Author: E S Furlán
Date: 2019-08-16 04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Independently Published

THE TAINTED SHRINE

BLOODSONG BOOK I

By E. S. Furlán

CHAPTER ONE

KANIKA

Kanika ducked to avoid another rotting vegetable, the force of its impact against the wall ahead of her sending a shower of fragments cascading over her. The frozen city road offered little in the way of escape routes but turning back was not an option. She was barely a dozen paces ahead of the fleetest of the small crowd chasing her. She couldn’t blame them. She had betrayed them all. Not by choice, perhaps, but treachery nonetheless. A warning scripture shot through Kanika’s mind:

Those who betray the All-Seer’s people shall find no refuge but in death.

She risked a glance back and her heart dropped. Steel and iron caught the frigid rays of sun, winking menacingly at her from the crowd. One of the front runners still held the chunk of pale blonde hair he'd ripped from her head when the chase first began in the market. The twisting streets, laid down over centuries, threatened at every moment to turn sharply and send her skidding into a wall.

“Traitor!”

The crowd had been vocal from the start, but this insult came from above, not behind her. Another glance, upwards this time, and she saw shutters opening and heads poking out, no doubt drawn by the clamour. Kanika bent her head and kept going. Sooner or later there would be projectiles from the windows. Although she grew up in the city, she barely knew which way she was running. Once the assault had begun, there had been little to do but scarper from the square like a rabbit scented by the hounds. Terror was all that kept her from collapsing.

She darted around a corner, unsure how long she could evade her pursuers, and ran straight into a man’s thick chest. Her panic only intensified when she met Armand’s pale green eyes. Perhaps once she might have relied on his aid. Now he was as likely as any to throw her to the dogs.

A head poked out from around Armand's bulky frame, and Kanika almost cried with relief. His sister Ophi was another story entirely. Armand might bear a grudge against her, but his sister Ophi would look after Kanika at a moment’s notice. Ophi's sharp blue eyes sized up her friend's dishevelled blonde hair, frightened eyes and the stray leaves of lettuce hanging off her thick winter shawl.

“Come with me,” she ordered.

Kanika took her outstretched hand and they were off once more, leaving Armand to stare after them, slipping on thin sheets of ice, scrambling to make the sharp turns. They came to a doorway set into the stone walls lining the streets. Ophi fumbled with the latch until it opened and shoved Kanika through, following behind her, then slammed the door.

The angry shouts of the crowd they'd outpaced passed by and faded to muffled murmurs. Kanika took a seat on a barrel and tried to force her breathing to return to normal with sharp, awkward gasps. Thin cracks in the wooden roof let in enough light for Kanika's eyes to adjust. They were in a storage room. Sacks and barrels lined the walls and lay haphazardly on the floor. The reek of pickled fish mingled with the dusty scent of grain in a nauseating bouquet with each ragged breath Kanika drew.

“Are you alright?” Ophi asked at length. Kanika managed a shaky chuckle, a nervous release of tension beyond her control.

“My involvement with Prince Atham is now public knowledge. As if it weren't bad enough that he beds me, now the city will string me up in the square.”

Ophi remained silent. There was little to say about it. By continuing to breathe, Kanika had committed a mortal sin in the eyes of her own people. The prince was a barbaric conqueror. His family was responsible for countless deaths and had the might of an empire behind them. It was a given that the invading men and women would want to lay with locals. Argorien's inhabitants were expected to choose death rather than sate his or any other Vraithii's carnal desires.

“Why now, though?” Ophi pondered aloud. “After so many months of secrecy, I had hoped you might be safe.”

Anger welled up inside Kanika at whoever had betrayed her. But at the very last second before it spilled out of her, it slumped in her chest and left her numb.

“At least you live at the Temple,” Ophi said after a while. “Perhaps you might be safe, if we can get you there. For tonight, at any rate.”

Kanika nodded, barely hearing. Would the Temple even take her in now that the entire congregation they served wanted her dead? She could only hope.

◆◆◆

They waited together for the better part of an hour for the mob to disperse. Kanika disguised herself as best she could with what scarves and shawls they had between them, then they made their way back to the Temple of Ilas.

After the raucous rage of the mob, the silent streets rose the hackles on the back of her neck and had her eyes darting from side to side at every turn. Bar the occasional sideways glance from passers-by they attracted no notice.

Kanika expected to find the mob waiting for her at the temple, but what she saw as they entered the small square chilled her more than angry townsfolk ever could. Two dozen armed soldiers bearing the Crown Prince's crest stood guarding the temple. Though vespers should be tolling, the bell outside the main door stood still and silent. Citizens who passed the imposing array kept their heads bowed, avoiding the soldiers' eye and quickening their pace.

By Kanika's side, Ophi caught her breath and faltered in her steps. Kanika reached for her friend's hand and gave it a squeeze.

“You need not accompany me inside,” Kanika told her. “You've risked enough for me today, and I am grateful.”

For a moment Ophi seemed as though she might resist, but one of the soldiers caught sight of them loitering and called out. Ophi jumped, her hand jolting away from Kanika's. Before Kanika could reassure her, Ophi had turned and slipped away down the path they'd come by. Kanika took a steadying breath and stepped forward to answer the soldier.

“I live and work in the Temple of Ilas, sir,” she said, her voice catching. “I am simply returning to my quarters from the market.”

“Are you Kanika Veraïs?” the soldier asked. Kanika nodded. The soldier beckoned her forward and lowered his voice as she approached. “You have a visitor, ma'am, but you'll need to open your cloak and turn out your bag.”

Kanika complied as calmly as she could. When the soldier was satisfied, he turned and bade the ranks break to allow her entry. She was aware of their eyes and attention as her hard-soled boots clacked against the smooth bluestone stairs.

“Ilasean scum,” one muttered under her breath as Kanika passed. Kanika ignored the slur and did her best not to hurry to the door.

The temple was deathly silent inside bar the clink of cutlery on pottery. Kanika quieted her steps, knowing what she would find and yet praying it would not be so.

The high priestess stood stiff by the head of a short wooden table, dressed in her finest blue and silver robes. A line of other temple officiates and workers stood up against the wall and were separated from their leader by half a dozen soldiers, all bearing the same crest as those who stood guard outside. Her eyes moved to the man seated at the table, eating far too much of the precious bread and cured meat stores allocated to the temple.

Crown Prince Atham Vallariath. Dark hair, beard longer than was fashionable, skin pale and cheekbones so sharp he seemed ill, grey eyes that matched the blade her always wore at his hip. Not that she had ever seen him use it.

“Ah! Kanika, my love.” He smiled when he saw her. “Where on earth have you been? There was a riot, I feared you might be caught up in it.”

Kanika shot a glance back as two soldiers moved to cover the door, barring her exit in the process. She smiled back at Atham as though his parents hadn't besieged and decimated to the city she called home scarcely a decade ago.

“I found a good hiding place and waited it out,” she replied. “Someone has let slip the news of the nature of our relationship. People were not happy about it.”

Atham took a bite of bread, chewed, swallowed, then gave her a cool smile.

“It had to come out sooner or later,” he replied. “I've always wanted everyone to know that you are more than just my bedmate, and I saw no reason to delay any longer. Though, admittedly, had I known there would be such a reaction, I might've arranged more guards. Do you know, a peasant threw an actual rock at me? Nearly hit me in the arm. Good thing I had my...”

Kanika tuned his voice out as she struggled to hide her emotions. Of course it had been him. Of course. And of course he had not thought through the consequences or even mentioned to her that he might announce them. She expected to bring her mind back to the present and find herself shaking with anger, but instead she felt only the same numbness as always.

“Anyhow,” he was saying. “I had hoped, given that the city is now aware, now might be the perfect moment to ask you a very important question. But you seem miles away. Always off with the sprites, eh, my love?”

That tone. As though she were an especially slow child. How she wished she could grip him by the hair, slam his face onto his fork, and never stop.

“No, my love, I am listening,” she assured him, surprising even herself with how even her voice sounded. “What did you want to ask me?”

Atham pursed his lips in a smug smile, wiped his mouth and clicked his fingers.The high priestess stepped forward at his motion. She had already guessed the question, but Kanika felt herself grow lightheaded with shame. Dear gods, surely he hadn't made the high priestess of the Temple of Ilas All-Seer mind the ring like some lowly page? Kanika thought to herself. He plucked the box from the priestess' hands and turned to Kanika.

“Kanika Veraïs. Will you marry me?”

Kanika swallowed back the lump in her throat. A casual observer might think her overcome with joy, but none who looked closely would be fooled. Luckily the prince was casual in the extreme.

“Of course,” she replied, cheeks still red from the humiliation of watching the high priestess wait on him. “How could I refuse?”

CHAPTER TWO

KANIKA

Kanika took the stairs, two at a time lest she feel his vile caress on her arse as they walked. As with every other visit, Atham came with sexual demands. He hurried to catch her.

No. She felt his hand find its mark as she reached the top. The familiar sensation of leaving her body, of every sensation numbed and distant, descended on her at his touch. She walked to her room as though underwater.

Atham took his pleasure on her body with his usual disregard for hers. He didn’t notice the distance in her eyes, nor the loose way her body rocked in time with his thrusts.

He finished quickly enough. Kanika made a mental note to have a cup of her abortive tea before bed. The last thing she wanted was for him to leave a baby in her.

“I will have you brought up to the palace in the morning.” He pulled up his trousers and kissed her on the forehead. “It’s hardly fitting for the future High Queen to live in a drafty hovel like this, isn’t it?”

Again with that condescending tone. Kanika swallowed back a fiery retort. She tried to smile.

“Our marriage will be a union of our two peoples. Would it not be better for me to stay here? So that the people can see--”

“I want you at the palace.” His horrible eyes bored into her. “Every moment I am without you is painful, my love. You would not see me in pain a moment longer, would you?”

Kanika’s heart raced. She knew from experience to tread very carefully once his voice took on that petulant tone.

“Your pain is my pain, my love.” The words felt like vinegar to her tongue. “And of course I would not have us suffer. But, for the greater good, I might bear it a little longer.”

Atham’s face fell as she spoke. Her chest tightened and Kanika knew she had made a mistake somehow. His breathing grew heavy and Kanika knew without looking that tears had gathered in his eyes. She felt the familiar shudder of fear as she waited for him to decide if he would insinuate that she hated him or simply rage at her. Both happened as often as his sexual desires consumed him.

“Does my pain amuse you?” He stepped closer. “Do you delight in seeing me suffer so? Is that what I have to look forward to once we wed, that you will twist the knife at every opportunity?”

Kanika remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Her chest felt knit tight as though by fine steel wire. Though she knew he was looking at her, she didn’t dare glance up at him.

“And now I’m not even worthy of a response,” he scoffed. “How your affections do twist and change, my love.”

He all but spat the last words. Kanika jumped. She tried to steady her racing heart and panicked breath by clutching her hands into fists. Atham strode closer and gripped her by the chin to look up at him.

“I will send for you tomorrow,” he told her. “And you will be grateful. Without me, your countrymen and women would rip you apart in the streets. And none would save you.”

Kanika forced herself to meet his gaze. She felt frustrated tears pricking at her eyes, but knew better than to pull away.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled.

Atham scoffed once more and turned to leave, pausing by the door for one final shot.

“There’s no need to pack.” He gestured towards her belongings. “I wouldn’t want any of this filthy shite in the palace.”

The door slammed closed behind him. Kanika dropped to the floor. It took a few minutes to calm her breathing and let her tears run their course. The rest of her life stretched out before her in her mind’s eye. An eternity of being scolded and spoken down to, no voice of her own and her heritage used against her whenever anybody wanted to discredit her. Nights of being touched and violated by the pig in the clothes of a prince. This man, who first called her ‘love,’ and then turned just as quickly to spite as it pleased him. That was what awaited her. The only peace she might look forward to was the sweet release of death.

She rose as though dreaming and wiped her tears, then made her way downstairs to brew her tea. At the very least she could make herself barren to him. One paltry rebellion that might serve as cold comfort as she suffered through their union.

◆◆◆

The dawn bells woke Kanika from fretful sleep. She set about her morning tasks trying to keep fearful thoughts from surfacing. First, she bathed her face and hands in cold water from a communal basin with the other indentured workers. The easy chatter that usually accompanied the ritual was absent. They might not be ready to string her up but she could tell Atham’s revelation had shaken them as much as it had done the townsfolk. Disapproving eyes burned at her back as she made her way to the wood heap, low conversation beginning as murmurs from behind her.

She piled wood into her cart with tears threatening to spill, then made her way to the first hearth, focusing on her task.

“Already too good for us, are you?”

Kanika didn’t bother to glance at the person speaking. She knew already it was Catla, a woman roughly her own age who worked in the temple with her.

“And now I’m not even worthy of an answer,” Catla proclaimed to the room at large. “Should we start calling you ‘majesty’ as well?”

Echoes of her conversation with Atham the night before stung in her chest. Kanika felt the rage rising in her until it took hold. Her head snapped to face Catla, and for a brief second time stood still.

Everything devolved into a flurry of violence. Kanika grabbed Catla by the hair and dragged her to the floor. Catla fell easily, shocked by the sudden reaction. Kanika pressed her face up against the other woman’s ear.

“You think I want this?” She screamed. “Do you think I look at him and want any of this? Do you? You fucking fool!”

Kanika was vaguely aware of Catla crying and what felt like a thousand hands on her body, trying to pull her away, but all her muscles locked in place and the scream in her throat would not die. When the other workers separated the pair, Kanika could not release the chunk of Catla’s hair she’d ripped from the other woman’s scalp. Her whole body shook, her mind a whirling maelstrom.

The high priestess’ voice filtered through to her in jumbled echoes until she managed to focus. She tried to look up at her matron but the trembling throughout her body would not cease.

“What is the meaning of this?” The high priestess demanded. Kanika only managed to shake her head in response.

“She attacked me!” Catla howled. “I was talking to her and then she just attacked me! That bitch!”

Some of the other temple workers gathered around to comfort Catla, their arms supporting her as tears ran down her face. She clutched at the bald patch on her head. The high priestess pursed her lips and stared at Kanika, waiting for a response. When it became clear none was forthcoming she tutted and made a decision.

Kanika pressed herself against the wall. She moved her arms to clutch at her own shoulders, wishing she could fold herself up into nothing and simply cease to exist.

“Catla will administer the bloodsong today,” the high priestess said. “Kanika, you will fetch the waters.”

Bloodsong was a red powder used by the high priestess to gain an audience with the gods and elevated dead. Since she was a child, it had been Kanika’s job to deliver it. Some small kindness born of pity for the orphaned girl. That kindness had now run out.

Kanika nodded and stood to collect the buckets, letting Catla’s hair fall from her hand to the rough wooden floorboards.

◆◆◆

The high priestess muttered her incantations in a fervent whisper. On her knees, eyes closed, in front of a shallow basin, Catla sprinkled a fine mist of the blood-red resin powder, known as bloodsong, so that it settled in a dark stain across the priestess’ brow. A small congregation of Ilaseans watched, some on their knees as well, others standing or leaning against the temple walls.

One of the other workers poured water from a chipped ewer into the basin, which drained into a stone-lined hole in the floor, occasionally filling it from a bucket. Kanika tried to focus on timing each fill so that the ewer never emptied for long, but it was the least favoured task of the morning commune with spirits for good reason. Each time she returned to find the water-pourer waiting, the other workers shot her dirty looks.

Finally the priestess’ muttering ceased, and she opened her eyes.

“No word today from Our Lady or the spirits,” she announced. “They are content with all that we do in their name, and have no messages to pass at this time.”

One of the workers went to the wooden calendar hanging behind the altar and made the symbol of a closed eye on the date. It merged with the rest of them within seconds, the entire calendar a reminder of the disconnect between the Ilas and their gods. Kanika could not remember the last time there had been reason to mark anything but the closed eye.

One of the parishioners approached as the rest of the onlookers shuffled out in silence. The man had deep creases between his brows and his pale blue eyes were shot through with red.

“My lady, forgive me, but is there not more to be done?” he asked in an undertone.

Kanika recognised him from other services, though as a lowly worker she was not worth the time of most. The other workers had departed, leaving her to clean up the ritual’s remains.

“Who are we to question the will of the gods?” the high priestess replied.

“Yes, of course, but might not their silence be for some other reason? It’s been years, and with the city as it is, our own Ilasean daughters now betraying us…”

Kanika felt the heavy numbness settle on her, knowing exactly who the man meant.

“We must trust that Ilas will deal with any who bear her gifts in treachery,” the high priestess replied. “And concern ourselves with our own paths.”

Kanika glanced up and met the cold glare of the high priestess as the man left.  For a moment she expected some sort of rebuke, but then the high priestess swept out of the room as well, leaving Kanika to scrub the red stains from the floor alone. She tried to scrub hard enough that the hopelessness in her would abate, but before long she sobbed over the brush and bucket.

“Don’t listen to him.”

Kanika whipped around and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Ophi standing in the door. Ophi rushed to her. Kanika’s sobs came in waves as Ophi held her close and stroked her hair.

“What should I do? What can I do?” she gasped. “He is coming to take me today he said, and I don’t want to but I can’t stay here.”

Ophi dried her eyes with gentle dabs from her handkerchief. She then took Kanika by the shoulders.

“You cannot face this alone,” she insisted. “You must ask for help. You must let my brother and his friends help you.”

The thought of Ophi’s brother made her body quake. How could she ask him for help after all she had done to break his heart? Not to mention joining the Resistance, the group she hated.

“No, I can’t.” She blinked back more tears.

“There is no other way.” Ophi’s face was kind.

She thought about her coming wedding and vomit rose in the back of her throat. Ophi was right. No one else could save her. No one else would have any reason to. She took a steadying breath and nodded. Ophi smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze, then joined her cleaning the temple floorboards.

◆◆◆

As the hour grew later, Kanika found her gaze shifting to the front door of the temple. Atham had said he would collect her that day. She was sure of it. But as the sun sank, she began to doubt herself. So much had been said, so many words thrown at her in short succession. Had he maybe said week instead of day…?

“Where is your prince now, ‘majesty’?”

Kanika grit her teeth and turned to face Catla. Her voice echoed in the bare room. The burning rage inside Kanika’s chest felt as though it would spill out again. But before it could surface, it died, quashed by heavy exhaustion. She was about to try and find a response when another voice interjected.

“Hush now, spiteful child. Lest she rip you bald.”

Tormille, an older servant of Ilas, approached from the back rooms. She bore a tiny bag of rough cloth. Kanika watched Catla posture for a moment, then the other woman stalked off, casting a malicious glance in Kanika’s direction as she did so.

Kanika turned to leave, but Tormille caught her by the arm.

“I know how it is,” the older woman told her. “He is a monster. You could never love him. That you have put up with him so long is testament to your strength.”

“Thank you,” Kanika mumbled, eager to leave. “I have little choice in the matter.”

Tormille nodded and sighed. She released Kanika’s arm and fiddled with the sachet a moment longer, then held it out.

“My daughter was strong too,” Tormille told her. “When they came. That night, when the gates fell, she was strong in her own way. As have many others been since then, men and women alike.”

Kanika took the bag without thought. It was light, its contents shifting inside the thin wrappings, her fingers crushing something dry and fragmented.

“It will not be painless” Tormille told her. “But far less painful than what you would otherwise face. You know what must be done. Your family will be honoured once more, and your name blessed by all who crave freedom in this city. It is the right thing to do.”

Tormille patted her arm gently and made her way towards the workers’ sleeping quarters. Kanika watched her go, then her gaze moved slowly to the gifted bag. A killing tea.  Tormille had given it to her with such motherly love, as though bestowing a blessing rather than pressing to end a life. Kanika’s eyes blurred as tears welled in them and spilled onto her face.

The right thing to do. Such an Ilasean attitude. Better to die than become the plaything of an enemy. Better to join one’s ancestors than disgrace them with a doomed life.

She thought of Ophi and the Resistance. Joining them would not save her. Nothing could, except perhaps this. Kanika took the bag to the kitchen area, turning it over in her hands. She added wood to the fire and boiled water over it. Painful, but less so than the life that had been forced on her. She opened the bag. There was just enough for a cup. Tormille must have saved what little money she could for months to purchase it. A kindness, a guiding hand for a misguided youth in need. No doubt was how she saw it, and how others would see it too.

Kanika emptied the bag’s contents into a rough wooden cup and stared at them. Little purple flowers and broken twigs. A fine green dust settled at the bottom, pulverised particles of the herbs. She lifted the kettle over the rim of the cup and felt desperate sadness descend on her. How she hated this feeling. How she hated to feel so helpless, tossed and shoved about by Fate’s uncaring hand. How she hated the humiliation and rejection and judgement that besieged her from every quarter. One cup of tea, and it could all be over. Would any mourn her? Perhaps Ophi. Armand might feel a tug of sadness at the future they might have had together, despite how slim a chance any future was while Atham possessed her.

Atham.

He was to blame. His callous disregard, his cold desire. He had transgressed, beyond measure, and then further. The thought rose in her that she had done nothing wrong. She had simply lived, merely existed and did as all creatures do, tried to find some joy in an uncaring world. So why must she now pay with her life? Why must she be punished for the crimes of others?

As those thoughts battled against the Ilasean way, she felt rage rising in her once more. Unlike other times, she felt no desire to lash out. Instead of burning in her chest the fire smothered any sadness or energy and left her cold. And in the wake of its icy grip, she felt clearer than she had done in months. Focused.

She set the kettle down and picked up the cup. For a moment longer she hesitated, then tossed the killing tea into the fire and watched the herbs smoulder to nothing.

Though Ilas was known as the All-Seer, Kanika knew she had a darker form. Any who spent this much time in the temple knew of their goddess’ other epithets. Ilas the Destroyer. Ilas the Avenger. Ilas who would sink her blade into the heart of every foe until the final battle foretold in the scriptures.

Kanika took the sharpest knife and strode with purpose to the altar. The temple was still and silent, most of the hearths now cold. Moonlight broke through the cracks and gaps in the ceiling, lighting her path as she walked. Despite the empty space she felt a tingling closeness in the air around her, a pressing of something not quite there. She felt eyes on her, though she knew all around her slept. Rather than making her shrink and quail, the sensation leant strength to her limbs as she knelt before the carved eye on the altar.

“Mother Ilas, All-Seer, Destroyer, Avenger and guardian of my bloodline, I come before you a supplicant,” she whispered. “I have no eyes to See and no mouth to speak, for I put myself in your hands. I beg of you this, and this alone. Take my blood that you may do your boundless work through me, and that through my actions not a single one of the invading pigs will outlive me. I swear each and every of my actions from this day forth will be to live in your image and be their doom.”

Kanika sat a moment, allowing the full force of her prayer and oath to settle. Tears spilled over her cheeks and caught the breath in her lungs as she felt purpose fill her. She pressed the knife into her index finger until its blade pierced her skin and let her blood well up in a bubble of deep red, then held it out over the offering bowl. The first drop fell sluggishly, followed quickly by two more.

As she rose from the altar, the familiar numbness sank into her once more, accompanied by an exhaustion that felt deeper than her bones. She tried not to imagine the disappointment on Tormille’s face when she rose in the morning and found her still breathing. What was done was done. She only hoped she would be up to the task she had set herself.

CHAPTER THREE

ARMAND

“I won’t do it.” Armand set his jaw and forced himself to steel his gaze towards his sister. “She refused when I offered. Why should we welcome her now?”

Ophi met his eye squarely and firmed her shoulders in away that told Armand she would not back down. He sighed and braced himself.

“Why will you not let this go?” Ophi said. “She is desperate, she is in danger, and you would deny her this? You loved her once. She needs you now. And you will find no better ally, I assure you. Who else would have such access to the palace?”

Armand shifted in his chair, buying time to find an answer. After all that had passed between him and Kanika, he should feel outraged that Ophi would ask this of him. That she expected him to draw close once more to the woman who had broken his heart less than a season ago. But he knew none of it would matter to Ophi. And that any objections he raised couldn’t compete with the truth of her statement; they needed someone in the palace,and Kanika would be right in the heart of it.

“You are still in pain from losing her,” Ophi continued. “But I don’t understand why you continue to blame her, rather than directing your hatred at the ones who made it come to pass. What choice did she have?”

“I do blame him. I blame them all,” he retorted. “And even if she joins us, then what? She is still bound to him and hated by her people. We cannot breathe a word of work she does for us to anyone.”

“But at least it gives her a chance,” Ophi countered. “Which is more than she has now.”

Armand sat in silence, stewing as he tried to outwit his sister’s emotional appeal. Their parents’ dilapidated house creaked in the pause, the chilly afternoon finding ways to creep in through the slapdash repairs he had attempted. She waited a few moments, then spoke again.

“Please, brother. Do it for me, if not for her.”

Armand felt his resolve crumble even as he tried to resist. Finally, he sighed and nodded slowly.

“Very well. But I can only ask. I cannot guarantee they will accept her.”

◆◆◆

As dusk blended seamlessly into darkness, Armand positioned himself across from the temple. He pushed aside the sense of unease he felt at spying on Kanika without her knowledge. The thought of someone watching from the shadows, and that someone being him, was unnerving. But the urgency of Ophi’s pleas had him wondering.

It would be far safer, he knew, to not mention Kanika’s request and tell Ophi that the Resistance had refused her. He could live with the dishonesty if it meant preserving the last chance Argorien had at regaining its freedom.

A faint sting in his heart reminded him of the lonely nights after the prince had taken an interest in her. She had demanded Armand leave her alone. She had broken their engagement without hesitation and left him to pick up the pieces. The sadness turned soon enough to anger when she would hardly look at him if they met by chance. Begrudgingly he acknowledged that his sister might be right. The grudge he bore clouded his judgement and made him easy prey to foul rumours about his former betrothed.

He didn’t know what he hoped to see if he caught a glimpse of her. If truly she had acted from fear rather than spurning his love, he didn’t know what to make of his own behaviour.

His sister had always maintained that Kanika was more imprisoned than enamoured. He had to know if she looked like a hollow husk even when she knew nobody would judge her. Word about the city was that she enjoyed the prince's attention, that she felt no remorse except for being caught out. But he could hardly imagine joining the Resistance would be of interest to her if that was the case.

Before long, a patrol of guards passed. Armand ducked his head to avoid notice, and when he looked up again, he saw Kanika opening the door into her tiny room. Her face still looked gaunt and drawn. She sat heavily on her bed, her jaw slack, her eyes staring into nothing.

He thought back to the dense summer nights they had spent together after vespers, to how he had glanced up as he crossed the street and saw her combing her hair or gazing out the window with interest at the passers-by below. If he hadn't known her, he'd not have recognised her as she sat almost catatonic in her room.

He sighed and breathed in the silence of the night. Incense and ash, braziers lit and stoked to stave off the chill for all those fortunate enough to live in comfort, met his nostrils. He leaned his head back against the cold wall and caught sight of one of the moons sailing distantly across the sky.

The last night they had spent together, he and Kanika, had been a night such as this. Eight months ago, she had been radiant, so full of life and laughter. They had crept out of the temple at dusk, to watch the moons and take sips of cheap, strong wine under the stars. They had not anticipated coming across Prince Atham and his pseudo-intellectual friends on their return journey. Too inebriated to realise they were not Ilaseans, Kanika had approached to warn them of the looming curfew. The prince had all but forced them to join his drunken group.  Armand could still remember the quaver in her voice as she answered him, could still see the lust in his eyes as he had assured her she had nothing to fear. Even then, Armand had known it was a lie.

A faint breeze blew incense over him, and he glanced up at the window again. Kanika had not moved, but the moon had shifted in its course through the sky. Armand turned away. He had intruded long enough. His boots made barely a sound against the frozen roads as he set off into the streets to meet his co-conspirators.

Moonlit nights while the city slept were the only chance he had to meet with the Resistance. In the warmer months it was almost pleasant, but each step in the frosted streets was more disagreeable than the last. Armand had dressed as warmly as he could, woolen stockings under his tunic and a thick cloak covering his head and shoulders, but the chill wind blew straight through them. Tiny shards of ice stung his face as he made his way to the ruined Skytowers. As far as headquarters went it was passable, but he knew the season would not stop at its threshold.

Armand followed his assigned route with care. Though the patrols followed a routine, he knew better than to trust blindly that they might not venture from it if the lure of warmed cider and a reprieve from the night tempted them.

It seemed luck was on his side, though, as he reached the Skytowers without spotting a single guard. It seemed Cecie’s powers of prophecy were still sharp. The sense of burden that he could not foresee obstacles for himself, as so many Resistance members did, nor travel through the magical routes weighed on him as he searched out where Cecie might have holed up for the night. The Skytowers were a maze, though one he had thankfully learned to navigate. His feet found their path as he ruminated on Kanika.

