn’t said a word to her since she returned from her trek into the cavern. In fact, after picking at her evening meal, her mother had complained of weariness and gone to bed early. Charlotte had done the same, yearning for a respite from the thoughts wheeling about in her head. Plus, her father had said they would depart early the next morning to seek another cave to explore, and she didn’t want to be dead on her feet.

She awoke while it was still dark, her heart pounding in her chest. Something glowed nearby. A lantern, partially covered by a piece of cloth to dim the light. A form was hunched nearby, bent as they focused on something on the ground. Every few seconds, a soft scratching sound arose.

Charlotte eyed the area around her, where men were sprawled in various positions, fast asleep. She identified her father’s form—also asleep—his exhalations deep and steady. The spot where her mother had been lying when Charlotte had taken her own rest was empty save for a rumpled blanket.

Silently, Charlotte gained her feet and tiptoed past the sleeping forms. When she appeared beside her, her mother didn’t so much as flinch, continuing her work as though she’d expected her daughter to arrive just then.

“What are you doing?” Charlotte said, straining to see in the dim lighting. “Is that a map?”

“Hush, child,” her mother said. “The night has ears.”

Charlotte leaned closer, watching as her mother added some finishing touches to what she was now certain was, in fact, a map, albeit a rather rough one. The more she stared at it, the more she realized it wasn’t just any map, but one that would lead someone to the very spot they now occupied, which was marked with a red dot, though her mother’s inkwell contained only black ink.

When she finished, her mother blew on the parchment to dry the ink. Then, methodically, she folded the paper twice and handed it to Charlotte. “If anything ever happens to me, you will send this to a man in Teravainen in eight years, on your seventeenth name day,” she said.

As Charlotte accepted the folded map, she asked, “Why would something happen to you?”

“Promise me,” her mother said, avoiding the question.

“Yes, of course, but who do I send it to? What man in Teravainen?”

“His name is Grimfire.”

“The mage?” she said. She’d read about the infamous mage on numerous occasions. Though he now served as King Gaard’s royal mage, he’d once been well-respected in Aeromand.

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand, Mama.”

“I know, child. But you will. One day you will. Now get back to sleep before your father wakes. And hide the map. Never show it to another soul.”

Two weeks later

Two fruitless weeks later, they were in a different part of the Spine, some other nameless cavern filled with nothing but miles of barren rock. Every few days her mother would declare that whatever they were searching for was somewhere else, further to the east or west or north or south, and they would all scramble to pack up their things and move on.

Since that night, Charlotte’s mother hadn’t mentioned the map, and Charlotte had kept it safe and secure.

She’d almost forgotten about it and was even beginning to enjoy the expedition. Mostly left to her own devices during the day, she was permitted to explore, as long as one of the miners accompanied her. For fun, she’d taken to fooling them, slipping away when they paused to urinate, or vanishing into the shadows after a turn and then backtracking while they ran off down the tunnel calling her name. It amused her greatly. Not once did any of them tell her father either—they were smart enough to know his wrath would be worse for them than for her.

Thus it was, on this particular day she’d managed to give her escort the slip, before setting off down a long, straight tunnel her mother had said provided magnificent views to the north where it emerged on the Calabrian flanks of the mountain. She was walking fast, determined to make it there quickly enough to spend some time admiring the view before having to start the journey back in time for supper. She was sweating, her fingers gripping her lantern so slick she passed it back and forth between her hands every dozen or so steps.

Raised voices stopped her dead in her tracks. She’d been so focused on the placement of each foot in front of her, that she hadn’t noticed the natural light creeping down the length of the tunnel as she approached its end. Now that she saw it, however, she swiftly blew out her lantern and set it aside, creeping forward, squinting at the two figures silhouetted on the cliffside.

She stopped again, dropping flat on her stomach when one of the figures said, “Did you hear something?” It was her father’s voice, of that there was no doubt.

Charlotte held her breath, sensing their gazes roaming around her, on her, trying to peel back the layers of darkness. “You always were paranoid, husband. You think the world is out to get you, when in reality you are as insignificant to the greater world as a common slug.” Mother? Charlotte thought. Why were here parents all the way out here by themselves? Shouldn’t her father be supervising his crew?

“I know what you’re trying to do: distract me with insults. I won’t be fooled for a second longer. This is your last chance. Make good on our agreement or our marriage is forfeit.”

“I told you—”

“You’ve told me nothing!” her father exploded, grabbing her mother and pressing her against one side of the cave mouth. “You promised everything and fulfilled nothing. You are an evil, evil woman whose every breath is a gift that I gave you. I could’ve had you killed all those years ago, instead I gave you everything.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful? Your hand was stayed by your own greed and lust for power, nothing more.”

Her father’s scoff echoed down the tunnel as he lowered her back to her feet. “Maybe so, but it doesn’t change the fact that my hand is stayed only by unfulfilled promises.”

“Don’t hold back on my account,” her mother said coldly.

“You little bitch,” he snarled, grabbing her arm and manhandling her away from Charlotte, toward the cliff’s edge.

Fear rose inside Charlotte, a cold wave. She stood, no longer concerned with whether they saw her eavesdropping. She took a step forward just as her father slung her mother over the edge, leaving her dangling over empty air. “You don’t have the stones,” her mother said.

Charlotte wanted to run, to scream, to stop this from happening before it was too late, but instead her legs felt like they were mired in a thick bog, her voice stripped from her throat by the hatred revealed between the two people who were supposed to love her.

“Last chance, woman. Tell me where I can find a godblade or I swear to all the gold in Avadon that I will learn whether you’re the type of witch who knows how to fly.”

Just tell him, Mama. Please, just tell him.

“Never,” her mother said, her eyes flitting past her husband and landing on Charlotte, meeting hers for a split-second before her father let her go.

And then she was gone.

Charlotte had turned and ran. She hadn’t stopped until she’d reached the encampment, breathless and blind with tears. She’d buried herself beneath a blanket and pretended to sleep.

The days wore on as her father organized search parties for his missing wife, refusing to rest until she was found. Charlotte hated him for the deception almost as much as she hated him for what he’d done.

And when, finally, weeks later, one of the miners discovered Lady Kerr’s body at the bottom of a cliff, her father was quick to sadly declare that she must’ve jumped, for she was ‘always a troubled woman.’

The rest of the expedition was cancelled, as they would return her body to Dunadin for a proper send off, with no expenses spared on the funeral.

Lie through your teeth.

Send the map.

On your seventeenth name day.

Grimfire. Grimfire. Grimfire.

Charlotte clung to her mother’s words like ropes protecting her from falling to her own death, even as her heart felt like it was made of stone. She had a purpose, but how was she to fulfill it without her best friend by her side? How was she supposed to rise in the morning, drag her clothes on, put one foot in front of the other?

How?

One month later

As was the Avadonian way, her mother’s body had been cremated. Charlotte hadn’t cried, for she’d used up her tears on countless nights between the Spine and Dunadin, when no one was listening, when no one was watching.

She was done crying.

She raised her hand and then rapped her knuckles against her father’s door.

“Enter,” came her father’s voice.

She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her. She pressed her back to the wood to steady herself.

“Charlotte? I thought you’d be asleep by now. It’s been a long day, you should rest.” Her father stood in front of a crackling fire, still wearing the dark, fine clothes he’d worn at the funeral. He held a glass in one hand, half full with dark wine that probably cost more than most peoples’ monthly wages.

“I am done resting,” she said, taking one step forward. She was surprised when her knees held her weight without so much as a wobble.

“I understand that. The house feels…emptier without her. But it’s just the two of us now. The sooner we accept that, the sooner we can move on and return to normal life.”

She despised the lack of emotion in his voice, as though he were talking about a task to be completed. A mission to be accomplished. Have breakfast. Tie boots. Go to the market. Get over wife’s death. Not death, Charlotte corrected. Murder. You murdered her. “Give me the key to the magenum chamber,” she said.

“What? Your mother should’ve never allowed you inside that room. It is no place for a—”

“I saw what happened that day,” Charlotte said. “I was in the tunnel. Watching. How you held her over the cliffside. How she refused your demands.”

Her father froze. “I don’t know what you thought you saw, but your mother’s death was an unfortunate accident.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” Charlotte hated those words, but she’d learned from her mother that leverage was something to be used like a weapon. Or a shield.

“There’s nothing to tell,” her father said, shaking his head like she was speaking nonsense.

“Give me the key,” Charlotte said. “That is my one and only condition. You have no mages and more magenum than the gods themselves. All I ask is that I be free to practice. To train. One day I may be able to make it worth your while.”

His head cocked to the side, his expression changing to one filled with a light she’d seen countless times on his face. It was the light of greed. “You see them too, don’t you? Like your mother did? The lights and the shadows?”

Her father had never stopped believing in his wife’s uncanny ability, only her willingness to share her power with him. That was why he’d killed her. It had probably driven him mad not getting something he wanted. “Yes,” Charlotte said, staring directly at her father’s chest. The dark shadow that was constantly over his heart seemed to pulse before her gaze. “They are only fleeting glimpses, but one day maybe it will be more. I will do everything in my power to give you what you want.” Truths amidst lies. They slipped from her tongue so easily now.

Her father licked his lips. “Then we have an understanding.” He strode over to a desk and opened a drawer. He didn’t rummage around inside, his fingers quickly locating what he was looking for amongst the other contents. And when he withdrew his hand, he held a key. “This is yours now. I have another, but I will not disturb you. Make me proud.”

“I will, Father,” Charlotte said. “As proud as I always made Mama.”

The key turned with a satisfying click. Anticipation surged through Charlotte as she opened the door and pushed inside. Columns of glowing turquoise liquid stood before her, as though they’d been waiting this entire time.

Waiting for her.

She sat between them, feeling the stone in one pocket and the folded parchment in the other. The stone was to be used in her training. The parchment was a reminder that she could not fail her mother. Not now, not ever.

She left the stone in her pocket. Though all she’d wanted since that day her father had interrupted her was to try to lift the stone again, now it felt all wrong. Another spell came to mind, one she’d ignored her entire life because it wasn’t flashy or exciting. And yet everything about it felt right in this moment. Like breathing.

She nodded to herself, thinking not about the spell itself, but about the woman who raised her, who loved her, who died for her and maybe for something else, something important, something she didn’t understand now but which she knew, one day, she would, just as her mother had promised. And then she spoke:

“Deluminus.” She didn’t shout the word or repeat it, just let it fall from her lips, and yet she could feel the difference between the spell and every other she’d attempted during the week that changed everything. For the first time in her life, Charlotte Kerr understood the meaning of conviction.

Within seconds, every column of magenum drained, vaporous swirls twisting and writhing around her, a tornado of ethereal light responding to her command, shooting out in every direction, passing through the thick walls and vanishing.

All across Dunadin, lights began winking out. Torches, lanterns, fires, candles, each snuffed out as though splashed with water. Because of her, Dunadin was cast into complete darkness, like the undisturbed bowels of a distant cave in the central Spine, where a shadowy presence lived, waiting patiently like a spider in a web for a day to come. A day that would not come for another eight years.

Charlotte smiled.

Postlude 2: Glynn Kerr

Dunadin- 390 A.W.

FROM HIS BEDROOM WINDOW, NINE-YEAR-OLD GLYNN WATCHED THE OTHER CHILDREN PLAYING.

He was mesmerized as they ran and chased each other, bright laughter dancing from their lips. They looked so…happy.

As he watched, one of them happened to twist her head around and peer skyward, her eyes landing on him. He ducked behind the thick, red curtains, heart pounding. As he waited for his heart to slow, he thought, What am I doing? Why am I hiding? I’m a Kerr. This is our city. Our country. With that in mind, he took a deep breath and shifted out of hiding, determined to stare down anyone with half a mind to gawk at him like an exhibition at a traveling carnival.

The street was empty. The children were gone.

He sighed, slumping back onto the plush window seat, feeling foolish. He was glad he was alone. At least that meant there was no one there to witness his stupidity. He gazed around his oversized room, which, he knew, was as large as most folks’ entire house. There were no fewer than three sets of bookshelves so crammed with books he would need a fourth soon. Various knickknacks sat in front of the books collecting dust. Most were the types of oddities that any young boy would find desirable: a needle-sharp tooth the length of his forearm from some deadly sea creature; the long, pale feather that had once adorned the tail of a West Sonarian moonswallow; the shriveled-up, eight-legged carcass of a Calypsian tarantula inside a glass cube; coins from several different foreign kingdoms located hundreds of miles away on the other side of the Endless Ocean.

Once he’d been proud of all these things. They were his, after all. He’d bought them with his own coin, using the allowance afforded to him every fortnight since he was five when his grandfather, Master Lyram Kerr, declared it was time for him to learn how to manage his own spending money.

Now, however, everything within his sight, everything he owned, felt…meaningless. Boring. What was he supposed to do with a Sonarian moonswallow’s tail feather, anyway? Attach it to his own behind and go prancing about the halls of the greathouse? His grandfather would probably lock him in his room for three days straight.

And yet he wanted more. He didn’t know why, only that the thought of picking his way through the market with coin jingling in his pocket and the possibilities of what could be his as endless as the ocean excited him more than anything else in his life. Even if the joy he felt when he bought things never seemed to last, he craved that initial, giddy feeling of having something brand new in his possession.

As always, his gaze was drawn toward the top shelf of one of the bookshelves. Though books and other objects hid it well, he swore he could see the corner of a small wooden box protruding from the clutter. He looked away, unclenching fists he didn’t even realize his hands had formed.

A muffled clucking sound drew him away from his thoughts. It was coming from a blanket strewn haphazardly on the floor. The blanket was moving. “Lucky!” Glynn said, hopping down from the window seat and whipping the blanket free with a flourish.

“Bock?” the chicken said, looking rather confused.

“How did you get under there, Luck?” Glynn asked, scooping up the chicken and cradling her like a babe in his arms. He’d been her keeper since she was a chick having just pushed her way out of her egg. His grandfather had said it was about time he learned some responsibility. He’d named her Lucky because of the odd white marking on her chest that resembled the Avadonian symbol for good fortune—a set of scales. In his arms, the chicken bobbed her head several times, tapping his arm gently with her beak. The pinprick holes left behind joined the dozens already poked into his skin, most of which were scabbed over.

Though it had never been explicitly forbidden, Glynn was one hundred percent certain he wasn’t allowed to have Lucky in his room. But earlier that day after he’d bounded out of bed and charged downstairs to the coop to feed her, she’d just looked so sad. He couldn’t bear to leave her, so he tucked her inside his blue jacket with the brass buttons and snuck back to his room. The oversized jacket had been a gift from his grandfather on his ninth name day, a gift that came with a message: Grow into it. Glynn was small for his age and he practically swam in the jacket, which left enough room for him to hide Lucky, who was also small for her age.

“We’d better get you back,” he said to the chicken. “Before you’re missed.”

He placed Lucky on the bed, where she immediately began pecking at a stray thread that had torn loose from the blanket. Then he pulled on his fine coat, scooped her up and hid her away before fastening three of the four buttons. “Hush now, Luck,” he said, opening the door and peeking out into the corridor.

It was deserted. Given it was still an hour before the midday meal, it was no surprise. Most of the staff would be preparing the dining hall or in the kitchen polishing silverware or chopping vegetables. Glynn slipped into the hall, pulling the door closed softly behind him. Then he tiptoed down the hall, avoiding the third beam from the right wall, which was a notorious creaker. Not that anyone was listening for his passage. Most of the rooms on this level were empty these days. His great uncle had passed two years ago, while his grand aunt clung to life for another two years before slipping away in her sleep. He wasn’t particularly close with either of them—they smelled funny and said strange things—but their deaths still might’ve affected him had he not been so experienced with such things.

When he was six, the future Master of Avadon, his father, died on a mining expedition. Next to that, the deaths of his other relatives felt like such a small thing, mere pebbles in the midst of an avalanche.

He stopped, jamming his eyes shut to fight off the tears that threatened to swamp his vision. He still remembered his grandfather’s words to him on the day of his father’s funeral: Do you think your father would want you to be weak on this day or any other? You are a Kerr. Tears are for common men. Not us.