Though he knew it was far fetched, a small voice had risen in his mind at the sight of her. If she truly wished to be rid of the prince, that meant her heart had never belonged to him. Where might that leave the abandoned engagement and all their plans for the future? Hope rose in him that, if the Resistance succeeded and the Vraithii were turned back or killed, he might still end his days with Kanika beside him as his wife.

A sharp grunt followed by something clattering to the stone floor drew his attention. He beelined for the source and found two women in a secluded, ruined courtyard which had once been magnificent. Intricately carved marble benches lay half in rubble as vines and weeds reclaimed the neat stonework. Medicinal herbs tried their hardest to maintain sovereignty over the garden beds as invasive plants edged in to claim the fertile soil as their own. At the centre of the courtyard stood an algae-infested fountain, its shallow waters black in the night’s inky shadows. Frost gathered around the edges where the water met stone and traced delicate fractal patterns in ice.

Armand turned his attention to the women. Cecie’s long dark ringlets were pulled back and secured by a band of pale linen, framing her ebony face and fathomless brown eyes. She walked a slow circle around Catla, who had succumbed to some enchantment Cecie had thrown at her and dropped the wooden ball she was supposed to hold high. Armand knew the training well, despite never having engaged in it. It was supposed to strengthen the Seer’s defences against magical attack.

“You’re still too easily drawn,” Cecie commented as Catla regained her composure. “You allow others to influence your emotions with the slightest gesture, and jump too ravenously to action against it. It is a weakness.”

Armand cleared his throat. Catla spun to look at him, but Cecie merely held up a finger indicating he should wait.

“Practice distancing yourself from your emotions, girl,” she continued. “You are putty in every enemy’s hands, as you are. It will not do.”

Catla reddened but said nothing in retort. She got to her feet wincing and limped away to let Armand and Cecie speak.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cecie said by way of greeting. “Our plans grow, with the blessing of Ilas, and we have need of you.”

“Consider me at your disposal.” Kanika’s request might be better received once he agreed to whatever the Resistance required of him anyway, he reasoned. “What do you need?”

“The palace is well-guarded,” Cecie said. “But without access to it, we cannot hope to retake the city. Any attack would see the Vraithii holed up in there and able to outlast any amateur siege we could muster. But it was built as a palace, not a fortress. There are weaknesses. You must find them.”

Armand frowned. His family had been nobility before the invasion, it was true, but he had been a child. He remembered nothing of any military tactics he might have been tutored in during those days.

“I will do what I can,” he replied. “But I’m not well-versed in matters of architecture or security.”

A grin cracked Cecie’s face and she clapped him on the shoulder. Armand returned her grin with a quizzical smile.

“I know,” she told him. “We don’t expect a military operation from you. We are only after a way in. It need not even be into the palace itself, merely a gap, an opening somewhere that might serve to convey a few people closer in than we could otherwise reach. A crackin the walls, a rusted drain - something even an untrained eye could find.”

“Then might it not have already been found by the invaders?” Armand asked. Cecie grinned again and shook her head.

“They are not so strong as they wish us to believe,” she said. “Our intelligence has yielded some interesting aspects on their relationship with the Empire. There is every chance they haven’t the resources to have explored even a tenth of the palace in all these years.”

Armand let a pleased smile find its way to his lips. It had been a long road, but it seemed things might be falling into place. Kanika’s request could not have come at a better time.

“I will find it for you.” Armand took a moment to formulate his next sentence correctly. “I came here with a request of my own, though. Kanika. She is to be wed against her will, and she has asked for my help - our help.”

Every trace of mirth left Cecie’s face. Her eyebrows raised and she pursed her lips. Armand readied himself to argue, running over Ophi’s points from earlier in his mind. But before Cecie could object, Catla stepped in.

“That bitch wants our help?” She strode over them and puffed out her chest. “She maimed me earlier today. Did you know that? Threw me on the ground and screamed right in my face, then ripped out a chunk of my hair. See?”

She parted her white-blonde tresses to expose the bald patch. It was hard to see, only a little bigger than the tip of Armand’s thumb.

“Kanika wouldn’t do something like that -”

“Well, she did!”

“- without reason,” Armand finished. “She is a sweet-natured woman. She abhors violence.”

“Perhaps once she did,” Catla retorted. “But now she’s on her way to ruling over us all, her true colours are coming out.”

Armand gave Catla a hard stare for several moments. Her face was red, chin held high as she dared him to contradict her. He gave the only reply that came to mind.

“It seems you’re making great progress at keeping your emotions in check.”

For a moment he thought she would hit him, her whole body visibly trembling with rage. Cecie broke the tension with a hearty laugh.

“Go on, Catla, back to your meditation. This is between myself and Armand.”

Catla stood breathing heavily for a few moments, then turned with a huff and stalked back to the other side of the courtyard. Armand watched her go with unease, then turned his attention back on Cecie.

“She would be a valuable asset,” he continued. “No other spies could gain access the way she could once she’s there. We cannot pass up this opportunity, not if things are progressing as well as you say.”

Cecie sighed and let her eyes wander across the courtyard in silence. Armand itched to press his case further but knew it would be futile. Instead he waited, watching the moon carve glimmering swathes of light across the fountain’s surface. Opposite them he could see Catla’s silhouette skulking and watching them, no doubt muttering curses.

Finally Cecie broke the silence.

“Do you trust that she is truly against the marriage? That she will not betray us the first chance she gets and see us all strung up in the square?”

Armand met Cecie’s eye. A day ago he would not have been certain of his response. Even now he knew he could not be entirely certain. But Kanika’s gaunt face and hollow, dead eyes flashed before his mind’s eye once more.

“I do,” he replied. “I trust her.”

Cecie nodded slowly.

“Then on your head be it. I will send for her when I’m ready.”

CHAPTER FOUR

METO

“Come on, Atham!” Meto shouted, as the horses around them snorted and tossed. “It's getting away.”

The modest Vraithan hunting party advanced toward their target, following the princes and princess. A dozen  servants and slaves ensured the comfort of those who came to hunt and spectate. The late winter sun broke through the thick clouds. The day had not brought the flurries of sleet and snow such clouds usually threatened. Frost clung to the ground in treacherous, glimmering patches, sheathing the bare branches of every tree in the forest. The first buds of spring poked their petals through the tough bark encasing the trees with little success.

Meto charged at the unusually large boar, eager to ensure capture. His horse leapt into a roaring gallop, heedless of the gaggle of soldiers and slaves who followed.

Atham’s lack of enthusiasm irritated him. His brother had never liked blood. Even the divine blood sacrifices in the temple reduced him to tears as a child. When he took  to eating no meat except seafood occasionally–unavoidable in a port-city--and wearing his beard long, a group of people in the court followed him. They wanted to free all the Ilasean slaves, end the expansion by conquest of the Vraithii Empire, advocating a ban on human sacrifice. A very public embarrassment for their family, considering Atham was next in line for the High Kingship. When would he ever learn politics?

Meto snatched a spear from a servant, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the boar fleeing through the underbrush. He struck like lightning, a gurgled squeal informing all present that he had hit his mark. He slid off his horse and turned with ease towards Atham as a flock of servants hurried in to the finish the job for him.

“A fine shot.” Atham dismounted with quieter grace, his pale eyes impassive as they looked anywhere but the dying boar. “I'm sure the slaves appreciate the help.”

Meto laughed. He pushed his dark curls off his terracotta forehead, beaded sweat forming a bright line against the dark, freckled backdrop of his skin.

“Oh, come on now, Atham, you know they love our outings.” A grin masked his irritation. “See how they're eager to bring me my prize!”

Atham turned to follow his gaze and saw their younger sister helping to pin the boar down  with her knee. A burly soldier came forward and stabbed it through the eye with his spear. Atham flinched as the spear made contact. Before he could say something he knew he'd regret, Meto sauntered off to join Elsephere. She was supposed to be helping him talk sense into Atham, but instead she was focused on the hunt. Meto wasn't surprised. While blood repulsed Atham, it fascinated Elsephere.

“Don't help or anything, I'm really getting through to him.” Meto muttered sarcastically as he reached her. Elsephere looked up at him, her eyes serene and a placid smile on her lips, a thin line of blood splattered across her face. Meto shook his head and gripped the spear to prise it out of the boar's head. As he tugged, the boar gave a final spasming twitch. Its hind leg kicked out and dislodged a young sapling from the dirt bank.

“Hey-oh, Atham.” Meto shouted. “Watch out.”

Atham ducked as the roots creaked and snapped free of the earth, throwing up a cascade of dirt and freeing the trunk to lurch straight at his face.

Legs shaking with adrenaline, he stood, mud from his landing soaked into his clothes and befouling his face. His manservant, Willan, came to attend him with a flask of well-watered wine and a kerchief to wipe the mud from his face. Meto ignored the onlookers and strolled over to Atham, the spear still in his hand.

“Alright, m'lord?” Willan uncorked the flask, offering it to him. Atham took it with a slight nod. He bobbed his white-blonde head respectfully as Atham passed the cloth back. The pale light that reflected off Willan's head reminded Meto of what he was trying to distract Atham from. The prince had an appointment with his lowborn lover drawing ever closer. Meto was eager to prevent him making it.

“Alright there, brother?” Meto called out. “I think you're more built for combat than you realise, with reflexes like that.”

Rather than accepting the compliment with grace, Atham scowled at him and muttered something to Willan before meeting Meto's eye.

“You didn't need me here at all.”

“Nonsense, brother,” Elsephere replied warmly. “We were glad to have you along. Perhaps next time you will feel more at ease. I trust you'll be helping us lug the creature back to the citadel?”

Atham’s green-grey eyes settled on Elsephere with a kindness that had been denied to Meto. His eyes were darker,his body heavier-set than his fairer siblings, and they grew stormy as Atham replied.

“You know well that I must visit Kanika and ensure she is settling in to her new quarters.” His eyes hovered briefly over Meto's face. Meto's views on Atham's paramour were well-known about the court, in stark contrast to Elsephere's impenetrable silence on it. He dared his younger brother to speak out. Meto bit back a scathing comment, instead snorting dismissively.

“Far be it from me to impede the future king's love life.” Meto  smirked. “I should be glad you have one at all, really. Who'd have thought a Seer slave like Kanika would be the one to sway your chaste heart.”

Meto held his brother's gaze, in a silent battle of wills, for several moments. He could outmatch him in a physical fight any day, but the warriors accompanying them knew well whose life was worth more to the kingdom. Elsephere watched them with a bored expression, then turned to prepare the boar's carcass for transport back to the city.

“Brother.” Atham dismissed his brother curtly, gesturing to Willan, who disappeared and returned a few seconds later with their horses.

“Your Majesty.” Meto bowed low, the hint of mockery in his tone bordering on overt. Atham kept his face impassive, nodding to Elsephere, as he mounted the horse Willan provided. He kicked it into a sturdy canter back towards the city, without a glance back. Willan followed on his mare several paces behind him.

“You shouldn't test him, Meto.” Elsephere said softly. “He has a kind heart, but he is still crowned prince. One day his patience may wear thin.”

With any other member of a royal family he would see the sense in her words, but given Atham's decidedly pacifist leanings Meto doubted he would ever suffer at Atham's hand. The worst treatment he managed was a disappointed tone or pleas to end the current conflict.

The night he caught Atham in the arms of his lowborn lover, Meto struck Kanika across the face and threatened to have her flogged. Even then Atham had done little more than put himself between them and ask Meto to leave.

Meto often wondered if Atham had seen the cold spite in Kanika's eyes that night, as she glared at Meto through a rapidly swelling eye. If he had seen the hatred in her, would he still think of her as his pure-hearted beloved? If he saw it now, would he discard her? So far Meto had been unable to find an opportunity to show Atham the truth. He knew he lacked the types of subtlety and manipulation required to orchestrate such a revelation.

Meto spat onto the grass and helped Elsephere secure the boar, as his brother's hoofbeats receded into the forest.

The stark forest, bereft of leaves while the frost still lingered, cast a grey aura over everything, which the overcast sky could not illuminate. The setting sun streaked the sky with gold. Elsephere and Meto took turns with the carcass, though the servants carried out the bulk of the job.

A number of them were Ilasean. He could not for the life of him fathom why any of their people were being paid for their labour. They had the means to enslave every last one, and yet the High King had not. Elsephere insisted they were from privileged families, houses which had aided and sheltered the Vraithii when they came to civilise the city. Meto hated that their treachery went rewarded.

They came to the gates, the transition from soft thudding to clattering hoofbeats jolting Meto back to the present. He followed Elsephere as she straightened her spine and fixed a more regal expression onto her face. They passed through the streets to the palace.

The sight of the most recent Ilas traitors, hanging upside down from hooks in the courtyard, warmed him. Two women, an old man and a youth barely passed childhood, swung with guts hanging out of their mouths. Their pale eyes stared glassy and blank, their white hair streaked with darkening red blood. The thought of Kanika strung up in such a way brightened Meto's mood. Below the corpses, a team of Ilasean slaves swept and washed the blood from the flagstones. Meto knew they would scrub until they could no longer see, as surely as he knew that the stain would never shift. Too many had bled out there, the blood soaked in deeper than mortal means could reach.

With grim determination, the Ilas avoided glancing at their deceased compatriots as they worked. One fair-haired slave, a young woman in tattered prison rags, looked up and met his eye. He expected her to glance away as soon as she realised her mistake, but instead she wrinkled her nose, snarling at him. Meto readied to put her in her place. One of the other Ilas noticed his hostility. She reached out and slapped the girl hard across the back of the head, with a frantic whisper. The woman bent back to her task with a scowl, her knuckles white as she gripped the thick wooden scrubbing brush.

Meto ignored the hard stares and mutinous muttering, preoccupied with thoughts of food and clean clothes. They continued into the gated palace complex, the horses' pace increasing as they came into sight of their home.

“A good day's hunt.” Elsephere smiled at her brother. “Mother will be happy. You know how much she loves boar steak.”

“Indeed.” Meto smiled in return. “Though she won’t approve of the state of our dress.”

Both were covered in mud, grime and sweat, and looking like the commoners they passed on the road. They shared a cheeky grin until  Elsephere fell serious..

Thoughts of their mother, High Queen Ithrien, always dampened the mood. Of all the royal family, she had had the most difficulty adjusting to life in Argorien, their conquered city.

“Watch out for Father,” she said. “He was on the war path this morning. His mood won't have changed since then.”

“What, you don't think the sight of his favourite son will cheer him up?” The harshness in Meto’s eyes undercut his glib tone. Elsephere pursed her lips, though she knew better than to get into it with him about the High King.

Though he, Atham and Elsephere bore the same structure to their faces, that was where the similarities ended. High Queen Ithrien's tastes were broad when it came to her lovers. Not that she would ever admit it, nor allow such rumours to spread unchecked. Ithrien's genealogists swore black and blue that Meto's features were the very image of others in her line, but none saw how.

The origin of his blood had never bothered Meto, until it had bothered High King Eoghan – and then it had bothered him immensely. Meto knew the darker hue of his skin had contributed to the Empress' decision to banish his parents to what most had assumed would be their deaths in Caerphy. The burden of his birth had lain all the more heavily on his shoulders the day he had connected those dots.

He and Elsephere swung off their horses with ease. Slaves stepped forward silently to take their reigns and see to the horses.

“I should go visit Mother,” Meto said. “She is so distracted lately, I doubt she even noticed my invitation to join us today. I had hoped the three of us together could have swayed Atham from skulking off to that temple slave again.”

Elsephere shrugged, her auburn hair still remarkably in place despite their ride.“Atham is what he is, you can't change him. The sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be.”

“Still, he should at least look around for a more suitable partner, one he might actually marry one day.” Meto gave a frustrated sigh. “He should be looking to make a love match or an alliance with someone in a position to help our family, not newly freed slaves.”

Meto noticed Elsephere's attention waning. He frowned, frustration rising that no one was inclined to stop his brother from further sullying their family's honour.

“I'm sorry.” He raised an eyebrow at her.  “Do you have more important things to attend to than the future of our dynasty?”

“Why, yes, actually, I do.” Elsephere flashed a brilliant smile. “Good day to you, brother.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and whisked herself away before he could respond. He fumed as slaves stabled his horse and brought him a robe to cover his filthy clothes.

CHAPTER FIVE

KANIKA

Kanika felt fear creep amongst her doubt after Atham didn’t appear at the temple to sequester her to the palace. Each time she went to  a window or left the temple evil looks and insults came her way. After three days she stopped leaving altogether.

Within the temple walls she fared little better. Tormille gave her mournful glances at every opportunity. Catla’s spite rose further still. Kanika found fresh dog feces outside her door one morning as Catla was watched from down the corridor for her reaction.

Much to Kanika’s surprise, the high priestess warmed fractionally towards her. She was no longer assigned all the most tedious jobs, nor did she glare every time Kanika crossed her path. Her comment as Kanika cleaned out the offerings bowl on the main altar for burning illuminated her.

“Dried blood, I see.” She cast her eyes at the altar. Kanika jumped, unaware that she was observed, then nodded.

“An oath has been sworn. Though such things are supposed to be done under my guidance, I cannot deny that sometimes the gods work through their own means.”

“Whoever it was must be truly foolish to swear something without the proper ceremonies.” Kanika’s heart pounded in her chest as she met the priestess’ eye with as much reverence as she could muster. “I’m sure none here would condone it.”

“Foolish? Perhaps.” The high priestess drew closer. “Or determined. Driven by divine purpose.”

Kanika averted her eyes, trying to come up with an appropriate response. The sound of heavy footfalls outside the temple drew their attention. Atham burst in with his usual disregard for the holy space. Kanika jumped, nearly dropping the bundle of offerings.

“Come now, my love.” He beamed. “We have a wedding to plan. Aren’t you excited?”

Kanika bristled at his condescending tone, but knew better than to show it.

“Of course.” She placed the bundle of offerings respectfully by the altar and went to him. “I’ll just say goodbye to everyone, and then-”

“No, no, my love, we have no time.” He pulled her close to him. “The midwinter gala will begin shortly, and we can hardly have you turn up looking like that.”

Kanika glanced at her stained smock and tunic. After delaying four days, now there was haste? She bit her lip and glanced back at the high priestess. Kanika thought she saw her mouth tighten as Kanika met her eye.

“Of course.”

Kanika held Atham with a faint tremble in her lip, finding herself more upset than she’d anticipated. The temple had been her home for as long as she remembered, the high priestess a distant, but effective, mother. Even in light of the recent frigidity towards her, Kanika mourned the loss of the place that had sheltered her when she had nothing left.

Atham didn’t notice her hesitation. He clucked his tone impatiently at her and grabbed her arm, forcing it to link with his own, and steered her out into the street.

“We must make haste, my love, haste,” he insisted. “You know, quickly. We haven’t much time.”

Kanika swallowed the lump in her throat as they stepped out into wintery sunlight. Her clogs slipped on the treacherous ice at the top of the stairs; she hadn’t even been given time to get her boots. She maintained her balance by clutching more firmly to Atham. He patted her arm and ploughed on.

◆◆◆

The streets passed them by in a grey and silver blur. Within a few short minutes, she was hustled out of the carriage and pressed into a small wooden doorway at the palace. Atham left her flocked by servants, some Ilasean, others Vraithii. They plucked at her smock and ran their fingers through her hair, all speaking at once, then hurried her into a room and stripped her naked. She tried to hold onto her clothes, overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught, but the servants were far too adept at their jobs.

Once bathed, she was dried with a soft towel, then pressed and prodded into the stuffy Vraithii clothes already selected for her. At the same time, her hair was braided into too-tight patterns across her scalp and adorned with heavy gold and jewelled pins. Thick dark kohl was ringed around her eyelids, making them itch and water.

A sharp pain in her earlobe made her cry out. She tried to tug her head away from the woman, only to catch sight of a bloodied pin in her hand. Kanika reached up to touch the inflamed skin and found her fingers coated in blood. She opened her mouth to protest when another servant took advantage of her distraction and pierced her other ear. Kanika bit back tears while the servants continued, as though stabbing pins into people was a daily occurrence.

When the servants had finished, they stepped back a moment to admire their work. Kanika got a glimpse of her state. It was a far cry from her usual shapeless grey smock and raw linen tunic.

Fine orange silk, trimmed with ludicrously expensive gold thread, restricted her breathing. The fur stole they’d fastened about her shoulders felt heavy enough to suffocate her. Jewels in green and turquoise adorned her neck, earlobes and wrists. Delicate woven slippers on her feet revealed her freezing toes. The tight braids pulled on her scalp, the ends tickling at her neck where they hung loose. The sting of the earrings dragged her swollen earlobes down.

Kanika fought the sinking sadness in her chest as the servants ushered her away down a corridor. Sounds of revelry from somewhere up ahead grew louder with each step. The hallway was dusty and poorly furnished. Kanika realised it must be predominantly used by slaves, servants and other undesirables unfit to walk the public halls. She didn’t know how to feel about being counted among that number. But then, she reminded herself, the engagement was not yet public. She didn’t know how Vraithii court worked, but she supposed that the royals might keep any number of lovers in the palace. As long as she stayed unofficial, perhaps she would not have to spend too much time with Atham.

Any further conclusions were cut short by their arrival at a grandiose door. Kanika took a steadying breath, ignoring the persistent throbbing in her earlobes and the nascent headache borne of too-tight braids. One of the servants pushed the door open and another gave a small shove in her lower back.

She stumbled into the most ornately decorated room she’d ever seen. Her eyes couldn’t find focus. Impossibly tall frescoed ceilings and marble polished presented a perfect gleam. Chandeliers of delicately twisted wrought iron illuminated the scene before her, while matching braziers offered some relief from the cold.

She became aware of the people. Dear gods, there were so many. All dressed in finery and grouped into cliques Kanika couldn’t begin to fathom. She towered over the assembled nobles, and for a moment it puzzled her. Then she realised she was standing, alone, on a low dais. Some of the nobles cast curious glances her way. She flushed red and hurried off the dais. The few who noticed her offered her no sanctuary. Some gave her frosty stares, others laughed openly at her disorientation.

“My love!”

Kanika was almost relieved to hear Atham’s voice, until it drew obnoxious attention to her descent to the ballroom floor. More nobles gawked at her. Heat fled to her cheeks. There had to be a way out of here.

She turned to find him frantically searching fine apparel for his lanky figure. Atham made his way towards her with a group of Vraithii of his own age in tow. His manservant trailed behind them. The assembled revellers parted for him with practiced paces. Atham paid them no mind. He caught Kanika by the arm and turned to face his friends.

“Isn’t she lovely?” His tone sounded surprisingly sincere. “Did I not say she was wasted in that drafty old temple?”

A murmur of agreement rose from Atham’s posse. Kanika kept her face impassive, expecting that he would shortly introduce her to his friends, but he seemed content with the familiarity staying one-sided.

“I’m amazed.” One man’s eyes traveled over Kanika’s body. “She’s maintained a healthy weight, despite her impoverished conditions.”

“Very healthy.” A woman added. “She’s positively plump!”

Kanika smiled, though she detected a note of something sharper in the woman’s tone. Was that an insult? Atham made no comment on it, though, instead turning to Kanika.

“My love, will you not greet my friends?” His voice held a slight edge, one she had not heard before but knew boded ill for her. “They have been so eager to meet you, and you stand there gaping like a beached fish.”

“Of course.” Kanika smiled as graciously as she could. “It is so lovely to meet you all. I’m… grateful that you show me such hospitality.”

That seemed to appease the nobles, but Kanika felt a tense note from Atham. She tried to brush it off to prevent herself spiralling into panic.

The lady who insulted her reached out one glittering paw and ran her fingers through the loose ends of Kanika’s hair.

“So fine,” she commented. “I almost didn’t believe the Ilasean hair could be natural, but up close now I see that it is. How exotic.”

Encouraged by the lady’s presumption, several of the other Vraithii nobles gathered around to examine Kanika more closely. Kanika froze, heart pounding. Their touches felt as though they reached something deeper in her than just her hair and skin. The urge to pull away and hide her face grew almost until she could no longer bear it. Just as she was about to push them off her, a smooth Ilasean voice cut through their excited whispers.

“My lords and ladies, the High Queen requests her son’s presence.”

Kanika cast a grateful glance at Willan, Atham’s manservant. He gave no indication that he noticed her gratitude.

“Ah, excellent.” Atham grasped her arm and pinned it to his with his usual force.

“Let us not keep her waiting then.”

Kanika felt every eye as Atham dragged her to the semi-secluded bower where the High King and High Queen reclined on sumptuous divans. A small group of nobles reclined with them. Kanika’s step faltered as she caught her first glimpse of the king and queen. The gazes that turned on her were neither warm nor curious. Each pair of eyes felt like daggers aimed at her neck.

“Majesties,” Atham greeted them. Kanika wondered if he addressed them so formally in private too. He bowed extravagantly. “You requested my presence?”

“Atham,” the High Queen said. “Who is this… charming young lady you’ve chosen as your escort tonight? I cannot quite place her.”

“Of course, how rude of me.” Atham paused to grin widely. “This is Kanika, the woman I’ve been telling you about.”

The temperature in the area dropped exponentially at his revelation. Kanika swallowed hard to stop herself throwing up.

“Well, it’s hardly appropriate for her to remain simply ‘Kanika’ then, isn’t it?” The High Queen’s eyes bored into her son. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady…?”

Though her words seemed addressed to Kanika, the High Queen didn’t take her eyes off Atham. He nodded, seemingly unconcerned, then faltered. The silence hung for so long Kanika thought she might die of nerves. She realised with a jolt that Atham didn’t know her last name.

“V… V…” Her breath caught in her throat. “Verais, Your Majesty.”

A quick glance at Atham told her he was flustered as well, his pale cheeks flushed red and his brow unseasonably damp.

“My dear.” The High Queen gave a broad smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Might you give me a moment alone with my son? No doubt you and I will have time to get to know each other later.”

Dread seeped into every fibre of Kanika’s being at the prospect, but all she could do was curtsy and try not to appear in a hurry to leave. She’d made it only a few paces from the bower when she almost ran into Willan.

“Sorry, I was just-”

“You shouldn’t apologise to me.” His eyes were just as cold as everyone else in this horrible place. “My Lady.”

Kanika gave him a confused look. He sighed and glanced towards Atham, still flailing under his mother’s interrogation.

“I’m a slave,” Willan told her. “You’re not. So you don’t say sorry, or thank you, or please to me. That’s not how it works.”

“Easy for you to say,” Kanika retorted. “This morning I was the lowest of the low in the Temple. I shouldn’t be here.” Her eyes fell to the marble floor. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Willan’s eyes widened as Kanika’s breathing began to quicken.

“Stop that.” His tone startled her eyes upward. “Have you not noticed yet, Lady? You are in a den of wolves now. They cannot know you are a sheep.”

Kanika closed her eyes and tried to block out the sounds around her. Kanika knew what wolves did to sheep.Bloodied wool, limbs torn, flesh and entrails spilling out onto crimson snow flashed through her mind. She was that sheep. They would suck the marrow from her bones. Doom rushed from the shadows of her mind.

All she could do was breathe. Air burned her chest with each gulp. Within a few minutes, her heart rate slowed. She opened her eyes expecting Willan to be gone, but found him still standing by her. Before she could give him any sign of gratitude, a flurry of activity caught her attention and she found herself confronted with two older nobles, a man and a woman. Willan bowed low to them both.

“Such a pleasure to see a new face at one of these, isn’t it Aurris?” the woman commented. Her long dark hair was arranged in similar braids to Kanika’s, though she bore it far better. “Eifie Fairfaxe. A delight to meet you.”

“Aurris Warre.” The man bowed. “A delight, indeed.”

Kanika did her best to imitate their greetings, her movements clumsy as they grasped her hand in turn.

“Kanika Verais.” Her voice sounded like a squeak. “I’m Atham’s--that is, the Crown Prince’s--”

“Yes, of course.” Aurris interrupted her before she could stumble over more words. “We’ve known the lad since he was a boy. He always was a rebel.”

Kanika wanted so badly to accept the warmth being shown to her. Eifie and Aurris both played the roles so well, she was almost deceived. But she noticed how many of the nobles around them glanced their way. Willan’s advice took on a new dimension as it became clear that everyone knew who she was, and that her perceived affection for Atham and naivete at court matters were being calculated into a judgement of her.

“I confess, I’m not used to such… large gatherings.” She needed to get away from here. Eifie and Aurris laughed politely.

“You will soon get used to them,” Eifie told her. “We have little else to do, out here in the provinces. The Empress encourages such jollity. And who are we to refuse our beloved Imperatrix?”

In all the times Kanika had heard Atham speak about his imperial aunt, she had never heard him express such affection for her. A thought rose in her from nowhere, as though suggested by some deeper part of herself that knew more than her conscious mind ever could: these were Atham’s family’s enemies at court. They clung to their allegiance to the Empire even as the royal family sought to strengthen their own power in Caerphy. Trepidation came upon her in a rush.