Back then, his cheeks had been wet, his eyes red and stinging from crying. His grandfather had helped him get cleaned up and don clothes as dark as coal. Then Master Kerr had stood beside him with a firm hand on Glynn’s elbow as a reminder to control his emotions as they watched the pyre burn. Glynn had read about other places where the dead were placed in large wooden vestibules called coffins and buried beneath the ground, but in Avadon that was considered a waste of valuable resources and space. Ashes took up minimal space and could be scattered. After the ceremony, he’d been given a small box with his father’s ashes and charged with scattering them.

A small box that was still hidden on the top shelf of his bookshelf. It wasn’t empty. When his grandfather had asked him what he’d done with the ashes, he’d lied. He said they were gone, but the truth was he’d tried to scatter them but hadn’t been able to do it.

His mother hadn’t been permitted to attend the funeral, as she was too distraught. These days, she rarely left her quarters. He continued past her room, not pausing to listen at her door as he sometimes did.

Down the stairs he went, listening every few steps. If he heard someone climbing the stairs, he could turn and race back the way he’d come. He reached the ground floor without incident, turning down the long hallway leading toward his grandfather’s private quarters. There were several intersecting corridors just ahead, and he chose the one leading left toward a large section of the complex that included the stables, tannery, and forge, as well as the structures that housed the animals—the pigsty, chicken coop and goat shed.

He was about to exit the greathouse through a large, arched entryway, when a cleared throat stopped him. He froze, refusing to turn lest the throat-clearer notice the unnatural bump on the front of his coat, brass buttons bulging so far outward they were at risk of popping free. “Young Master Kerr,” a familiar voice said. “Haven’t you already visited the coop this morning?”

Glynn turned only his head. “Hullo, Mister Lun. I noticed Lucky hobbling a bit earlier. I just want to check that she’s on the mend and not being picked on by the other hens.”

“How chivalrous,” Mister Lun said. He was the Head of Servants and responsible for the overall workings of the household, a position he’d held for some years. He was also a thorn in Glynn’s side, always appearing from what seemed to be thin air at the least desirable times. Like now, for example.

“Not really,” Glynn said. “My grandfather charged me with caring for her, did he not?”

“Indeed. But I don’t remember any instructions to bring her inside the house.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Glynn said. “Now I best be on my way.”

He left the man behind, trying to act casual but walking more stiffly than usual. When he reached the coop, he hurriedly pushed inside and was greeted by a chorus of clucking. He slid his buttons through their holes and released Lucky, who cocked her head to the side and said, “Bock?” as though trying to figure out how they’d gone from his bedroom to the coop without her seeing anything in between.

“I’ll return to check on you later,” he promised, setting her down and watching as she poked at the ground. Then he turned and pushed back out into the yard, almost running headlong into Mister Lun. “Oh,” he exclaimed.

“Apologies, young master,” Lun droned, though he didn’t sound apologetic at all as he looked down his long, hawkish nose, on which were balanced a pair of rectangular spectacles. The polished silver buttons of his gold uniform gleamed in the sunlight.

Glynn recovered swiftly, stepping back and looking up at the man with an expression of distaste. “Has my grandfather made me your ward? If so, I was not notified.”

“Hmm, no,” the man said. “For some odd reason, Master Kerr believes your independence is more important, something about allowing you to make your own mistakes.”

“Shall I inform my grandfather of your disagreement with his approach to my upbringing?” Glynn said. His grandfather could be a cold, strict man at the best of times, but Glynn always appreciated that the man trusted him enough to allow him to roam free, at least within the bounds of the complex.

“That would be a waste of your breath, I fear,” Lun said, “as I have already expressed my opinion. We have agreed to disagree on the matter.”

Glynn knew it was possible the man was bluffing, but he’d never known Mister Lun to be deceptive. “Then there is nothing else to discuss, is there? I best be on my way.” He started to steer himself around the tall, wiry man, but Lun sidestepped to block him.

“First I must afford you your fortnightly allowance, young master,” he said. “Or have you forgotten?”

Glynn was shocked at himself. Between watching the children at play and sneaking Lucky into his bedroom, he’d lost track of the day. Now his heart leapt at the prospect of marching into town and discovering the next shiny, new thing to adorn his bookshelves. “Of course, I haven’t,” he lied. “But a Kerr never begs. A Kerr demands.”

“Right you are, young master,” Lun said, wrinkling his nose slightly. He reached inside his uniform and extracted a small pouch that made a clinking sound as he lifted it free. He handed it to Glynn, who snatched it more quickly than was necessary.

“Next fortnight, I expect my allowance to be brought during breakfast, is that understood?”

“As you wish, young master,” Lun said, bowing at the waist.

“And have a coach and escort prepared forthwith,” Glynn said. “I wish to put this coin to good use.”

“Actually…,” Lun said, straightening up. There was a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Your grandfather has asked that I accompany you into town today. Not with you as my ward,” he added quickly. “Only because he’s requested that I attend to other business on his behalf.”

“What business?” Glynn asked, his excitement waning at the thought of being stuck with the ornery man while he perused the marketplace wares. He knew Lun would judge everything he considered purchasing with nothing short of disdain.

“That is none of your concern, young master. Never fear, I shan’t get in the way of your own business. Consider me a riding companion, nothing more.”

Glynn considered postponing his trek into town until the next day to avoid sharing a coach with Lun, but the weight of the coin-filled pouch already felt like it was burning a hole in his hand. “Very well. But I will not tolerate advice on how to spend my coin, is that understood?”

“Yes, young master,” Lun said with a weak smile that failed to reach his eyes.

Thankfully, the carriage ride from the greathouse to the crowded marketplace was a short one, so Glynn wasn’t forced to suffer Lun’s presence for more than a few minutes. When the carriage ground to a halt, Lun said, “I shall attend to the master’s business now. Meet me back here in an hour and don’t be a second late.”

Glynn’s mouth dropped open, incredulous. “You mean I am to walk the marketplace without an escort?”

“Not if it was up to me, but, alas, it is not. Your grandfather’s orders. You are practically a man grown now. He believes it’s time you learned the ways of the world. I hope for your sake he isn’t wrong.” With that, Lun ducked his head and slipped through the carriage curtains, disappearing.

Glynn’s heart soared. His grandfather thought he was ready to conduct his affairs on his own. And why shouldn’t he? he thought to himself. I’ve been here dozens of times before. I know the marketplace like the back of my own hand. Eager and thrumming with excitement, he exited the carriage, immediately surrounded by the hustle and bustle of sellers hawking their wares and buyers looking to strike a bargain they could brag about at one of the public houses later that evening.

Glynn suspected other young children might be intimidated—scared even—by the press of bodies and raised voices, but he was no ordinary boy. He was the heir to Avadon, and he had the trust of the most powerful man in this quarter of Kingfall. Ignoring the carriage driver, he set his jaw and slipped into the crowd.

Glynn grinned as he weaved between bodies, using his small stature to his advantage as he found a seam through the thick throng while others complained and argued as they became stuck at every turn. He passed quickly by the sweet, savory and altogether aromatic scents arising from the food establishments. He had rarely been tempted by such delights, as the greathouse kitchens were most generous with their servings at breakfast, midday, and supper. No, he was after something that lasted longer than the time it took to chew and swallow, something he’d never seen before and might never see again, something to add to his collection atop his bookshelves. Something that would make his heart do somersaults just by looking at it.

And he knew where to find such treasures, darting right to avoid a large cart with a broken wheel that was the cause of a major bottleneck, dozens of people shouting and cursing as they tried to swim against the current. For several grim moments he was jostled and bumped this way and that by large bodies that felt capable of crushing him beneath them—and that was just the women! Several of the men were the size of small mountains, and he was forced to twist and contort his body to avoid being met by one of their elbows or fists like a nail driven by the head of a hammer.

And then he was free, escaping into a quieter, less traveled portion of the marketplace. He paused to catch his breath, gulping down deep swallows of air until he felt himself again. Ducking slightly, he slipped beneath the canopy that had been flung across the tops of the permanent stalls that occupied what was known as the ‘odds and specs’ area, which was short for oddities and specialties. He stopped again, briefly, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Every stall had several lanterns placed haphazardly, haloes of orange light disrupting what would’ve otherwise been a darkness to rival most caves.

Several potential buyers moved down the long corridor, searching for whatever treasures they’d hoped to find. Despite the darkness and the eerie silence, Glynn felt rather at home here, and he wasted no time moving deeper inside. He passed the stalls that were of no interest to him—those selling herbs or ointments that would supposedly cure every ailment under the sun. He also passed the sellers who he knew from experience were liars, frauds, or simply overcharged, hoping to take advantage of naïve customers. He wouldn’t deal with their ilk, who were little better than thieves in his mind.

Finally, toward the center of the long row of stalls, he reached one of his favorite shops, Beasties and Baubles. “Ahh,” the proprietor said as he approached. The man called himself Fang, though Glynn was confident it wasn’t the name his mother had given him. It was, however, appropriate, as one of the man’s incisors stuck out further than the rest, occasionally slipping over his bottom lip. Other than that, he was rather ordinary in all respects, his worn hat hiding a bald head and shadowing a roundish face that might’ve been a ripe tomato given the blush that permanently adorned his cheeks. “What can I do for you today, young master Kerr?” Fang asked.

“Do you have anything new?” Glynn asked without preamble. Without fail, he’d visited Beasties and Baubles every fortnight for as long as he could remember, which meant he knew Fang’s inventory as well as the man himself. Some of it was interesting to him, but none of it as exciting as what he was looking for today. He wanted—no, needed—to find something extraordinary.

A smile formed on the man’s face, causing his cheeks to puff out like a squirrel who’d stuffed too many acorns in its mouth at one time. “You are in luck. Just yesterday I procured something I’ve never come across in all my days.” To someone who didn’t know Fang, this might sound like a boast, but Glynn took it seriously. Fang never boasted nor haggled on price. He stated things as they were, which was one of the reasons his shop was Glynn’s favorite.

“What is it?” he asked, voice rising as he struggled to stifle his excitement.

“Best that I show you. No one else has seen it yet. I was saving it for you.”

This only made Glynn’s excitement grow further. He leaned forward in anticipation as the chubby man drew something large wrapped in a sheepskin from a low cubby behind his counter, using both hands to lift it and place it onto the table. The way he strained under its weight, veins bulging from his forehead, suggested it was quite heavy. Then, carefully, delicately, he unwrapped it, peeling back no fewer than three layers of protective material to reveal a long, black object that stretched from one end of the counter to the other. Its surface appeared to be as smooth as the broadside of a newly forged sword, and Glynn suspected that if they lifted it upright it would stretch twice again the height of an average man. “Is that a bone?” Glynn said, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. It was thinner in the middle and then bulged out on either end, forming hard knots. Or joints. Like a bone.

“As usual, you have a good eye, young master,” Fang said. “But this is not just any bone.”

Glynn licked his lips. Bones were supposed to be white, not black. And usually they weren’t so well-preserved. And, of course, there was the size to consider. “A dragon bone?” he guessed.

“Impossible. The dragon lords of Travail use dragonfire to burn even the bones of their dead steeds.”

“Some monster of the sea then,” Glynn said. He’d heard stories, many of them from Fang himself, of massive creatures attacking entire ships, sinking them to the bottom of the ocean.

“Nope. Even the largest sea monsters would quake at the sight of this creature.”

“Please tell me,” Glynn said, barely able to contain his suspense.

“I have it from a trusted source that this is the shin of a dreadbeast,” Fang said.

“What?” Glynn said. “But that’s…impossible. The dreadbeasts were eradicated before the Weeping, more than four hundred years ago.”

“Yes, and the bones of the dead creatures were sent to the bottom of the sea to help the survivors forget they ever existed. Except this one, apparently. Feel free to touch it, to inspect it, and then you can search your books for any descriptions that might help to confirm its authenticity. Then you may return tomorrow, if you wish. I can hold it for you until then, but not a day longer. I know of at least three other collectors who will be interested in this piece.”

Glynn didn’t need to do any research. Nor did he need another moment to decide. He wanted the dreadbeast bone more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Deep in his own bones, he knew it would make all the sadness and pain go away. And yet he managed to compose himself, running a hand calmly along the smooth surface of the dark bone. It was like glass to the touch, or polished obsidian. Absolutely beautiful. To think it was one small piece of a much larger creature, a monster that had once devastated entire armies during a war that had lasted a hundred years. For all he knew, his own ancestor, Hyram Kerr, had once stood beside this very creature as he wielded his shadowblade against his foes.

“I appreciate the right of first refusal,” he said, using a term he’d only recently learned. “As you suggested, I will conduct my own thorough investigation and then return on the morrow with my decision. What is the price?”

The man usually stated the price of his goods without hesitation, but this time he snatched a quill from a pot, dipped the tip in an inkwell, and then scratched something onto a piece of parchment, which he slid toward Glynn. Glynn squinted in the dim lighting, his eyes widening when he saw the amount. This bone would cost him his entire fortnightly allowance and then some. “You may pay in installments, if necessary,” Fang said.

“That is most generous,” Glynn said.

“I only offer such terms to my most valued customers.”

Glynn nodded and then turned, backtracking through the shadowy marketplace. All he wanted was to get back to his bedroom as soon as possible and pore over his books for the rest of the day and into the night. If it really were a dreadbeast bone, it would be his.

The carriage lurched forward.

“Your pouch still looks rather heavy,” Lun said, raising his eyebrows.

“I shall return on the morrow to make my purchase,” Glynn said, watching shadows of the city pass by through the thin curtain.

“Purchase? As in one item for all that coin?”

Glynn inwardly cursed himself for his loose tongue. “Mayhaps. I haven’t decided.”

“Fine. Have your secrets, young master. I care not what baubles you spend your coin on.”

It was just the reaction Glynn was hoping for. At least it would shut the man up. Before he could say another word, Glynn leaned forward and stuck his head between the curtains, relishing the blast of cool air that met his face. It was a rather childish thing to do, but what good was it being nine years old if you couldn’t do childish things every now and then? The eyes of passersby fell upon him and he smiled and whooped.

Without warning, a strange urge to leap from the moving carriage rose inside him. For a brief moment, he struggled with the temptation, gripping the curtain so hard he feared he might tear it from its fixture.

Something caught his attention, something so ordinary it was a wonder he’d noticed it at all. Well, not ‘it’, him, for the sight was a man, his back to the wall, his legs spread before him. He was dirty, his clothes tattered. One of his eyes was unusual looking, and it took a moment for Glynn to identify the cause: the man had a glass eye. Regardless, he was just a beggar, a sight that was as commonplace to Dunadin as it probably was in any major Kingfall city. And yet Glynn found himself unable to look away, his gaze tethered to the man, who extended a hand, palm up, as they approached. Please, his lips said, though he made no sound.

And then he flashed past as they charged back toward the greathouse.

In that moment, a memory had surfaced in Glynn’s mind, a day he hadn’t thought about in years. A day that had been perfect in every way.

His parents’ hands were clasped together as they walked side by side. He was only five, racing ahead of them, pointing at the many sights of the city that were all new to him, so fresh and vibrant. He was so happy, and he could tell his parents were too. At one stall selling fine garments, his mother wrapped a bright silk scarf around her neck while his father tested out a thick, sheepskin hat that was far too large for his head. They bought both items anyway, along with a piece of hard, peppermint candy for him.

As beautiful as those memories were, they appeared dim next to the brightest one, the one spotlighted in the center of his mind.

As they returned to the greathouse, happy and smiling as they hauled their purchases, his father stopped in front of a beggar. The beggar extended his hand, palm up and mouthed the word ‘Please’. To Glynn’s surprise, his father reached in his own pocket and extracted a small pouch tinkling with unspent coins. He placed the entire pouch in the man’s hand, closing his fingers over it, and said, “May it fill your belly and shelter your head.”