“Of course.” Kanika searched for an exit. Not only did she need to learn how to navigate here, she needed to avoid causing harm to politics she knew nothing about. “No doubt they will soon be the highlights of my days.”

That drew another tinkling of polite laughter from the nobles. This time they were joined by others around them, who gravitated towards Aurris and Eifie the way Atham’s friends gravitated to him. Kanika felt her head grow muddled. Already the complexity of Vraithii court was overwhelming. She tried to think of something safe to say when the crowd shifted again. Atham made his way over to them with purposeful strides, his face still red, his brows drawn tight together.

“You’ll have to excuse me.” He nodded to the nobles gathered around Kanika. “But m’lady is exhausted from her day, and we must retire early.”

Atham’s grip on her arm made Kanika gasp. He steered her out of the chamber briskly enough that she struggled to keep up.

“You’re hurting me.” She pulled away as they reached quieter corridors. “Atham, please--”

He released her suddenly, causing her to stumble. Willan had followed them at a discreet distance. Kanika knew she would find no recourse in him.

“You humiliated me,” Atham hissed. “In front of my parents, in front of my friends. Why do you delight in treating me like this?”

“I didn’t - I don’t, I swear!”

“And then openly fraternising with Fairfaxe and Warre. How could you be so stupid?”

“How am I supposed to know these things?” Kanika’s voice broke and tears flowed down her cheeks. “I wasn’t raised at court. I’ve never even seen so many Vraithii in one place--”

“Perhaps your breeding truly will be a problem,” Atham’s face was blank. “Perhaps it is foolish to expect someone like you to ever grasp the finer points of civilised living.”

He scoffed bitterly and stared down at her distraught face without compassion.

“Willan will show you to your chambers. I am done with you for tonight.”

Then he turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor, leaving Kanika to sob in his wake.

CHAPTER SIX

ELSEPHERE

“Such a good daughter.” Eoghan smiled and turned to Uledi. “She makes an old king feel his age, but only as the soft breath of spring makes the stale snow realise its time has come.”

Elsephere poured scented, boiling water into a copper foot bath for her father. Vervain, valerian and chamomile buds swirled in the flow. Age had been kind to his looks, but not to his joints, and bathing his feet with the medicinals each morning had been a staple for some years. Her father's servants stood back respectfully, various implements in hand, ready to step forward as needed. Uledi, Eoghan's oldest – and to Elsephere's knowledge only – friend, sat quietly at the king's desk, browsing through some papers. Elsephere had only ever heard him speak a handful of words. Given her father's preference for stoicism, she had long since judged Uledi an ideal match for the aging king.

“She is,” Ithrien replied, a small smile echoing her husband's from a divan in the corner. “She will make a wonderful leader, some day. Always caring for her people. Such a shame she's third in line.”

With her usual grace, Elsephere suppressed the impulse to spit. Everyone knew Ithrien favoured Meto as heir. Elsephere tested the water temperature, added some cold, then invited her father to put his feet in the steaming bath. The servants stepped forward to ensure the High King was comfortable. Elsephere stood and brushed off her hands, then turned a sweet smile on her mother.

“Indeed, such a shame that the country's future stability is hampered by a pacifist fool and a... well...” She paused and smiled smugly. “A man who does not quite live up to his father's hopes. Or maybe he does, there's no way to know.”

She watched Eoghan's face darken fractionally. Reminders of his wife's affair always set him in a foul mood. He reached for his pipe as Elsephere sat beside him and fished for her own pipe in her tunic. She had deliberately chosen to bring the first pipe her father had gifted her on her fifteenth birthday. His eyes lit up as he recognised it.

“Atham's foolishness is no reason to discount Meto,” Ithrien replied.

“Both princes are on their own paths,” Eoghan agreed, taking Elsephere's pipe to fill it for her. “I do not begrudge any youth their indulgences, nor intend to dictate their lives from beyond the grave. Some are simply less suited to ruling than their breeding might suggest.”

He glanced at Ithrien, his eyes lingering on his wife for a moment, then ran a calloused finger gently over the cloud and leaf motifs etched into the pipe. He handed it back to Elsephere with a twinkle in his eyes. Elsephere took it and lit it, blowing smoke rings over the still surface of the water around Eoghan's feet. He chuckled and lit his own pipe. Out of the corner of her eye, Elsephere could see her mother gathering to leave.

“Well, if all your going to do is sit about smoking and gossiping like geriatrics, I shall occupy myself elsewhere. Keep in mind whose line was pure royalty for over six hundred years,” she said coldly. “I must accompany Meto to the border. If he is to lead the army one day, he must know what we face.” She swept out, ignoring Uledi as she always did.

Eoghan looked darkly after his wife, though he did not call any retort after her. He muttered about bastards under his breath as he re-adjusted his tunic. The sun would be rising soon. Frost and week-old snow still lay frozen in shaded corners that hadn’t seen enough sun to thaw. Elsephere puffed slowly on her pipe.

Eoghan was seated in a well-made wicker chair facing the open glass doors that lead out into a private courtyard from a sitting room, his tunic pushed up on his knees, a variety of exotic potted plants and warm, comfortable divans and chairs set around bookcases and braziers. Elsephere looked on her father's face with proud affection, the weight of his long, hard life evident in every crease on his pale face.

None had expected Eoghan to survive his crusade against the Seers. Caerphy had been assaulted several times before, and at that time none who sought to claim it had succeeded. Returning soldiers had told tales of monsters in the mist who consumed their comrades and destroyed their war machines. Elsephere had lived in Argorien since she was old enough to speak, and she had yet to see any such creatures. If only Eoghan had been sired by the right man, none would dare send him off to the edge of the empire to rot, and Elsephere might have been born an imperial princess rather than the daughter of a bastard king. He had come about as a result of the then-Empress' dalliance with a handsome lord.

The Emperor had done all he could to see Eoghan shunned by everyone who counted at court, doubling down on those efforts once Valsenya, a legitimate child of his own bloodline, had been born. There was even a rumour that he had tried to have his young step-son killed on more than one occasion while he was ward of a family far from the capital.

That had been over fifteen years ago now, and Eoghan was no longer a young man. His eyes had clouded of late, the grey becoming milkier. His feet and ankles often swelled overnight, a symptom of his age, according to the physician. The man would outlast his joints. A common enough affliction, easily treated with soaking each morning. The best that could be done was make him comfortable and encourage him not to spend hours on his feet in cold, damp courtyards or draughty chambers addressing court.

“It's not her fault, you know,” Eoghan broke Elsephere’s contemplation. “Not hers, not mine... we raised all of you the same way. But perhaps nature can overcome even the most vigilant parenting.”

Elsephere put a hand over his, squeezing gently. She had never been quite sure how deep the feeling ran between her parents. Love, sadness, regret, recrimination... they had been married almost thirty years.

Both had had their various affairs, protected with waxes and teas to prevent conception. It was far from uncommon. But Elsephere had always wondered if Ithrien had forgone such measures just once, in the throes of passion perhaps. Eoghan was certainly shrewd enough to notice the discrepancy. So many lovers and affairs, yet the only child who looked nothing like Eoghan occurred when the timing might have excluded him from paternity.

“Perhaps you're right. The spirit is stronger than the lessons. It does seem a shame, though, to see all this that you've built crumble to dust, all because Atham cannot choose a suitable spouse, and Meto is so war-hungry,” she commented. “And I'm sure I have my faults too, blind to them though I may be.” She gave a small shrug. “I guess your legacy is doomed, Father.”

Eoghan turned steely grey eyes on her. His servants stopped tending to his feet, frozen awaiting the incoming storm between father and daughter. The king dismissed them with a curt jerk of his index finger, and they vanished away without hesitation. Elsephere trembled a little inside, but kept her exterior competent and cool. If only he would step in and end Atham’s relationship with the Seer, lay down laws to prevent the royal family from decadence and decay.

“No one dares speak like that to me,” he said. “And yet that is what they say, in court and among the people. Isn’t it?”

“It is, sir,” Elsephere replied. “They worry what will become of them if Atham is allowed to rule.”

“They are not alone in their fears,” Eoghan admitted. “Though they are fortunate if that is the extent of them. Atham was always weak. But his weakness has a way of ruining all that he touches. I could forbid the marriage, but he would still be in line for the throne. I could disinherit him, but it would be tantamount to admitting that my bloodline is corrupted beyond repair. I could insist on another suitor, but the noble families of Vraith are hardly lining up to offer their children’s hands to a favourless warlord on the edge of the Empire. All roads are blocked. And none can see it but me.”

Elsephere sat in meek silence as Eoghan spoke. She couldn’t recall him ever speaking so frankly on Atham’s fascination with the Ilaseans. A tinge of guilt edged into her thoughts as he laid out their problems. She had been among those who thought he should end Atham’s involvement with the Seer, execute her if need be, and that would be that. She had thought his lack of action showed lack of awareness or lack of care. Now she saw the sleepless nights spent on the issue.

A shuffling of papers drew Elsephere's attention to Uledi. As always, she had all but forgotten his presence. His dark eyes frowned over the papers. She reminded herself that she needed to guard her words more carefully. Eoghan may be aging and indulgent of her, but Uledi was an enigma she could not trust.

Eoghan frowned. He was about to continue when a shadow passed over his eyes. Elsephere stiffened. Her father's hands relaxed slightly, the pipe slipping. It would have dropped onto his tunic had she not caught it as it fell. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognised the dreaded signs.

“Father?” She replaced the pipe on its stand. “You nearly dropped your pipe.”

Eoghan tried to raise his head to reply, but his muscles betrayed him, lurching his neck too far back and to the side. His eyes held only terror, fixing for agonising moments on Elsephere before rolling back into his head as he tried to speak. The words escaped as gurgles in his throat. Elsephere stood quickly as Eoghan began to shake violently, her heart sinking as she put her hands to stop him from hurting himself. Uledi materialised by her side and pressed his strong arms onto the king, only partially succeeding in restraining him.

“Fetch the apothecary,” Elsephere barked, knowing her father always had staff lurking to satisfy his every whim. An attendant stumbled from the shadows and stared dumbly at the seizing king. Elsephere cursed under her breath and released her father's besieged form to stand and slap the attendant across the face. “Apothecary! Now!”

The young man scrambled off to do her bidding. She turned back to Eoghan. The sight before her broke her heart.

He had been a broad, brawny warrior in his youth, and to his credit very little of him had run to fat with age. It made calming him quite the task, even with Uledi's strength. Eoghan's back seemed intent on breaking itself with each violent thrash of his body. Pink froth rose from his mouth and slid down his chin. His eyes were half-closed and vacant, his fists clenching and unclenching.

Elsephere helped lower Eoghan to the floor, pushing against the spasms that threatened to bring them down too fast. They lay him on his side so that the blood-flecked foam did not block his throat. As he seized, Elsephere tried to keep calm. The fits were becoming more frequent. None could accuse her of sentimentality, but the thought of her king and father dying with his legacy incomplete shattered her soul. He had achieved far more than most could even dream of. To die in this putrid backwater city, banished and forgotten by his homeland, was a travesty.

Elsephere clung to him until his body calmed, then  pulled a pillow from the chairs to keep him comfortable until he recovered. Uledi sat back on his heels, his breathing coming hard and fast. Elsephere noticed a tear glimmering in the man's eye.

As Eoghan's breathing calmed and his eyes stopped spinning crazily in their sockets, she breathed an unsteady sigh. She reached a shaking hand towards her pipe and drew from it deeply as her heart rate slowed.

“He's getting worse,” she said.

Uledi gave no reply, vanishing beyond Elsephere's vision deeper into Eoghan's quarters. Elsephere fought back a helpless sob. Where could she turn for help? Every option her mind presented was rejected almost as quickly. Atham cared for no one but himself. Ithrien would do all she could to put Meto in the highest position of power, or failing that would sit on the throne herself, even though it breached the terms of her surrender to the Empire. Any one of the noble lords and ladies on Eoghan's witan might seize the opportunity to stage a coup. Uledi was trustworthy, seeming to have no interest in the politics of the kingdom, only in the king himself. If she talked to him, the man may suggest retiring the throne and vacationing. Elsephere's mind darted from one helpless hope to the next, faster and faster, until she felt lightheaded.

Alone in her thoughts, she barely heard a discreet knock from the passageways in the walls. As knocking grew louder, Elsephere rallied.

“Come in,” she called, surprised by how calm and distant her voice sounded. She glanced over as the panel slid open and the sepia face and rolling black curls of the apothecary emerged from the shadows.

“Ah, dear.” The apothecary knelt, tending to Eoghan's prone form. Elsephere sat silently and smoked as the apothecary administered liquids from tiny bottles into her father's eyes and mouth.

“He will be quite weak when he wakes.” The apothecary stood. “Has he been taking the tea every day?”

“Yes, he has.” Elsephere rose with her, doing her best to replace her strong front. “He understands that he is sick, he rarely resists it.”

The apothecary seemed about to reach out and comfort her, but Elsephere gave her an imperious stare, cutting the gesture short. She already relied on the woman too much.

“Is there nothing stronger you can prescribe?”

“No, Your Highness.” The apothecary paused. “But he could yet recover. It's in the hands on the gods now, and we can do only that which they allow.”

Elsephere swallowed back tears and nodded again. “Thank you.”

The apothecary bowed and left through the passageway.

Elsephere waited until  Eoghan awoke, cleaning his face and calming her endless nerves for the course of an hour. She heard him stirring, pushing aside her pipe and the scroll she’d been reading, and sat forward.

“How are you feeling, Father?”

He tried to sit up, but his limbs could not lift him. He fell back, exhausted, and turned his gaze on her. The lines in his face were especially deep against their ashen backdrop. A thin sheen of sweat only enhanced the pallor.

“Fetch me a drink, lass,” he said. “I must join my witan before the morning meal. They must not be left waiting.”

Elsephere made no move to do his bidding, averting her eyes as the weakened king struggled to right himself. He looked at death's door, as after every fit. Though his pride may not allow him to see it, the witan could never know how badly degraded his health was. The loyal witan would not be able to sway those who had achieved their status to scent out weaknesses in the royal house. Though the line of succession was clear, there were grounds enough for the more ambitious of the noble houses to challenge Atham's suitability to rule. That could end in a bloodbath, something they could ill afford with Eoghan's health in question.

“Elsephere! Fetch me drink, insolent child, or I'll... you'll be sorry...” Eoghan's vague threats devolved into a coughing fit that spattered blood and spittle across his daughter's face. She blinked, then wiped it off with a kerchief, careful not to react. Realisation dawned in Eoghan's eyes. He let himself fall back on the divan, jaw working furiously.

“So it has come to this, then?” he said. “I am not yet sixty, but the daily tasks of my station are too much?” He spat bitterly onto the floor, a thin line of blood caught on his lip. “The witan must not know.”

Elsephere felt relief flood her. They would survive, as long as he could maintain his mind. She nodded in agreement.

“I'll reschedule.” She made to rise, but Eoghan grabbed her by the forearm.

“No.” His mouth set in a grim line as he gathered strength to instruct her. “Find Atham. Or your mother. One of them must sit in for me. There are problems at the border that must be resolved. We cannot wait on my health to decide on it.”

◆◆◆

Elsephere sent out a small fleet of slaves to find her older brother and her mother, then sat with the king to await their arrival. She read to him from the Epics of Surrissurro, an ancient bard who was said to have travelled around the globe three times in search of the gods. It had been her favourite, as a child. Rare afternoons passed with him immersed in the legends had become a treasured time for them both. But as she finished each tale, the king grew more and more restless. Finally, he reached a decision.

“They have abandoned me,” he muttered, the fearsome warrior he had once been appearing before her for just a moment. “You must go in my place then, dear daughter. Listen carefully. What I tell you now, none must ever learn from your lips.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

METO

Meto was halfway to the border fortifications before the sun crested over the horizon, his mare eager to keep a strong pace, catching up to his mother and her entourage. Meto clattered into the courtyard just as Ithrien greeted the commander.

“Ah, here is my son now.” She smiled. The commander bowed her head respectfully. “I was just discussing with Commander Greys the impact the barbarians' attacks have been having.”

He knew Greys from her rotation at court. Her wife controlled a large mercantile share in the harbour by the palace. Greys had been one of his mother's retainers when Ithrien was still queen of Morriden, before she married Eoghan and gave up her right to rule her own land to the Vraithan Empire.

“Your Highness,” Greys greeted him.

“Commander.” He nodded. “How are the fortifications holding up? The news to the capital is patchy, at best.”

“Let me show you.” The Commander led Ithrien and Meto to the parapets, climbing up rickety wooden stairs. Meto pursed his lips, about to comment of the disrepair of the structures, but his mother shot him a look. His stomach churned nervously as they reached the walkway along the wall. A strange odour crept into his nostrils. Acrid, thick and altogether distasteful despite how appealing it smelled. As the vast, empty expanse of fields and marshes came into view, the source of the smell hit him in the stomach.

Piles of blackened corpses lay smouldering at the bases of pikes set parallel to the wall. On top of the pikes, in varying stages of decomposition, were the masked heads of men and women from the barbarian tribes who so delighted in tormenting the troops on the front. Upon closer inspection the faces were painted in shades of ochre and fine white mud, though decay had eaten through some of the fearsome patterns. Meto got a chill up his spine. He turned back to his mother and the commander.

“We are sending for a fresh rotation of troops this week,” Greys was saying. “The warriors just can't handle the strain – there are soldiers here who haven't slept in almost a week, they're so terrified of the savages.”

“So soon?” Ithrien replied. “It's less than a month since the last batch, we cannot sustain this. The apothecaries have had to start rationing the sleeping aids.”

Greys breathed sharply through her teeth. Meto knew she had seen more than her share of action. She had fought alongside Eoghan in the first and second great waves of the conquest.

“They are like smoke, Your Majesty.” Her eyes had settled on the mid-distance, where the marshes grew shrouded in a thin, eerie mist. It clung to the sodden earth and twisted tree trunks like a wraith guarding its trove, enticing in fresh victims. “We still have no firm numbers on how many raid us regularly. Could be only a dozen, could be hundreds. They know this land, they use it to increase their reputation, and thus their advantage over us.”

Meto had his own opinions about the constant stream of troops sent to the border, but he was rapidly realising how childish his assumptions had been. The longer he stared at the nebulous ground beyond the fortified wall, the more shadows he saw flitting back and forth, just beyond his vision, too far to make out properly whether they were real or just figments of his heightened unease...

“Meto!” Ithrien clapped a hand on his shoulder, jolting him out of his focus. He stumbled back, his world spinning as his feet slid further than he'd anticipated. He realised with a sickening lurch that he had climbed the parapet without being aware of his limbs moving in order to try to see through the surreal landscape before him.

“I-I... what... I didn't mean to...” he stuttered, nausea rising in him. Greys looked grim.

“The natives, Your Highness,” she told Ithrien as Meto reached blindly for Elwin, belatedly realising that his steward was still in Argorien. “We suspect they have cast some evil spell on the fort. When we first stationed here all those years ago, before us stretched clear fields and plains, I'm certain of it.”

“I remember it well, Greys,” Ithrien replied. “I can see why you need your supplies. We shall double the recruits, you are welcome to any aid we can provide.”

Greys bowed gratefully, pale and stern, though Meto thought he could see a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She bowed. “We need seasoned veterans to keep the young blood in line, if you can spare any older knights.”

Ithrien nodded thoughtfully. She paced over to the parapet, her eyes distant. She squinted at the smouldering corpses and their pikes.

“And the warriors still fear them, despite seeing that they can be killed like anyone else?” she asked.

“Their corpses inspired more fear in our own than in the enemy. If you'll come this way, I will show you why.”

Meto and Ithrien followed Greys into the yard. A small pile of fresh corpses lay prone on the cobblestones, covered in a dirty tarp. Greys nodded to the two guards beside it, who gingerly lifted up the cloth.

What Meto had assumed was several corpses was in fact just two, both of them built like giants. A man and a woman dressed in leathers and adorned with skulls and feathers on their shoulders lay on the cart. Their faces were half-obscured by masks, the flesh that could be seen daubed with warpaint. Unlike the usual waxy impassive face of death, the pair of them had their eyes wide open, every muscle in their faces contorted and tense, as if grinning at their killers from beyond the grave. He fought back the revolted exclamation that rose in his throat.

“Every one of them, every barbarian scum we fell, over the minutes and hours afterwards, they all look like this. These ones we felled last night.” Greys confirmed.

Ithrien looked at the corpses with distaste. She prodded one with her boot, at first lightly, then with force. The corpses made no movement. She kicked one in the head, then smashed her heel into its face. She stepped back, haughty and cold. The corpse's face was no less terrifying, the muscles still distorted over shattered bone. Meto moved forward to examine the smashed skull.

Its bones had become so brittle they had almost pulverised. Small sharp shards stuck through the rubbery flesh. The eye still hung unnervingly from the socket, and Meto had to force himself not to look away.

“This is no normal decay.” He swallowed vomit rising in his throat. “When have you ever seen a corpse break down like this, Mother? It's unnatural.”

Ithrien looked pensive a moment, then turned back to Greys. The two exchanged a look, though Meto couldn't quite read it.

“Send them to my personal doctor in the city,” Ithrien said. “My son is right, that is not normal. Perhaps an expert can shed some light on it.”

Greys nodded and beckoned forward a young steward, who took notes as she and Ithrien dictated. As Meto was listening, a warrior approached him discreetly with something crumpled in her hand.

Her dark eyes were wide. Her short dark hair, though braided and tied in a bun, had started to escape in cloudy ringlets from its neat military style. She looked a wreck, ashen under her ebony complexion.

“Y-your Highness?” she stuttered.

Meto couldn't help but feel irritated at her, despite knowing what she must have gone through over the previous weeks.

“W-would you bring this to my cousin, if it please you, m'lord? She will seek you out, you need only give it to a servant and you need not even look upon her, if I might beg favour, m-m'lord...”

All throughout, she barely made eye contact, her fingers trembling as much as her voice.

Such a shame, such a waste, Meto thought to himself. To be at the front a soldier needed to be hard, far harder than the average civilian. This little wretch had almost certainly been a high quality soldier, but would live out her days on the streets once her stint at the front ended, or in a padded room if her family had money and cared for her greatly. He forced some kindness into his voice, though every fibre of his being was urging him to run far away from this accursed place.

“Of course, soldier,” he replied, with all the warmth he could muster. “And what is your name? And your cousin's?”

“C-Cassia, m'lord,” she squeaked. “I-I'm Lux, my cousin is c-called Saffron...”

Meto interrupted her smoothly, afraid she might burst into tears on him. He took the note from her and placed a hand warmly on her shoulder.

“It is my honour to serve my people as they serve me,” he told her. “Thank you for your service, Cassia. I will personally ensure your cousin gets this. Fear not. You have my word.”

She breathed a deep sigh and clasped his hand, her shoulders visibly relaxing. Meto comforted her as best he could with a smile and a hand on her shoulder, and she righted herself, and regained her composure. She clapped her closed right fist on her breastplate in a soldier's salute, then turned and vanished off into the fort.

“Meto, we must go,” Ithrien called to him. She was further away than he recalled her being – or perhaps he was the one who had moved. This place messed with his mind. He shuddered at the thought of becoming that soldier as he ran to his mother.

◆◆◆

They arrived back at the palace by midday. Meto had Elwin take notes as he bathed and dressed, then sent for food and wine to his quarters. He sent a note down to the dungeon as well, and was gratified to see a very bedraggled prisoner brought to him after his food arrived.

The prisoner looked incandescent with rage, even after he offered her a portion of his lunch. She looked ready to slap his fork out of his hand.

“You left me in there for weeks.” Her eyes were cold. “They barely fed me.”

“So you should have quite the appetite for boiled potatoes and roast quail then.” Meto grinned. He gestured to a divan opposite his own. She sneered at him and grabbed a whole quail off his platter, tearing into it with gusto, though she declined to be seated. Her eyes never warmed or left his face as she ate. He smiled nonchalantly at her.

“Ask your ignorant little questions, then, princeling.” She grabbed the pitcher of wine and poured some directly into her mouth, swished it around, then spat it out the window.

Watching her intrigued him. She had no reverence, no regard for his stature or title. It was curiously refreshing. She spat tiny quail bones openly onto the floor. He chuckled.

“First things first, then,” he said. “Your name, if you don't mind.”

“Saffron,” she replied, obviously relishing the look of shock he quickly hid. She threw more quail bones on the ground. “You have a message for me, I believe.”

She went to his dresser and hunted through his purse until she found the note the soldier at the front had given him for her cousin. She pocketed it without opening it.

Meto abruptly gathered a sense of how vast the Acolyte network was, right under their noses in the city itself. His mother and father thought the Acolytes already vanquished. The Vraithii could all be murdered in their beds any night of the month. The prospect of rooting them all out to eradicate the threat was mind-bogglingly vast.

Saffron watched him carefully, her dark eyes dancing. He kept his composure as best he could.

“If you're quite ready to continue.” He cleared his throat. “The guards told me you were caught sneaking along the private balconies here, next to the royal quarters. Is that correct?”

“If that's what they say, then they're probably right. I don't know this place.” She shrugged, then ripped off more quail with her teeth.

“They do,” Meto used the tone of a patient parent waiting for a child to own up to their misdeeds. “But those balconies are over thirty feet off the ground. How did you get up there?”

“Magic.” She grinned. Was she teasing him? He stared at her for a moment. She stayed silent, letting him know that she would not be elaborating. Time to change tactics, he decided.

“The Acolytes are a myth, of course.” He felt nerves jittering through his fingertips. “But you wouldn't learn, ah... 'magic' like that from any old street corner. Are you from the city?”

“No.”

“Where then? The slums, the countryside, the port...?” He couldn't remember the names of any of the places outside of the border wall.

“Far, far away from here. Farther than any Vraithan has ever gone.” She plucked an orange segment from a platter. Her neat white teeth sank into the flesh with relish, though her eyes held his.

“Where, exactly?”

“You wouldn't know it.”

Meto sat back, mildly amused. He picked at his own food while she ate her orange and rooted through his belongings with very little regard for his presence. He bit back any sort of reaction to her invading his privacy.

“Since you are so clearly bored by my questions, perhaps you'd like to think it over some more in the cells?” He sat a bit taller. She scoffed something that sounded like an insult in her native language. “Or, we could just cut straight to the point. You are an Acolyte, you got sloppy breaking into the palace, and your bravado and stonewalling is your last-ditch attempt to keep your neck off the chopping block. Am I close?”

She ignored his question, gliding smoothly toward the divan opposite him.

“So what do you want, Vraithii?” Saffron sat with elegant posture. “You don't strike me as the sort of man to entertain for fun. Or at least, not the sort to entertain people like me.”

“I am not.” He held back a chuckle. “But you are uniquely placed to be of use to me, and I to you.”

He gave her a wolfish grin. She raised an eyebrow coolly back at him.

“Let’s see what you have to offer.”

Meto fought a triumphant grin. Since he was a child, his Ilasean governesses had told him of the assassins who would surely swoop down and steal his spirit if he didn't get to bed, brush his hair and wash his face without complaint. In the stories they were ascribed so many amazing different qualities. Here one sat, all but admitting to being an Acolyte and entirely in his control. The answers he would find, the glory he could win, if an assault could be mounted against their mythical fortress in the clouds.

“It would benefit your people, I'm sure, if you had the ear of someone powerful here in the citadel,” he said. “Before we arrived to civilise these lands -” He ignored her snort of derision. “- we know that there were many types of resin, cloth, spice and precious stones coming out of this port. We also know, most of those things are not naturally occurring within the Ilasean lands.” He poured himself some wine. “I'm guessing the Vraithan presence has disrupted trade significantly.”

“And in exchange, what? You want my help to elevate your position at court? Or something equally common?” she surmised. Meto bristled at her tone, but kept calm.

“I do.” He pushed his patience further than he knew he could. “You could be responsible for fostering a relationship between the prince, maybe future king of Argorien, and your own rulers. For bringing wealth and bounty back to your lands. Do your people have rulers, by the way, or..?”

“I shall need some time to think it over. You'll be informed if we decide to do business.”

Meto smirked and nodded. He got up and rang for Elwin.

“Very well, use your dark magic to get a message to your fellows, or however you intend to go about it. You can wait it out in the cells.”

Meto rose to summon the guards who had brought Saffron to his rooms. He turned back before he rang for them with a smug smile to give her a parting quip, but she was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ELSEPHERE

Elsephere’s favourite slave, Morgaine, brought something to break her morning fast in the King's Chamber connected to the witan hall. Once the food was served, the slave darted off for some clothes more appropriate for addressing the nine powerful lords and ladies of Argorien. Elsephere’s stomach churned as she downed the berry jam and bread Morgaine had provided, forgoing the milk in favour of some fresh sweet water.