Then he turned back to his family and they continued on their way. Glynn had questions—so many questions. “Why did you give away your money?” he asked. “Why was that man so dirty? Why does he lay there all day long, not working? Shouldn’t he be earning his own coin, so he doesn’t have to beg from us?”

His father smiled and stopped, crouching down to look him in the eyes. “We don’t know that man’s story. We don’t know what ill luck has befallen him, or why he is dirty and begging on the street. It is not our place to judge, but to help. Fortunes are not just for the fortunate, but for the less fortunate too. If we have enough to share, then share we must.”

Scenery flashing past and the wind in his hair, Glynn was shocked he hadn’t remembered that day until this moment. Maybe it was a different glass-eyed beggar, or maybe it was the same one. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d been frivolously spending his every coin on objects that didn’t serve to feed him, or cloth him, or shelter him, while others were suffering. Would his father be proud of him? Or would he turn over in his grave, glad he wasn’t alive to see what had become of his only son?

“Stop the carriage!” Glynn shouted. Before the carriage had fully stopped, Glynn had already leapt out, stumbling but not falling as he steadied himself with a hand. Hurriedly, he jogged back to where they’d passed the old beggar, who was in the same position, hand still extended toward no one in particular. Glynn skidded to a stop before the man, catching his breath. The weight of the coins in his pocket felt like they were dragging him down. If he gave even a single coin to this man, he might not be able to afford the dreadbeast bone, even if Fang allowed him to pay in installments. What would Father do? he asked himself.

He knew the answer even before he asked the question. All he wanted to do was make his father proud. He could tell his mother what he’d done and why, and then maybe she would leave her room again. Maybe she would come alive again. Maybe they could be happy again. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

He pulled the pouch from his pocket and placed it in the beggar’s hand, using his own to close the man’s fingers over the pouch, just as he remembered his father had done. Then he said, “May it fill your belly and shelter your head.”

Before the man could utter a word of thanks, he turned and departed, clambering back inside the carriage.

Glynn was back in his room, stroking the feathers on Lucky’s back. She clucked appreciatively and nipped at the threads on his blanket, pulling them out one at a time. When he’d first returned to the greathouse, he’d tried to see his mother, practically bursting with excitement to tell her the story but had been told she was resting and that he should come back later. So he’d snuck down to the chicken coop, stuffed Lucky in his coat, and brought her back to his room to wait.

Now, a knock at his door surprised him. It was probably only a servant come to collect his dirty clothes or inform him that supper would be in an hour. Still, he took care to hide Lucky within his wardrobe before crossing the room and pulling the door open. His grandfather loomed over him.

“Grandfather!” Glynn said, startled. His grandfather’s large form never darkened the entrance to his room. If his grandfather wanted to see him, he would merely wait until supper or send a servant to collect him.

“Glynn, there is a matter we must discuss. An adult matter. May I come in?”

Though he was still rather frazzled by his grandfather’s unexpected appearance, the man’s words sent warmth through him. First, he’d trusted him enough to walk the market on his own, and now this? He puffed up his chest and said, “Of course. Have a seat.” He stepped aside and waved at the small sitting area he never used, preferring to lounge on his bed or on the window seat.

“Thank you,” Master Kerr said, striding inside and easing into a high-backed chair. He was a large, broad-shouldered man with a salt and pepper goatee that matched the thick thatch of hair atop his head. Glynn closed the door and followed, taking up his own position in an identical chair that made him feel as small as the chicken he hoped would remain quiet until his grandfather left.

For a few seconds there was an awkward silence between them, his grandfather watching him carefully. “Oh, right,” Glynn said, remembering that it was his place as host to invite his guest to speak. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Master Kerr?”

“As the kitchen staff were preparing this evening’s meal, which will feature a medley of roasted and braised chicken, they were unable to locate one of the fowl they were planning to use. As it turns out, the missing chicken is the one you’ve been caring for these last few months.”

“Lucky?” Glynn said. “But Lucky isn’t to be eaten. She’s my friend.”

“Your friend?” His grandfather wrinkled his nose as he said the word. “A chicken is a source of food. Why do you think you’ve been spending my coin on feed all these weeks to fatten her up? This is my fault. When I heard you’d named the bird, I should’ve intervened. Mayhaps you were too young for such a responsibility…”

“No, I’m not,” Glynn protested. “I’ve cared for her well. I’ve fed her every morning and given her time in the yard. I’ve even—” He cut off, realizing he’d almost said too much.

“Please, continue. You’ve even what?”

Even if Glynn had a mind to concoct a lie, Lucky was of a different mind, releasing a muffled cluck at that very moment. Glynn’s eyes shot to the wardrobe. “I can explain,” he said.

“I think I already see,” his grandfather said. “You’ve grown too fond of the chicken, that much is clear now.” He stood and strode toward the wardrobe with Glynn close upon his heels.

“Wait, Grandfather!” he said, but the man merely shrugged him off, flung open the closet door, and grabbed the bird by the neck and both legs to subdue her.

“You will learn,” the man said, marching toward the door. “Open the door.” With both his hands full, he was unable to open it himself.

“Please, don’t do this,” Glynn begged.

“Open. The. Door.”

“I…I can’t,” he said miserably.

“All this for a bird,” his grandfather spat, shaking his head. He released Lucky’s feet, which immediately began to claw at him, pulled open the door, and then clamped them around her once more.

Glynn felt frantic now, like he might do something mad—perhaps attack his own grandfather and snatch Lucky away from him. Together they could flee this house, this city. But then what? He had no coin, no means to make a living. He would be no better than the glass-eyed beggar on the street. Instead, he whimpered, “Is there anything I can do to save her?” A tear had slipped from his eye, winding a path down his cheek.

His grandfather half-turned, as though considering. “Hmm, mayhaps there is a solution, Grandson. You received your fortnightly allowance today, did you not?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “In this world, everything has a price. If you can meet mine, the chicken is yours to do with as you please.”

A sob choked from Glynn’s throat. “I spent all my coin already,” he said.

“Pity,” his grandfather said. “Next time you should consider saving a little of it. And stop your blubbering. That sort of behavior isn’t fit for an heir of Avadon.”

Glynn hadn’t tried to visit his mother again. The story he was going to tell her no longer made him happy, no longer made him proud. By giving his coin to the beggar he’d sentenced his only friend to death.

Sitting across from his grandfather at the end of the grand table, Glynn wished he could run back upstairs, throw his blanket over his head, and cry until his eyes were dry. Instead, he blinked the tears away and gripped his fork tight enough to turn his knuckles white. With a flourish, the servants removed the metal coverings from their plates.

Bitter revulsion rose rapidly in Glynn’s face as he stared at the face of his friend. They hadn’t even bothered to chop her head off before cooking her, her eyes burned out, just charred pits now. Featherless and browned with sauce, her skin was like crisp paper, still crackling and sizzling. He turned his head to the side, afraid he was going to wretch as he gagged.

“Compose yourself!” his grandfather snapped from across the table.

Glynn clung to the precipice, clamping his mouth shut and breathing through his nose as he slowly swallowed the bitterness. After several moments, he sat up straight and met his grandfather’s eyes.

“Better,” the man said, a hint of respect in his tone. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet. Now eat. You should enjoy the fruits of your labors.”

Glynn hated himself for the next hour as he went to another place, pretending he was eating something else, something other, cutting off each slice and forcing it into his mouth, chewing as many times as it took to be able to swallow the bite down without gagging. And when he was finished, he crossed his fork and knife in the center of his plate as he was taught, a swell of relief passing over him as a servant clamped the lid back down and whisked it away.

His grandfather, who had finished quicker and had taken to sipping his wine, watched him. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Not to say I’m not sympathetic. I was a boy once, after all. This has been a valuable lesson for you. Well, two lessons, actually. One: There is always someone looking to take away what you have, so you must do everything in your power to protect it. And two: In this life, gold buys happiness. There is no such thing as too much gold. You could’ve saved Lucky if you hadn’t given all yours away.”

Glynn might’ve been shocked that his grandfather had known about the incident with the beggar if not for the anger that suddenly coursed through him. How dare this man lecture him when he’d been the one to take Lucky from him? There were dozens upon dozens of other chickens that could’ve been butchered for tonight’s meal. He stood rapidly, nearly knocking his chair over behind him.

“Is there something you want to say to me, Grandson?” his grandfather said, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

“Thank you for the delicious meal, Master Kerr,” Glynn said, bowing slightly.

As he started to leave, his grandfather said, “Tomorrow you will be given another chicken to care for. Mayhaps you will learn from past mistakes.”

Glynn didn’t turn around.

He named the chicken, which began as a baby chick so small he could cup her in his hands, Sonya. This time around, he didn’t tell anyone he’d named her, only whispering it to her ears when no one was close enough to hear. From the moment he felt her feather-soft fluff against his skin he promised to protect her, to learn from the mistake he’d made with Lucky. As she grew week by week into a full-fledged hen, he saved his allowance, refusing Mister Lun’s offers to take him to the market. Anyway, by now he knew the dreadbeast bone was long gone, sold to the highest bidder. Plus, he couldn’t trust himself with a pouch full of coin when there would be beggars and memories everywhere he looked.

And he never snuck Sonya into his room, only visiting her in the coop during the times of day he was expected to.

Despite his precautions, as he knew it would, the time came when his grandfather informed him the chicken would be slaughtered for a meal.

Glynn had practiced his response for days in front of the mirror, and now he was ready. “I am prepared to buy her from you,” he said, sticking out his chin defiantly.

“She is not for sale,” his grandfather said.

All the air seemed to vacate Glynn’s lungs as his mouth dropped open. “But last time, with Lucky, you offered to sell her to me!”

“That was then. This is now. I plan to eat her tonight. You’ve done so well in caring for her I suspect she’ll be most juicy and flavorful. Since you have such an aversion to chicken, you will be fed whatever roots and bulbs they can scrounge up in the garden.”

Glynn despised the man as he made a show of licking each finger after he’d finished. His grandfather had eaten every bite until his plate was clean of everything except bones, chewing slowly and making sighing sounds to indicate his pleasure. Glynn, on the other hand, had picked at the unappetizing meal on his own plate before giving up and crossing his fork and knife over the half-eaten food.

“May I be excused?” Glynn asked.

“In a moment,” his grandfather said.

“Let me guess—another lesson?” Glynn said. He knew his tone was bordering on insolent, but he didn’t really care.

“As a matter of fact, yes. If you want something, you must get it. Let nothing stop you, not even the Master of Avadon. Why accept another chicken from me when you could’ve used your generous allowance to purchase one of your own? You could’ve begun raising your own chickens, selling their eggs at market or even breeding them. The beautiful thing about gold is that it can be used to make more gold, so long as it isn’t squandered on beggars or meaningless trinkets. If I teach you nothing else, let you remember that.”

All through the sleepless night and into the coming dawn, Glynn pondered his grandfather’s words. Though he still hated what the man had done to Lucky and Sonya, he put aside his anger to consider the lesson. There was certainly truth to what he’d said. If he wanted to truly become a man, independent and able to stand on his own two feet and protect the things he cared about, he needed to learn from even the hardest lessons.

So shortly after dawn, he gave up on sleep and arose, using a stepstool to reach the highest shelf, moving aside the books that hid the small box containing his father’s ashes. His father may have been a good, kind man, but he wasn’t a smart man. Who in their right mind gave away the coin that was, by rights, theirs? Why did a beggar who’d obviously wasted away his own life deserve something for free when everyone else was toiling to scratch out their own living?

With that in mind, he descended the stairs, the greathouse quiet this early in the morning. Soon it would become a busy place, the servants hustling about to prepare the morning meal and make the beds and care for his mother, who, he now realized, was a useless lump of a woman.

He headed straight for the chicken coop, not to select another chick to care for. No, his purpose was a new one, something he should’ve done a long time ago. With chickens pecking at the dirt around him, he scattered his father’s ashes amidst the flecks of chicken feed and chicken crap.

The chickens swarmed around him, anxious to gobble up the ashes.

Glynn turned away. He would eat his entire breakfast and then head into town to buy some chickens of his own. And no one would ever take them away from him.

Postlude 3: Ginny

South Strangle- 418 A.W.

IT WASN’T UNTIL THE FOURTH DAY THAT GINNY REALIZED HER PARENTS WEREN’T COMING HOME.

Her first thought was they’d been hurt or killed, or perhaps abducted and held for ransom by some desperate bandit. That would’ve been better than the truth, one she’d suspected but pretended to be oblivious to for over a year. Her parents were big, fat liars, and frauds to boot.

“Ginny,” Arto said now, snapping her away from her dark thoughts. She looked at her brother, who was sitting in a chair that had cost a rather exorbitant amount, something she’d never really thought about until now. His sandy hair fell across his freckled face. He would soon require a haircut, the smallest of their current list of problems. “What are we going to do?” he asked. She could tell he was on the verge of tears, which wasn’t that unusual for him. Though he was only a year younger than her, he’d been born with a rather weak backbone, or maybe none at all, and his pampered upbringing hadn’t done him any favors.

“I’ll speak to Mister Unger,” Ginny said. “He’ll know what to do. Don’t worry, I’m sure in a few days everything will be back to normal.” It was a kind lie, but a lie nonetheless, one that, like all lies, would eventually be revealed. Still, it felt like a kindness to delay her brother’s reckoning with what was to come. “Wait here. I shall return soon. And don’t eat everything in the larder—we may have to ration a little.”

Arto managed a weak smile, looking rather sheepish. Despite his small, thin appearance, he had the appetite of a soldier. “Don’t be long,” he said, voice quivering.

“Your parents are penniless,” Mister Unger said, when Ginny finally managed to corner the man, who’d served as their butler for her entire life, in the dining room. She’d caught the grizzled old man stuffing several silver candlesticks into a satchel that was already bulging just shy of the point of breaking.

“How is that possible?” Ginny asked, though he was only confirming what she’d suspected a while ago.

“Their shipping company was a scheme of sorts,” he explained. “Take coin from new investors with one hand and pass a portion of it on to old investors with the other hand and call it profits. The other portion they used to pay for, well, all of this.” He waved his hand about him.

It explained so much, Ginny knew. Her parents’ hushed arguments she’d overheard in the middle of the night, the frequency increasing more and more as of late. Their constant need to ‘acquire more investors’ to ‘expand operations’. Why they’d recently sold off a few of their assets, including a carriage and the four-horse team that pulled it—one of her mother’s favorite things in the whole world. “So they never really founded a shipping company?” Ginny said, mostly because she knew she was expected to ask.

Mister Unger shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“But I saw one of their ships,” Ginny pointed out. At the time, she’d realized it was a rather sad looking vessel, riding lower in the water than it should’ve been, its hull and sides requiring repairs and a fresh coat of paint, but in her young, naïve mind, she’d always pictured it as a grand, seaworthy behemoth. Until now.

“Part of the ruse, nothing more,” Mister Unger said, shouldering his pack. “Your parents are gifted in one way—the art of persuasion. It doesn’t hurt that people are greedy by nature, more so in Avadon than anywhere else, I expect. So long as your parents continued to send coin to their investors, no one asked any questions.”

“Until there were no new investors left,” Ginny said. She’d received a good education from her highly expensive tutors. She understood that South Strangle was in the midst of the worst economic downturn in recent memory. Shipping, the city’s main source of revenue and employment, was down more than fifty percent in the last year alone. Folks were struggling to make ends meet and didn’t have coin to risk on yet another shipping venture. Void, the old investors had likely requested a return of their investment to get through the lean times. Without any savings or the ability to raise new funds, her parents had probably panicked, fearing the house of cards crumbling over their heads.

Mister Unger was nodding, but Ginny didn’t see him, her thoughts elsewhere, happy memories of her parents swirling through her mind. Her mother picking her up and spinning her around when she was a young girl. The four of them playing parlor games after supper, Arto always losing but never seeming to mind so long as they were all together. Her father teaching them both to ride when they were barely up to his knees, Arto trembling with fright while Ginny whooped and trotted her pony around the ring, fearless.

How could they just abandon us? she wondered. Was none of it real, not even their love?

“I’m sorry, but I must be off,” she heard Mister Unger say.

Ginny sidestepped to block his path to the exit. “You’re leaving too? And stealing from us on the way out?”

“I’m fond of you and your brother, Ginny, but your parents haven’t paid me for weeks. Consider this—” He gestured to the bulging bag. “—payment for wages owed. I suggest you and Arto scavenge what you can and leave as well. The vultures will be circling sooner rather than later, and they will want their pound of flesh.”

With that, he brushed past her. She let him go, feeling the hot sting of tears in her eyes. She blinked them away. No. She had Arto to think about. Mister Unger was right. They needed to hurry.

“I don’t understand,” Arto said. He was standing there, looking numb, while Ginny whirled like a tornado about the room, gathering up anything of value into four sacks she’d laid out in a row. “You said Ma and Da would return soon. You said everything would go back to normal.”

“I lied,” Ginny said, snatching a painting from the wall. She shattered the glass on the back of a chair and ripped out the artwork. It was the gold-plated frame she was after. It wouldn’t fit in any of the sacks, but she could wear it from shoulder to hip like a metal sash. It would fetch at least five gold coins at market, seven or eight if she haggled well.

“You lied to me?” Arto said. He sounded offended, like her lying to him was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

She spun on him, suddenly angry. Not at him in particular, but at everything else. Her parents’ foolishness, the harshness of a world that was supposed to be full of possibilities, the fact that she was stealing from her own house… “Yes, I lied, Arto. Mother and Father lied. People lie. Welcome to reality. Get used to it.”

She was ready for a fight, her entire body as tense as a standoff between mortal enemies, but she needn’t have been. Arto’s body buckled and he collapsed to his knees, tucking his face into his hands as he wept. Ginny wanted to comfort him, to tell him more kind lies, the things he needed to hear to buoy his spirits for long enough for them to make their escape. But seeing her brother’s expression when he realized she’d lied to him had hit her harder than she wanted to admit. Already she was becoming the thing her parents were—something she never wanted to be. Liars. Deceivers. Frauds. She respected thieves who lurked in the shadows far more than them. At least they showed their true colors, while her parents showed the world blue when they were really garbed in red.

“Arto, you need to get up and help me carry these things,” Ginny said. She hated the coldness in her own voice, but she feared that any compassion she allowed herself would give way to her own weakness, her own misery. When he didn’t move, his body still racked with sobs, Ginny grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet, forcing him to look at her.

His eyes were wet and red, his cheeks blotchy. Seeing him like this broke her heart. He wasn’t cut out for this world. All she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be okay. Instead, she said, “Carry one bag. I’ll carry three. We have to go. Now.”

She released him, and thankfully his knees held, and she was able to heft a bag weighted down by anything made of silver or gold she could find, clinking and clanking as she slung it onto his shoulder. Arto grimaced but grabbed the strap tightly, bearing the load. Ginny, who was taller and broader than her brother, crisscrossed two of the other bags over her chest and positioned the third against her back. The last item—the gold-plated frame—she was forced to carry in front of her with both hands.

She feared she’d taken more than they could carry, but all they needed to do was get to the stables and then they could saddle up a pair of horses to help bear their burdens. Soon they would sell everything anyway. The gold would allow them to start over and figure out what to do next.

At least that was the plan. Unfortunately, the moment they stepped free from the main house and steered themselves in the direction of the stables, everything changed.

The first thing Ginny saw were the men with the long rolls of parchment. The second thing she saw was the constable, a man well known around South Strangle as a hard-nosed enforcer of the law who refused to allow criminal ways into his city. Constable Piers was his name.

He turned, his eyes meeting hers, flicking quickly to the bags strapped across her chest and over each shoulder, and then back, narrowing slightly. Everything began to move slowly, the constable’s mouth opening to shout and Ginny and Arto shrugging off their bags, which slammed to the ground as they turned to flee.

And ran smack into a pair of Constable Piers’ men, who’d evidently been making their way through the main house. Arto went as limp as a wet rag, while Ginny screamed and kicked and fought, but the men were too big, too strong, subduing her without difficulty.

Their new start was over before it had even begun.

They’d been asked a bunch of questions by Constable Piers. He gave up on Arto almost right away, as the boy seemed incapable of speaking more than two words without choking on another sob. Ginny was even less help, as she refused to say anything but, “I wasn’t involved in my parents’ business affairs” and “I don’t know where they are.” Finally, the constable had no choice but to release them with a warning not to return to their family home, which would be auctioned along with every possession inside to pay off their parents’ substantial debts.

Back on the street, Ginny and Arto just stood there, neither of them sure where to go. At least Arto had stopped crying, his eyes staring straight ahead but not seeming to see anything. Ginny roped an arm around his shoulders and said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

Her brother’s head tilted in her direction. “Go where?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

They started off down the street. Ginny consciously steered them as far away from where they used to live as possible.

The first night was by far the worst. The storm that was their life had transformed into a very real storm, sheets of rain soaking them to the skin as they hunkered amongst other of the city’s homeless in a dank, foul-smelling alley that at least provided a measure of shelter because of the overhanging roofs high above.

Hungry and helpless, they held onto each other for warmth as they shivered. When the storm finally abated just before dawn, Arto drifted off to sleep while Ginny ground her teeth and plotted their next move. One thing was certain: she wouldn’t spend another night like this one.

The sun came up an hour later, but its warmth didn’t stretch its fingers into the alley, which was full of puddles, human excrement, and exhausted, sodden bodies. “Arto,” she said, nudging him.

“Hmm?” her brother murmured peacefully, like he was at home warm in his plush bed. Maybe that’s what he’d been dreaming about. If so, Ginny felt bad for waking him.

“It’s time to get up,” she said.

“Still tired.”

“We have work to do.”

“The tutor doesn’t come until tomorrow, you know that.”

Ginny didn’t know what bothered her more, that her brother knew what day of the week it was or that he’d deluded himself into thinking they would ever have a tutor again. She slapped him on the face—not hard, but solidly enough that his eyes flashed open and he groaned. All at once the truth of their situation seemed to return to him, fear flashing across his expression. “No, no, no, no, no,” he murmured.

“Arto,” Ginny said. When he continued to mutter ‘no’ and shake his head, she said his name again, more forcefully. “Arto!”

His eyes met hers once more, wide and white. “What are we going to do?” he asked. He sounded…lost, like they’d wandered into a tangled forest and become disoriented.

“We are going to survive.”

“How?”

“By doing whatever we have to do.”

“You’re talking about begging.” The way his brother used the word, he made it sound like a crime worse than murder.

“If it comes down to it. But no, I’m talking about getting a job, making an honest living.”

“What job? We have no skills.”

At least he’s talking and not crying, Ginny thought. “Speak for yourself. Anyway, we can start at the lowest level somewhere and learn as we go. We’ll work our way up. Before long, we’ll be running the place.”

“What place?”

“I don’t know. Any place. We’ll start asking around as soon as our clothes are dried out. Surely someone’s in need of a couple of hard workers. If we’re lucky, they’ll advance us our wages and we can rent a room for the week, just to tide us over until the real coin starts coming in.”

Her optimism seemed to raise her brother’s spirits, which was exactly her intention. Together, they left the alley to find somewhere sunny to dry themselves out after the long, dreary night.

The hunger was beginning to be a problem. It made Ginny feel angry and weak. The anger she didn’t mind so much, as it drove her ever forward. But the weakness she didn’t like. Not one bit. Being rejected by the first few establishments—two taverns and a public house—at which they’d sought employment didn’t dampen their enthusiasm, but by the twelfth denial Ginny wanted to scream. Instead, she turned to pleading.

“Please, sir, we are destitute and without means to feed ourselves. All we’re asking for is a chance to prove our worth.”

The bakery owner, who was bald save for a ring of red hair atop his head, sneered. “Aye, a chance to git yer sticky fingers into me coin. I know yer type. Can’t trust ye as far as I can throw ye.” With that, he slammed the door in their faces.

Ginny released the pent-up growl that had been building in the back of her throat, earning her several worried looks from passersby. She didn’t much care. All she cared about was that the hour was late, she was hungry enough to eat a dreadbeast, and they still hadn’t found a way to procure shelter for the night.

She was at her wit’s end, and yet still had her wits about her. “Wait here,” she said to Arto.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’ll be right back. In ten seconds, knock on the door.”

“I don’t know…that man was pretty angry. What if he tries to hurt me?”

“Then run. He was fat, probably from eating too many of his own pies. You can outrun him. I’ll catch up to you soon. Just promise me you’ll knock on the door in ten seconds.”

“I—okay. I promise.”

Ginny turned and skirted a small outdoor eating area complete with several tables and chairs, and then ran along the street past the shop window before hanging a left into another alley. This one wasn’t occupied by beggars like the last one, which told her the baker and perhaps some of the other shop owners regularly chased the riffraff away from their places of business. As she’d noticed when they’d passed on the way to seek employment, there was a door on the side wall. Presumably, the baker used it to carry out supplies or dispose of waste.

She’d started counting in her head the moment she left Arto’s side, and now, just as she approached the door, she reached ten. She gave it another second just in case Arto had been counting more slowly than her, or hesitated to knock, but then, as silently as she could, she pulled the side door open.

It didn’t so much as creak as it cracked open, and she slipped inside. Evidently the baker ran a tight ship, periodically oiling the hinges to keep them in top nick. The door led directly into the kitchen, which had a large iron oven and a long wooden table dusted with flour and littered with rolling pins, knives, and various other tools with purposes unknown to her. There was also a large tray laden with a variety of different baked goods, leftovers that hadn’t been sold during the day. There were two scones, at least a dozen sweet rolls, four small meat pies, one large apple pie, and a few other items that she didn’t have a name for but which, to her deprived senses, smelled as delicious as anything she’d ever come across in her life. Her mouth watered as she moved toward the tray.

A voice startled her, loud and angry. “I said no! If you come back again, so help me gods, I’ll put you over my own knee!” With that, the door slammed shut so hard the walls shook and the tray rattled on the table.

Ginny would’ve preferred to empty the tray of goods into one of the bags hanging from a rack, but she knew there was no time, so instead, she lifted her foot and aimed a kick at a barrel she hoped was empty resting near one of the walls. Her heel connected solidly, making a loud thump! but the barrel didn’t budge. “What the…,” she heard the baker say from the other room. Evidently the sound had carried through the adjoining door. Heavy footsteps stomped closer.

“Come on, you rutting, no-good barrel!” she growled, giving up on kicking it over and instead shoving with all her might. It wobbled slightly but was heavy enough that it was probably at least half full, perhaps with flour or oil or sugar. The door began to open. With a powerful scream, she pushed harder, toppling the barrel, which tumbled just far enough to stop the door from opening more than a crack.

“Thieves!” a voice shouted. “I’ll kill ye! I’ll kill ye!” A hand burst through the crack, fingers reaching around as though trying to grab whoever might be on the other side. Ginny was tempted to give them a whack with the rolling pin, but thought better of it, instead grabbing the tray and turning back just as the fingers disappeared.

The baker was no fool. When confronted with a door that wouldn’t open, he was smart enough to give up the fight early and exit the other way. It would only be a matter of moments before he would appear in the alley to trap her escape.

Balancing the tray on her shoulder, she maneuvered through the doorway, not bothering to shut the door behind her. Miraculously, she didn’t lose even a single sweet roll in her haste. To her surprise, it was Arto rather than the livid baker whose form came racing around the corner and into the alley. “Hurry!” he shouted. “It won’t hold him for long!” The sound of heavy pounding seemed to punctuate his statement.

“What won’t hold him?”

“The chair,” Arto said, reaching her side just as she turned, fleeing in the opposite direction. There was a gleam in her brother’s eyes she’d never seen before, one that spoke of the thrill that came from misbehaving and getting away with it.

“You jammed a chair beneath the doorknob?” she asked as they ran. The rolls in particular were bouncing and shifting on the tray, but thankfully they were hemmed in by the heavier pies, preventing them from escaping.

“Well, I knew you were up to something, so as soon as he slammed the door in my face I figured I should do something too.”

“I could kiss you,” Ginny said, grinning. He grinned back just as they reached the end of the alley. It didn’t matter which way they went, as long as they put as much distance between them and the baker as possible, so Ginny turned right almost at random. But then she realized another plan had been forming in her head the entire time. “This way!” she said, darting back to the left and narrowly avoiding a handcart as she slipped into another alley.

For a time, they followed a similar pattern, turning right then left, zigzagging their way through the small town until they finally reached the destination she’d been steering them toward the entire time. Though most of the streets weren’t crowded at this time of day, the village center never seemed to sleep. This Ginny knew all too well, as her parents had brought them here on outings many times over the years.

“Ginny?” Arto said, a question in the way he formed her name.

“Do you trust me?” she asked him.

“You lied to me before,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow in appreciation of the little bit of fire he’d been showing as of late. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I won’t lie to you again. I swear it.”

He chewed his lip, considering. “Fine. I trust you. Now why are we here? Shouldn’t we go somewhere a little less crowded?”

“Not if we want a place to stay tonight. Now eat something for energy. We’ve got baked goods to sell.”

Three hours later, every last roll, pie and sweet had been sold or eaten by one of them, leaving coins jingling in their pockets and enough food in their bellies to stave off the worst of their hunger. It was more than enough coin to secure lodging for the night, as well as the next few days. The night marketplace was still in full swing, but the crowds had thinned somewhat, leaving them in a rather quiet, secluded corner.

They smiled at each other, licking sugar from their lips. “Well done,” Ginny said, placing the empty tray on the ground. If the baker ever found it, they would be long gone.

Arto beamed. “Thanks. You too. That was surprisingly…fun.”

“Right?” Ginny said, surprised that she felt the same way. She realized that their entire lives had been spent in a bubble that had always been destined to pop, and for the first time it felt like they were actually living, even if their circumstances were rather precarious.

“Ye,” a voice said, wiping the grins off their faces as they turned, meeting the red-faced, narrow-eyed stare of a man who looked more monster than friendly, dough-slinging baker.

“Run!” Ginny cried, but before Arto could take as much as a single step, the baker had him by the neck, lifting him into the air and then spinning him as easily as a slab of dough until he was upside down. Coins slipped from his pockets, tinkling melodically as they hit the cobblestones.

“Ahhh!” Arto screamed as he flopped about.

“Let go of him!” Ginny said. She rushed the man, pounding at his side with her fists. His arm lashed out faster than she thought was possible, a backhand strike that whipped across her face and spun her around, leaving her cheek stinging and her eyes watering.

“A real hero, eh?” the baker said. There was a muffled thump and a groan, and when Ginny turned back around, Arto was on the ground cradling one of his arms. Tears leaked from his eyes.

“You can have the rest of the coin,” Ginny said, tasting blood on her tongue. “Here.” She reached down and turned out both her pockets, more coins clinking to the stonework at her feet.

“Gee, thanks,” the baker said. “An’ what about what ye ate yerselves? Are ye goin’ to pay fer those too?”

With the man looming over her injured brother and all her hopes for a fresh start winking at her from the ground, Ginny felt the fear she’d been avoiding pressing in on her once more. “We don’t have any money,” she said.

“A beatin’ it is then,” he said, offering Arto a vicious kick to the ribs.

“Stop!” Ginny cried. “If you must hit someone, hit me. Stealing from you was my idea. My brother didn’t even know I was going to do it until it was already happening.”

The baker raised two bushy, brown eyebrows. “Sounds fair. Ye—” He gestured to Arto. “Scram.” Arto’s head tilted upward and he looked at Ginny, asking a question with his eyes.

“Go,” she said, before she lost her nerve. “I’ll meet you where we slept yesterday.”

Still favoring his left arm, Arto scrambled to his feet, offered one more uncertain look in Ginny’s direction, and then darted away, leaving her alone with the angry baker. Well, not strictly alone. There were dozens of people still in the square, but they knew better than to interrupt the town’s version of vigilante justice. Many of them had been victims of sticky-handed street urchins themselves and felt no pity to see a thief, regardless of her age, caught and punished. Instead, anyone passing by gave the pair a wide berth, until it felt as though she were on an island with the baker, the only escape the frothing ocean filled with deadly predators.