She stripped off her lounging robes and let Morgaine help her into a thick fur-lined tunic and breeches, the weight of her parade cloak and hob-nailed boots somehow comforting. This was all about presence. The witan must know that she commanded them this day. She must bring to the fore every ounce of breeding and authority as she wielded her father’s power.

Once she was fully dressed, she took a look at her regal figure in a burnished copper mirror and smiled. She might not have had the schooling afforded to Atham for politics and power, but she had a damn sight more natural talent.

Morgaine tinted her face with rose cream and darkened her tawny brows with kohl before twisting her hair into a loose knot at the base of her skull.

“You look terrifying, Your Highness,” Morgaine told her. Elsephere smiled, though her throat was far too taut to thank her. Instead Elsephere grasped her slave's hand for reassurance, enjoying the slight pressure from their intertwined fingers. She stood slowly, then nodded to Morgaine to open the door.

She walked through to the witan room. The sound of chairs scraping against the bare stone floor assaulted her ears, though she gave no indication it disturbed her. She cast her eyes over the lords and ladies assembled before her. Suddenly, she felt like a small child who had strayed out of bed late at night to find her parents’ friends in the drawing room. She swallowed and stepped forward far more confidently than she felt.

The only two she needed to worry about were Auris Warre and Eifie Fairfaxe, who had no particular role but were included in the witan as trusted friends of both the Empire and the High King. Elsephere knew that meant they were likely to report back anything even remotely treasonous to the Empress of Vraith in case her half-brother geared up for rebellion or independence.

“Your Highness?” Lord Rune Folke, treasurer and primary financier of the realm, bowed at the neck, one hand on his chest. “We are delighted to have the pleasure of your company, but we were expecting His Majesty. Is everything alright?”

“Perfectly alright, thank you, m'lord,” Elsephere replied. “He's found himself called on urgent business to the border along with my mother, and asked me to step in for him.” She swallowed nervously. “Said it would be useful for us to get acquainted in an official capacity.”

Though it raised a few eyebrows, none in the room challenged her reason. Soland Blackmoor, who all but owned the docks and every ship Argorien, built and commanded the navy, opened his mouth as though to speak, then thought better of it. Elsephere thanked her past self for being so attentive to state business and using her position to befriend the other lords and ladies at court. She gestured regally to the table and took her seat. The witan members followed suit.

“We can begin with the state of the royal coffers, if Your Highness would like to ease into things?” Lord Rune suggested. Elsephere thought she caught a note of amusement in his tone. She smiled and shook her head.

“We can begin wherever the witan deems best, my lord.” She breathed to steady herself. It seemed that her time making small-talk with Lord Rune's wife had not been in vain.

“For the gods' sake, let's begin where we need to.” Beatry Kather, commander general of the military and second only to the orders of the High King in times of war, was known for her blunt nature. “The border wall. It must be moved. The amount of resources we consume maintaining it will drain the coffers of this city, not to mention the cost in human life. Every one of the soldiers brought back from that post is damaged beyond imagining. That marsh is cursed. That fort is cursed. We cannot delay, we must begin construction on a new wall and fort, before we are overrun with natives taking advantage of the state of our soldiers.”

Eoghan had warned her that some of the witan would be in distress over the border fort. The cost of maintaining it was indeed great, but the cost of moving it could be even worse. She tried not to think about the horrors he had described to her, tried not to focus on the screams and blood that no doubt preceded the anguished, animalistic transformations he had relayed to her.

“My father insists that the fort remain as is,” Elsephere replied. “And no doubt he has good reason for it. However, I understand your concerns, my lady, and I am not unprepared. I have authorisation to request another six garrisons from the mainland, to arrive as soon as possible. All I require is the assurance from you, most esteemed lords and ladies, that such a request will not be misconstrued or twisted by my father's opponents in the imperial court.” She allowed her eyes to drift over to Eifie and Auris, then let her words sit a second before continuing. “Failing that, we have my father's blessing to purchase military assistance from Llanfairfe or another allied land, though mercenaries are far from ideal when compared with the loyal soldiers of the empire.”

She smiled sweetly as she let her words sink in. Eifie and Auris' attention had sharpened, regarding her now with respect instead of tolerance, as though reevaluating her.

“And did your father happen to suggest where the funds for such an enterprise might be found?” Auris asked. “Unless he is hoping that Lord Rune will bankroll it, you may find it harder to manage than you expect.”

“He did not make any suggestions, no,” Elsephere replied. “But if I might make one, I think you'll all find it acceptable. Am I correct in assuming that certain funds have been set aside in the event that I or my brothers are required to pay dowries to future spouses?”

Lord Rune smiled broadly as several others around the table shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and sat forward, moving his long dark locks off his shoulders.

“You are correct, Your Highness,” he replied. “But if you're going to suggest we take the funds from your own dowry, I think you should-”

“Oh, no, not from mine, Lord Rune – though that was my first thought, of course.” She smiled. “No, I was thinking that since such gifts are traditionally offered to the family of the spouse, and since my brother is engaged to a woman with no family, that it might be taken from his. Otherwise, what is to become of it? We can't very well give it to her, as she's not in a position to return such a generous gift with one of her own, and I would hardly like to humiliate my dear future sister-in-law in such a manner. And to gift it to the heathen temple she was raised in – well, in light of the precarious state of the fort, we can't risk angering the gods by bestowing such favour on a foreign goddess.”

The room around her sat in silence for a moment. She held her breath, unsure what to expect. Such a proposition was unorthodox in the extreme, and coming from her, third in line, without any real power beyond the temporary status granted by her father, could cost her dearly.

“Well said, Your Highness,” Eifie Fairfaxe said at last. “It has my vote, at any rate.”

“We need not decide on it today, given that such a decision would need to be ratified by His Majesty, but I think it has merit,” Lord Rune added.

Elsephere breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“No, of course, but it is food for thought, I hope,” she said. “And as my father was quite insistent that the border not be moved, we, as his loyal subjects, must do everything in our power to achieve his desires.”

Around the table, everyone knew to nod approvingly at her patriotic words. Elsephere allowed a brief moment of satisfaction before they moved on to the next matters requiring discussion.

◆◆◆

Elsephere expected to feel exhausted and shaken by the end of the meeting, but instead she felt invigorated. The city was not without its challenges and setbacks. The state of the coffers should really have been addressed before now, but her father had been so distracted since his illness took hold. The coffers could be filled with additional taxes on Ilasean traditional and religious items, and on farms and estates employing over fifty slaves. The soldiers suffering from shock after serving their term at the border could be housed in an abandoned Ilasean temple complex, with a small stipend granted to any who answered the call to tend them. But no task was insurmountable.

Atham's wedding to the Ilasean slave was agreed on. It was to be a small affair, with no invitations to anybody from Vraith. Their matrimonial tour would be funded by revenue from Atham's own estates, and conducted aboard one of Soland's rich merchant ships, which could recoup any losses by selling expensive Argorien wool acquired at a steeply discounted rate. The tour would avoid the Vraithii capital, so as not to bring shame on the already blackened Vallariath name in the imperial court. Aside from the Empress and a few select officials, none would even know of Atham's marriage – at least not until the High King was ready to divulge such information.

Morgaine waited for Elsepherer in the King's chamber. The Ilasean slave had become indispensable.

“Everything alright, Your Highness?” Morgaine was dressed in a fine blue linen tunic with her long white hair held back in pins, the barest hint of rouge on her lips and cheeks. Unlike so many Ilaseans, she understood how disconcerting their bleached appearance could be and accommodated Vraithii sensibilities by outlining her brows in dark earth and lining her eyelids with kohl. If not for her hair, she might have passed for Vraithan.

Elsephere smiled and closed the door, then pressed her body into Morgaine's.

“Yes.” She reached out to draw her in closer. “I think that went quite well, don't you?”

The slave blushed. Elsephere couldn't tell if from her fingers tracing patterns over her tunic or from what Elsephere had said.

“I don't know what you mean, Highness.” Morgaine smiled as she met Elsephere's eye.

“Don't toy with me, I know you were listening at the grate the whole time,” Elsephere said into her neck. Morgaine gasped in feigned outrage, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Eavesdropping? I would never!” She grinned. “If I had been, though, I'm sure I would have thought you were brilliant.”

Elsephere chuckled and leaned in to kiss her. The Ilas woman returned the kiss but pulled away before the princess could get her fill.

“We shouldn't, not here, not where the witan meets. The slaves will be here soon to clean it. Besides, your father will likely want a report.”

Elsephere stepped away reluctantly, though she didn't step back. Nothing killed her libido faster than the mention of her family.

“You're right, of course,” Elsephere sighed. “I expect to see you for dinner in my chambers tonight though.”

She planted one last kiss on her lover's lips, then swept away, still buoyant, to relay details of the witan to her father.

CHAPTER NINE

METO

Meto shuddered in the rain under the darkened moon Karashida. He had waited almost an hour. Saffron left him cryptic little notes and messages in his quarters ever since their first meeting. Half the time she didn't show up, which Meto decided was down to the high level of security surrounding the Vraithan territory and due to his ineptitude for puzzles.

A few kilometres inland of the city gates, seventy paces off the path, he stood on one of the only tall hills inside the border wall. He hoped he'd decoded the messages correctly. Each time she failed to show, she claimed he had waited at the wrong place, or at the wrong time, or was wearing the wrong clothes.

He found some shelter under an old tree, though it didn't block the chill coming off the river, or the fog from that wrapped thickly around his ankles.

This time, though, he felt sure she would attend. They had yet to reach any sort of solid deal regarding the Acolyte support for him as High King, but he felt confident in their progress.

This would happen. He could feel it. Opening the trade routes was a coveted prize. From what he could tell, at least four different subsets of people outside of the border held interest in not having to transport goods further than necessary. The Ilas had once thrived off the back of their port, and now his family would do so again. When asked how she could promise such a feat, Saffron had grinned darkly and assured him her dark goddess had ways of ensuring the outcome. Meto had initially baulked at using forbidden rites, but the promise of glory swayed him.

The trade goods themselves were what the Vraithans had hoped to gain by taking the Ilasean lands; incense, precious stones, rare fabrics and heavenly carvings on notoriously temperamental woods. The disruption in the trade had caused a massive crisis on the mainland, hundreds of merchants and nobles losing millions of drachins while the markets had struggled to stay afloat. Those who had once supplied the wares refused to make deals with the Vraithii, aiming to choke their economy and prevent further incursions into Caerphy and thus preserve themselves from the Ilaseans’ fate. A quarter talent of roseblood resin was going for the unfathomable amount of a million gold drachins on the Vraithii mainland, or so he'd heard.

Meto did his best not to congratulate himself too fulsomely. Opening up the trade routes would help him achieve the success and glory he would need to overcome Atham's claims on the throne. It would lend credence to his desire to conquer inland, and funding for his campaign. It might even bring a note of respect to Eoghan's tone when he spoke of his second son.

He looked out, kicking his feet in the mud, as the sun set and the city lit up with the glow of thousands of braziers and torches. Soft lavender and blue shadows pooled beneath awnings and in the darkest recesses of the ruined sections of the palace and the dilapidated buildings beneath it. The silhouettes rose up off the port like a stack of dominoes mid-fall, the Skytowers and palace the last remaining support for a city in collapse. The rising mist added an ethereal feel as the shadows grew longer and the lights in windows grew brighter.

If nothing else, the view was peaceful. With how hectic life could be in the citadel, it was a pleasant change. He flirted briefly with heading towards the border and not looking back. He might even have more success locating Anukthar as a lone explorer than a prince accompanied by soldiers. He wondered if Kanika would know anything of the people and places outside of the wall. She was hardly fit to be his brother's wife, but she must have some knowledge of how the land worked. She might have some value in that aspect alone.

Before he could further contemplate Kanika's potential use to him, Saffron appeared at his elbow like a wraith from the mist. He stepped back sharply to face her. Given how slippery she could be, he never quite believed she wouldn't just knife him and leave him to bleed out. She had threatened it once, when he had brought guards for their first meeting. He knew better than to bring the guards again.

“Good to see you didn't get too wet, Your Highness.” She, by contrast, was equal parts drenched and filthy. Her teeth and the whites of her eyes were the only thing he could truly distinguish in the dusky light.

“No thanks to you, Acolyte,” he replied. “I've been here for ages. This had better be good.”

“Now, now,” Saffron tutted. “That's no way to speak to your partner in crime.”

She pulled a scrap of rough hide out of her shirt and unwrapped it, revealing two more finely crafted pieces of soft leather. Strange flowing lines and curves in gold and black ink lay in angled strokes across the leather, smooth and mesmerising. He reached out and ran his fingers over the hide. He had never stopped to consider that perhaps the Ilas weren't the only culture in Caerphy who had writing and skill.

She handed him the unfurled vellums. He examined them as closely as he could in the faded light. They seemed to glow and burn into his mind, though the darkness was becoming too dense to see much else.

“What are these?” he asked.

“Your contract,” she replied. “We like keeping these things formal. You understand.”

He scoffed and turned the vellums around clockwise, then clockwise again. No matter which angle he looked at them from, they made no sense at all to him.

“I can't read these,” he said. “How can I sign something I can't read?”

Saffron raised an eyebrow at him. He glared back at her. She sighed and took them from him.

“And I doubt you'll take my word for what they say, will you?”

He gave her a look. She sighed again.

“You still don't have to sign this, you know. I got out of those cells unscathed, you don't owe me anything, I don't owe you anything.” She watched his jaw work for a few seconds. “Why do you care so much about this anyway? There are easier paths to the throne, especially for one already in line for it. The Vraithan economy will recover eventually, with or without our trade. Or it won't, and something new will rise in its place. You don’t strike me as a bleeding heart concerned for the wallets of merchants.”

Meto gave her a hard stare. She was a nothing, a servant of a primitive goddess. He could explain it all to her until the cows came home, and he doubted she would even begin to understand. He shook his head and snatched the vellums back.

“What do they say?”

She smirked and came over to his shoulder, indicating the lines as she read. He listened carefully. The words slid through his mind like flour through a sieve, though he wasn't about to ask her to repeat herself. He was half surprised she could read at all, even in her own language – assuming that's what it was.

“Basically, you provide the trade route, we provide support for your heart's dearest desire, and if either party goes back on the deal, they suffer. Endlessly.” Her eyes met his without blinking. “I am named as your contact – here, and here,” She pointed with her slender, sharp fingernail. “ - and you must sign, in blood, here...”

“And where do you sign?” Meto frowned. “If you go back on your support for me as High King, you will 'suffer', right? So where does your blood go?”

She stared at him with cold appraisal for a few seconds, then chuckled.

“You do not need to worry about me betraying you, Meto,” she said. “But, if you must know, it can go here.”

She indicated a spot just above where his blood would go. He thought it over a moment longer. As she said, he did not have any obligation to her, nor she to him. But he wanted the throne, knew he would do a better job of ruling than Atham, knew his mother would guide him to glory every step of the way. Atham had long since rejected any outside help unless it came from his Ilas wretch. Elsephere had merely laughed when Meto had discussed becoming High King with her support. The snubs and ridicule burned in him. How could he be the only one to see how dire the situation was? And yet simply because it came from him, none would act. They would rather see the city fall back to the savages than acknowledge that a bastard son might know what he was talking about. The sting of it steeled his resolve.

Saffron pulled a sharp blade, slim and curved, from the folds of her clothes. She made a tiny cut on the hollow in between the base of her thumb and her wrist, on the back of her hand, and dabbed it gently on the vellums, then handed the blade to him. He took a deep breath. He had always pictured his first steps to glory as more dramatic, heroic even.

“Focus on your desire,” she murmured. “See it in your mind as though it were already yours to claim. Then seal it.”

Meto hesitated, awareness at the gravity of his choice dawning on him. He wanted to ask why visualising the trade route was so important, but feared what she might answer. That it might confirm that he was indeed engaging in forbidden magical rites with an enemy of his people.

Instead, he did as she told him. Images of caravans loaded with everything the Empire craved streaming into Argorien filled his mind. But just as he made the cut on his wrist, another scene flashed before his eyes. He imagined his triumph at finally glimpsing the Acolyte city. Saffron pulled his wrist to the vellum before his blood could drip to the ground, and it was done.

He returned to the palace queasy, the sinking feeling that he had made a terrible mistake growing with each passing hour.

CHAPTER TEN

ELSEPHERE

“My goodness, Father, you've all but beaten me to a pulp,” Elsephere exclaimed.

Eoghan gave a weak chuckle in reply as his daughter reset the pieces on their board. King's Drum, based on the first king of Vraith's rise from obscure lord to ruler of sizeable land, was tradition since she was very small. He had never gone easy on her. Her first victory against him, aged fourteen, still brought a happy glow to her heart.

Though his mind seemed recovered from his latest fit, Eoghan's body refused to keep pace. Bed-ridden every day, Elsephere spent most time with him. She resisted sending for a cot to bed down in his chambers lest he need something in the wee hours. In part because she knew her father was far too lucid to allow it, and in part because Uledi had already taken it upon himself to do so.

Even now, as they sat playing King's Drum and sipping marshmallow tea, Uledi haunted her father at every turn. He sat absorbed in paperwork at Eoghan's desk, occasionally stretching his legs. Elsephere didn't know when his presence had become irritating, but at a certain point he had stopped being furniture and started getting on her nerves. She didn't dare ask why he and no one else was allowed to sit where Eoghan sat, write in Eoghan's name and share confidences only a spouse should hear. Something told her Eoghan would not take kindly to her drawing attention to the unusual situation, especially as she'd heard Ithrien make such comments often and only to the end of souring the king's mood.

“Another match?” Elsephere wanted to stay longer, to ensure he was comfortable and at ease. Her heart sank as Eoghan shook his head.

“No, my darling, not just now,” he said. “It shames me greatly, but I must ask another favour of you. While my body withers here in this wretched bed, the world still lives, as do my duties as king.”

Elsephere nodded, trying to keep her expression light and accommodating.

“After how magnificently you handled the witan, I hoped you would take my place examining the garrison this afternoon.” A weak twinkle glimmered in his eyes. “What do you think?”

Elsephere's eyes widened fractionally as the full implications of her father's suggestion struck her. She kept her face impassive as she replied.

“Father, I am honoured, but should not Atham be the one to inspect the guard? After all, he is the one who will succeed you, and the guards could do with seeing more of him.”

Eoghan laughed as Elsephere coloured slightly, belatedly realising what her statement implied. She began to backtrack, stumbling over her words, but Eoghan stopped her with a raised hand and a smile.

“You're right, of course. It would be nice if your brother took the time to attend to his duties.” Eoghan paused a moment, his eyelids fluttering weakly. “But so far as I can see, it is you who is due guerdon for your efforts. I am confident you will do me proud.”

Elsephere tried not to smile too widely.

“You will bring me back a full report, and ensure that the rotation is fair on the patricians of our little city. Understood?”

Elsephere nodded vigorously.

“And be sure the delegates from Ismaheim are greeted by yourself as well, they will be offended by anything less, karinina, don't give them any excuse...”

Elsephere stopped short, confused. Ismaheim? The expansive empire was Vraith's only true competitor on the mainland? She was quite sure they had no scheduled visits from the Empress' greatest enemies. Such a meeting would be akin to declaring war on Vraith, or not far from it. Then it dawned on her; her father was no longer lucid. She tried to bring him back gently.

“Father, Ismaheim is not making any visits to Caerphy, or at least none that you've told me about.” She waited as Eoghan's eyes moved quickly around the room. He sat back against his pillows and a beam of light fell across his face, but his pupils barely contracted. Elsephere suppressed a sigh.

“He's been talking about you inspecting the troops for some time,” Uledi said, breaking his customary silence. “You should assume he wants you to go ahead with it.”

Elsephere didn't react outwardly, still unsure of how she felt about Uledi's omniscient presence in her father's chambers. Her father had begun mumbling under his breath, his eyes unfocused. She knew she had been lucky even to get the hour or so she had with him in his right mind. Still, she had been so sure he was improving that seeing him recede once more troubled her. She squeezed Eoghan's limp hand before leaving his chambers.

Dressed in a sharp gold-embroidered tunic, a fur-lined woollen cloak and leather britches, Elsephere put on a confident and authoritative face, as she stood in the brisk courtyard inspecting the guard. Rows upon rows of the strongest, most competent, soldiers in the land stood before her. She knew the guard was everywhere, but seeing them before her, and knowing that they were not even the entirety of Vraithii-controlled military forces in Caerphy, impressed upon her the danger of their situation.

Atham was a stranger to them, Meto a comrade instead of a commander, and her father was incapacitated. Ithrien would surely lead them well, but Elsephere had no faith in the High Queen's maternal instincts. If, gods forbid, Eoghan was near death, Elsephere might find herself in a very tight spot. The thought of what that meant, for herself and Morgaine, left her frustrated and restless.

The commanding officer, Commander Elgarth,  led her in a predetermined inspection route through the troops. Commander Elgarth, to his credit, seemed unfazed by Elsephere replacing her father. Middle-aged, stoic and thickly built, the gruff commander performed his duties gracefully. Staccato words barked from his lips betrayed distinct evidence of a wealthy upbringing. He kept his salt-and-pepper hair short and neat, his whiskers thick and his armour in perfect condition. The usual medals and insignias of honour favoured by most of the aristocracy did not hang from his lapels, though he certainly earned them and kept them safe in his living quarters. Elsephere had always liked him. His lack of airs indicated she would be able to reason with him, she hoped.

The guard carried out parade drills, during which she nodded approvingly and clapped where appropriate. From the corner of her eye came a familiar figure idling across the courtyard towards her. Atham. A rush of apprehension coursed through her chest. Did he come to disgrace her for taking his rightful duty in front of the guard? Some revenge for her outburst outside the witan?

She braced herself for his tirade, but as he drew closer she realised it unnecessary. He looked hungover at best. Behind him, she spotted Kanika, at just enough distance that she might appear not to be with Atham, though not far enough that he would notice.

Elsephere pursed her lips. At least Kanika kept Atham from meddling in real politics, radicalising the gentry youth and campaigning for bans on eating meat and keeping slaves. Seeing the Seer's face, though, ashen and listless, Elsephere felt a pang for her.

“Elsephere,” Atham called, heedless as always of protocol. “My, this looks fun. What are you up to, sister?”

She murmured an apology to Commander Elgarth and walked towards Atham.

“Dear brother, Commander Elgarth was simply showing me around the guard.” Elsephere suppressed her impulse to spit, instead plastering a welcoming smile on her face.  “I am surprised to see you out at this hour. Are you not usually still with your retinue, breaking your fast and preparing for the day?”

“Ah, no, not today, Elsie,” Atham grinned blearily. “Kanika needed to leave early to strengthen her connection to the Temple, and I offered to accompany her. Best the Seers start feeling at home with me in their midst, no?”

Elsephere thought such behaviour was a good way to get killed, but she could think of no tactful way to say so, keenly aware of Commander Elgarth and the majority of the Vraithii army in Caerphy waiting on her.

“Well, I shall leave you to it then,” she said. Atham grinned at her and looked around at the assembled guard, clearly puzzled, then took Kanika by the hand and continued on through the courtyard.

Poor girl, Elsephere thought. She looked miserable while Atham was clueless, as always. The stupid boy probably convinced himself that she loved him back. Elsephere saw Kanika’s disgust at her brother, but she didn’t dwell on it. Ignore it or act, what good did anything else do? And she had more than enough on her plate without interfering with her brother's folly.

“Where were we, Commander?”  She indicated they should proceed with the inspection.

“Will the Crown Prince not be joining us, Majesty?” The commander asked. Elsephere shook her head and nodded towards the guard again. Commander Elgarth nodded curtly and continued detailing the many strengths of his garrison.

◆◆◆

The formal inspection over, Elsephere sat with Commander Elgarth in his study, as her father had done so many times before. Elgarth poured out a small measure of moonwater into two beaten metal cups and slid one across the desk to Elsephere.

“You've a fine crop of soldiers, Commander.” She took a sip of moonwater, suppressing a gag as it burned a trail down her throat.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Elgarth replied.

He downed his drink in one with barely a grimace. “They are all loyal, all fighting fit. But even they have their limitations.”

“Speak plainly, Commander, I have little desire to interpret riddles.”

“As you wish, Majesty. I speak of the border fort. It is a bottomless pit, consuming more soldiers and resources than we can spare. We must move the border, plain and simple. The cost is high, but not so high as keeping it as it is. We have another year in us at most before we have no more soldiers to guard the gates, and we are all overrun by those bone-clad screamers out there.”

Elsephere suppressed a sigh. It seemed the border wall was on everyone’s mind of late.

“Circumstances beyond our control make that impossible, I'm afraid.” Elsephere took another sip of the moonwater, finding it less repugnant on the second try. “But we do need a solution, one that does not ruin the lives and sanity of your guard.”

“Or bankrupt the treasury. What do you suggest?” Elgarth paused, seemingly about to try tact, but abandoned the attempt halfway through. “And how do you know the High King will agree?”

“All I can promise is that I will do my best to see this matter resolved satisfactorily.”

Elgarth surveyed her. She imagined what he might see: a princess too young and delicate to have any knowledge of the things he spoke of. A girl barely of age trying to play at grown-ups, armed only with confidence and perhaps too much cynicism for one so young. Despite this, she was the closest thing to a well-placed ally he had in this struggle.

“Thank you, Majesty.” Elgarth nodded slowly. “I'm relieved that you appreciate how grave the situation is.”

Back in her solar, Elsephere sat in her tall winged chair looking out over one of the elegant private courtyards of the palace. By all rights she should be looking for a nice partner to forge an alliance and further her family's bloodline. She should be hosting political banquets, traveling to distant locales to create networks of allies that would achieve the greatness her father had dreamed of for so long.

Elsephere somehow let Atham's indiscretions with Kanika slide in public. Their father worked so hard to achieve the family success.. He had dodged Empress Valsenya's scheming, protected Ithrien even amidst rumours she had been careless in her use of contraceptives with her lovers, accepted Meto, a child he knew was not his own, into his household. To see Atham throw it all away on a youth's fickle affair, especially one as star-crossed as his tryst with Kanika, shamed them all. Elsephere found her favourite pipe and filled it with local snuff, setting a wooden twig to it and inhaling the musky smoke.

Morgaine was disciplining one of the servants who had gotten a bit too familiar with the royal purse. Elsephere usually found it soothing to watch her at work, her graceful gestures and fine face a delight even on the darkest days.

Morgaine came in silently and began lighting candles. The sun’s last rays hid behind thick cloud coverage, leaving her room in relative darkness. She snapped herself back to reality and lent a hand with tapers while Morgaine stacked the braziers.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Morgaine smiled.

Elsephere shrugged. Morgaine finished stoking the braziers back to life and sat a kettle over one to make rosebud and hibiscus tea.

“What would you do without me, Your Highness?” Morgaine joked as the water boiled. “No doubt you would survive, but how cold would you be?”

“Indeed, and then what would even be the point?” Elsephere returned.

Morgaine poured the water over the herbs to steep in a pot, folded stray clothing that Elsephere had tossed over a chair by her desk. Elsephere was about to tell her to stop and come to sit with her, perhaps lie with her, when a sharp knock on the door rang out. Morgaine moved to answer it as Elsephere put on her usual public visage. Swallowing her disappointment, she nodded and Morgaine opened the door.

She placed the pipe on its stand and called “enter”. Morgaine whispered in hushed tones with whoever had knocked, then closed the door and turned back to Elsephere with a crease between her brow.

“What is it, Morgaine?” Elsephere’s mind baulked at the thought of more bad news. Morgaine passed a crisp parchment note to Elsephere. It was unsealed, but the handwriting was unmistakable.

HRH Crown Prince Atham Vallariath of Caerphy, is pleased to announce his engagement. He hopes you will join him to celebrate with his future wife.

The note went on to detail a date, time and place several days later, then finished with the usual formalities.

Elsephere swallowed a sob. She hoped that the woman he married would be some exceedingly wealthy princess from some far-off land. She would even accept a Caerphian noble from a savage inland country. She crumpled the note into a ball.

“That fucking fool! Has he completely lost touch with reality?” She pelted the crumpled note into a brazier, where it bounced and fell smouldering to the floor. Morgaine hurried over and collected it, putting out the embers with her fingers. Elsephere stood and began pacing. She felt her face growing red and tears pooling in her eyes.

“Mother will kill him – he will be hanging from the parapets by morning, that stupid, stupid boy!”