“I’m just a girl,” she said. She didn’t even have to fake the whimper in her voice; it was as real as the day was long.

“Yer a rat,” the baker said, advancing a step. “An’ rats git squashed.”

“Please. My parents abandoned us with not a copper to our name. We didn’t know what else to do. We were starving.”

“Then why did ye sell more than ye ate?”

“Because we needed coin for a place to stay the night.”

“I’m not a charity. I have mouths to feed, too. Ye stole my family’s supper.”

“You have children?” A spark of hope flared inside her.

“Aye, two. A boy an’ a girl not much younger than ye. An’ if they ever stole from me, I would tan their behinds until they were as red as a blister.”

The hope vanished. If this man beat his own children, he wouldn’t hesitate to do even worse to her. Fleeing was her only remaining option. He was faster than he looked, and his long arms and legs gave him the ability to grab her before she really got going. But if she feinted and then went the opposite direction, the element of surprise might be just enough to allow her to escape.

She didn’t, however, because her mind had latched onto something he’d said, about her stealing his family’s supper. This wasn’t a rich man. Compared to the wealth her family had growing up, he probably lived a simple life, rising early to bake his bread and other goods, hoping to sell enough to get by with some leftovers to fill his children’s bellies.

She pictured two children, not unlike her and her brother, sitting at an empty table, stomachs growling as they waited for their father to return home with food. And, in that moment, she hated what she’d done. It didn’t matter that she was hungry, too. Why did her belly deserve to be full at the cost of other bellies going empty? “I’m sorry,” she said, resigned to her fate.

The man’s head cocked to the side, surprised. “I expected ye to run,” the baker said. “I still think ye might.”

“I won’t.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on ye.”

“I know.”

The man nodded, almost to himself, and then started forward.

After he was done with her, the baker helped Ginny up. Her legs wobbled, but he steadied her with a hand on her arm until she could stand on her own. “Learn from this,” he said. Then he collected the coins from the cobblestones and strode away, leaving her bloodied, bruised and alone.

A single tear leaked from one of her eyes, which was otherwise swollen shut. She dashed it away, thankful he’d left one eye unscathed so she could still see. Something caught her eye, glittering on the ground. She bent down, groaning as fresh pain flared in the whole of her body.

Then she picked up the object. It was a silver coin, bright and shiny. There was no way the baker could’ve missed it, could he? Or had he left it on purpose, a small mercy from a proud man? Either way, it sent a burst of strength to her limbs as she rose, clutching it tightly. It meant a warm bed and roof over their heads. Maybe even a small bowl of soup and something soft to sop it up with. In that moment, that round piece of silver meant everything.

Gingerly, she started across the space to the first street leading out of the square toward the alley they’d spent the previous night. At the same moment, a figure separated from the shadows, approaching. “Arto?” she said. “You’re here.”

As he stepped closer and moonslight fell upon his features, her heart broke. His face was red and sheened with moisture. His lips were quivering. One of his arms was pricked with red spots where his fingernails had dug into his skin.

She hadn’t wanted him to watch. That was why she’d sent him away. But he’d stayed. For her. Even if he hadn’t done anything to help, he’d stayed. And that was enough.

She opened her arms and he fell into them. It hurt something fierce, but it was worth it to feel his warmth against her, his heartbeat thumping in time with her own.

They were going to be okay, one way or another. And she would learn from this mistake, as the baker had admonished. She would never steal from the poor again, nor those who lived in South Strangle. No, wealthy travelers would be her targets. It was about time they shared.

A month later

They’d started off small, selecting easy targets, wealthy men or women traveling by ship, where South Strangle was but a port of call on a longer journey. Surprisingly, Arto was a decent partner. He had the ability to act innocent when he was every bit as guilty as her. Arto would provide the distraction, faking an injury or an ailment, and Ginny would quietly relieve the target of something valuable. They’d almost been caught twice, but each time managed to escape unscathed, eventually tumbling into their small, rented room, laughing and trying to catch their breaths.

But they were successful more often than not, and though most of their earnings went to pay the rent and provide them with three square meals a day, they’d even managed to squirrel away a few coins, which were well-hidden. She would never rely on anyone else again. Well, no one except Arto, but he relied on her too. After a month, Ginny was feeling as good as she’d ever felt.

The second she caught word of her parents’ capture and imprisonment, the good feeling vanished, replaced by a pit that settled heavy in her stomach. She’d overheard the gossip while she was out buying breakfast. She’d snuck out earlier, letting Arto sleep in—he’d looked too peaceful to disturb. Now, she almost rushed back to their room right then and there to tell him, but then thought better of it. It had taken her brother a long time to come to terms that they might never see their parents again, and she still heard him snuffling at night sometimes.

She thought it was better if he didn’t know, at least for now.

So instead she bought breakfast from their favorite baker, a man who she wouldn’t go so far as to call a friend, but who she held a mutual respect for now that she was a paying customer and he was willing to slip her an extra sweet roll now and again. Then she returned home. Arto was still sleeping, so she left his breakfast on a chair and slipped away once more.

She made her way to the local prison, heart pounding.

As she approached, every step felt like walking through the Sucking Bog, and a dozen times she almost turned back altogether. I can do this, she thought, setting her jaw.

Rather than heading for the prison gate, she steered left, skirting along the eastward facing wall. The cells were below ground, but each had a small, barred window that was open to the elements. As she passed each one, Ginny stooped and peered inside, squinting to identify the occupant. Many were unoccupied—South Strangle wasn’t known for much more than petty crime, and serious offenders were usually sent north to Dunadin. For all she knew, her parents had already been sent away.

After she skipped over a cell with a thin, bearded man who stank of ale and sweat, she reached the eighth cell in the line. “Ginny,” a voice hissed from within.

Ginny stopped short. “Mother,” she said, unable to keep the frost from her voice. Her mother’s face appeared between the bars, her hands gripping them on either side. Typically, not a single lock of her short, gray hair was out of place, but now it was matted and greasy, several stray vines twisting in curls over her forehead.

“Oh, Ginny, I was hoping you would come.”

“And here I am.”

“And your brother? Where’s Arto?”

“Sleeping.”

“That’s good. It’s better that he doesn’t see me like this. Once I’m freed, we can be reunited and figure something out.”

“We’ve already figured something out.”

Her mother managed a proud smile. “That’s my clever girl. You always were the independent one. Arto is lucky to have you.”

“Yes, he is. As lucky to have me as he is unlucky to have you and Father.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“We made mistakes, that I can admit, but our hearts were in the right place. We wanted you and your brother to have everything the world has to offer.”

“Instead we were left with nothing.”

“And for that I’m sorry. But I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

How Ginny wanted to believe her. How she wanted to fall into her mother’s arms and hear her tell her everything was going to be okay, that it was going to go back to how it was. Instead, she said, “And Father? Will he make it up to us too?”

Her mother’s face fell. “Your father was transferred to Dunadin. Because of the amounts we stole from our fellow Avadonians, he will likely be executed.”

“Executed?” Ginny blurted out. She’d expected her parents to be severely punished, but not…killed. “But…it’s just coin. He didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Glynn Kerr is like to show more mercy to a murderer than to a thief. In his world, gold is king. Everything else plays second fiddle.”

Ginny glared at her mother. “Why will he be tried in Dunadin while you remain here talking about being freed?”

Her mother couldn’t look at her now.

“You rat,” Ginny said. “You sacrificed him to save yourself.”

“No.” Her mother shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks now. “I did what I had to do so I could take care of my babies. I left before for yours and Arto’s own good. And after I was caught, I said what I needed to say to protect you.”

“Look at me,” Ginny said. Her mother shuddered but managed to draw her gaze back up to meet her eye. “Nothing you ever did was for our good, Mother. Everything you do is for yourself. I never want to be anything like you. If they do let you go, leave South Strangle forever. I never want to see you again.”

Ginny ignored her mother’s protests as she rose, turned, and walked away. If she hadn’t, her resolve might’ve crumbled into a thousand pieces. Though tears pricked at her eyes, she refused to let them fall, vowing never to cry on her parents’ account ever again.

A personal note from David…

If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review and help others discover Kingfall!

***

Want updates on future David Estes books as well as exclusive access to the author, promos and free swag? Join the official David Estes mailing list at: https://www.subscribepage.com/b2v6v3

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If you enjoyed Kingfall, you will also enjoy The Fatemarked Epic, a five book series set on a different continent in the same overall world, which takes place before Kingfall. The story also includes characters who make cameos in Kingfall, such as Gwendolyn Storm and Sir Christoff Metz!

***

And keep reading for a sneak peek at Nightfall, Volume IV in The Kingfall Histories, coming SOON!

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Things

Magenum- mah-gee-num

Magepowder- mah-gee-pow-der

Character names

Gaard- Guard

Andovier (Ando)- And-oh-vee-ur (An-doe)

Normandian- Nor-mon-dee-un

Glynn- Glin

Ontarii- On-tar-ee

Aisling- aze-ling

Jarrod- Juh-rod

Mrz- Merz

Horatio Raan- Hor-ay-she-oh Ron

Ryz- Rise

Peony- Pee-oh-knee

Moira- Moy-ruh

Celeste- Suh-lest

Olly- Ah-lee

Janai- Juh-nigh

Tazeen- Tah-zeen

Dackur- Daw-core

Jameson- Jame-uh-son

Dragon names

Drudgea- Drud-jay-ah

Daneus- Dane-ee-us

Starrus- Star-russ

Domi- Dough-me

Places/Races

Avadon- Av-uh-don

Grizari- Griz-ar-ee

Teravainen- Tair-uh-vigh-nin

Terran- Tair-rin

Solarii- So-lar-ee

Sunsei- Sun-say

Travail- Truh-vail

Aeromand- Arrow-mawnd

Odin- Oh-din

Chrysallis- Krih-sall-iss

Dimaria- Die-mar-ee-uh

Calypsian- Ka-lip-shin

Crimea- Cry-may-uh

Dunadin- Done-uh-din

Calabria- Kuh-la-bree-uh

Armitage- Arm-ih-taj

Ferria- Fuh-ree-uh

Acknowledgments

To my readers: Once again, you all have reminded me why writing epic fantasy is the best job ever. Thank you for your undying support and kindness!

To my team of beta reader mages: Nancy Estes, Laurie Love, Elizabeth Love, Roxann Nys, Rachel Hill, Sheree Bonita and Anthony Briggs. You truly bring an extra degree of magic to my books. Without you, I fear I would remain a mage acolyte for my entire life!

Finally, to my wife, Adele, and my sons Beau and Brody, it is all for you. Always.

The saga continues in other books by David Estes available through the author’s official website:

http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com
or through select online retailers including Amazon.com.

High Fantasy Novels by David Estes

The Kingfall Histories:

Volume I—Kingfall

Volume II—Dragonfall

Volume III—Magefall

Volume IV—Nightfall (coming soon)

Volume V—Endfall (coming soon)

The Fatemarked Epic:

Book One—Fatemarked

Book Two—Truthmarked

Book Three—Soulmarked

Book Four—Deathmarked

Book Five—Lifemarked

Science Fiction Novels by David Estes

“Someone must die before another can be born…”

The Slip Trilogy:

Book One—Slip

Book Two—Grip

Book Three—Flip

One of “15 Series to Read if You Enjoyed The Hunger Games”—Buzzfeed.com

The Dwellers Saga (also available in audiobook):

Book One—The Moon Dwellers

Book Two—The Star Dwellers

Book Three—The Sun Dwellers

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers

“Fire Country is a fast, fierce read.”—Emmy Laybourne, author of Monument 14

The Country Saga (A Dwellers Saga sister series)(also available in audiobook):

Book One—Fire Country

Book Two—Ice Country

Book Three—Water & Storm Country

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers

Strings (also available in audiobook)

“The Walking Dead for teens, with ruthless witches instead of bloodthirsty zombies.”—Katie Reed, agent at Andrea Hurst & Associates

Salem’s Revenge:

Book One—Brew

Book Two—Boil

Book Three—Burn

Connect with David Estes Online

David Estes Fans and YA Book Lovers Unite

Facebook

Blog/website

About the Author

David Estes was born in El Paso, Texas but moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania when he was very young. He grew up in Pittsburgh and then went to Penn State for college. Eventually he moved to Sydney, Australia where he met his wife and soul mate, Adele, who he’s now happily married to.

A reader all his life, David began writing science fiction and fantasy novels in 2010, and has published more than 30 books. In June of 2012, David became a fulltime writer and is now living in Hawaii with Adele, their energetic son, Beau, and their naughty, asthmatic cat, Bailey.

An excerpt from Nightfall, Volume IV in The Kingfall Histories, coming SOON!

PART I

424 A.W.

Quill      Peony      Dane

Aisling      Amari

The darkness lived not in shadows and gloom,

But in the hearts of monsters whose courage did bloom.

Unscathed, unscythed, they crept forth from their hole,

A thousand thousand claw-clicking feet, hardened forms without soul.

Anonymous Kingfall poet

One

Quill

Somewhere in the Endless Ocean

QUILL DISCOVERED THE ISLAND OF THE FLIGHTLESS DRAGONS BY MERE HAPPENSTANCE.

After watching Aeromand sink into the depths of the Bay of Sighs, he’d flown aimlessly for hours, his waning strength sustained by the blade gripped in his hand. Even now, the shadowblade seemed to draw the motes of light to it, dancing colors vanishing within its aura of darkness. He could feel its energy thumping against his palm, almost like a heartbeat.

Quill, however, barely noticed anymore, his attention directed toward the hunched, gnarled forms crabbing across the island of black rock. For a brief and fleeting moment, he thought he’d discovered a new type of creature, but realization swiftly arrived. These were dragons.

Dozens upon dozens of dragons.

And yet they were nothing like the fearsome beasts that had nearly killed him when they’d attacked Chrysallis. Yes, they had massive, fanged jaws that, presumably, breathed fire. Yes, they wore scaly armor that could repel blade and arrow. Yes, their limbs ended in sharp-looking, hooked claws that could tear flesh to ribbons as easily as a knife through soft butter. They even had wings, of a sort, though they were twisted things that hung oddly from their backs and dragged behind them on the ground as they moved. In a way, they reminded him of the hallucinations he’d had of the creatures known as the Thousands he’d been forced to do battle with while imprisoned in Lockspell. Occasionally, Quill noticed one of the strange appendages twitch upon one of the dragons’ backs, but there was no strength in them, as though their wings were pressed down by some force unseen.

While Quill watched them, the creatures were oblivious to his presence. Most rested listlessly near the island’s edges, waves sending salt spray splashing over their forms. Quill soon saw how they subsisted in such conditions, catching a glimpse of one of the dragons snapping its mighty jaws into the water and coming up with a decent-sized fish impaled between its teeth.

How are they here? he wondered, feeling a swell of the sort of curiosity for knowledge that Rondo had always had in spades. He blinked away the thought of his lost friend, eyes narrowing as he focused on the mystery. It was a welcome distraction.

Mayhaps one of these dragons had injured itself while airborne a long time ago and been forced to land on this hunk of rock in the middle of nowhere. He immediately discarded the theory. He might not be an expert on dragonlore, but he knew the basics. Each dragon was born with a single egg inside them, which was typically released when they were near the end of their life. Thus, the population of dragons remained stable, never increasing or decreasing. Which meant that the island must’ve had dozens of dragons from the start. The notion of that many dragons injuring themselves in the air above this very spot was far too coincidental to be true. No, they were here for a reason, some purpose that he couldn’t quite close his mind around.

Something that had to do with their inability to fly.

That idea flared in his mind, as bright and hot as dragonfire. It was only an idea for a whisper of a moment before it became irrefutable fact, an answer to a riddle he hadn’t even thought to contemplate until now.