She noticed Morgaine waiting patiently for her rage to pass. Her loyal slave had moved the tea to avoid her tipping it, then moved to the wall, out of her way. Chagrined, Elsephere stopped, coming to rest at her desk. She planted her hands on the smooth walnut surface and let out a long, low noise of frustration. Morgaine stepped forward to comfort her.

“That's right, Your Highness. Breathe.” She rubbed Elsephere's back. “I'll double the shadows following her. With any luck, she'll slip up soon, and then Atham will need to shape up or follow her out.”

Elsephere could still feel the blood rushing in her ears as Morgaine murmured to her. She straightened her back and nodded, her cheeks pink.

“Of course,” she replied. “Of course. I shall simply be patient, and I'm sure this will all sort itself out.” She looked at Morgaine, willing herself not to see an Ilasean but her own Morgaine, lover and confidante of years. “Thank you.”

Morgaine returned the smile warmly and took Elsephere's hands.

“Your Highness, let’s have a contingency plan. I know a girl who's good at getting into hard-to-reach places.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

KANIKA

Kanika had sampled far more of the sweet wine than she ought to before being formally presented to the court as Atham’s future wife, she knew that, but without it she felt like she might jump out of her skin.

She and Atham sat in an antechamber bedecked with spring blossoms and fine tapestries, small windows up high allowing sunlight to dance through the garlands and stray threads. The room felt shabbier than she had expected. Before beginning on her wine, she had also noticed that the room contained nothing small or valuable, and surmised that at the very least the palace slaves did not trust her not to steal from her future in-laws.

Atham had provided her with an extravagant dress to be presented to the court in and feel more at ease. Ophi had done her best to help her into it, as Kanika noticed her own chambermaids often dressed her badly out of what she assumed was spite, but the Vraithan style was foreign to them both. Had it been an Ilasean stole-and-tunic, she might have felt at ease, even looked good, but she was sure the tight bodice and intricate hems and trims were all wrong, that she looked ridiculous. When she had asked Atham why so soon, and whether it was Vraithii custom to do things that way, he had been short and seemed on the verge of a sulk. His reticence did nothing to ease her nerves. The sense that everything was going terribly, horribly wrong did not leave her from the moment she woke that morning.

“They're ready for you, Highness.”

She glanced up. A small grate in the door before her had slid open, and she could almost make out Willan through the gaps. Beside her, Atham rose. He took her arm, then he sniffed and turned to look at her.

“Are you drunk?” he hissed.

His mouth closed in a hard line, but he said no more about it. Kanika knew he would harp on about it later, but in the moment she couldn't find it in her to care. The door before them opened and he half-led, half-dragged her through it.

They passed through a brief series of archways that opened up onto the palace ballroom. Along their left side tall, arched windows exposed breathtaking views over lush gardens woken from their winter slumber and, beyond them, over the sharp outline of the city below, the divide between the two outlined by a tall stone wall. Indoors, the floor was all but empty, only a few dozen nobles congregated around long tables laden with springtime decorations. Kanika had seen more nobles congregated in the Silk Market than had deigned to grace the royal engagement party. The knot in her stomach tightened. Baskets of seasonal fruits adorned with fresh spring flowers sat at intervals along each table, spaces left for platters which Kanika assumed would be filled later.

The room hushed as they entered. Kanika knew better than to assume it was for them, though. She cast her eyes across the ballroom and her heart caught in her throat. Arriving through a far more ornate series of archways, the four people who had haunted her nightmares since the day Atham had claimed her were approaching. The High King and High Queen were in front, then Elsephere and Meto, followed by a half-dozen servants and slaves.

Atham met them in the middle of the room, Kanika on his arm. He bowed low. Kanika followed suit. The room had quieted completely and Kanika was suddenly aware of the eyes of every person in the room on her. She was glad of her inebriation then.

“Son,” Eoghan said in High Vraithii. His voice carried loudly even though he had not raised it. Up close, Kanika could see his eyes wandered a little more vaguely than she might expect of a man his age. “It is true, then, that some flowers bloom best in wintertime. The love you bear your future queen warms me even from afar.”

He turned to Kanika, and she found herself rooted to the spot with fear. She had not encountered the High King face-to-face before. Still he seemed to stare through her through, no trace of hostility or grudge in his face or tones.

“May your union with my son bring our two peoples closer together, and may we forge the future of Caerphy on this day.”

Eoghan stepped forward and kissed her once on each cheek. Tension froze her face in place and prevented her from returning the gesture. Then he stepped back, clasped her hands and smiled at her. The weakness and tremor of that grip on her fingers might have caused her to pause at any other time, but the wine had directed all her energy inwards. All she could focus on were the eyes of the High Queen, trained on her like a hunting hawk about to strike.

Outwardly all she could do was smile. Atham was replying in an equally projected tone, but she could hardly keep track of his words. Ithrien stepped forth, perfectly composed and seemingly serene. Every granule of awareness her husband lacked seemed to have collected in her.

“Son, I am glad to welcome your future queen as my daughter,” she said, unblinking, her smile fixed in place. There was no uncertainty there, no doubt that the woman before her wanted nothing more than to slit her throat and stick her head on a spike. Kanika could only pray that the night would pass quickly and before long she would be tucked up in bed sleeping off a hangover. She accepted Ithrien's kisses with the same trepidation she had felt at Eoghan's greeting.

Elsephere and Meto presented their own well-wishes. Meto didn't even bother hiding his disdain. His words were clearly formula, his demeanour haughty and cold.

Elsephere on the other hand was all sweetness and light. Her warmth surprised Kanika, though she was grateful for it. She found it easy to give a small smile in return, Elsephere's pale eyes lighting up as she did.

“Esteemed courtiers, Your Highnesses, please! Eat. Be merry,” Atham said to the room at large. Kanika found herself repeating his words in a mocking tone in her head, at the same time wondering how he could be so immune to the frosty stares of the nobility around them.

And with that, the crowd loosened. Slaves attended them, bringing out platters of sizzling meats and steaming roasted vegetables, arranged in exquisite pyramids and towers, each one more beautiful than the last. It was far more food than Kanika had ever seen, and yet something made her think that it still was modest for a royal engagement party. So few weeks had passed since the populace at large had discovered that Atham was bedding her. Perhaps there had been no time. Perhaps the High Queen had vetoed anything more formal.

Atham kept close by her side, supposedly ensuring that nobody was unkind to her. The result was that nobody approached her at all, and she found Atham leading her from one group of nobles to the next by the arm. She smiled, bowed when she was introduced, and allowed the engagement ring to visibly shine on her fingers. She thought she noticed a few of the older nobles glaring down their noses at her. The nobles seemed to have little interest in Atham either, and Kanika thought she overheard his name spoken in mocking tones once or twice. Only a group of younger lords and ladies seemed genuinely benevolent, though whether by upbringing or habit they gave the impression of haughtiness and elitism. She recognised one or two of them as Atham's cohort of meat-free, pacifist nobles. As the gathering divided up and clumped into customary groups, he led her to them.

“Atham, congratulations!” they all seemed to twitter at once. Kanika found it hard to focus on any one of their faces, though the wine in her assured her they were all pasty and cloying. She felt heat rising in her cheeks. Atham moved away to chatter with a few of them. Two other of Atham's friends, a lord and lady of around the same age as him, descended on her. She had the impression of frills and gilding and too-stiff brown ringlets arranged in ordered chaos around the lady's face before they were pummelling her with questions and comments.

“Oh my, your eyes are so exotic! Is it true you can see the future?” the lady asked, her broad Vraithii features illuminated with layers of paint and stain.

“Your hair is gorgeous – I tried to have a wig made of Ilasean hair, but it's far too fine,” the lord added. Both were speaking formal Vraithii, a language Kanika had learned well enough to understand but not quite well enough to respond fluently in.

“Prince Atham is such a dear, taking you in the way he has, isn't he? Who know what sort of fate would have awaited you out in those awful slums.” A second lady had joined them without Kanika noticing. She spoke to Kanika as though to a child and smoothed a lock of her hair back off her face. Kanika found the gesture invasive and unwelcome, but was at a complete loss as to how to prevent such a thing reoccurring. All she could do was smile as prettily as she could and tolerate the avalanche of words and touches that threatened to overwhelm her.

Elsephere materialised at her elbow as if from thin air, her eyes glittering and warm. Kanika blinked in surprise, and the nobles around her instantly cooled. Elsephere looked each one of them in the eyes, unperturbed by their obvious hostility.

“Now, now,” Elsephere tutted. “Let the poor girl breathe. She's not as used to this kind of thing as you are. I would have thought that people such as yourself might have more empathy.”

The nobles around them bristled, but Atham was caught up in conversation and seemed unaware of Elsephere's presence. Kanika saw them clearly for a second. Elsephere was a wolf, stalking her prey, and each noble would be a lamb to the slaughter if they weren't careful. Kanika realised that she, too, might be fair game for her future sister-in-law, but had no time to contemplate it. Elsephere had slipped her arm into Kanika's and was guiding her away from Atham and his clueless friends.

“Kanika! May I call you that? Such a frightful ceremony, but, you know, it's tradition.” She rolled her eyes. “I thought you handled it very well, my dear. You're a natural!”

Elsephere plucked a goblet off a tray borne by an Ilasean slave and held it out to Kanika, then selected one for herself. She held up the goblet in a quiet toast. Kanika could barely stomach the thought of more wine, but she was loathe to alienate the only ally she might have amongst the royal family. She sipped the wine slowly. Elsephere had drawn her into a relatively quiet corner near the giant glass doors, far enough apart from the other nobles that their murmuring was barely a hum in the air.

Elsephere drained her cup and clicked her fingers for another. Just beyond her, the host of Vraithan nobles congregated and conversed, their eyes all seeming to flicker towards Kanika in unison. A quartet somewhere was playing music. Kanika could see some pairs and groups of people beginning to dance, though most stood coldly in their groups. It seemed the High King and High Queen had already left, and Kanika could not spot Meto among the crowd either. The nobles swayed in and out of her vision like reflections on a murky pond.

Elsephere was saying something but Kanika couldn't quite make it out. She forced her mind to focus.

“Kanika...?” Elsephere was looking at her as though she had grown another nose. “Are you alright?”

“Uhhh...” Kanika pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, of course. My apologies.” She smiled. Elsephere smiled back, a slight crease of concern between her brows.

“If I might say, you have had a trying few days, no doubt,” Elsephere suggested. “You would be forgiven for returning to your quarters, even so early in the night.” She glanced over at the lacklustre guests. “I doubt you'll miss much.”

With a sigh, Kanika tried to remember the correct protocol for attending Vraithan banquets. Her mind was barely coping with the language barrier, let alone holding onto the reams of etiquette she'd tried to memorise in the weeks before. She glanced over to where she'd last seen Atham, though she couldn't spot him now, only his manservant. Willan was watching her with an unreadable expression.

She realised Elsephere's arm had linked with hers again. Elsephere's fine scent of cinnamon and cloves washed over her. The scents usually complimented each other, but in her state Kanika found them overpowering. She didn't resist as Elsephere led her further away from the guests and out through the glass doors to the gardens. She tried to catch Willan's eye again, but he was gone.

“Some fresh air will do you good, at least,” Elsephere was saying. “I remember my first banquet. I got so drunk I slept in the flower beds. My mother was so livid she dismissed my governess and hired Morgaine instead to punish me. No doubt she thought that having such a low-born Ilasean as companion would humble me, but Morgaine is quite the diamond in the rough. I don't know what I'd do without her these days. Do you have any handmaidens yet? It may seem strange at first, but they really are godsends. I'll gift you some before the wedding, have no fear. I sometimes feel the entire empire is built on the competence of our servants...”

As Elsephere spoke, she led Kanika deeper into the gardens. Though her words rambled on, Elsephere's tone didn't strike Kanika as gossip. Rather, she seemed only to be filling the air so as not to let silence hang. A thought floated up in her mind that maybe it was only for show, so she didn't look like she was absconding with her brother's intoxicated future bride.

Kanika felt her stomach turn at the idea. She stumbled towards the edge of the path, vomiting sour red water into the grass. She felt Elsephere's strong hand on her back as she heaved and shivered, then everything went dark.

◆◆◆

Kanika awoke in a groggy haze. For a split second, she was filled with fear. The room she found herself in was not hers, she was sure of it, even in her hungover state. Tall ceilings, wide windows, a bed that didn't move as she shifted in it. It was a few minutes before she remembered she had moved to the palace after Atham's proposal. It had been a month, but still she wasn't used to it.

She frowned as she sat up and blinked around at the fine room, slowly recalling the events of the night before. She had vomited in the palace gardens. Elsephere had held her hair back and made soothing noises, then escorted her to her new quarters. Elsephere had made lovely comments about her ring and her dress and her hair...

She sat up with a jolt. The ring! She searched frantically on her fingers, then in through the bedclothes, under her pillow, under the mattress, panic rising in her chest. The sun was streaming in through the windows. She had no idea when or where she might have lost it and it seemed close to luncheon. It could be anywhere, with many hours and a gaping hole in her memory between her and the brilliant engagement ring Atham had entrusted to her.

She sat on the floor, dejected, on the verge of tears. Even the flashes of the night before that she could recall told her that the scrutiny she and her engagement faced were harsh and razor sharp. She could already imagine how the criers would spin it. Filthy Ilasean ex-slave loses priceless imperial heirloom. She would be ruined, publicly whipped, and if she was lucky, face a swift death in the square. She thought back to her vow in the temple. Terror at what might face her after death if she failed in her oath closed in on her. Pressure built in her head as her thoughts spun further into despair, welling up in her eyes and sending sharp spikes through every breath she drew.

As she fought back tears, a rustling motion by the curtains caught her eye. She forgot her tears instantly and grabbed an oil lamp, the closest thing to hand. She stood slowly. Was someone in her chambers? Oil lamp in hand, she paced slowly forward.

"Who's there?" she called, her voice firm despite her frantically beating heart. "Come out now or face the consequences."

From the corner, a tall, slim woman with dark terracotta skin, her face unblemished, her crown of curls catching the light in muted shades of red and gold. Her dark eyes were lowered as she stepped forward, a woven reed basket in her hands.

“I-I'm sorry, m'lady.” She bowed respectfully. “My name is Cassia. I was just bringing fresh linens. I did not mean to disturb your rest. Forgive me.”

She started heading for the door, her tunic skirts rustling softly against the rugs and floorboards. Kanika frowned. She had only just received fresh linens the day before, she was sure of it.

“Stop.” Her heart beat fast as the taste of stale vomit in her mouth threatened to send her retching onto the floor. "You are not my regular chamber-lady." She peered at the basket. "And those are not my dresses."

She narrowed her eyes at the intruder, wondering how quickly a guard could be on the scene if she called out for aid.

She wavered slightly - perhaps this was just a misunderstanding, some other person's maid come into the wrong rooms? She certainly didn't sound like anything but a maid. And yet still Kanika felt uneasy. She didn't know every person who lived and worked in the palace, obviously, but a voice in her head was insisting she had never seen this woman before in her life, that she was not supposed to be in there.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my chambers?" She tried to give the impression of someone much more competent and capable in dealing with these situations than she felt. She had known that marrying Atham would mean that she would need to get used to such unnerving occurrences. Elsephere and Meto had both had several unwanted visitors in their respective chambers over the years, usually unhinged delinquents who thought they shared a 'connection' or some such. But she hadn't anticipated needing to adjust to such intrusions so soon. "The truth this time, mind, or I'll have you strung up by the guards as an example to others."

The supposed maid froze, then turned to Kanika slowly. They shared an intense stare from across the room for several moments that stretched into eternity. Finally, she gave a small smirk, dropping the basket to the floor. As it fell, so fell any pretence of subservience. She met Kanika's eye squarely, eyes harsh.

“I wouldn't trust the guards, if I were you.” She surprised Kanika with flawless Ilasean. “I wouldn't trust anyone around here. If I were you.”

Kanika felt all the hairs on the back of her neck raise. She gripped the oil lamp more firmly, her knuckles white.

“Who are you?” She had a horrible feeling she could guess. “And why are you in my rooms?”

As though appraising her, the woman walked slowly in a half circle around her. She reached into a concealed pouch at her waist and drew out something small and shiny. Kanika caught her breath. The ring sparkled in the woman's slim fingers.

“I was sent to retrieve this. And you are a very foolish Seer.” The woman gave her a cold stare. Kanika had the feeling the woman was looking through her rather than at her. “You are playing a very dangerous game here, in this tainted place.”

"Give it back." Kanika kept the tremble out of her voice. She was sure now. She was squaring off against one of the legendary Acolytes of Anukthar, servants of the fearsome death goddess Erwen. "Whatever you're being paid, I'll double it. And let me concern myself with the games I'm playing. You wouldn't understand.”

Cassia made no move to return her ring, instead taking another step towards the door. Kanika flared up with rage and desperation.

“Anukthar is eternally safe, while we Ilaseans were the first to suffer,” she hissed, mindful of the need for discretion. “I don't recall much concern from the Acolytes when we had to send our Queen into hiding and pretend to accept these barbaric foreigners as our 'betters'. This marriage, my ascension to the throne – everything that ring represents – you don't know what you're messing with. We could drive them out, if only I can last long enough here. Why would you aid them? Do you really care so little for the fate of us here? Our nations were allies for centuries."

She realised with a smidgeon of pride that she was less afraid of dying by the Acolyte's hand than of facing the wrath of the Vraithii royal family. There was no question in her mind that it was they who were responsible for the theft. Seeing this Acolyte a hair's breadth away from ruining the redeeming resurgence of the Ilas was terrifying and maddening all at the same time. If only she knew what she was doing, she was sure she would never have broken in to steal away the Ilas' last hope for redemption.

Cassia replaced the ring in her pocket, crossing her arms over her chest. All trace of smugness or mockery was gone from her face.

“You are the Ilas who is to wed that princeling shite from across the water?” Her jaw worked furiously for a few seconds. “You desecrate yourself by allowing him into your bed, and you think you are doing something for us? For Caerphy? You are a disgrace. You are a political ploy designed to trick the Ilas into believing they are respected here, in their own city, and stop them rising up in rebellion. But you will be thrown out as soon as you are wed, throat slit in some dank alleyway and quietly dispatched into death with no proper Ilasean rites.” Cassia scoffed in disgust. “They'll probably bury you. In the ground.”

Kanika stared back at her, ready to brain her if she tried to walk away with the engagement ring. Finally, Cassia chuckled and shook her head.

“I have no desire to help them, though,” she admitted. “They would see all of Caerphy aflame. I shall return this ring of yours. It will be interesting watching you die thwarted, if nothing else. I'll need double my current wage. Five hundred gold drachins. I wonder...” Cassia's mouth spread into a wicked smile even as she held out the ring for Kanika. “Do you think they'll forgo theft and jump straight to murder next time?”

Kanika ignored the jab and moved to her dresser, keeping one eye on the other woman as she rifled through to find a pouch of coins. It hadn’t taken her long at all to collect it, in bits and pieces from the endless funds at Atham’s disposal. He never even noticed it going missing. She had been saving it in case she needed a quick escape, but a pact with an Acolyte would prove more useful. If her heart would only be calm she might thank her lucky stars one had found her. Cassia glided closer, her dark eyes still wary. Kanika held out the bag.

“Eleven hundred,” Kanika said. Cassia reached for it, but Kanika did not pass it to her. “The extra hundred is to hear me out. It seems I'll be needing protection. If you've such an interest in what goes on here, I think you'll find it worth the time.”

“Twelve hundred,” Cassia countered. “Per month. And a phial of your blood. Just in case you renege on any future deals. I’ll send my man, Aldert, to watch over you.”

Kanika swallowed hard. Everyone in the country knew how the Acolytes treated those who broke agreements with them. The magic they performed in the temples of Erwen was legendary. The blood was emptied into a copper basin, soured, then burned. It was said to be irreversible. Those stupid enough to attempt a double cross were said to wander the rest of their lives screaming. Their flesh incinerated without visible flames, their minds haunted by intranquil spirits of the long-since deceased. Once they inevitably ended their sorry lives, they became trapped spirits who would torment others in turn.

“Very well.” She added coins to the purse before passing it to the Acolyte.

The Acolyte pocketed the purse and drew out an empty phial with sharp teeth on the lid. She moved it to Kanika's arm and readied the teeth. She smirked at Kanika's unease.

“You might want to look away.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

ARMAND

The docks cleared as night fell, leaving only silence to accompany darkness. Armand took most night shifts begrudgingly. The hours between dusk and dawn passed in agonising boredom, the urge to drowse almost overpowering as twilight glimmered on the horizon. Tonight was special, though.

He yawned and stretched, mimicking every other night where time stretched endlessly and he felt his mind would spin itself insane. A long, thin oil lamp illuminated the guardhouse where he dutifully watched for any thieves attempting to breach the warehouses.

He let his eyes wander along the wooden wall separating the warehouses from the rest of the docks, let them linger over the gate, then swept his gaze back along the wall once more. To his surprise, he noticed a brief flash of movement about thirty yards from the guardhouse. He roused his stiff body from his stool and picked up his club.

Stepping out into the brisk air with the heavy weapon in his hand, he felt the adrenaline coursing through him in preparation for whatever he might face. He moved into the shadows and jogged on muted footsteps towards the disturbance. As he drew nearer, he spotted a cloaked head and long skirts brushing against the muddied path. With a flash of recognition, he grinned and dropped the sneaking.

“Hello, sister.” He loomed out of the shadows by her right shoulder.Ophi squeaked and stumbled towards the wall, the basket she had concealed beneath her cloak slipping from her hands. Armand reached out and gripped the handle before it hit the floor.

“Armand! Seven hells, don't do that to me!” Ophi said, equally reprimanding and relieved.

“Sorry.” Armand grinned and offered her his arm. “Did you bring me dinner? I told you, you don't have to do that. You cut it so close to curfew sometimes.”

“Ah, but my mistress gives me a pass, so you're worrying for nothing,” Ophi chirped back. “And you need the energy to stay awake on watch, or you'll be flogged, so no arguments.”

Armand suppressed a groan. For someone as delicate as his sister, she had very little fear of danger. He could have retorted that they might find her mistress' pass on her corpse after riddling her with arrows, but he knew it would do no good, nor would any of the dozen other perfectly good reasons for her to stay indoors after dark. It felt good to be so loved by his sister that she would risk attention from the patrols to ensure he ate well.

They reached the guardhouse and Armand rested his club back by the door. Ophi took a seat on the floor in front of his stool and pulled things out of her basket. A covered clay pot, a wooden jug with a wooden cover, some packages wrapped in raw linen and some rough wooden crockery and cutlery, all arranged just so on a chequered cloth over the stool.

“So what is it tonight, then?” Armand sank down by the door and positioned himself so that he could still keep an eye on the warehouses.

“Table scraps. Venison in sweet wine sauce with fresh greens from the kitchen garden and bread only made this morning. And some spiced wine to keep you alert.”

He grinned widely. Table scraps they might be, but the way the family she nannied for ate, it was a feast. Armand leaned his head against the doorframe and grinned at his sister.

“Ophi, you are amazing.”

She smiled back at him and served the food. He accepted a bowl and spoon, savouring the incredible array of flavours that washed over his mouth.

“So how fares Kanika with our friends?”

Ophi gave him a quizzical look, then realisation dawned. She shrugged.

“I have barely seen her. Atham draws her ever closer, and even my mistress cannot arrange a pass for the palace.” She paused. “She did mention that they're training her Sight, among other things. Have you thought they might... you know...”

Armand's mood soured instantly. He spooned venison into his mouth to cover his silence, then replied once he knew he could be civil.

“For them to train Sight it must already be present. It is simply not present in me.” He looked out the door.

“But have you asked them? I just worry about you. If something bad is coming, you won't know, will you? And you must have the blood, if I have it then so must you. Right?”

Armand said nothing, focusing instead on sipping his sweet wine and watching out for intruders. The matter of his Sight – or rather, his lack of Sight despite being Ilasean – was a common topic between them. He knew that her persistence was due to her continuing hope that he, too, would have the gift. His hope of that had died long ago.

When their parents had engaged a tutor for them and he could find no trace of magic in him, he had still hoped. When Ophi had her first vision and helped their parents escape the city to avoid torture and execution purely for their titles and status, he had still hoped. But when he failed to foresee Atham coming across them in the street and the subsequent terror the prince would inflict on Kanika, that hope had died. Not only died, but gone quietly to some gutter of his mind whilst he had ignored its dying gasps, too ensnared by the rage and pain of losing Kanika.

Now all that these conversations with Ophi did was remind him of his failures.

He opened his mouth to reply, but movement along the wall caught his eye, some hundred paces away, as though someone had been sloppy about staying out of the lights reflecting off the slick mud roads.

He set aside his food and reached for his club again.

“Stay here. I'll be back in a minute.”

◆◆◆

Armand crept along the wall to where he'd seen the movement, club at the ready. The heavy rains of late left the unpaved streets a constant quagmire. His rough leather boots sank a few inches with each step, only releasing his foot after a gurgling squelch. As he walked, a thin sheet of rain fell, the soft pattering muting the squish and squelch of his footfalls. He reached the stretch of wall just in time to see the silhouette of a foot disappear over the top. He sighed and spared a longing glance at the guardhouse and the sweet, savoury venison within, then tucked his club into his trousers and took a leap at the wall.

He pulled himself up easily and took a moment to survey the yard below him. Low cost crates covered by tarps sat in clusters under tarred canvas out in the open, the rain running in thick droplets over the waterproofed fabric and pooling at the bottom. The moons reflected eerily off the disturbed surfaces of the water, coming and going in erratic patterns as the clouds above shifted and churned. Beyond the stacked crates, the more valuable shipments sat locked inside the warehouses proper. The guidelines for valuable varied, mostly dependent on how much the owners were willing to pay. Armand knew for a fact that security also depended on how dangerous the contents of a shipment were. Several extremely dangerous shipments were in the warehouses at the moment.

He scanned the yard, rain slicking his hair across his face and running into his eyes off the bridge of his nose. Nothing moved. He scanned again, hoping that he'd been mistaken, almost convinced that the foot had been a trick of the light.

He heard something shift, a barrel knocked by a boot. He groaned and pulled himself over the wall, dropping down on the other side and landing heavily in the mud below. He headed towards the noise, pulling the club from his belt.

“Oi! I know you're in here. Now go on, clear out. I won't say it again.”

He doubted his call would yield results. Even if it was just a young couple taking a romantic interlude between pints, they always thought he'd go away if they stayed quiet. This happened too many times to count.

Armand paced towards the warehouse, knocking his club against crates and barrels as he passed. He came to one of the warehouse doors, one large reaching almost up to the roof, then one the size of a tavern door.  A flash of movement made him notice the door standing slightly ajar. He pressed through it, fingers groping for a tinderbox and lantern by the door.

Finally he found and lit the lantern. Inside the warehouse, rows upon rows of crates, barrels and boxes stretched before him, some stacked and towering, others clustered in shorter stacks. They were all arranged in sections, with enough space between rows to bring winches and pulleys. Armand sighed as noises from the intruders echoed off the high ceiling. He called out again, though he hardly expected a reply. A thin voice rose from the shadows to his right, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

“Weren’t you expecting us?”

Armand spun to find Catla giving him a smug smile. He scowled in response. Thieves was bad enough, but the Resistance would expect him to cover for them, he had no doubt.

“Chin ye sarrow, Drenger, nam akin so freyam, by the way,” she said. Armand smirked and took one hand off the club handle.

“Trynen offim skalt Dregner.” He finished the pass phrase. “You should probably open with that, unless you want to be brained next time. But as I told you, my orders for tonight are as usual.”

Catla frowned, ignoring the jab. Despite their best efforts, the Resistance had many flaws, including lack of organisation and communication between members. And despite the rumours circulating, the Resistance only boasted a few dozen active members. The scores of Ilaseans nailed up and gutted in the square were too effective a deterrent to potential rebels.

“So what are you after?” Armand asked.

“The Vraithii are not so strong as they appear,” Catla replied. “They only maintain they grip on our city by virtue of the weapons and soldiers their empress allows them. The weapons they deny us. How many Vraithii guards are allowed only a club and a lantern to guard an entire warehouse? But denying us will be their ultimate downfall. We will take their weapons and then take back our city.”

Armand nodded, though the monologue hardly impressed him. He had heard it all before. On his darkest days, he skirted the edge of fanaticism, but Ophi's gentle grounding had thus far brought him back.

“And in the process I lose my job, and must rely even more heavily on my little sister to survive.”

The woman frowned and glanced away.

“Well, we had expected you to be fully briefed, but since you are not, we shall have to improvise.”

Armand didn't like the sound of that.

“Be sure to visit Cecie before the next dual moon.”

Far too late, Armand heard the telltale swish of fabric, then a sharp crack on the side of his head sent him careening into the crates. Everything went dark. He felt like he was struggling through honey, consciousness and the inky black of nothing swirling and mingling in his eyes.