“No,” he whispered. “It cannot be.” Though he’d said the words under his breath, barely loud enough for his own ears to hear, dragons’ hearing was a thousand times better. Dozens of heads turned, eyes of many shades flecked with gold and silver and azure and bronze boring into him as he stood, pulsing shadowblade still in hand.

Quill, however, was unaware of the attention he’d drawn, his mind elsewhere, remembering the very floating island he’d loved for so long, the very floating island he’d cut from the sky not more than half a day ago, sending its inhabitants into the frothing sea. A connection was made to the true nature of magic he’d gleaned from Mage Megrifir before the wizened old mage had betrayed them. To be a mage is to be a thief, plain and simple. The world’s most capable thieves, yes, but thieves all the same. Me, you, Cernon himself. We do not have, and therefore we steal.

At first, Quill had rejected Megrifir’s claim, but slowly, over time, he’d realized how much sense it made. In a way, it was comforting knowing the world remained in balance. Was it better that a mage be able to create fire from nothing, or that the fire was merely taken, stolen, from somewhere else? Even as he’d flown from Lockspell toward Aeromand, he’d been acutely aware that his ability to fly likely meant dozens upon dozens of birds fell from the sky somewhere else. If all mages knew such things, perhaps they would use magic less frivolously, giving each spell the degree of thought it deserved.

Quill had known Cernon was evil for a while now, but seeing these flightless, decrepit dragons reminded him how horrible the man truly was. All these years, Aeromand had hovered high above the world like a king standing on a cliff overlooking all that was his to command. It was the floating island, more than anything else, that left nonmagical folk in awe of the mages. The only sacrifice required was these pitiable dragons being forced to live out their long, joyless lives on this bleak rock, their ability to fly stolen to hold an entire island aloft.

But now that he’d destroyed Aeromand, shouldn’t balance be restored? Shouldn’t these dragons cast off their shackles and take flight like the magnificent creatures they were always meant to be?

They will never fly, he realized, blinking. Like a never-used appendage weakened and withered, so too had their wings lost the ability to carry them into the sky. Mayhaps as they died off a new generation would hatch from the eggs left behind. Mayhaps these hatchlings would learn to fly again. But that could be years, decades, away.

A low growl drew Quill back to the island and its inhabitants. More roars crowded around the first, the creatures crabbing their way around the rock until he was surrounded on three sides, the restless ocean to his back. Tendrils of flame licked at the dragons’ mouths as they prepared to roast him alive and fight over the scraps.

They were weak, disfigured, but not broken. They could end him. They could release him from his misery.

“Not yet,” he said. He’d avenged Rondo’s death, yes, but not fully. One other needed to be held to account for his sins.

Mage Megrifir.

Motes of light surrounded him, swirling, chasing each other almost playfully. Quill reached for them…

He was too slow by a single beat of his heart, one of the dragons lunging forward and raking its claws across his chest before he could even consider defending himself. He fell backwards onto sharp stone, nearly tumbling into the angry sea. The pain was sharp and hot, but also fleeting. Quill gaped at the dripping wound as it vanished, his very flesh knitting itself back together.

Use the blade, you fool, a voice said in his mind. Put them out of their misery.

Quill cringed. The ghoul that had ridden him since that fateful day when their mage prisoner had thrown himself to his death from a cliff in western Odin hadn’t spoken in hours. Not just any ghoul, Quill reminded himself, even as the dragons pressed closer. Smoke blasted from their nostrils. They clearly weren’t accustomed to prey that survived one of their deadly blows.

I won’t kill them, Quill replied.

A deep sigh resonated from within him as Jameson Gaard—once a king and the first wielder of the very shadowblade Quill now gripped—expressed his disappointment. Your blade can be used in other ways, he said, a grudging note to his tone.

How? Quill asked, scrambling back to the very edge of the rock as the dragons clambered closer. Two collided, providing a momentary respite as they snapped and clawed at each other.

It’s called the shadowland. But you cannot linger in that place. Stay only long enough to escape and not a second longer.

“The shadowland?” Quill said aloud, the word sounding strangely familiar on his tongue though he was certain he’d never heard the term before. How do I…, he started to ask, but the world was already changing, twisting, darkening…

The dragons vanished, leaving behind only bare rock in their wake, speckled with lights cast by a sea of stars pinned in a night sky like fireflies trapped in tree sap. Instead of red, green and gold, they were orange, silver and blue. Quill turned, scanning the dark world he’d entered. Everything was changed. The black, slick stone of the island had been replaced with dry, brown rock, crumbling beneath him. The frenetic waters of the ocean were gone, leaving nothing but sheer cliffs on every side, falling away into an impermeable darkness without end. What was once an island was now the precipice of a narrow tower of rock. His breath escaped him, and he almost lost his balance, arms pinwheeling at his sides as gravity warred against the strength of his own will. Magic, he thought, feeling a fool for being scared of falling when he’d already flown across endless miles of ocean.

Squinting, he searched the air for the familiar colorful motes he’d grown accustomed to seeing every waking moment.

The air was dark and empty.

He gasped, legs growing weak. Failing him.

He slid off the cliffside, scrabbling to grab hold of something, anything, to arrest his fall. He managed to slam his shadowblade into a thin crevice. It bit in well enough, but not as deep as it should have given its magical origins. In fact, he realized, it was no longer pulsing nor emanating its shadowy aura. It’s become an ordinary sword, he thought, the truth shivering through him. What have I done? Jameson Gaard had played him for the fool that he was. He never should’ve trusted—

Collect yourself, Jameson said now. This place plays tricks on your mind. You cannot use your magic here, nor the power of the shadowblade. But such things are not lost. Simply return to your own world and everything will go back to normal. Be quick about it, the locals will soon become aware of your presence.

Locals? Quill said. He’d regained his wits, straining as he dragged himself back onto the rock. What is this place?

I’ll explain later. Now leave—now.

How? Quill hated having to rely on the ghoul for every new piece of knowledge, but he didn’t exactly have any other choice.

First get to the other side of the stone. That way when you return, you’ll be clear of the dragons.

Quill didn’t waste any time, scrambling to his feet and jogging the short distance to the opposite side of the stone platform, placing each foot as carefully as possible to avoid twisting his ankle in one of the many holes that pocked the starlit terrain. Now what? he asked. He was only a few steps from the edge of the next cliff now.

Simply will yourself back to your own world. Hurry, there’s not a second to spare.

Quill still wasn’t sure why haste was critical, but something about this place gave him the creeps, so he wasn’t about to stay longer than was absolutely necessary. He took a deep breath, preparing to utilize the kind of conviction that was essential to spellcraft to, as the ghoul had said, will himself back to his own world.

His conviction vanished when, somewhere in the distance, a sound arose that brought gooseflesh bristling onto the back of his neck. It was like a drumbeat, but higher pitched, a repetitive keening cry—ee-ee, ee-ee, ee-ee!

What is that? Quill asked. He clutched at his ears to muffle the horrid sound.

They’ve picked up your scent. You must hurry.

Quill wanted to hurry but willing himself to quit this place turned out to be harder than Jameson Gaard had made it seem. He jammed his eyes shut and focused on what the rocky island had looked like, surrounded by ocean on all sides, withered dragons crabbing their way across its rugged flanks. When he opened his eyes again, however, nothing had changed.

The keening reached a crescendo and Quill whirled around to locate its source, peering into the darkness. Bright lights danced through the gloom, appearing over the edge of the tower. Not just in one direction, but in all directions, swarming from every side. One by one at first, but then in bunches, they climbed onto the platform.

Those lights…, Quill said. Are those…

Their eyes, Jameson said, confirming Quill’s suspicions.

Quill shivered, feeling frantic now. Apparently the so-called ‘locals’ had glowing eyes to go along with their hair-raising hunting call. He stared at the approaching eyes. There was something odd about them other than the fact that they were glowing like magelights. He had assumed that there were pairs of eyes approaching, meaning two per creature. Now Quill reconsidered that assumption. It seemed there were entire groups of eyes—perhaps ten or more—moving together. Which meant one creature might have ten eyes, spiderlike.

Quill didn’t want to wait to find out. Once more, he concentrated, ignoring another round of high-pitched hunting calls as he gritted his teeth and demanded that his body return to that other place. He was willing to take his chances with the dragons—at least there he had access to magic and an ancient shadowblade to help him.

Once again, nothing happened. Come on! Quill thought, just as the closest of the creatures stepped into the light cast by one of the other’s eyes. He froze, mouth opening. It had two back-bent legs and vicious-looking foreclaws that ended in hooked blades. Its skin wasn’t black but pure white, like freshly fallen snow. Its face was long and narrow, almost beaklike, those bright glowing eyes extending from end to end. The “beak” opened to reveal a white tongue and parallel rows of dagger-sharp teeth.

Now, the creature clacked those teeth together and the strange keening sound arose from a pair of twin slits set between its eyes. There was the briefest moment of hesitation as the creature seemed to lock eyes with Quill.

That short second of hesitation didn’t last.

It charged, the keening sound hitting new heights and assaulting Quill’s ears. The speed with which it moved was breathtaking, and Quill didn’t even have time to make another escape attempt before it was upon him, lunging with its beak open. Quill reacted instinctively, swinging his blade at its head. The creature was ready for it, ducking beneath the sword and snapping at Quill’s midsection. Shards of pain assaulted him as its jaws clamped around his abdomen.

Raw survival instinct arose in Quill as the creature ravaged his flesh. He lifted his blade, gripping it with two hands and, with a cry, bringing it down on the creature’s pale back. The animal released a keening screech and reared back, almost wrenching the blade from Quill’s grip. He managed to cling to the weapon, however, and was about to stab at the creature once more when it spun and fell, beak planting into the dry stone.

There was no reprieve for Quill, another leaping forward to take its fallen comrade’s place, snapping with reckless abandon.

This time Quill was ready, his initial swing a feint. Like the last time, the creature attempted to duck beneath the blow, but Quill was already reversing the blade’s path, lowering its trajectory before shoving it as hard as he could upward. The blade entered the creature’s flesh just below its beak, and Quill found the spot to be softer than where he’d struck the other one in the back, his sword sinking deep.

The creature stumbled back, its legs losing strength as it toppled over, landing in a heap beside the first. The only problem was that about six more of the nasty things leapt up to take its place.

However, Quill wasn’t thinking about them, because he’d known after killing the first that this was a fight he couldn’t possibly survive. Escape was the only option. Thus, as soon as he’d felt the second attacker’s body release from his sword, he was already concentrating on the task at hand, pouring the conviction he knew he had within him into a single objective, honing it into a fine point like a warrior sharpened a dull blade before a battle.

The creatures vanished, the only reminder of their existence their high-pitched keening echoing in Quill’s ears. But even that, eventually, faded away, replaced by the crash of waves upon a forlorn rock island.

Quill stared at the hordes of flightless dragons once more set before him, watching as they turned, confused as to how their prey had escaped them so suddenly. Several of their eyes landed on him, narrowing slightly. Their nostrils flared as they picked up the scent of his blood, which dripped from the wound to his abdomen.

Roars and blasts of dragonfire chased Quill as he shot skyward, once more stealing the dragons’ ability to fly and pinning them to the home they never wanted. He flew, ignoring the pain.

Two

Peony

Dragonsmount, Travail

Hours earlier, moments after Drudge’s death

PEONY STOOD, GASPING, STARING AT THE HALF-DRAGON, HALF-MAN LYING DEAD ON THE GROUND.

Her eyes flicked to Star, who raised one hand to her mouth while the other continued to grip the dagger now dripping with blood. Half the dragonrider’s face was badly burned, along with her shoulder and a large portion of her arm. The pain must’ve been exquisite, and yet the woman’s expression offered nothing but a frozen numbness foreign to her tiger-striped skin.

Peony’s gaze roamed further by several degrees, landing on Dane, his blue-dyed skin as beautiful as she remembered, lit by the glow of the forest fire raging all around them. He gripped a slash of darkness in his hand. A blade, one that was the natural enemy to her own weapon.

A shadowblade.

That meant nothing to her in this moment.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, taking a step forward. He reached for his own neck as if to illustrate where she was injured. It had all happened so fast—Drudge’s claws against her throat, Dane vanishing into thin air before reappearing closer, freeing her just as Star stabbed her own father through the heart. Now she remembered that Drudge’s claws had grazed her skin just before she escaped his grasp. She reached up to touch the wound, feeling the stickiness of cloying blood, and beneath—smooth skin.

Thank you, she said to her blade.

YOU’RE WELCOME. MY STRENGTH IS ONLY JUST RETURNING, BUT I CAN HEAL YOU AGAIN.

“I’m fine,” she said, returning her attention to Dane. He was close enough that she could touch him if she only reached forward. But what if her hand went right through him? “Tell me that you’re real,” she said.

His expression remained unchanged. Serious. Concerned. “I am real,” he said.

“Tell me that you’re alive.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “I am alive. Peony, I am alive.” Even he sounded shocked that his words were the truth.

Peony studied his face, looking for some sign that she was dreaming. His countenance was as clear as it had always been. “I—I dreamed of this moment for so long, and yet not like this. How did everything get so wrong?” The most wrong part of everything was Star, what she’d been forced to do. How did one go about killing their own father? All Peony wanted to do was fall into Dane’s arms and hold him and never let go, but…

That was the girl she was, not the Dragonmistress she’d become.

She turned toward Star, her arms opening naturally. An invitation. Star blinked, her eyes narrowing. Her vision blurring. “No,” she said. Then again: “No.”

Peony stepped forward and wrapped her arms her, tucking Star’s head to her chest, feeling the moisture bleeding from Star’s eyes into her skin, burning tears. Something clanked onto the ground—Star’s knife. Peony suspected the woman would never hold it again. Here it would remain, until the steel rusted over and the forest claimed it in a nest of vines and roots and earth.

Peony’s eyes met Dane’s again, and he nodded once in understanding. As much as they wanted to be holding each other, Star needed this more. Star’s world had crumbled under the weight of a single blow delivered by her own hand.

And then a single, wheezing gasp dragged her out from under the rubble.

Serennia rolled over, coughing, her lips flecked with blood. And then she uttered two impossible words: “Help…me.”

Later

Serennia was sleeping in the healing cave, as was Star, their two straw mattresses beside each other amongst numerous others bearing the wounded from the battle. Those who’d been injured were the lucky ones; dozens more, both dragonriders and their steeds, hadn’t been so fortunate. Soon they would be sent back to the storms, as was the dragonrider way.

The healers entrusted with the lives of so many had told Peony that Star’s burns were severe, but not life-threatening. She would survive to fight on.

Serennia’s future, however, was uncertain. The healers had never dealt with someone like her—half-human, half-dragon—and they didn’t know how she would respond to their tinctures and poultices. Drudge’s blade had deflected off one of her armor-like scales and angled slightly upwards as it had torn through flesh and muscle, narrowly missing her heart.

Standing atop Dragonsmount, Peony couldn’t get the images of their return flight out of her mind: the forest ablaze beneath them, spouting columns of smoke that threatened to gag them; bodies tied to the spikes of their dragons, both the wounded and the dead; and Serennia’s nonstop moaning, her lips forming words that Peony couldn’t hope to understand—You still want me? How can you still want me? I am lost. I must be lost…

When the journey was almost halfway complete, unconsciousness mercifully took her to a more peaceful place. Still, Peony had checked that she was still breathing every few minutes as she applied pressure to the woman’s chest wound. Dane had ridden with her on Daneus’s back, ensuring none of the other wounded or dead came untethered. They didn’t speak the entire way, their words lost amongst the screaming wind. There was so much she wanted to tell him, and yet she didn’t know how to speak any of it.

“What is this madness?” Dane said, drawing her back to the present.

Peony’s head angled to look at him, but his own gaze was focused not on her but to the north, squinting toward some point far in the distance, where there were only miles upon miles of water forming the Bay of Sighs.

And also an island, one that Peony had attempted to visit what felt like a lifetime ago. The Isle of Mages, an airborne hunk of rock famous for training mages in the city of Aeromand. The island had hovered over the bay for more than a hundred years. But now, even from such a distance, where they could barely make out its hazy form, it was obvious that something was wrong.

An explosion of blue light appeared, followed by another, then another. And then, before their very eyes, the island fell.

Peony inhaled sharply, her arm instinctively wrapping around Dane’s waist while his roped around her shoulder, pulling her close. The gesture was so familiar, so natural, and yet—

A curtain of darkness fell across her vision. She cried out, trying to twist away from Dane, except when she turned to look at him he wasn’t Dane but a darker, ethereal version of him, shadowblade raised as though to strike her. Light blazed forth from her own hand as her brightblade formed in her grip.

The two swords came together with the sound of shrieking metal and a clap of thunder. A blast of light from Peony’s sword was met with a swarm of shadows, the two forces cancelling each other out just as Dane—the real Dane—stepped out from behind the shadowy Dane, and said, “Stop!”

The shadow version of him vanished into mist, fading from black to gray until there was nothing left but space between them, a distance of only two feet that might as well have been the world’s widest canyon.

“Peony,” Dane said. “I can explain. I’m still learning to control—”

“It’s fine,” Peony said hurriedly. She felt shaken, like a giant hand had scooped her up and rattled her about. All she wanted was to be alone for a while to collect her thoughts. “I understand. A lot has happened since you’ve been gone. For both of us. I need a bath and sleep. Then we can talk about everything. I promise.”

Dane started to say something but then stopped himself and nodded. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” Peony said. She stepped around him and began the long walk down the back slopes of Dragonsmount.

Three

Dane

Dragonsmount, Travail

EVERYTHING ABOUT DANE’S REUNION WITH PEONY SHOULD’VE BEEN JOYOUS, and yet a dark fog thicker than the storm clouds that crowned Dragonsmount seemed to fill his every waking thought.

Because everything was wrong.

Brute was dead. His dragon, Brutus, too. So many others as well, taken too soon during the battle against Dane’s uncle, Drudge, and his dragon-murdering ilk. Aeromand had fallen into the sea, and though he should’ve taken comfort in watching the sight with Peony by his side, he could feel the invisible wall that had formed between them.

Why did my shadowguard appear when we touched? Dane asked his blade. I didn’t summon it.

I WISH I HAD AN ANSWER, his shadowblade said, sounding strangely sincere. THE TRUTH IS, THIS SITUATION IS…UNUSUAL. NONE OF THE PRIOR WIELDERS OF THE BLADES OF SEVEN WERE, WELL, WHATEVER THE TWO OF YOU ARE.

Bondmates, Dane said.

YES, THAT. PERHAPS I INSTINCTIVELY PERCEIVED HER AS A THREAT BECAUSE OF HER BRIGHTBLADE. MAYBE I SUMMONED THE SHADOWGUARD AS A SORT OF DEFENSE MECHANISM.

Perhaps? Maybe? You mean you weren’t even aware it was happening either? Fantastic. Now my bondmate thinks I want her dead.

SHE SEEMED OKAY. SHE EVEN SAID SHE WAS ‘FINE’.

She said ‘it’ was fine, and, trust me, she didn’t mean it. Her expression said just how not fine it was.

THEN WHY DIDN’T SHE JUST SAY SO?

I don’t have time to educate you on the subtleties of human nature. Now I need you to promise me you won’t summon the shadowguard in Peony’s presence again. Not without my express command.

I WISH I COULD, BUT CONSIDERING I’M NOT CERTAIN HOW IT HAPPENED…

Dane forced out a frustrated breath.

That word—wrong—sprang to mind again. Here he was, back in the place he was supposed to feel the most comfortable, in close proximity to the woman he was supposed to feel the most comfortable with, and yet everything about the situation felt completely and utterly backwards.

But even that didn’t trouble Dane as much as the other thing that was so wrong. Actually, ‘wrong’ didn’t even come close to describing the feeling he was now forced to endure every second of every day. ‘Unnatural’ was a better word. For ever since he’d bonded with his mighty dragon, Daneus, while they were both still in their youth, Dane had known true friendship and love and sacrifice and honor. But now…

His bond to Daneus was lost. The flight back to Dragonsmount on the dragon’s back had felt like the longest period of time he’d ever had to endure. He’d tried countless times to communicate with the dragon—no, not the dragon, my dragon, he reminded himself—but it was to no avail. Not a single word or feeling had passed between them as they soared over Travail, almost as though they’d never been bonded in the first place.

When they’d finally arrived on Dragonsmount, there was a flurry of activity as the wounded were transported to the healing cave. Somewhere during the commotion, Daneus had left. Last Dane had seen, the dragon was swooping toward the southern base of the mountain, near to the dragon cave.

Now, as he approached the cave, he hoped that if he could only fix this one problem, maybe everything else would begin to fall into place alongside it.

The inside of the cave was dark, but Dane’s eyes swiftly adjusted to the gloom. Several dragons stirred, their eyes opening lazily before recognizing him and drifting back to sleep. One dragon’s gold-flecked eyes, however, remained fixed intently on him. Hoom, you big lug, Dane said.

He held his breath, waiting for the dragon to reply with a deep-throated Hoom of his own. Dane would laugh and then they would trade silly japes for several minutes before telling their tales of all that had transpired during their separation. And then Dane would curl up in the crook of the dragon’s foreleg and sleep, as they’d done so many times before. Given his own weariness, he even suspected he might give the dragon a run for his gold as to who fell asleep first.

Instead, the silence in both the cave and his own mind was deafening. Daneus? Dane thought. Just nod if you can hear me.

They stared at each other, confusion written across both their expressions. Communicating with Daneus had always been so easy before, their mental tether no different than speaking to someone within earshot. Void, they could even communicate across large distances well beyond shouting range.

Daneus? Dane tried again.

His dragon’s formidable jaws were clenched together, large top fangs sliding visibly over his broad lips. A low growl pierced the silence. Dane knew his dragon’s various sounds well enough to hear the frustration in his growl. “What is happening?” Dane said aloud.

A heavy breath emerged from Daneus’s nostrils, the hot air washing over Dane’s face. The dragon lifted one of its foreclaws as if to say, I don’t know.

A sinking feeling filled Dane’s gut, but he forced a smile onto his lips. His dragon needed him to be strong. “Consider it a forced break from each other’s poor attempts at wit. I will return soon,” Dane said. “We will figure this out together. I swear it.” He patted his dragon’s tail, his blue-dyed hand camouflaged against Daneus’s scales. And then he turned away, leaving Daneus to rest in the dragon cavern. The area outside the cave was empty. In the distance, Dane could just make out the charred, skeletal remains of the dragons that had been murdered during his uncle’s dark ritual that allowed him and his followers to transform into human-dragon crossbreeds. Even from this distance, the grisly sight sickened him. At least the crossbreeds are all dead now, he thought. Well, all but one, the young dragonrider Serennia still clinging to life. Dane didn’t know why Peony and Star were trying so damn hard to save the life of a dragon-killer, but he was certain there was more to her situation than he could see on the surface. Until he knew all the facts, he was determined not to pass judgment.

Easier said than done, he thought with a sigh.

He turned westward and made his way to the start of the long switchback incline that eventually led to Dragonsmount’s crown, providing a full view of the lands and seas to the east, west, north and south. He started up the slope, feeling the pulse of the blade sheathed against his thigh. Shadows curled around his leg. He considered asking the blade its opinion on the situation with Daneus but decided against it. The blade seemed content with the silence, almost like it was sleeping.

Peony, he thought. Though seeing her again had felt like coming home, he would be a fool to claim nothing had changed between them. They’d parted ways over an hour ago, Dane having spent much of the time watching the sea from atop Dragonsmount before his failed efforts to rekindle his bond with Daneus.

Now, all Dane wanted was to be in her presence, whether it was awkward or not. He would chase the awkwardness away. He would cut it to bits and cast them in the fire. He would refuse to allow his shadowblade to form a wedge between them. He loved Peony—why should anything change that?

BECAUSE THE BRIGHTBLADE SHE WIELDS IS MY ENEMY, a voice said where only he could hear it. He found his teeth grinding together at his shadowblade’s words, his jaw tightening.

She is my bondmate, Dane replied. So you’re going to have to learn to get along with her brightblade.

AND IF I CAN’T? WHO WOULD YOU CHOOSE?

Peony. Always Peony.

EVEN AFTER I SAVED YOUR LIFE?

My life was only worth saving because of her.

HUMANS. SO DRAMATIC. MAYBE I SHOULD’VE GIVEN MYSELF TO THE MOTH QUEEN YEARS AGO.

The reminder of the strange woman—although calling her a woman was rather a stretch considering she was constructed of moths—who’d tried to kill him back in Mothswood sent a fresh surge of anger through him. “Maybe you should have!” Dane said aloud, stopping with his hands fisted at his sides.

Who was he angry at? The blade? No. It was right: It had saved him, healing the infection that would’ve killed him. The Moth Queen then? No, even she was just acting in accordance with her own carnal instincts. His uncle? If so, his anger was misdirected. Hating a dead man served no purpose.

A voice from behind drew him away from his thoughts. “Talking to yourself, Brother?”

Dane couldn’t help himself—he smiled. He turned to find his eldest brother staring at him, one eyebrow raised. Dane shook his head, not because his brother had caught him arguing with his shadowblade, but because Dom was here. In Dragonsmount. It was unthinkable. Not once had he ever thought he would see this day come. Void, he’d believed for years that his brother was dead.

Images flashed in his mind, of a much younger-looking boy with dyed skin. Bit by bit the image began to transform, the dye fading away to reveal the natural dark hue of his brother’s skin, his arms and legs growing longer, his jaw broader and stronger. He was a man grown now, his dye having faded from the surface of his skin long ago.

“Dragon got your tongue?” Dom said, smirking.

“Better than my stones,” Dane retorted, the moment passing. “Where are you heading? Where’s Gwen?”

“I could ask you the same thing, except about Peony. Isn’t this supposed to be your grand reunion? Shouldn’t the pair of you be tucked away in your cave wearing less clothing?”

“Very funny. She was tired. We both were.” Even to his own ears, the excuse sounded hollow.

“You can rest when you’re dead. Isn’t that what Father always used to say?”

Dane chuckled. He’d almost forgotten about that. “On occasion. But he never had to fight against human-dragon crossbreeds, did he?”

Dom’s amused expression faded. “I still can’t believe what Drudge and his followers did. It makes me sick.”

“That makes two of us,” Dane said. “I’d rather cut off my own head than that of a dragon.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Years ago, Dom had been forced to watch his own two-headed dragon have one of his heads sawed off. “Sorry, poor choice of words,” he said quickly.

“I’m not some sensitive flower,” Dom said. “Now I’m going to go find Gwen. Last I saw she was heading south with Domi. She said something about preferring the sky to our caves.”

“I don’t think finding them will be a problem,” Dane said, craning his head skyward just as a dark form burst from the cloud cover, angling for the ground.

Dom turned to follow his brother’s gaze and for a few moments they watched the dragon’s graceful flight, leathery wings capturing the wind as easily as a ship’s sails. The dragon landed softly, wings beating the air one final time, kicking up dust around its legs. A silver form leapt from the dragon’s back, somersaulted once in the air, and then hit the ground at a full run.

Gwendolyn Storm, an Orian hailing from the Four Kingdoms, didn’t bother with the incline, instead throwing herself upon the sheer rock wall of the cliff’s flank, finding hand- and footholds with the ease of a master climber. Within seconds she was at their side, sun-browned face not the least bit pink with exertion. The fiery mark on her cheek—the heromark it was called—faded away until her skin was smooth and unmarred. Her armor was pristine and gleaming, without seam or joint, curving over her body and curling past her jaw delicately. Just over her shoulder her quiver and bow were visible. Silver, unblinking eyes met his. “I want to meet your bondmate,” she said without preamble. “You can’t hide her away forever.”

“I’m not hiding her,” Dane said. “She’s been through a lot. She wanted to rest.”

Gwen said, “I can introduce myself,” and took off up the rise so fast she was little more than a blur.

“Is she always like this?” Dane said with a sigh.

“Yes. She is a woman who knows what she wants and is used to getting it.”

“Sounds like a certain cousin of ours,” Dane commented.

“Star?”

“Who else?”

“I would very much like to see her,” Dom said.

“She was badly injured by her father.”

“All the more reason to go see her.”

Dane couldn’t argue with that. “She’s being tended to with the other injured,” Dane said. “Follow me.” He paused, glancing at the black-scaled dragon still sitting on his haunches in the shadow of the mountain. “What about Domi?”

Dom’s eyes glazed over for a moment, the telltale sign that he was conversing with his dragon. Dane couldn’t help the sting of jealousy at watching the ease with which his brother communicated with his bonded dragon. “He’s going to visit Daneus in the dragon cavern.”

Dane nodded. “Daneus could use a friend right now, whether old or new.”

“Still can’t connect with him through your bond?” Dom asked.

Dane shook his head. “It’s like our bond has been erased,” he said, not trying to hide his frustration. His brother, of all people, would understand. They may disagree on much, but the one thing they had in common was the sanctity of their bonds with their dragons.

Domi put a hand on his shoulder. “It will return,” he said. “Give it time.”

Dane’s instinct was to believe his brother was just trying to calm him like a parent calms an irrational child, but then he saw the steel in his eyes. The belief. He said what he meant and meant what he said. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Now let’s go before Star insults half the other patients and stirs up a mob in the healing cave.”

They made their way up the incline, following the same path Gwen had made look so easy at a pace that felt more like that of a snail in comparison. By the time they reached the third switchback, Dom was breathing heavily. Dane chuckled. “You’ve grown too accustomed to flying everywhere.”

“Why not?” Dom said. “The skies were made for us. The ground is for moles and snakes.”

“Well, we still have six switchbacks to go before we reach the healing cave. Good luck with that.”

“Last one there’s a hoary crab!” Dom shouted, shoving Dane and leaping forward up the next slope. Though he was surprised, Dane recovered swiftly, pushing off and giving chase. His brother managed to hold the lead for only a single switchback before Dane charged past him, his legs still accustomed to the steep trails that Dragonmount’s southern flanks were known for. Still, by the time he reached their destination he was forced to stop to catch his breath.

A little help, Dane said to his shadowblade.

I WON’T ASSIST IN YOUR FRIVOLOUS PURSUITS, the blade said.

Even if I command it? Dane asked. He was genuinely curious how much control he had over the ancient blade.

TRY ME, the blade said.

He considered it, but then decided against it. Even if the blade was able to restore his breath faster than was natural, there was something to be said about breathlessness—it made you feel alive.

In any case, he’d fully recovered by the time Domi caught up. Hunched over with his elbows on knees, his brother gasped. “Dragon storms,” he muttered. “Next time I’m flying.”

“Said the hoary crab,” Dane said. “Aren’t we a little too old to play the games we played as children?”

“Said the uptight Dragonmaster,” Domi said.

The casual use of his title caught Dane by surprise. Especially because the one using it was supposed to be the one to inherit the position.

His brother seemed to notice his discomfort. “As I said before, I’m not here to steal your title,” Domi said.

“I know.”

“Then why do you look like you’ve swallowed a fish whole?”

“Because…” How to explain? The truth was Dane didn’t even fully understand his feelings on the matter himself. “Because my title was stripped from me when I was sentenced to die,” he said.

“Yes, by a vicious liar voidbent on destroying all dragons. I think that nullifies the decision. Not to mention the usurper and all his followers are dead.”

There was wisdom in his brother’s words, but that didn’t change what he felt when he looked upon the men and women who were once his dragonriders. Like he was an imposter. “I just need time to get used to being back,” he said.

“Aye, you and me both,” his brother said, finally straightening up. “Everything looks exactly the same, except us. The only one missing is Drake.”

If only that were true, Dane thought. There were too many missing. Their parents. Their dear friends. It was like the world had given a quick shake and changed everything. “If he’s alive, I will find him,” Dane vowed. “I will invite him to return. I refuse to make the same mistakes I’ve made in the past.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Brother,” Dom said. “But you’re not going to locate Drake alone. I’ll help, of course. His dragon is dead. It will take both of us to pick up the pieces. But all in good time. Right now, I’m going to visit Star. And you should go to Peony.”