In truth he was only passed out a few seconds, but the overwhelming nausea on his waking kept him motionless on the floor. Feet shuffled past him, at least six pairs of various sizes, then everything was quiet. He let his head spin on the ground for what seemed like an age, the lantern still flickering by the door. He knew he would be angry and frustrated at the inefficiency of the only people looking to free the Ilas from their shackles, but for now he only felt sick and exasperated.

“Armand? Seven hells, Armand!”

Ophi’s light footfalls pounded as they rushed over and to him. Her fingers stung his scalp as they brushed over his hair, came away far too red and wet, her eyes wide. Armand tried to mumble that he was fine, but his mouth disobeyed him. Ophi pulled off her scarf with trembling hands and pressed it to his head, her eyes filling with tears, then brought his hand up to put pressure on the fabric.

“Stay here, I'll fetch the watch.”

Armand uttered a refute, but the words were lost in the air as she vanished out of the warehouse and into the pouring rain.

◆◆◆

It felt strange to be at their parents' old house after so many years, but Armand couldn't deny it was a far better place to convalesce than the patchwork assortment of his regular living arrangements. The house had been abandoned since their parents fled to join the Seer Queen in the wilderness, five years ago. Since Ophi found him, Armand had been given two days off work. The leave was hardly long enough to fully recover, yet somehow more generous than he expected. He suspected Ophi had a hand in it. Few could deny her when she set her mind to a task. She had insisted he stay in bed–his own bed from when their parents still lived in the city–and he found himself willing to comply.

“How are you feeling?” Ophi was getting ready for work, dawn not yet broken over the horizon. Only a few songbirds welcomed in the day. Usually she slept in a small room behind the kitchens of the home where she worked, but her mistress had allowed her to tend to Armand, so long as she turned up to mind the children. Armand had tried to convince her he would be fine, but she was determined and he was weakened from the ordeal. She had stitched his head herself, then nurtured him aggressively through the night and the following day. Perhaps due to her care he was indeed feeling much better.

“Just a headache,” he assured her. “I've felt worse after a night in the tavern.”

“Good.” Ophi’s delicate features sank into a frown. Armand knew what she was holding back. Where he was merely tired and wanted to rest, she was as close to livid as someone of her disposition could be. The Resistance gained few friends by assaulting their members. Why had they hit him at all?

She kissed him gently on the forehead, then wrapped her shawl around her head and shoulders, making her way out the door. Armand lay still in the bed for several minutes, the silence of the big house washing over him, then pushed the covers off and got dressed. He pulled on a clean tunic, wincing as the thick cloth passed over his head wound despite the care he took with it. He went into the kitchen in search of water both to bathe the stitches and to try to ease the headache. Ophi had left him a jug of cool water along with some bread and cut fruit under a cloth. He knew it before he had even reached the table, as Cecie had removed the cloth and seemed to be debating whether or not to partake of it.

“That's my breakfast.” He leaned on the doorframe.

She glanced at him and moved away from the table, her eyes traveling to the wound on his head and the remnants of blood only a proper bath would wash away. He ignored her gaze and beelined for the food and drink, wiping sweet juice from his chin with his sleeve as he sank his teeth into an orange segment. A rare delight for someone of his standing.

“I wanted to extend my apologies in person about the misunderstanding the other night.” Her smooth voice inflected with just the right amount of sympathy for him to realise didn’t care. “Our runner was caught out after the curfew with no pass. She is still in the cells.”

“How unfortunate for her,” Armand replied between mouthfuls. “I still don't understand why they knocked me out so hard. It seems excessive.”

“So as not to out you as one of us, of course,” Cecie replied.

Armand snorted.

“They could've killed me. Or left me drooling down my chin for the rest of my life.” He took a drink of water straight from the jug. “You can see yourself out.”

She was not happy about it, but Cecie turned to leave without a fuss. She paused before reaching the door and turned back to him, drawing a small pouch out of her tunic.

“For your trouble.” She tossed him the pouch. He let it fall to the floor with a soft clank and made no move to retrieve it. He heard her scoff, then she vanished out the door and into the early morning light.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

KANIKA

Spring ripened with relentless vigor, as it always did in Argorien. Kanika was slowly getting used to the palace. She figured out which private gardens and courtyards were rarely used, and spent much of her time there. Much as she missed Ophi and the temple, she knew felt she couldn’t go back. She was virtually Vraithan now, and it didn't go over well when a Vraithii knelt at the feet of Ilas All-Seer. Though most of the front of the palace was opulent and well cared for, the deeper she got, the more that changed. Vraithan decadence gave way to Ilasean disrepair, the style of each and every tapestry, statue and ornament changing into something that tugged on the edge of her mind like a memory of a dream long since dreamt. Her favourite courtyard was almost entirely free of Vraithan influence, both in terms of architecture and oversight. It was tucked into a nook only reached by traveling through the back kitchens.

The courtyard was colonnaded on three sides. The fourth opened up into an expanse of moderately accessible pathways and gardens. If she found the wall closing it off from the rest of the city, she guessed it would be unsupervised and in dire need of repair. At times she wondered if the Vraithans were even aware of their secret gardens. She passed the day without seeing a single person.

Occasionally, she saw Aldert, the protector Cassia had assigned her, skulking about the garden and the courtyard. At first she had been unnerved, but after some time she found his presence comforting. He was following orders, in a very literal and simple way. It was almost endearing. She left discreet pouches of payment and food whenever she saw him. So far it seemed to be enough.

His hulking frame, looming out of the shadows in a colonnade in her garden, startled her. The garden was expensively decorated but the shrubs and vines were long overdue for tending, the doors and gates in the walls almost rusted shut.

She glared at him as he seemed about to move towards her. He was covered by the colonnade, but there were numerous windows overlooking the garden. If he stepped out, any casual observer from above would see him. He looked confused, seemed about to whisper something to her, when the gate on the far side of the courtyard creaked open.

She spun around to see who approached. A maid in a red tunic entered, her eyes downcast, her hair neatly coiled. She had a bucket in hand. Kanika felt her head spin. She was sure she had seen that maid, and that bucket, before. She looked back towards Aldert, but he was gone.

“Kanika! Or, should I say, Your future Highness?”

The sudden call, accompanied by a chuckle, nearly made her jump out of her skin. She looked around, then up to one of the small windows dotting the sheer wall of the palace above her. Meto had sought her out. She gathered up her shawl a little closer around her, then smiled as warmly as she could muster.

“Kanika is fine, as long as I may call you Meto. I struggle to recall how to refer to everyone in this illustrious building,” she lied with a smile. “How may I help you?”

Meto smiled back, an easy, charismatic grin that sat on his face far more beauteously than his customary stern frown. In another life, she might even have found him attractive. If only she weren’t bedded by his horrible brother.

“How did you get down there? I can't even find my bearings in half this old rubble,” he called back. She smiled nervously and told him of the path through the kitchens, then waited as his head disappeared back inside. She teetered on the edge of running inside and finding another place to spend the day long enough that he reached her before she made the choice. When he appeared through the rusted door, she was relieved to see he was in informal boots and clothing, and that he had not brought a troop of boisterous Vraithii nobles with him, as he so often did.

“Walk with me a while?” He smiled as he reached her. “It occurs to me that we are soon to be family, and yet I know next to nothing of my future sister-in-law, not to mention my future queen.”

Though it was the last thing in the world she wanted, she accepted with a gracious smile. She was glad of Aldert's ghost-like presence somewhere beyond their range of vision. If nothing else, he might save her if Meto turned vicious for any reason. She might afterwards need to run, though, since the death or maiming of Ithrien's favourite child was likely to land her in jail and be swiftly followed by torture and execution.

“Where would you like to walk, then?” She stood up. “I'm not really dressed for anything but sitting.”She indicated her comfortable wooden slippers and slightly longer, more delicately woven tunic.

“We needn't go far,” he smiled back at her. “And you needn't fear me. I'm not your enemy, you know. I just want to talk. Get to know you. Perhaps learn about the ancient culture my parents destroyed. Do you remember a time before the Vraithans arrived?”

She'd be the judge of whether or not he was her enemy, though she certainly didn't fear him. Like all of his people, he feared magic unless it was sterile and contained by priests and augurs in some hidden chamber in an enchanted labyrinth. Vraithan magic had its place, she was sure, but the magic she was beginning to wield held far more practical applications.

“I do, though I was only eight or so when the city fell. I fear I will be of less use to you than you might hope.”

“Well, let's start with the simple things, then. What did your people used to call the marshes just beyond the border wall?”

All the while he spoke, he smiled. She found she didn't much like it. Something told her that he was genuine in his interest of the land and its history, though she couldn't fathom why and it brought her little comfort. He had never struck her as a scholar.

“Stheillan Namifth.” She frowned. “It translates to, uh... the Sunless Marshes, I believe, or something close to that.”

“A fitting name,” he replied. “And then? What comes next? Is it endless as well as sunless, or is there more to this island?”

“I don't think this is an island,” Kanika frowned, still guarded. “Or at least, Caerphy is not an island name, if that makes sense. But, beyond the marsh, begin the Indric lands. I think. Briabryegg, a forest, then further in a place called Hnokkviklif. After that, perhaps, Azanith...”

“And then?”

She furrowed her brow, trying her best to recall the maps her mother used to keep in their sitting room. The memories slipped through her fingers as soon as she thought she'd caught them. She shook her head.

“Don't you have maps in one of the libraries that could help you? I'm sure the fifteen-year-old memories of one woman are not so accurate as you might find in the archives.”

Disappointment clouded his expression. She stopped walking and faced him.

“What do you really want to know? You didn't track me down to ask me about forests and marshes.”

The smile dropped slowly off his face as he seemed to be assessing her. She braced herself in case he should lash out, ready to knock him down if need be. If she could.

“Kanika, do you love my brother?” His eyes were serious and cold. She couldn't tell if he was being genuine or if his mode of questioning was akin to interrogating a criminal in the dungeons. “Not just for his crown, but him, as a person.”

“Yes.” She lied smoothly, surprising herself. “I don't love them equally, it's true...” She noticed his eyes narrowing. “...but if I must wear the crown in order to love your brother, then that is what I must do.”

She looked at him tentatively.

“The engagement was not my idea, you know. None of it was. I was more than happy as things were. What I do, I do out of love, and necessity borne of that love.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. She thought she could sense a little resentment or even hostility, but it was being overcome by something kinder, almost hopeful.

“What do you know of the Acolytes of Erwen?” His eyes were serious and never left her face.

She could feel her face going pale. Did he know? How could he possibly know? Cassia had sworn she was discreet, though if she had deliberately betrayed her, Kanika felt there would be guards, at least. She would be in chains, being questioned under torture. She tried to quiet her galloping heart.

Her expression confirmed something for him, though she couldn't think straight enough to defend herself from whatever he decided.

“So they are really real, then,” he pondered out loud. “And they are as ruthless and dangerous as the commoners say, too?”

Kanika thought of nothing to do but nod in shock and confusion. His brow darkened further. He took her by the elbow and led her to one of the stones that she used as benches when she was sitting. She caught a glimpse of Aldert circling around them and prayed he would keep his distance.

“Do you think they are diminished since the stories began to circulate, or..?”

“No, I doubt that very much. They are supposedly from far beyond the border wall. I don't even think there are maps to where they are from. If anything they would have been bolstered by the Vraithan invasion. There were many displaced, many who chose to leave in secret rather than submit to the invaders...”

She trailed off. The invaders she spoke of were his parents and compatriots. She shut her mouth quickly.

“But you didn't?” he asked. “Why not? Is that why we know of no family?”

“Ahh... no, I was supposed to leave with my parents, but they... died before we could.” She found herself increasingly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Though his pretence for speaking with her had been that of getting to know her, she had not expected him to actually ask about her past. “I'm sorry I can't help you more. I was only a child, as I told you. If you have further questions, I'm sure you can find the answers in the library. Good day.”

She rose, subduing her rattled heartbeat as best she could and hurried off towards the gardens, where she hoped Aldert was still skulking. Meto's hand gripped her arm no more than two paces from the bench. He was chillingly quiet when he walked; no matter how she hoped he would warm to her, she would never forget that.

“One more thing, please.” He smiled, though she did not return it this time. “If I were able to arrange it, would you consider accompanying me to the border? There's another thing I'd like your personal opinion on.”

She tried to tug her arm back, but his grip only tightened, until she thought her arm might shatter purely under the force of his hand. Finally, she nodded, and he released her.

“Thank you, Kanika,” he said. “I'm sure you and I will be closer than you think, in the coming years.”

He turned back towards the palace and sauntered away, whistling.

◆◆◆

Kanika hurried deeper into the overgrown gardens. Her chest felt somehow hollow and too small at the same time. She stepped carelessly and tripped over uneven ground, the impact of her hands in the mud jarring her wrists and elbows as dirt ground itself into her clothes. She cursed under her breath and stood, surprised to find her arms shaking too badly to push herself up. As her attention returned to the overgrowth around her, a thick, barrelled chest loomed before her. She gasped, stepping into the same shallow hole where she just fell.

Strong dark hands with veins and tendons cresting the rough skin in stark lines clasped her forearm before she toppled. Aldert's concerned face bent down as she righted herself.

“That child is a cunt,” Aldert said in smooth Ilasean. “You should not let him affect you so.”

Kanika felt her lower lip tremble at his words. She looked at her befouled hands and brushed them against each other, then against her clothes, to loosen the impacted grime. Aldert watched her, his eyebrows dropping into a frown. He took her by the shoulders, his massive paws all but covering her.

“I mean it, Seer,” he said. “I am not trying to offend you. He is trying to steal your power, and you are giving it to him with little complaint. How can you expect him to treat you otherwise if you display such weakness before him?”

“I'm not!” Kanika pulled back, wiping hot tears from her face with her shoulder. “I have no power of my own to give. They allow me the illusion of it, to be sure, but they could take it away on a whim and there would be nothing I could do. So do not lecture me about weakness. You could never understand.”

Aldert's face fell into wounded surprise. Kanika turned to stalk away, but he dogged her steps until she stopped and turned back to him.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. She frowned, truculence coursing like a drug through her, and shook her head. How could she? He was a stranger sent by an assassin to tail her. To her surprise his face broke into an uneven grin and a throaty chuckle. “There is hope for you yet then.”

Kanika stood still, unsure how to respond. As the laughter died in his throat, Aldert looked over her, closer this time. He smiled and shook his head.

“Do not taunt me, I beg of you,” she said. “I can handle only so much in a day.”

“You could handle more than you think,” he replied. “But as you wish. Though I hope one day you look back on this with merriment as I feel now. I shall speak plain, and I pray you can separate from yourself enough to hear me.”

Kanika opened her mouth to question his confusing expression, but he held up his hand.

“My mistress is young but she is wise. She can match wits and blades with little cunts like that one. She can do it twice before breaking her fast, and then rip through six more before lunch. And yet she and you are from the same place - do not tell her I said as much, by the way – so why is it that veterans tremble at her name, whereas little cunts like that one twist you every which way for fun?”

Kanika scowled. She needed no reminder that her spirit failed where others soared, and after the confrontation with Meto her nerves were shot.

“No? Let me put it to you in a different way, then.” He smirked as she sighed. Kanika knew he was toying with her, but she was loathe to return to the stifling hostility of the palace so she let him speak. A part of her was curious despite herself.

“You are nothing. You are not special, you are not going to be saved. The only thing that dictates your survival is how much power you wield. And you say you have none. So you are doomed. How does that make you feel?”

Kanika didn't respond. Her chest burned and she knew if she opened her mouth only sobs would escape.

“So you are doomed but not ready to die.” Aldert continued after a moment's pause. “Quite a predicament. And much as my mistress likes you, she will not save you. I will not save you. And that other cunt of a prince, the one you're promised to? He will not save you. You know this. So who will save you if no one else will?”

The gentleness in his voice, the grim truth to his words, took Kanika's mind to a dark place. She pulled away from the wallowing misery, and found it tug back, drawing her into self pity. The giant stranger watched as her mind tossed and rolled. Unlike other times, she did not allow it to drag her with it, merely observed the storm of thought. From somewhere else in her mind, faintly but crowing victory, the thought occurred to her. Had she separated from herself?

She watched as the pitiful part of her flailed and threw itself about, and judged it useless beyond belief. Pursing her lips, she brought her attention away from the tantrum and found she was no longer scowling. Her pale blue eyes met Aldert's, and she found him watching her intently, a smile playing on his scarred lips. She smiled back.

“Walk with me a while?” she asked. He grinned and offered her his arm.

◆◆◆

Kanika hadn't realised that Meto intended to visit the border with her so soon, but the next week, before the sun had even risen, an urgent rap on her door dragged her from slumber. She had not bothered to draw her curtains the night before in order to enjoy the sunrise upon waking, but now the tranquil scene was marred by boisterous voices in her solar.

She had barely thrown on a modesty gown – such a Vraithan custom, the soft silk felt like gravel on her sleepy naked body – as a pair of Meto's friends burst in, pushing slaves out of their way as the loyal servants tried to obstruct them. Meto followed with a jaunty spring in his step. Kanika glared at him through tangled hair.

“Get out, Meto.” She knew the words slurred through grit teeth, but anger curling in her navel lent gravity to her tone. “Atham will be furious if he finds out you trespassed in my chambers like this.”

“And he will do nothing, dear sister-in-law,” Meto gloated. “As he always does. Your beau is – hold on now. Are you wearing nothing under your robe?”

Kanika stared at him as he fumbled for words. No doubt he was torn between salacious comments and outrage at her decidedly lowborn habit of sleeping nude. Nudity was not taboo but for the upper classes to abandon their lavish apparel, even to sleep, was an affront to the avaricious Vraithan ideals. She had seen many noble men and women bathing without clothes in the mixed aristocratic bath houses, but always adorned with glittering gems. Chains of gold strung about their waists and necks, wrists bedecked with precious stones, navels stretched to accommodate sapphires and rubies, always something. By contrast, Kanika's simplicity seemed an affront. She turned her glare on his friends, who began a retreat. At her icy silence, they hurried their steps out the door. Meto remained, though he seemed to shrink as his friends left.

“Why are you here?” She moved to find her comb and pull the tangles out of her fine hair. “I doubt you intrude on every room in the palace this way, especially so close to dawn.”

“You can make good on your promise today.” Meto’s eyes were wary, as though she might sprout wings and fly away at any moment. “We depart for the border within the hour. You should… uhh...”

Kanika felt a fierce cold rise in her. She dropped the comb on her dresser and beckoned to the slave who helped her dress. The slave scurried forward and plucked leggings, a sturdy grey wrap-around tunic and a thick belt from the wardrobe. Meto watched, then turned away as Kanika opened her modesty gown and dropped it to the floor.

She realised with detachment that this cold rage, the beast that twisted and snarled in her stomach, must be how the Ilaseans in the resistance felt all the time. Suddenly she saw more clearly why they fought so passionately. Though she could tell it would make a good fuel for actions she might otherwise be too timid to take, the sensation was far from pleasant. If destroying the people who had invaded her country and slaughtered her people could make the feeling go away, she would be first in line to swing a club. She let the silence hang long enough in the air to highlight Meto's inability to finish his sentence.

“I will be ready.” She held her arms out to allow herself to be dressed, though the guilt of not dressing herself stung as it always did. “Now get out.”

He sneered at her as the slave slipped the thick tunic over her arms and pulled the strings to fasten it around her. Unlike their last meeting, Kanika felt no increase in her heart rate, no flush rising to her cheeks and no nervous ticks itching to express themselves. Deep beneath the fury, she felt nothing. As she looked on Meto's chiselled face, she saw not a man but an obstacle.

◆◆◆

The riding party waited when Kanika arrived in the courtyard surrounding the stables. Meto stuck to her like syrup lest she seek succour from anybody passing them in the palace, though his friends had already gone on ahead. She felt certain Meto was planning on leaving her to bleed out in a ditch.

As though the gods heard her pleas, tousled white hair atop skinny shoulders wrapped in dark linen came into view as they reached the stables, carrying a saddle whose billet strap had snapped. Willan. Atham's manservant. Kanika caught his eye as Meto froze on the spot. If Willan could inform Atham, then perhaps there was hope.

“Willan, fetch Atham!” Kanika ordered him in Ilasean.

The young manservant stood rooted to the ground for half a second, then he and Meto moved at the same time. Willan dropped the saddle onto the cobbled courtyard, running with the benefit of a few paces head start. As Meto lunged after Willan, Kanika darted in the opposite direction. She made it almost to an outbuilding when she was tackled to the ground. She clawed at her assailant's face and tried kicking, but she had lost strength since living in the palace and quickly ran out of energy to fight. She stilled and glared up at Meto, who abandoned his pursuit of Willan in favour of recapturing her.

“Atham will not save you, Seer,” Meto spat. “My retinue will apprehend his slimy slave, and we will have a new friend on our journey.”

She made herself a dead weight as he heaved her to her feet, unable to fight but unwilling to make it easier on him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ELSEPHERE

Standing over her father's unconscious body, the twitches still rolling over him, Elsephere breathed to steady her nerves. The fit subsided, though she knew her father would not recover for some time. She made him comfortable with a pillow under his head and watched him become still.

Fear bubbled to the surface as her mind tumbled from one worst case scenario to the next, everything from revolution from the peasants to a coup from within the ranks of nobility. Eoghan still had so much to do, so much not yet made safe in his legacy. If he could not recover, it would spell disaster for everyone. She pushed the chaotic thoughts from her mind and focused on her breathing. Panic served no one.

Uledi had run for the apothecary the moment Eoghan's face had grown slack, leaving Elsephere to prevent her father from injuring himself too severely in his fit. They had been puffing amiably on pipes and debating the merits of imported versus native smokes when the illness had struck.

She retrieved her pipe from where it had fallen to the floor, crushing the dying ember with the barrel. She loaded it with fresh smoke, setting it alight with shaking hands. The smoke billowed out her nostrils and mouth and caught in the early evening light. It obscured the plush divans, the engraved side table with their mugs of honeyed mead, and the form of her father distended on the floor. The haze lent an ethereal feel to the otherwise disturbing scene, allowing Elsephere to turn her attention away from her father while she calmed herself.

Moments stretched to minutes, until she felt calm enough to check on Eoghan. Time moved strangely after his fits, but she felt sure he should be waking by now, even without the apothecary's attention. Placing her pipe on the tray, she lay down next to him, watching his eyes move beneath their lids.  His chest rose and fell, his breath weak but still present. She interlaced her fingers with his, knowing he had no sense of her, unwilling to leave him. As the minutes dragged on, a sneaking realisation burrowed into her mind and planted itself there unbidden.

She had not seen Atham all day, and yet the hour he might be called to serve Argorien and uphold the family's honour loomed ever closer. He was not ready. It was not even a question in her mind. He was a child in every way, and yet too old in body for a regent to speak for him.

If he took the reins of the fraught city, they were doomed. Meto's claim was tenuous at best. Ithrien was old enough that she might soon follow Eoghan into the grave. It was up to her, Elsephere, to save them from destruction. She balked at the idea, but then drew closer to it, curious. What might a kingdom under her look like? Surely a sight better than one under Atham.

Ithrien would never see sense. She doted on Meto as though he were still a swaddling babe. Even if Elsephere removed Atham from the line of inheritance, she would have to contend with Ithrien promoting Meto's interests at court.

Perhaps a government under Meto would not be so bad, she considered. Ithrien would take care of most things, as she already did, and Meto was unlikely to go soft on the Ilaseans.

But Ithrien might fail in the same way as Eoghan, and at any rate, she would not outlive her son, nor would Meto take well to the rigours of court.

It could only be her.

She acknowledged with grim acceptance that she had known it for some time, and weak sentimentality at her father's degradation prevented her from seeing it clearly.

◆◆◆

Several days later, Eoghan showed no signs of improvement. Elsephere supervised his servants as they dribbled broth into his mouth. They got as much on his collar as into his stomach. Elsephere could ill afford word getting out that the king had slept for three days without waking and lay in a bed of his own filth, unable to even feed himself. She had Morgaine arrange a selection of Elsephere's own attendants, men and women who did nothing but Elsephere's bidding, and had her own guards posted on the king's door. If asked, they were to inform people the king was busy drafting legislation of the utmost importance and he was not to be disturbed. Only Elsephere, Morgaine and the hand-selected servants were to be admitted.

She knew it would not go unnoticed for long. Even if only for appearances, as Elsephere couldn't ever remember her parents sharing bedchambers, Ithrien visited Eoghan's chambers several times a week. The High Queen approached Elsephere as she exercised in the yard, running through drills in full armour with sword and shield to keep her strength up. Ithrien never begged for attention, but when she arrived in any locale all eyes were on her in an instant. Even Elsephere struggled to avoid the pull of her mother's orbit, despite being focused on her training. She lowered her shield and put up the visor on her helmet as Ithrien stepped on planks laid seamlessly in the mud by spry young slaves to save her shoes and hem from befoulment.

“Hello, Mother,” Elsephere bowed her head in deference. “I've not seen you training for some time. I think you'll find it easier without the finery.”

Ithrien gave a tight smile and stepped closer, her grey eyes sharp as she surveyed her muddy daughter. Elsephere unbuckled her sword's sheath and handed both blade and scabbard to Morgaine before passing the shield to another slave.

“Might we walk a while, Elsephere?” Despite the phrasing, it was not a question. Elsephere nodded and followed Ithrien as she led her away from the quagmire of the yard. A dozen servants, both Elsephere's and Ithrien's, trailed them at a discreet distance.

“I've had a visit from your father's confidante, Uledi,” Ithrien began. “It seems there are guards posted on the High King's door refusing him entry. Such a thing has never happened in all the years he's shared your father's burdens.”

Much as Elsephere knew Uledi would not betray Eoghan, she had not overlooked him by accident. In the hours after previous fits, Uledi had sat silently by her father's bed with a strange intensity in his eyes. Elsephere knew the two men were close, but the ferocity in Uledi's gaze disconcerted her. She could not predict where that intensity might lead, and so thought it best to keep him away.

Elsephere shrugged.“The High King is drafting important legislature, and instructed that he not be disturbed. I am not in the habit of questioning my liege's orders. If he barred Uledi, then perhaps it is because he has no burdens to share at this time.”

Ithrien's smile curled in a way that niggled at Elsephere, though she knew better than to react. Her mother had beaten that into her as a child – never let them see they're getting to you. Elsephere kept her mouth shut and waited.

“Your father shares more than just his burdens with Uledi, though,” the High Queen replied. “And there's nothing better after a day bent over papers than a loved one's touch. It just seems odd to me that Uledi would not be welcome, no matter how important the documents.”

Do not react, do not react, do not react.

“I don't know what you're suggesting, but as I said, I cannot speak for the king,” Elsephere replied. “And perhaps it would not seem so strange to you if you spent more than breakfast with him. He is overworked of late. Have we not all simply wanted some time to ourselves at one point or another?” She smiled sweetly at her mother, her heart pounding hard. Her mother had never gone easy on her as a child. Elsephere fully intended to return the favour.

“Hardly overworked, my dear,” Ithrien shot back. “I've been dealing with the lion's share of almost everything for some time now, so he can focus on Vraith. I don't suppose he's shared his progress on that with you?”

“I'm sure he's got the situation well in hand.” Elsephere let her eyes wander back to the training ground with pointed intent. “Once he's finished with whatever he's drafting, I'm sure he'll see you and you can direct your questions to him personally rather than seeking secondhand information from me.”

Ithrien fixed her with a cold stare for several moments, then nodded and swept away without dismissing her. Elsephere watched the High Queen part their two retinues like a ship over waves. As the larger group followed their mistress, Morgaine approached Elsephere with thinly veiled concern.

“We cannot continue like this much longer, Your Highness,” she murmured, offering Elsephere her sword and shield back. Elsephere sensed the addendum to her words, too. What if he dies?

Elsephere waved her weapons away, beckoning to the rest of her entourage and beginning to unlace her armour. The slaves took over the job and within minutes she was standing in just her gambeson and boots, her mind turning over different options.

“We shall have to see if the apothecary can increase the strength of the teas,” Elsephere said. “See to it. I must draft a suitable document to show off if this lasts much longer.”

As she and Morgaine parted ways, the thought occurred to her that Ithrien should have been able to overrule the guards on Eoghan's door. She ruled on equal footing with Eoghan, so bullying his guards might be awkward, inadvisable even, but hardly overstepping her bounds. Unless she and the king were even more distant and frosty in private than they were in public.

She's off balance, Elsephere realised with a smile. She had never, in her twenty-three years of life, seen her mother anything but cool, poised, and utterly ruthless. She wavered towards panic. If neither the High King nor the High Queen were fully themselves then who was at the helm? Her resolve solidified.

She reached the bath house and sluiced off mud from the training yard with a light in her eyes unlike any she'd felt since childhood.

◆◆◆

Refreshed and clothed in a fine blue silk tunic, her hair neatly braided and a fresh pipe smouldering gently on her desk, Elsephere still had need of a shawl as she worked. The day had been bright and sunny but somehow the warmth never quite touched the ground in Argorien. While the sun still set at night, the day never seemed able to throw off the frigid nip in the air. As compensation, during the summer they would have no rest from the blasted burning orb in the sky for nigh on three months.

Eoghan had often told her about Vraith, and how clement the climes could be when the gods were rightly appeased. Summers so hot you could fry an egg on a stone, winters mild enough that the crops barely slumbered, and nary a crystal of ice on the tides that rolled in. He had always promised to take her back there. When the Caerphian winters seemed endless, she often enjoyed dreams of bathing in dancing beams of golden sunlight, allowing her skin to brown and her hair to blow free in a breeze that didn't have her clutching for furs and cloaks.

She brushed the sand off the final draft of her forgery. She had watched her father at work often enough, helped him sign his name as his hands began to shake more and more over time. She assessed her work and judged it passable, her eyes tracing over the stark mulberry ink detailing minor restrictions to be imposed on Ilaseans seeking to invest in Ilasean-owned businesses. In the document, she included mandatory lineage checks and required waiting periods of no less than three months. Boring items, the likes of which the king and the witan implemented often enough to pass unnoticed. Justifying the importance of the document might be hard, but she dared not press her luck and make waves.

Elsephere barely thought twice about signing the papers in her father's name. It wasn't ideal, but it would do. Luckily the witan wasn't in the habit of questioning the High King over his idiosyncrasies. Banished from the empire Eoghan may be, but the honours he had achieved in order to warrant that banishing still commanded respect among those who served him.

Commotion at her door drew her attention. She frowned and hid the papers in a drawer, then stood and sought out the source of the disturbance. She found Uledi in the antechamber, red-eyed and frantic, arguing with one of her guards. She could smell the desperation rolling off him. She considered leaving the guard to it, but she had never been one to shy away from conflict.

“Let him through.” She stepped into the room. Uledi turned wild eyes on her, a variety of emotions darting across his face. “What brings you here, and in such a state?”

“Eoghan – the king – the guards won't let me see him,” the dark man stammered. “They said he's drafting documents, but then – why would that exclude me from his chambers? He was ill, but now he is working again? I just don't understand.” His face contorted once more. “And then I understood all too well. He's dead, isn't he?”

Elsephere watched Uledi's face dissolve into something like grief but more feral. Tears leaked from his eyes even as his brow furrowed and he bared his teeth in impotent frustration. Seeing him like this, she almost believed her mother's insinuation that the two men were lovers. She put the thought from her mind and turned to the task at hand.

“He's not dead,” Elsephere assured him. His dark eyes bore into hers with an intensity that told her she'd need to do better than that, though she could come up with nothing on the spot. “He's fine. Really. Just busy. I'm sure he'll see you again once he's finished whatever he's working on.”

Uledi's jaw clenched and unclenched several times. Finally, he twisted his lips and spat on the floor before her. She glanced at the guard, who stood taut and awaiting her command. She shook her head fractionally.

“Very well,” Uledi snarled. “If that is how you wish for it to go, then I shall follow your lead.”

Elsephere expected him to rage at her more, or even become violent, but instead he turned on his heel and stalked off. Worry consumed her. Uledi did present a threat, a bigger threat than she anticipated.

“Should I follow him, Your Highness?” the guard asked.

“See to it that he does not reach his quarters,” she told the guard, almost unable to believe she was ordering the squalid murder of her father's oldest friend. “And have a slave clean that off the floor.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

KANIKA

Kanika was tight-lipped on the back of a strident buckskin gelding when Atham stormed into the courtyard, Willan and two of Meto's retinue close on his heels. Meto sauntered over to him, blocking his path to Kanika. She gripped her reins harder as the pair talked in heated tones, her heart sinking when Atham backed down. Fucking weakling.

She was about to shout something scathing and frantic at him when he spoke to Willan, who scurried off to do his master's bidding. She bit her tongue and breathed a little easier when Willan returned leading two horses. Atham could not summon the fortitude to completely overrule his little brother, but he at least recognised her peril.

Meto pulled himself astride a powerful black cold blood, laughed with his retinue, and kicked his mount into a trot before Atham properly settled on his own horse. Kanika's gelding was fenced in among the half dozen of Meto's retinue accompanying him, completely cut off from Atham and Willan. Kanika allowed her horse to follow along.

The streets of Argorien passed in a blur. Before long they crossed the bridge out of the city and into the slums that ringed the walls ever since the Vraithii set foot inside the gates.

“Shall we then?” Meto called to the group. His cold blood tossed its head, full of pent up energy eager to be expended. The streets were a slow zone, but in the open fields only the mount could limit the pace.

Meto took off at a rolling canter before anyone answered. His entourage followed with barely contained whoops of excitement. Kanika tried to spot Atham or Willan, but the cantering horses and their boisterous riders bobbed unevenly around her. Atham had schooled her in riding when she first moved into the palace, but she was still unsure and couldn't hope to compete with the wild nobles, most of whom could ride before they could walk.

The time passed quickly and unpleasantly. Before Kanika was ready, they dismounted in Commander Greys' flagstone yard. Meto didn't tether his horse, he simply slipped off and let the cold blood go where it may. Atham dismounted more carefully than his brother, handed his reins to Willan and hurried over to Meto.

“Brother, are you sure you know what you're doing?” His face slipped into its usual petulance.

Despite their high spirits, Meto's entourage felt on edge when faced with the bleak reality of the fort. Thin tendrils of heavy marsh mist filtered eerily under the gate. An unearthly hush descended over the yard, sucking the sound and colour out of the surrounds. Kanika observed their wariness with detachment, a sensation she found more comfort in since her chat with Aldert in the gardens.

The horses seemed surprisingly calm, and Willan looked as untouched by the cold reach of the Sunless Marshes as she felt, if a little unnerved by Meto's antics. Only Meto was unfazed among the Vraithii. He grinned widely and clapped Atham on the shoulder.

“Of course, brother dearest,” he shouted back with a grin. “Commander Greys must just be still asleep!”

Kanika watched Meto and his friends scatter into the fort, then went to find the stables and bring her horse to recuperate with water and feed. Atham paced in the yard. Kanika sighed and went to him.

He jumped as she slipped her hand over his arm. He smiled and patted her hand gently, though it seemed more to comfort himself than anything else. Willan hovered discreetly a few paces back. Somewhere underneath the layer dense mist, another less palatable smell found the top. Kanika sniffed and recognised it, though she hoped she was wrong. She glanced at Willan, and could tell he smelled it too. She moved away from Atham, her brow furrowed. Her stomach lurched as she approached a covered cart with something solid beneath the tarp.

“Oh.” She pulled back the cover. “Atham, you should come see this.”

He peered into the cart and went pale in an instant. He stumbled back a pace or two. Kanika stayed where she was, her hand still on the tarp, a look of distaste creeping across her face.

A pair of battlewolves, giant nationless warriors who stalked forest and field beyond the border wall, lay dead on the cart. Under normal circumstances they would have been burned after death. Their skin stretched across their bones and took on a strange waxy appearance, more grey and blue than the colour of dead flesh. The tautness of their skin made it impossible for their eyes to close – indeed, the browning globes looked about to pop right out of their sockets. The battlewolves' lips parted in an unending snarl.

The sight twisted her gut, but instead of looking away as she usually would, Kanika glared back at them defiantly, and her stomach settled. But she could still feel their rage. Their spirits must be somewhere nearby, easy targets for darker things that stalked the edge of settlements.

She recalled tales her father had told her as a small child of the smokes and herbs that battlewolves ingested daily to preserve their flesh beyond mortal means into the afterlife, so that they could continue to prey upon the weak and cowardly even after death. Only fire could cleanse them and grant them a chance at rebirth, into an actual wolf if they had died well, into a bear if they had slain the one who slew them. Into a maggot if they had died by anything but the blade. Judging by the entrails spilling out of them, there would be two new wolves in a pack somewhere if their bodies could find a pyre.

“They're only corpses, Atham,” she chided him. “You needn't be so squeamish.”

“I've seen corpses before.” Willan walked over to the cart and took a better look. “But surely these are not normal. Why are their faces so...”

“Terrifying?” Kanika supplied. “They should have been cremated days ago, maybe weeks. They're saying they're ready to move on. You can see their frustration at being trapped in this half-existence, look--”

“No, thank you,” Atham interjected. Kanika moved to point to the permanently opened eyes of one of the bodies, about to insist, but he continued hastily. “We can cremate them, of course. Probably for the best, in fact.”

Kanika pursed her lips and nodded, satisfied. Atham instructed Willan to fetch something to give the corpses the proper send off. Kanika stood quietly over the bodies, waiting for Willan to return. The cart would burn, perhaps, and provide most of the fuel, but the air was damp. She wondered if the oil lamps still held fuel. Meto resurfaced looking pale, disturbing the unnatural silence around them with the clack of his boots. He sauntered over to Kanika and made a face at the rotting corpses.

“Don't worry, Kanika, they won't rise again.” He grinned. “They were supposed to be brought to the citadel ages ago for examination. I guess Commander Greys is getting older, a bit forgetful, it happens.”

Kanika's eyes were drawn to something on Meto's wrist. It was almost the mirror image of the cut Cassia had made on her wrist to seal their deal.

“Oh dear, it seems you've cut yourself.” She watched  closely for his reaction and was not disappointed. Meto sobered significantly at her words. He pulled his shirt down to hide the cut. He looked almost about to snap at her.

“We can deal with scrapes and bruises later.”Atham stepped between them. “This visit was a terrible idea, though at least we know Commander Greys is missing and the border wall undefended. We shall need to have reinforcements sent before dusk, or we could all be dead in our beds by morning. And we should cremate these bodies.”

“I agree.” Kanika took a breath, calming her anger at Meto. “And we should follow the customs of the land when we do it, and make sure anyone who might be watching can see we've done it. I suspect Commander Greys and her company's absence is linked to the fact that these bodies are still here, rotting, in the open.”

Meto cast a dark look at both of them, then whistled loudly. A few of his retinue appeared from various doorways and windows.

“We need volunteers to ride back to the citadel and fetch more troops to defend this place,” Atham called to them. They seemed more than happy to oblige.

Meto's face turned stormy. After his noble friends had fled on horseback to the citadel, Kanika caught sight of him glaring at his brother from the wall of a building. She helped Willan stack the cart with combustible materials, her movements rhythmic and reverent. She had participated in enough funerals in her time at the temple to know the motions by heart, even with the makeshift materials.

Wood and kindling from the commander's quarters, a variety of strangely shaped weapons from the corpses' possessions, and the entire contents of the tiny shrine that serviced the fort all went on the cart. Kanika found some parchment and began drawing in Ilasean letters and religious symbols, rolling up each finished piece and placing it carefully in the distended mouths of each body.

“What is wrong with you today, Meto?” Kanika overheard Atham ask his brother as she and Willan prepared to set the cart alight. She kept half an eye on them as they spoke. Meto shrugged and looked towards the bodies.

“Doesn't it bother you?” Meto scowled. “These barbarians would slay us all if they could, and yet you marry one, allow another to accompany you everywhere, and now you insist on funeral rites rather than going to the physicians to discover anything more about those corpses.”

So much for becoming close in the coming years. Kanika took a flask of well water and muttered the prayers she'd heard a thousand times, then sprinkled it over the corpses.

Before they could continue their conversation, a soft hiss and a thud drew her attention the way only danger could. An arrow flew from behind the wall and landed squarely in the centre of the yard.

Atham and Meto ducked instinctively and pressed their backs flat against the border wall as four more arrows flew through the air. Kanika resisted the impulse to do the same even as Atham shouted for her and Willan to find cover. Without the funeral pyre, there would be no way to halt the onslaught that awaited beyond the gates. She exchanged a worried glance with Willan. He was in no hurry to stop proceedings either. Atham's voice carried to her in panic even as a volley of arrows rained down around her. None came close to landing their mark.

They don't know it's only us, she realised. They think they're attacking the fort at full strength. Perhaps the commander's absence was not linked to the corpses after all.

“Brother, do something,” Atham begged.

Meto moved to intervene when another volley of arrows landed around them. He fell back. He readied to try again when the fortified gate heaved and shuddered on its hinges. The warriors from the Caerphian wild lands stood in an organized formation. These were not the “savages” all the Vraithii made them out to be.

In the centre of the yard, Kanika held a bucket of fine incense from the fort's shrine. The second Willan's flint managed to light the handful of straw from the stables and set it on the kindling, Kanika poured the incense over the fire, cutting short the plume of smoke.

Another volley of arrows cascaded around them, another impact on the other side of the gate sending splinters of wood and dust showering in front of it. A beady brown eye appeared at one of the fragmented holes in the gate, gazing furiously on them all.

“Where the hell are the rest of your spoilt little friends?” Atham shouted at Meto.

Meto scowled, about to say something when a large plume of smoke billowed out of the cart. The smell turned Kanika's stomach, but soon the stench gave way to something sweeter. Willan pulled a small jar of red powdered bloodsong from his pocket to attract the attention of gatekeeper gods who would transport the souls of the dead to the next realm. He handed it to Kanika.

She flashed him a quizzical look. Bloodsong was hardly the sort of thing a royal manservant should happen to have on his person. He avoided her eyes, giving nothing away. She tipped the contents quickly over the flames, turning the smoke an eerie red-orange colour. As the smoke carried across the yard, the battering against the gate stopped. At first only one or two voices, then a dozen or more, began a keening song like wolves howling from beyond the wall. Kanika breathed a sigh of relief.  She and her companions might yet survive the day.

“Tell them to open the gate,” Kanika said to Willan. “We will lose the cart but the battlewolves must pause their assault to tend to their dead.”

Willan nodded and hurried over to Atham. Kanika watched them converse in agitated tones, then Willan ran back to her. The cart began to crackle. It would have to be now, Kanika knew, or the cart's integrity would fail and they would not be able to push it out without desecrating the corpses further.

She positioned herself to push. Atham and Meto had not moved, and she realised they might have to rush the cart whether the gate was open or not. Finally, the two princes hurried to the gate. She exhaled a sharp breath.

The log barring the gate shut fell to the flagstones with a hollow clatter. Atham dragged it out the way as best he could, though it was far heavier than his thin frame could support. Meto did not bend to help him. He still looked torn, though his options were quickly running out. Only when Atham's feet scrabbled uselessly on the flagstones, his whole weight failing to shift the gates even an inch, did Meto step in to help.

“We must push now.” Willan braced himself against the increasingly hot cart. Kanika assisted and, after a few moments, the cart's wheels began to turn. The cart gained enough momentum to propel itself. Kanika and Willan struggled to keep balance until they released the cart to its frantic descent. Atham and Meto dove out of the way. The cart barrelled through the mist and smoke, out into the marsh, a split second after they moved clear. The mournful chant burned in their ears.

As soon as the cart cleared the gates, Meto rushed to close them again. The mournful song receded, taking the smouldering cart along with it into the mist. Atham ran forward to help him, but a hand the size of a gravedigger's shovel braced against the fragile remains of the gate, followed by an equally massive man.

Kanika’s breath froze in her chest. The tales did not do them justice. Four warriors with dark ochre paint on their faces stepped into the yard, their eyes hard. A host of thorns, spikes and bones arranged over their shoulders and necks. They bore strange weapons made of bones and bronze that seemed to glow in the mist.

Meto went for his blade, only to get pinned by the neck against the wall by the first giant. The warrior made to impale him, but Meto twisted and avoided harm by a hair. He tried to break the giant’s hold with a punch aimed at a nerve cluster in the crook of the other man’s arm. The warrior flinched but his grip didn’t break.

Atham tried to help him, but one of the other warriors knocked him flying with a well-placed jab to the ribs. Though Atham was stunned by the blow, it was no more than a love pat from a warrior that size. A shudder of fear ran through Kanika. Even Aldert was small compared to the battlewolves, rendering her no more than a bug to them. She knew that if they breached the border wall, they would make no distinction between Vraithii and Ilasean. Argorien might be razed before help could come. And though she could not fight, she was far from unarmed. She summoned her courage and walked towards the giants.

Meto was barely managing to avoid the warrior's weapon. She placed her hand on the warrior's forearm and allowed a spark of magic to scurry into his flesh. Unlike civilians in Argorien, who had all manner of distractions and thoughts running through their minds at any given moment, the battlewolf was pure focus and instinct. The raw brutality of his mind almost shocked her back from him, but she knew that if he managed to kill Meto, any hoping of routing the attack would be lost.

She pressed harder, allowing her magic to mingle with his essence. The strength of his will howled against the intrusion, and she knew sheer force would not serve her here as it had done with the guard below the Skytowers. She changed track, making her magic smoother, softer, gentler, like a mother soothing a child to sleep. For a moment the battlewolf snarled at her, then slowly softened. Kanika added a layer of grief and the image of the two corpses burning to his mind. Finally he grunted and dropped Meto to the ground.

Meto tried to get up, but the warrior pushed him slowly with the tip of his weapon. Meto glared, though his face had not yet returned to its natural hue. The warrior barked at his companions, and they set off into the mist.

Kanika released a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding, the strength gone from her limbs, leaving a hollow weightlessness in its place. Meto struggled unsteadily to his feet. She made no attempt to help him. Atham ran to them, and together they managed to push the gates closed behind the warriors and replace the bar. Kanika noted that Willan was nowhere to be seen, but Meto's aggression sidetracked her.

“She's a witch!” Meto shouted, his eyes wide with anger, and... fear? Kanika could hardly recognise it in him. “She did something to that warrior!”

“I'm not a witch!” Kanika shouted back. “You've been acting strangely all week, and now you're accusing me of treason! You'd best be glad I'm not a witch.”

“Atham, see? She threatened me!” Meto spluttered. “She's going to put a curse on me, she all but said it!”

Kanika rolled her eyes and stalked off into the fort, a haughty glare disguising her fright.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

KANIKA

Kanika’s fear propelled her without paying attention to where she was going. The fort was small by Vraithii standards. It had only been erected as a temporary measure to secure the land and prevent the escape of their new human livestock, back when the Skytowers still burned and the Ilas were fleeing in droves. The soldiers over the years had fortified it with stone, though much of the wall was still only supported by makeshift wooden stakes lining the deep trench dug around the outside. The wall surrounding the fort had been strengthened and broadened to allow guards to patrol along the top of it, a thin rampart of stacked wood and crudely shaped stone allowing the Vraithii to peer nervously into the Sunless Marsh day and night. Even her untrained eyes could spot dark figures in the mist, some darting low across the ground, others tall and slow.

She let her mind wander to the battlewolves and what little she knew of them. They fought under no banner, and moved with the seasons from place to place. Ilas’ priestess in the temple said the wall had disrupted their migrations. They had been no more aggressive than wolves in the time of the Seer Queen, before the invasion, dangerous but unlikely to attack unless provoked or starving. They were spiritual warriors who reputedly owed their strength and ferocity to secretive rites held in smoke huts. The rituals could last days, during which they courted possession not from gods but from the spirits of survival, war and violence.

Kanika had never understood the difference until she had witnessed Ilas standing over Nmuddyn in her dream. The gods had faces, could be reasoned with, worked with at times. A spirit was something far less tangible. It shed new light for her on the punishments Acolytes inflicted on those who broke their deals.

Though she had a feeling Meto and the other Vraithii might try to pin the disappearance of the border fort's troops on witchcraft or some other ignorant superstition, Kanika wouldn't be surprised if the Vraithii had simply left out of fear. The constant looming threat of battlewolves in the marsh, never knowing if movement was just an animal in the mist or a sign of impending destruction, was no recipe for sanity.

The deep dark eyes of the battlewolf who had almost killed Meto rose unbidden into her mind. If he had sated his bloodlust and killed the prince, she knew it would only have opened the floodgates. None of them would have left the fort alive, nor would any corner of the city be safe. No true humanity lurked behind the skull mask. Once the battlewolves had invited the wild spirits into themselves, none found any reason to return to cast them out.

Kanika left the rampart for the fort's interior. She passed through a dusty eating area and saw a light flickering in the next room. Slowing her steps, she crept forward.

Willan conversed in low tones within a small kitchen. Surprised though she was that he had vanished at the crucial moment of the funerary rites, it was nowhere near as surprising as hearing him conversing in Caerphian. She lingered outside the door a moment before knocking. Was he haggling over payment with someone? She frowned. She recognised the second voice too.

“Cassia. Willan.” She stepped through the door. The Acolyte looked angry to see her. Her cloud of dark, curly hair was tied back in thin leather strings, and she was dressed in Vraithan armour.

“Seer,” Cassia replied with her customary detached air. “In case you couldn't tell, we're a little busy. This is a private conversation.”

“The princes are safe,” she told Willan. “They will no doubt come looking for you soon enough.”

Willan nodded silently. Kanika turned back to Cassia.

“Did you strike a deal with Meto Vallariath?” Kanika asked. She saw no point in beating around the bush. Willan's eyebrows raised slightly.

Meto' strange behaviour had been remarked upon at court, though only to confirm the long held, but never proven, belief that he was a man of clear intent and action. He had increased the guard in the lower town and Ilasean quarter, subjected them to more restrictions when traveling between the different quarters of the city and generally made it impossible for anyone but a Vraithan to live freely anymore. Many at court had viewed his changes as positive traits, signs that he was finally maturing into a dependable, reliable leader.

Kanika disagreed, a sentiment echoed by the lower classes, but it was interesting seeing his increased recklessness perceived in a favourable light. If Meto had struck a deal with an Acolyte, that would certainly explain his sudden shift in intensity, and his questions about the lands outside Vraithan control in the forgotten garden.

Cassia gave Kanika a long, cool stare. Kanika wasn't tall by any stretch, but she credited her small stature with her ability to look up to people without being intimidated. She returned the stare without flinching.

“If I had, I would not tell you.” Cassia smirked. “But since I did not, I can tell you that I did not.”

After the morning's events Kanika had no patience for Cassia's games. She had noticed a change the day after she'd struck her own deal with Cassia, a voice in her head and a touch on her shoulder guiding her. The serenity it had brought had helped her immensely. She had no doubt it had changed her behaviour as well. If Meto had his own deal it could easily have evoked his new outlook, or perhaps just brought an existing one to the surface. From what she understood of magic, it would depend on the nature of the deal.

“If you did, you should know that he's been behaving strangely of late. Far be it from me to question an Acolyte's abilities, but I'm not sure it's going quite as planned.”

“If I had made a deal with him, I would already be aware,” Cassia shot back. Kanika sighed again and figured she may as well ask the obvious question, though she doubted she would get a straight answer.

“And the fort?” she asked. “What happened here? Or am I to believe this is none of your doing as well?”

A darkness flickered across Cassia's otherwise unreadable eyes. She glanced at Willan, who had been studying his feet throughout their exchange.

“I do not know,” Cassia replied, a hint of concern creeping into her tone.

Kanika scoffed.

“The spirits are not here. There is nothing, not even whispers, from beyond the Veil. Listen, Seer, and you will know that I am as clueless as you are as to the fate of your soldiers.”

Chills ran up Kanika's spine as she realised that what Cassia said could be true. The eerie aura around the fort was unnerving in a similar way to the Skytowers. But where the towers were full of activity, the fort was different. The absence of spirits rather than an overpopulation of them. Despite her lessons with Cecie, she could not yet shift into the part of her brain required to commune with the spirits at will. For someone of Cassia's ability, she imagined the silence must be maddening. Kanika looked quickly between Cassia and Willan before turning and leaving them to their deal.

◆◆◆

Listening to the silence rattled Kanika's nerves. The hours passed and she heard nothing, no matter how she tried to shift into the mind of her Seer self. She noticed the dull glow around furniture as she always did, but found no hints of anything alive on any plane. Maintaining the Seer state exhausted her, but sitting in the fort it was almost impossible. Just as she reached the tipping point, she would stall, her mind unwilling to take the plunge. Silence bore down on her. Finally, she wriggled her toes and stretched her fingers to return her mind to a less magical state.

Looking at the room through normal eyes, she couldn't understand why there was not more. She sat in the main dining hall, small and cozy. The soldiers must have looked forward to gathering here each day. She imagined their tired faces lining the tables, sharing a plain meal and subdued conversation. Even that struck her as odd. Soldiers in the capital were so boisterous, seemingly endless founts of energy bubbling somewhere inside. Yet as she looked at the cold dark dining hall, she could not imagine the border fort soldiers overtaken by jovial camaraderie.

Cassia emerged from the kitchen. Kanika almost didn't recognise her. She looked for all the world like a Vraithii soldier, albeit one who had been through a war or two. Kanika watched as she passed through the dining hall in silence, then rose and went to the glassless window. Cassia stumbled over to Meto by the gate. Willan materialised silently by Kanika's elbow, his eyes trained on Cassia.

“I hope you know what you're doing, making deals with Acolytes,” he said in an undertone.

“I could say the same to you,” Kanika replied.

With nothing better to do, Kanika sat by the window and watched the princes in the courtyard. They had shored up the gate, though she felt no safer with it closed. Atham attempted to talk to his brother. Meto paid him no attention. Eventually, Atham wandered off beyond Kanika’s sight. Meto watched him leave, the first sign he was aware of his brother’s presence at all.

Kanika couldn’t decide how dangerous Meto was. He was far broader than Atham, easily able to overpower and slay his enemies, but she had never seen him as an intelligent man. Where Atham might twist her up in her own words and made her feel a fool for questioning him, Meto would likely never think to match her wit. He would simply stand over her and use his physical presence to silence her, as he had done in the forgotten garden.

Against her better judgement, she rose and made her way into the courtyard. The mist dulled her footsteps, lending her the silence to approach under the awnings without detection. Before she reached Meto, a door crashed open and Kanika stopped in shock. Cassia tumbled to the flagstones, her helmet askew.

Meto spun on his heel and rushed to her, blade drawn. Kanika melted back against the wall to watch.

“Cassia.” He lowered his blade. “Where have you been? Where is everyone? The fort... what happened here?”

“My prince.” Her eyes had the ragged edges of someone at their limit. Kanika was impressed at her transformation.

“Just after you and the queen left, there was a... a fog descended, it covered everything, everyone who breathed it, they...they just...they're gone! They're all gone!”

As her words broke down into ragged sobs, Meto pulled her close. His arms held her shaking form in comfort. Kanika almost gasped. She had never seen him show affection to anyone.

“You did well, soldier.” He spoke so kindly. “You're safe now.”

He didn’t seem to find it strange that she had been there all that time and avoided breathing in the fog. Nor did it dawn on him that they had been breathing the fog since arriving, and had yet to vanish. Cassia must be influencing him. So much for her not having a deal with him. She narrowed her eyes and moved silently back to the mess hall. Meto’s friends had been gone a while. Soon they must return, or send others in their place to secure the border. The day’s events weighed on Kanika. She wanted to curl up in her bed and sleep for a week, forget all she had seen and learned at the fort. Atham went through the commander’s papers. Meto focused on Cassia. Willan vanished somewhere. Kanika sloped off and  avoided everyone until reinforcements arrived from the city.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

KANIKA

Wrapped in her ragged commoner's cloak, her hood pulled low over her eyes, Kanika hurried through the streets. She beelined for the Temple of Ilas, in case anyone watched, making her way up the uneven stone steps. She paused on the top step.  Turning to look around, she allowed her hood to slip down and reveal her face before stepping inside.

Aside from the slave by the door offering blessings, the temple was deserted. Kanika let the slave bless her, answering the prayer and touching her fingers lightly to her brow. To ensure the slave looked at her face properly, she smiled and dropped a drachin loudly into the collection bowl.

“May the She See your path.” The slave intoned the customary greeting in Ilas' temple.

Kanika completed the formula. “And grant you the wisdom Her Sight brings.”

She moved towards the altar, the ancient wooden levels arrayed with candles and bowls of water for restless spirits. Atop all else hung the oldest known carving of the Eye of Ilas.

Some said it was carved by the goddess' consort, Her first priestess, when Ilas had returned to the Void with the other gods after Creation was done. Gently curved arches of charred wood held aloft a smooth flint disc. It was mounted on a modernly ornate stand of beaten copper, glinting metallic arms outstretched to cradle the artefact.

Kanika knew it well. The years she'd spent in service to the goddess suddenly paid off. She meandered to the slaves' corridor, a discreet opening no more than two feet wide, designed so workers could come and go about their duties without disturbing their masters. Pressing herself into it, as she had done thousands of times before, brought an odd sense of nostalgia.