Dane knew his brother was right, and yet he hesitated. Where was the determination to make things right with her he’d felt less than an hour ago? The memory of the way her brightblade had clashed against the false shadowblade of his shadowguard seared across his vision, but he blinked the image away. “I will. Soon. But I should warn Star you’re coming first. I would hate for her to get a fright at seeing your ugly mug. Wait here.” Before his brother could respond, Dane headed inside the large healing cave.

Orange haloes of torchlight intersected like oversized flower petals across the space. The light fell on dozens upon dozens of straw mattresses propped on crates. They were crammed together, leaving narrow corridors for the healers to move between them, administering salves, tinctures and bandages to a variety of burns and wounds. Every bed was occupied.

“Dragonmaster Dane,” a woman said, approaching. Her skin was dyed the color of her eyes, hazel, which just happened to match her dragon’s hue. She offered the sign of dragonfire, her fingers imitating flames spewing from her mouth.

“Dragonrider Vera,” Dane said. He returned the sign. “It is…good to see you.”

“And you,” she said. “Though I must say the Dragonmistress served well in your stead.”

A swell of mixed emotions swirled through Dane. Pride for his bondmate. Emptiness that he hadn’t been here when she needed him. Fear that things had changed too much between them. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “From the moment I met Peony Normandian I knew she was a capable woman, more a match for me than I’d like to admit.”

“That she is.” Vera’s gaze had drifted to the shadowy sword sheathed at his hip. “I was fortunate enough to survive the battle without injury. As such, Dragonmistress Peony has assigned me to oversee the healing efforts. As you know, my mother passed much of her knowledge of such things on to me before she returned to the storms.” She paused, seeming to realize something. “Unless you have another assignment for me?”

The implication that his orders superseded Peony’s made Dane frown for a second before he realized she was right to ask. Now that he was back and the usurper was dead, he was the leader here. Dane shook his head quickly. “No, of course not. The Dragonmistress was right to leave the injured under your care. Do you mind if I visit with the injured riders for a while? I’ve also brought my brother.”

“Drake is back?”

“Er, no. Dom. My eldest brother. He’s returned after many years. It’s a long story…”

Thankfully, Vera seemed to understand that now wasn’t the time for such a story. “One we’d all like to hear eventually,” she said. “That is wonderful news indeed. But now I’ll leave you to it. Both of you. I only ask that you keep your visit brief. The injured riders need to rest.”

“Of course. We’ll be out of your scales soon.”

Vera moved away, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water and dripping water onto the thick shoulder of a shirtless rider before washing away the blood to reveal a nasty set of slashes that ran parallel to each other. Claw marks.

Dane scanned the rest of the rider’s form for any other injuries, thankfully finding none. He was a large man, his feet like small boats, his legs as thick as stumps. His chest was as broad as a barrel of ale and his neck so short and wide it appeared as though his head was connected directly to the rest of his body. His skin was dyed an earthy brown.

Dane’s heart leapt and he hurried forward. “Brute?” he said. “How is this possible? I saw you die, I watched you take your last—”

Dane cut off, the elation he’d felt dancing about in his chest a moment earlier vanishing in an instant as the rider’s true identity clarified. Like Brute, he was a large, stocky man. And though his skin had appeared brown at first under the orange torchlight, its true color—deep, dark blue—was now obvious. “Physically speaking, I might be a brute,” the rider said, “but my mother called me Fanghorn when I was but a squalling babe in her arms.”

“Of course, she did,” Dane said, managing a smile. “I’m sorry for my mistake.” He reached for the man’s fingers, and they clasped hands. Despite his injuries, Fanghorn offered a strong squeeze.

“It’s only natural for our minds to try to make sense of the senseless,” Fanghorn said. “The loss of Brute pains me greatly as well. But my heart is warmed by your return, Dragonmaster.”

“As is mine seeing you again, Fanghorn,” Dane said. “From how I’m hearing it, you’ve been a great support to my bondmate while I’ve been away.”

“I don’t know about that,” the large man said, but Dane could hear the pride in his voice. “Most tales about me are fetched quite far.”

Dane had always appreciated the man’s clever tongue, and he chuckled at his words. “And the more a person denies a story about them makes it more likely to be the truth. At least in my experience.”

“But how much truth?” Fanghorn said, passing off a wince as a grin as Vera continued to clean the dirt and blood from his wound.

“If it’s a story about you being a big baby, then it’s all true,” she said.

“What, you’re not going to say hello to your favorite cousin?” another voice cut in. Dane peered toward the far end of the space, where a figure lay prone on one of the beds, head tilted to one side to look at him.

“Of course,” Dane said. “But first I must warn you that you’re about to get the shock of your li—”

“He should’ve greeted you first, Cousin,” Dom interrupted, appearing without warning at Dane’s right shoulder. Without hesitation, he moved past, weaving his way between the beds before kneeling at Star’s side. He reached out and grasped her hand, looking as comfortable as one camped by the bedside of their dearest friend.

Dane followed, eyebrows raised. Star, for her part, looked unperturbed by her long, lost cousin’s sudden reappearance, going so far as to offer a smirk before asking, “Has Dane been hiding you in his wardrobe all this time? I knew the bastard was up to no good.”

“The latter is always true, but nay. I wouldn’t have survived the smell,” Dom quipped back.

“Ha,” Dane said. “Shall I leave you to carry on at my expense then?”

“No, it’s more amusing when you’re here for the japes,” Star said. She was smiling, her lips upturned, her cheeks following suit, and yet…

There was no mirth in her expression. He’d known his cousin from childhood, had even loved her in a different way once and thought he would bond with her, though that felt like a long time ago now. Behind that false smile and her lighthearted quips was a woman in suffering, and not just because of the burned skin she was hiding so well by resting one cheek on the bedclothes.

“Then I will stay,” Dane said. His eyes shifted past her fleetingly, taking in the last bed in the row, which was shrouded in a white sheet, covering the occupant. It was the sort of treatment a corpse usually received, but this was no mortuary. Unless the patient had recently died? No, he thought, watching as the sheet rose and fell, the occupant’s chest filling with air before emptying. He’d have to ask Vera about that one later, but now he refocused on the purpose of his visit—his cousin. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Feeling?” Star said. “Grand. A tyrant has been cast down, a horrible period in Travail’s long and bloody history ended, and my dear friend Brute will soon rejoin the storms to keep my sister company. Only I must linger in this voidhole of a world. But at least I have you to poke fun at, so there’s that.” Each word was laced with sarcasm, icy and bitter.

Dane nodded. “That sounds about right. I came here to—”

“Why did you come here, Dane?” Star said. “I’ve spent the time you were gone with your bondmate. She has suffered for too long. Why don’t you go to her? Why do you delay that which you’ve both fought so hard for?”

His cousin’s words burned in his ears. Mostly because they were true. “She asked for some time alone,” he said. Dane hated the hidden message behind his own words, echoed back to his ears like a cave fond of playing tricks on its occupants—She asked for some time away from me.

“Did she? Those were her exact words? ‘I need some time alone’?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You could read her mind then?” Star said. Though Dane was aware that she was using anger to mask other feelings, his cousin’s constant interruptions were beginning to grate on his nerves.

“It was implied,” he said flatly.

“You are alive,” she said. “Both of you. That is a godsdamned gift. Don’t waste it the way I have. I don’t care about that shadowy blade at your hip any more than I give two shites about the bright sword she likes to flash around. Go to her. Don’t waste another second. Trust me on this one. There are things you don’t know, things that happened while you were lost to us. Peony has suffered greatly. Plus, your brother and I have so much to catch up on.” With that, she rolled over onto her back, revealing the burnt half of her face. The burns were moist with the salves that had been applied and coated with fish scales to hasten the healing process, but the edges were raw and ragged.

It pained Dane to see her like that, but he kept his expression even as he said, “Thank you for your advice, Cousin. We will speak later, Brother, aye?”

“Of course,” Dom said. “Say hello to Peony for me. Tell her I can’t wait to meet the conqueror of my brother’s stubborn heart.”

Dane managed a grim smile and flicked a final glance at the person covered in the white sheet, before turning and leaving the way he’d come.

When Dane mounted the final rise to the cave he’d lived in the last few years, Peony was bathed in light. Half of her skin was the hue of sunrise on the crest of Dragonsmount and the other half the deep blue of night creeping across the sky, a color that matched his own skin and that of his dragon’s scales to perfection. Her eyes were closed, her chin raised slightly to allow the last of the setting sun’s rays paint her skin with warmth.

Gods how he yearned to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and never let go.

Was it really as simple a thing as Star had made it out to be?

She stiffened suddenly, her eyes flashing open and her head turning toward him. “I’m sorry,” Dane said. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Nor to stare. It’s just, you looked so…”

Peony’s head cocked to the side. “So…what?” she asked. A light, misting rain had started, coating her face with diamond-like speckles of moisture.

So beautiful, he thought. No. Such an overused word was woefully inadequate to describe how he saw her in this moment. “I am jealous of the rain,” he said instead.

Her brow crinkled, confused. “Why?”

He took a step forward. For some reason, he expected her to retreat, but she stood her ground, just watching him carefully. “Because it gets to touch you so freely. Because you will never flinch away from its embrace.”

His stomach sank as she turned away from him. She couldn’t even look at him now. Would she ever look at him the way she had not so long ago? With love? With desire? With belief in their future?

Peony

Hidden from Dane’s eyes, Peony’s hands rested on her stomach. It was strange—it felt the same as ever. There wasn’t even so much as a slight curve yet. And yet she could sense the life within her, the life that she had sensed even before experiencing any symptoms. Daneus had sensed it too, though they’d foolishly hid it from each other.

Dane deserved to know about the child—his child. No, she thought. Our child. Why couldn’t he have returned without that sword? Why couldn’t things have been simpler? She took a deep breath and removed her hands from her abdomen, turning back to face her bondmate with the same strength she’d faced all the adversity placed in her path ever since she’d left Chrysallis and her life as a princess.

She saw the muscles in his jaw flex, an almost imperceptible movement that told an entire story of the invisible gulf that had shredded open between them, created by time and distance and ancient weapons. As she attempted to gather her thoughts once more, he spoke first. “Listen to me, Peony,” he said, taking another step forward, a slash of darkness at his hip moving with him.

“Dane…,” she said, remembering that creature of darkness that had appeared atop Dragonsmount, the anger toward her she had felt emanating from its every movement.

“If you were an ocean, I’d gladly drown in your depths.”

It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “Don’t say that,” she said.

Dane’s dark eyes were steel as they met hers. “It’s true. Death with you by my side is better than life alone. Until I met you, I didn’t realize what having a bondmate could be, what was possible. You have changed my life in countless ways, all of them better. You are my reason, Peony.”

The fervor in his voice took her breath away. Growing up, it was always her brother, Osric, who was pined after by the most eligible ladies of the realm. Peony, on the other hand, had known her destiny lay in a political match to further Odin’s strength, a burden she was willing to bear to help her kingdom. And though her match with the most powerful man in Travail met that objective to perfection, never for a single second had she expected to find what she’d found in Dane.

Someone to love.

“Reason for what?” she asked.

To her surprise, Dane chuckled. She realized her own foolishness. Even now, she eschewed his every compliment, questioned his words like a woman who’d never stepped into the sunlight and felt its warmth. “For everything,” Dane said. He reached down and unbuckled his belt, letting it fall to the ground, sheath and shadowblade and all.

“What are you doing?” she said as he stepped forward, closing the distance quickly. He had that look in his eyes, the same look he’d had on their bonding night, when their shadows had moved together in perfect harmony across the wall.

“The blade saved my life, but that doesn’t mean it must follow me around like a pet hound,” he said.

“But my brightblade does follow me—everywhere,” Peony said, backing up a step. “What if that…that…thing appears again?”

“It won’t,” Dane said. “I promise.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Peony said, continuing to match his every step forward with one backward of her own.

“If it does, I will cast my sword off the cliffs of Dragonsmount and never look back,” Dane said. His voice was deeper now, as textured as the cliff walls. “I will not allow a sword, even a godblade, to keep me from the arms of the woman I love.”

Her back pressed against the wall at the side of the cave mouth. “We have much to discuss. Plans to be made. Meetings to be held. There are things that happened you are not yet aware of.”

“It can all wait.” Four steps separated them now. Three. Peony’s heart hammered in her chest.

“Your brother Dom is alive. That’s a pretty big thing to delay talking about.”

“He won’t shrivel up. At least not until tomorrow.” Two steps.

Peony pressed on. “And he brought a woman from the Four Kingdoms with him. She paid me a visit.” Gwendolyn Storm had actually only departed a few moments before Dane had arrived, stating that she wanted to see Travail from its highest point atop Dragonsmount. Then a marking on her cheek—like a strange ‘X’—had flared red and she’d thrown herself against the rock wall, climbing it with ease rather than taking the path like everyone else.

“She can be pretty pushy like that,” Dane said. “But I don’t want to talk about her.” One step. His blue-dyed skin eclipsed the setting sun.

“And what of your bond with Daneus?” Peony asked.

“It will return. Eventually.” He leaned closer, lips parting.

I’m pregnant, Peony said, the one thing that would’ve stopped him cold had she actually said it. But she spoke those two words only in the safety of her mind, because in the core of her soul she didn’t want to stop him. Instead, her lips parted to receive his and then he was there, all around her, pushing her further against the wall. His hands encircled her hips and then slid beneath her, picking her up effortlessly as they tasted each other like a pair of famished souls desperate for a single sip of water but greedy enough to demand more.

No creature born of darkness and shadow emerged, and Peony soon forgot such a thing had ever existed in the first place.

A low sound emerged from the back of Dane’s throat as their tongues met. Their lips moved together with all the ease of a practiced dance, one that neither of them had forgotten during the time they were apart. Her fingers clawed at his hair as he walked her step by step inside the cave. She arched her back and he painted a path down her chin, her neck. “Release me,” she said, before her lips refused to say it.

“Never,” Dane said.

“Release me or I’ll scream.”

Dane’s head lifted, confusion on his face. “I don’t understand.”

“If you desire me, then obey,” Peony said. It was like everything that had happened over the last few months was just now coming full circle—all of her victories and all of her defeats—and she couldn’t abide another moment that wasn’t entirely of her own making.

Slowly, Dane lowered her back to her feet. “Good. Now remove your leathers.”

“Peony, why don’t we just continue—”

“Do it,” Peony said, a hint of the command in her tone that she’d used during the battle. She was satisfied to know her voice still worked that way.

Dane raised an eyebrow but then began to undress, peeling his shirt away, followed by his pants, which were dusty and ragged. He stood before her, chest bare, wearing only underclothes. She pressed her hands to his chest, pushing him back, steering him toward the bed set in a notch in the cave wall. It was cast in shadow, only the edge illuminated by the waning exterior light cascading through the cave mouth.

“Lie down,” Peony said.

This time, Dane obeyed without question, watching her the entire time. Peony stepped onto a spot where the light was the brightest, a silver sheen falling over both halves of her skin. She started with her leather vest, teasing free the ties and parting the material in the center, letting it tumble behind her. Unlike the first time Dane had seen her like this, she felt no uncertainty, no doubt. He watched her without blinking, and she met his stare with one of her own.

Her eyes never leaving his, she kicked off her boots, unfastened her belt, and drew her riding leathers down her legs, stepping out of them one bare foot at a time. Dane’s gaze roamed from her toes back to her eyes, lips parting slightly. “I am yours,” she said. “And you are mine. Do you agree?” she said.

Dane nodded.

“You must say it.”

“I agree,” he said.

“Now show me,” she said. She clambered onto him, and her lips found his once more. The shadows surrounded them as they moved as one, all the horrors and tragedies and fear fading into the background.

Nightfall, volume IV in The Kingfall Histories, COMING SOON! In the meantime, check out other titles by David Estes, like The Fatemarked Epic or The Slip Trilogy!