She edged along until she found the right exit then slipped out a discreet door on the side of the temple. It faced a thick wall that led towards the square if followed far enough. She heard Vraithii voices slurring drunkenly, in one of the many taverns that lined the streets.

“D'yer think the prince will let 'is princess stray from the marital bed like 'is father did?” One shouted over the din. A lascivious murmur met his words.

Kanika scoffed and turned sharply away from the voices, images of them contorted in agony fuelling her steps. If the Resistance brought such slaughter closer, then all she sacrificed would be worth it.

◆◆◆

At times Kanika wondered whether the Resistance would actually solve anything if it regained power, or if it would just replace one tyrant with another. The true monarchy had been gone for so many years, how could it ever be as it was before?

She had only vague memories of a time before the invasion. Glimpses of her mother in her study, her blue eyes focused as she went through a stack of papers. Her little brother pulling on her legs as she tried to keep up with her dogs in a garden. Her father beaming as he held her newborn twin sisters, one under each arm.

After the invasion, though, the memories were all too clear. The hot, bitter, raging grief in the aftermath of their deaths. The aimless drive for vengeance against those who took them from her. The frightening new faces. The cold, impersonal priestess at the Temple of Ilas. She'd cried herself to sleep for months. In her darkest nightmares, she still saw her little brother's face caved in by a Vraithii hammer, still heard her parents' screams as her twin sisters, not yet weaned, were dropped from the balcony of her mother's warehouse into the burning chaos of the streets below.

It still didn't feel real. She felt as though she had been slaughtered in that warehouse with the rest of her family. As though no tether existed from where she had come to where she endlessly floated, until death reunited her with her family. Even her love for Armand had been nothing more than a distraction from the gaping hole she feared would never fill.

Joining the Resistance had not healed her, but at least now she could avenge her family. The secrecy came more naturally to her than she’d expected.

Cecie had been training her a little. Not enough to be evident in her features by bleaching her eyes or draining the colour from her face. But enough that she could hide from sight no matter the hour or the weather, no matter if she walked empty streets or pushed through thronged crowds.

It was the most basic of glamours, or so Cecie told her. It would not have fooled even a blind halfwit in the days before the Vraithans. But the more years passed, the less the people remembered the old ways, and the easier it was to wield magic in plain sight. More effective too, or so Cecie told her. Taking a deep breath, she tried it for the first time. Cecie warned her not to push it too far outside of their training. Kanika smiled as she felt the glamours settle on her like a fine coating of dust. She scuttled into the archway in the guise of a withered old man, passing unnoticed among the alleyways.

Then came the difficult part. Another first, another test of her growing abilities. Passageways hidden to the average eye crisscrossed the city in an endless labyrinth. Those with the knowledge to open them could travel without being detected, and she was eager to see if the city would grant her access yet. She reached a dead end, drew seven squiggles on the wall, and turned three times on the spot. By the time she had finished the third rotation, she was no longer in the dead-end alley, her glamour falling away with the change of her surroundings.

Catacombs of her people’s history stretched before her. Frescoes and mosaics fallen into disrepair on the crumbling walls depicted the love affair between Ilas and her mortal consort. They depicted her grief at the end of her love’s short life and the gifts the goddess had bestowed on her descendants. Gifts that the Ilaseans still bore.

The twin moons Numen and Karashida cast shimmering shadows where their beams met and intertwined. Out of the corner of her eye Kanika saw the flickering lights of the spirits and creatures who had sought refuge in the Towers. Tall columns, cut short by the Vraithii siege, hid banshees who once called these marshes home. Sprites fought for control of the doorways and crossroads of the pathways within the ruins. Some patches were completely in the open, grassy knots growing where paved courtyards had once graced the ground.

The spirits were plentiful, and the magic was strong. That which could be used to heal could also be used to harm. Not all spirits were created for both. They clustered around her in equal numbers each time she crossed the threshold. She hurried through the outer rings of the ruins without looking left or right, without slowing or looking back, ignoring the subtle draw of the darker spirits. After a few minutes they left her be. She sighed in relief.

She found Cecie in one of the smaller rooms, perhaps a store room or servant's chamber in the days before the conquest. Kanika bowed respectfully and approached when beckoned forward.

“Your Highness!” Cecie smiled. “So good of you to visit. I wasn't expecting you until Karashida next goes dark.”

“Something's wrong,” she replied. “Perhaps you’ve heard, Prince Meto all but abducted me and the Crown Prince and took us to the border wall. Things there are not alright. The entire garrison was gone.”

Cecie's smile vanished in an instant.

“Tell me everything. Spare no detail.” Cecie sat forward with an intensity Kanika had not seen in her before.

Kanika relayed everything as accurately as she could. Silence hung in the air for several minutes after she had told her story.

“There have been rumours of such disappearances for years,” Cecie murmured. “And none of the soldiers have returned?”

“Not that I know of, no,” Kanika replied. “What are the rumours?”

“Since the invasion, there have been reports of people going missing from their homes and returning changed. Wild. Some suspect the Vraithan presence has disturbed the spirits.” Cecie drifted into thought for a moment. Kanika waited for her to come back, aware that interrupting would earn her a tongue-lashing.

“Your shadow. Aldert. He arrived in the city quite recently, I believe. See what you can discover from him about people vanishing beyond the border.”

Kanika nodded and agreed. Knowing Aldert, he had been three feet from a vanishing person and paid not the slightest bit of notice. She didn’t voice that opinion to Cecie, however, knowing it would not change the other woman’s instructions.

“Since you’re already here, we might as well run through some drills. That guard you tried to glamour has not yet recovered. The goal is to leave no trace, and you are still some way from it.”

Kanika sighed and removed her cloak, already dreading the ache in her limbs once they were finished.

◆◆◆

Kanika made her way back to the palace after training deep in thought. The twisting paths shifted easily under her feet despite her rising exhaustion. The streets were deserted. She made extra effort to keep her footsteps from ringing out on the cobbled ground.

She rounded the last corner deep in thought, completing the journey back to Atham and his desires. He was already asleep. She longed for the freedom of her own bed but knew he would be unbearable if he woke and she wasn’t by his side. She pulled her clothes off and crept under the covers beside him, irritated when he rolled over to embrace her in his sleep.

As she lay in the darkness beside him, his breathing faint and regular on her shoulder, she pondered over the lessons. The Ilas were renowned Seers, but they had been unable to foresee their own conquest. Though she had been young at the time of the invasion, she remembered how sudden it had been. No warning, no build up, just blood and screams. She knew her memory was questionable since it was common knowledge that the Ilas had resisted the siege for almost a year, but still they had fallen in the end.

It troubled her. She had learned how to tap into her Sight through her lessons with Cecie. So far, her visions had been very mundane, and very clear. A maid in a red tunic collected water from the fountain. A naked child splashing gleefully in the mud as her carer scolded and tried to catch her for her bath. A dead fire half-concealed by grass and bushes. Blood spattered on a ritual altar, broken pottery all around.

If all visions were like hers, or even longer or more powerful, preventing the Vraithan invasion should have been easy. Yet they had not. She wondered how fully she could trust what she Saw, how fully anyone could trust it, if it had been so fickle as to let an entire nation fall into ruin.

As she dozed off she felt the jolting shift of her mind slipping into the Sight.

◆◆◆

She stood on the top of a tall building in the citadel. With a slow smile, she realised it was one of the Skytowers, no longer a ruin but standing proud and whole again. A bronze-plated roof bore a covered smoke hole. Sweet frankincense and heady juniper smoke poured out of the shining hole. The scent enveloped her, filled her and emptied her at the same time. A statue of the Eye of Ilas stood tall, solid gold and shining, atop the roof. As she noticed it, it winked at her. She looked around, the palace to her left, the port stretching out to the horizon as Karashida obscured the sun. She felt so close to it, she reached out to touch it, sure she could pluck it from the sky...

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ELSEPHERE

Elsephere watched her mother meeting with Eoghan's witan in her private garden from a balcony above with Morgaine. Unofficial meeting, of course. Ithrien had little authority in that area as long as the High King drew breath. Much to her chagrin, Eoghan seemed in no rush to cease breathing or revoke Elsephere's position as his stand-in.

Elsephere realised more each day that her mother could find work arounds to every obstacle. Though the lords and ladies Ithrien hosted all formed the High King's witan, she claimed to have organised a luncheon with her peers. Elsephere, as her child and not even next in line after Eoghan, had not been invited. Though nor had Atham.

Morgaine’s gaze followed Elsephere's to where they could see the backs and shoulders of several witan members, the overhang of the peristyle cutting them off from seeing more – or from being seen by those below. Sun danced on the marble floor and bounced off the tiered columns as a light breeze shifted the vines winding their way across the latticed outdoor sunroof.

Elsephere breathed a sharp draft through her nose. She already primed one of the slaves serving food to report back. Slaves could be unreliable though, especially those amenable to greased palms. It would be better to hear it for herself, but to get close enough to overhear was impossible without being detected.

“We must find out what they're saying, my lady,” Morgaine murmured.

“But how? My mother will be on the alert, no matter how at ease she might appear to her guests,” Elsephere replied. Morgaine said nothing, but Elsephere detected something left unsaid. She glanced at her. “Do you have an idea?”

“Perhaps,” Morgaine replied. “Your mother cares little for her slaves. Their passages are in disrepair, there might be a section we can use.”

Elsephere thought on it, then nodded once. “Worth a shot. See to it.”

◆◆◆

The slaves' passageways pressed in close. Dust thick in the air clawed at Elsephere's throat as she edged through the darkness. She followed Morgaine for what felt like an eternity. The determined young Ilas had cleared the slaves loitering and passing through this section of the passageway. They posted discreet guards to divert any who tried to come through. Time was short, but they might discern whether Ithrien merely maintained her connections or if she angled for something Elsephere should be concerned about. Voices from all over the palace floated around them, muffled and distorted through the plastered walls. Ithrien's sharp tones cut through the background noise, though still not clear enough to discern what she was saying.

Morgaine halted by a slivered crack in the wall. A thin beam of light fell across her pale face, catching one vivid blue eye and a strand of her white blonde hair in its light. Elsephere was struck, as always, by her beauty. She gazed on her a moment longer, then pressed her eye to the wall.

Though her view was just as obstructed as from the balcony, she saw a few familiar faces. Rune Folke, Beatry Kather, Eifie Fairfax and Auris Warre sat around her mother's table on fine comfortable chairs. Wine filled glass cups and pipes smoked in ceramic dishes.

Elsephere felt the usual tug of desire to smoke that accompanied seeing others partake. She pushed it aside with a note to break open a new box of smoking weed in her solar when she finished here. She turned her attention to the conversation at hand.

“...when they break through it will be anarchy, of course,” Ithrien said. “But the wall is stronger than it looks, and we have an advantage in the loose ground beyond it. They cannot wheel siege machines to the border, nor will they ever, unless the marsh dries up.”

“And how likely is that?” Eifie Fairfax's soft voice managed to carry to all present. She never raised her voice, nor had trouble being heard. As she spoke, a hubbub somewhere out of sight rose briefly then subsided. Elsephere strained to get a better look.

“With me at the head of the army? Not likely at all.” Meto's voice carried its usual self-aggrandising arrogance.

Elsephere wrinkled her nose. Her mother's meeting made sense now. The High Queen was lobbying support for Meto to take the throne after Eoghan's death. The ploy about the High King drafting legislature for seven straight days had been far too flimsy, though Elsephere had no other explanation.

“And why should we support you, Meto?” Auris Warre asked. “A bastard son of the king's wife, with no claim to Vraithii blood or title. Why not your sister, if your brother is unsuitable?”

They discussed treason. Elsephere knew this, but, sanctioned by the High Queen, there was little to be done about it. Eoghan would likely forget every time he was told, fixating instead on betrayals long past, and Atham was useless as ever.

“She is young, my lords and ladies, and still clings to the High King's ideals,” Meto replied, though Elsephere could hear Ithrien's words coming out his mouth. “She has not yet separated from him enough to form her own thoughts, and will only lead us further down this destructive path. Rather than fight the Caerphians on our own, I propose forging alliances to defend the city, much like the Seers before us. Alone we are weak, and we all know Empress Valsenya has no intention of funding our survival. We must forge our own destiny, or be swallowed by the savage tides at our gates.”

Elsephere felt Morgaine bristle at her side. She reached for her hand in the dark, interweaving their fingers as they watched the scene unfold before them.

“Elsephere is not so young now, I think,” said Eifie Fairfax. “Nearing her twenty-fourth year, no? Old enough to marry, so why not old enough to succeed Eoghan should Atham choose to focus on other pursuits? Let us be clear, we were not traitors in Vraith and we are not traitors here. We will not force the Crown Prince if he doesn’t choose to step aside. And then, is Elsephere not the natural heir?”

“In any other times, she would be,” Ithrien replied. “But, though her prowess as a warrior is remarkable, Meto has more experience leading troops. The soldiers are loyal to him. And, if we are to defend against hordes of savages, the two years he has on Elsephere will be a boon. A clearer head and a steadier hand to guide us through turbulent times.”

“With your experience to draw from as well?” Rune Folke interjected. “That didn't go so well for Morriden, as I recall.”

“I held my country strong for over a decade when I was barely a maid,” Ithrien shot back, dispelling the mirth that Rune's words had elicited. “And I could have done so for a decade more. No other annexed nations negotiated such favourable terms, nor did their rulers keep both their heads and their liberty. You would do well to include that in your recollections, Lord Folke.”

“Noted,” Rune answered. “Though that still does not mean your bastard should sit on a throne when he has an elder brother who is the king's heir, and a sister who is formidable enough to stand on her own feet without her mother's backing.”

“The point is moot for now, at any rate,” came Beatry Kather's practical voice. “We will take what you recommend under advisement, Your Majesty. We have much to consider, though. With the gods' favour, we shall have no need to decide on such things.”

“Of course. Thank you, my lords and ladies.”

Elsephere could tell by her tone that Ithrien's patience with the loyal nobles of Argorien was wearing thin.

As the nobles bade Ithrien and Meto farewell, Elsephere thought on her mother's boldness. Winning over the nobles was a gargantuan task. Most were loyal to Eoghan by way of debts, and not the sort money could absolve.

Elsephere cast another glance through the crack in the wall. It seemed only Ithrien and Elanene remained. Elsephere angled herself so she could see her mother's pale, drawn face. Elanene, her loyal but decrepit servant, shuffled to a divan and groaned as she rested her arthritic feet on a footstool.

“Essume innovin dreni savitin, Ithrien,” Elanene croaked. Elsephere focused hard to interpret Ithrien's mother tongue. They will always resist you, Ithrien.

“Kro, Elanene,” Ithrien replied. “They were especially fixated on Meto's lack of imperial blood. More so than I anticipated.”

“I wonder how they would feel if they knew that none of your children are by Eoghan,” Elanene chuckled. “Poor man never could overlook your feminine form.”

“He had no complaints when I took others to bed and brought him heirs after Valsenya barred us from adopting,” Ithrien replied. “Always so glad that such a task could be accomplished without having to enter me.”

The revelation hit Elsephere like a slap to the face. Ithrien and Eoghan had never been intimate, and by extension had never had children together. Eoghan had no natural heirs? Elsephere felt lightheaded as the ramifications of such a situation hit her all at once. She steadied herself against the wall behind her.

“If your tisane had not failed with Meto's father, there would have been no issue,” Elanene muttered. Ithrien pursed her lips.

“I do not regret it,” Ithrien said. “Though the pain it caused the boy was unfortunate, it has been a better teacher than a fleet of scholars. He is stronger now than any natural heir to Eoghan could have been.”

“My lady, we should go,” Morgaine mouthed. “We must let the slaves use their passageways, or there will be gossip.”

Elsephere nodded, reeling, and turned back towards the long dark crevice they had come through.

◆◆◆

“We must strip her of power, my lady.” Morgaine poured Elsephere tea. “She is not popular among the nobles, but she may succeed if left unchecked. And, with respect, your father is in no position to check anything.”

“He is not my father.” Elsephere’s mind reeled from the revelation. It might be a lie, but there was no reason Ithrien and Elanene would speak untruthfully when keeping their own company. Morgaine sighed and filled Elsephere's pipe.

“Perhaps not in blood, but in spirit the connection is doubled.” She clasped Elsephere's hand and slipped the pipe between her fingers and thumb. “It seems the High King was always aware his children were not of his seed, and yet his love for you never wavered. The gods made him your mother's husband, and thus chose you as his child.”

Elsephere took a shaky breath. Morgaine was right. Regardless of her true parentage, she was still the same woman, her father still the same man who had raised her and anointed her with oil at her baptism. The idea of a man who shared her blood somewhere in the world was disturbing and intriguing in equal measure. Elsephere sighed, she needed to put the idea aside and stay focused.

“Any word on Uledi?” She brought her pipe to her lips and drew deeply on it as Morgaine held a lit wooden taper to it.

“None, my lady,” Morgaine replied. “The guards wounded him but he evaded capture. We have heard nothing of him since, though I instructed your watchers to keep looking for him.”

“He will not elude us forever.” Elsephere felt her mind inching towards the conversation they had overheard. “And I agree that my mother must be thwarted. Her status as a foreign queen is a mark against her, as is her reputation for being careless with contraceptives.”

“Your father never prosecuted Ithrien for failing to use contraceptives with Meto's father,” Morgaine mused aloud. “But if she were under investigation, she would be at your mercy.”

Elsephere felt a smile twist across her face as she realised the cunning in Morgaine's words. She glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Morgaine stared back with a placid smile on her pale face.

◆◆◆

Ithrien did not take kindly to Eoghan's shaky signature on the warrant to seize her assets, confine her and search her correspondences. She began taking her meals in her solar and devoted herself to her defence. Elsephere enjoyed her breakfasts with Kanika far more than trading barbs with her mother each morning. The pathetic fool sat, ate in silence and left with Atham, allowing Elsephere to start her days in peace.

She enjoyed watching her future sister-in-law, contemplating her role in it all. To the outside eye it seemed the Seer's arrival in their midst had steered them towards destruction, but Elsephere knew that destruction was only the first phase of creation.

Without all eyes on Kanika and Atham, Meto and Ithrien and the other nobles might scrutinise Elsephere's behaviour more closely. Kanika's presence suited Elsephere just fine. The Seer had very little intelligence or courage that Elsephere could detect. With any luck Atham might abdicate all for his Seer bride.

“Try the cherries, Kanika, they are ripe to perfection today.” Elsephere smiled while Kanika froze. Elsephere nodded encouragingly, pushing the bowl closer. Poor thing, still a babe amongst thorns. After a great deal of hesitancy, Kanika smiled back and reached for the bowl.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she replied.

Elsephere turned back to her own meal as Kanika spooned the shiny red delicacies onto her plate. It helped that Atham's bride was so quiet. A more forceful personality might require correction, but Kanika was already all but invisible. Atham had certainly chosen the least bloodthirsty and rebellious Seer to ruin his life with. She could be dealt with later, once Elsephere consolidated her position as heir. She might even welcome the release of death, if she was as unwilling a bride as Elsephere suspected.

Kanika finished her food quickly and got up to wait for Atham elsewhere, perhaps unnerved by Elsephere speaking to her. Elsephere watched her leave with impassive detachment. As long as Kanika didn't interfere with Ithrien's trial, Elsephere had more important things to deal with.

She arranged for Friesone Strong to investigate her mother's affairs and determine if Meto's birth was by accident or design. Unlike many of the other banished nobles in Argorien, Friesone was truly innocent of the charges levelled against him in Vraith. Though aging, he was still wholly devoted to his practice. His ethics were impeccable. Those same ethics had earned him Empress Valsenya’s distrust and landed him in the Caerphian backwater to begin with. Elsephere knew he would likely find nothing, but his dedication to justice would ensure he was thorough to a fault. Ithrien would not be escaping all the documents for a good while.

Her breakfast finished, Elsephere made way to her mother's suite. She found the High Queen sitting by the window as one of Friesone's stewards argued with Elanene over some pieces of paper. Elsephere smirked.

“Good to see you're keeping busy, Mother.”

Ithrien glanced over without interest.

“Busy is the word.” Ithrien gave a gesture and Elanene and Friesone left to give them privacy. “Though I've faced far worse. And I suppose it was a long time coming. Eoghan could not ignore this forever. Now I must simply outlast.”

“You're not concerned that the investigators will find evidence against you?” Elsephere asked.

Ithrien offered her crocodile smile and stood to face her daughter with composure. Whatever state of worry or despair Elsephere hoped to find in her mother didn’t materialise. Ithrien held herself up so much that Elsephere would need to find a true weak point, and fast, to have any hope of seriously hobbling the queen.

“When I discover who put the thought in the King's mind to prosecute me, no amount of evidence in the world will protect them from my wrath.”

Ithrien and Elsephere locked eyes in a silent battle for several moments, until Ithrien turned away and resumed her seat by the window. Elsephere dug her fingers into her palms to quash the boiling rage at her mother's silent dismissal.

◆◆◆

Settled at her desk with a pipe, Elsephere flicked through various papers diverted from her father’s desk. Her thoughts kept turning back to her conversation with Ithrien and the blind fury interactions with her mother elicited.

Morgaine sat in an easy chair by the fire mending one of Elsephere’s tunics. Her deft stitches pulled the torn fabric back together with measured force until the tear was repaired. Elsephere became aware of the glances Morgaine shot her way, but her mood was far from amenable to whatever was on her mind.

As Morgaine replaced the tunic among her mistress’ clothes, a soft knock disturbed the silent solar. Elsephere glared daggers in the direction of the door. Morgaine hurried to greet the visitor. Hushed words were exchanged, then the door closed and Morgaine returned.

“Your father is awake, Your Highness,” she told her. “But the apothecary says he is weak and should be left to rest. She will attend him in the morning and assess his condition, but he seems to be on the mend.”

“That’s what she says every time,” Elsephere grumbled. “First he’s fine for a spell, then gradually he declines until he’s frothing on the floor and cannot rise from bed for days.”

Morgaine shot her a sympathetic look before turning back to her domestic duties. Elsephere returned to her father’s papers, glossing over correspondences and arraignments, until a smaller document slipped from the pile and fluttered to the floor. Elsephere sighed and bent to pick it up, skimming the first line after the customary introductions and greetings. She went to replace it in the pile, then stopped short and read the line again.

“For the upkeep of Hitvany Isle, the wage of sixty thousand drachins will be awarded and bestowed annually in perpetuity to the bearer of this agreement.”

She sat back and frowned. Hitvany… For a few minutes she tried to recall where she had heard the name, then it came to her. Her heart pounded, a wave of dizziness sweeping through her. She had not witnessed it for herself but her imagination supplied gruesome detail.

Her father’s secret. The one he was willing to risk the entire city to protect.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ARMAND

“What do you have for me?”

Armand gave one final surreptitious glance around, then turned to Cecie. The dive bar was all but empty save for the passed out patrons and a couple of old salts who rarely left their stools. They sat outside, around a dilapidated barrel, leaving the drunks to their slumber indoors. Armand saw Catla skulking under an awning across the square, pretending to examine baubles at a market stall in the brisk morning air.

“I’ve found a couple.” Armand took a sip of his cider. “The guard barely passes at the bottom of the gardens, and there is a crack in the wall that might be expanded to allow entry with a few nights’ work.”

Cecie cast a strained glance around, her eyes resting briefly on a dishevelled man stumbling into the early morning market outside the dive. Armand followed her gaze. The man paused, staring into nothing, then mumbled something unintelligible to himself.

“No, that won’t work,” Cecie decided. “It must be closer to the central palace. The gardens are all but untouched, save for your lady love’s visits.”

Armand scowled, trying to ignore the needle of sadness that twinged when Cecie referred to Kanika in that manner.

“Then there is a broken cover over a storm drain, directly beneath the underground cells. The guards pass there more often. There’s still a large enough window to sneak in or out. I don’t know what’s on the floors above, but I trust you have ways of finding out.”

“Oh, I do.” Cecie flashed him a grin. “We’ll check the drain tonight, but if it’s all as you say then we might have found the one. Where is it exactly?”

Armand detailed the drain’s location between sips of cider. Meeting in the open unnerved him, but he thought they did a good job of acting like drinking buddies sharing a pot or two.

A guard beelining towards them made him jump enough to spill what remained of his cider. He went to stand, but Cecie gripped his wrist.

“Do nothing,” she hissed. “Do not draw attention.”

Heart pounding in his chest, Armand watched the guard approach nonchalantly. The guard slowed several paces from them, and Armand relaxed.

The stumbling man was still motionless, now staring at the mud beneath him. Several stallholders and market-goers watched him mumble to himself, eyes wary.  Armand took a closer look at him. What he’d thought was common grime staining the man’s shirt now appeared as crusted blood, far too much to be the man’s own. His skin was pallid, his hair matted almost as thick as a rug. Along his arms Armand saw raised black punctures and disturbingly pronounced veins, culminating in darkened nails thick enough to be claws.

“That man is not well.” He frowned, rising more naturally to his feet. “What ails him?”

Cecie sat tense on her stool, eyes unblinking on the mumbling man. The guard said something Armand couldn’t quite make out. The man gave no response. The guard frowned and stepped closer, raising his baton to prod the man.

As soon as the stick made contact, the man moved. Armand felt his stomach drop. With unnatural strength, the man grabbed at the baton and ripped it out of the guard’s hands. It fell into the mud with a squelch.

The guard yelled an objection, drowned out by a guttural howl from the mumbling man. He raised his head. Armand bit back a cry of horror.

Thick dark sludge oozed from his gums, coating his bared teeth in foul green. The grey flesh on his face was marred by thick dark veins. Several chunks of skin hung loose from his cheeks, forehead and jowls. He was more than ill, Armand realised.

A thin red film covered what might otherwise have been merry blue or grey eyes. The pupils were shot through with cracks so deep Armand saw the jelly beneath them. The man saw clearly despite his condition. He locked onto the guard with hawk-like precision.

The guard stumbled back, horrified, and turned to call for his comrades. The man struck.

Armand had never seen such carnage. Teeth and nails ripped into soft human flesh wherever the guard’s armour didn’t cover. Blood spurted from his neck in a dizzying arc before slowing to a pulsating stream. The rabid man tore in further, reaching into the gaping wound at the guard’s neck and rummaging with feverish intensity, then gave another howl and pulled away empty-handed.

The entire marketplace froze, all eyes on the grisly scene. A child shrieked. The rabid man’s head snapped towards the sound, chest heaving. Chaos erupted into the square.

Everyone moved at once, tripping over each other in haste to evacuate. The creature rose on unsteady legs and dove for a thick knot of people, snarling. They clambered back into each other, pressing into a wall and trying to climb drain pipes to evade it.

Armand felt lightheaded as his legs carried him of their own accord. He ran headlong into Cecie, who grabbed him by the shoulders.

“No! Do not run from this.” Her eyes were wild, watching where the creature attacked the crowd. “We must use it. The more riots there are, the weaker the Vraithii scum and their hold over us. We must fight. We must drive them out. We…”

Armand stared at her, dumbfounded. The din over his shoulder spread, growing louder with each passing second. He heard the shouts from panicked people and the impossibly loud snarls from the creature shifting behind him. Guards called out in Vraithii, the dull thuds of weapons meeting muscle.

He spun and saw them carving a path through the people by force. In response, many took up stray bricks, buckets and anything else they found to defend themselves. Armand saw Catla ducking under a guard’s spear and rounding the edge of the crowd, shouting.

Ilaseans who had not witnessed the carnage hurried down the streets leading to the market. Some bore clubs, clearly ready to riot.

“No…” Armand swallowed, his mouth dry.

The creature, who had been all but engulfed in the screaming market-goers, suddenly emerged, limping and drenched in fresh blood. It howled again, then charged down a street.

Once it departed, the throng pressed against the wall loosened. Guards were still hacking through to find the source of the uproar. Seeing this, the newly arriving Ilaseans shouted in objection and began hurling rocks. The fairly empty market had tripled in size and grew steadily.

Armand turned to find Cecie, but she darted past him, picking up a rock as she went. He watched her join the fray as anger rose in his chest. Beneath the feet of the roiling crowd he saw bodies. Some had been mauled by the creature, but he knew how many lives the riots claimed. How could she so callously step over the corpses of the people she claimed to be saving?

Armand felt his stomach churn.

The pause in his flight gave him time to realise his house lay past the crowd. He ran again, dodging projectiles and angry Ilaseans as he tried to reach the street. In his haste, he tripped over something warm and solid, but saved himself from falling to the ground. He looked back even as he knew he shouldn’t.

The corpse of a young man lay prone, his face smashed to pulp. But that was not what had caught his foot. By the man’s ruined head, a girl of no more than six or seven sat. Her hollow eyes stared at what had once been the man’s face. Cursing himself even as he decided, Armand turned back and scooped the child up in his arms, amazed that she hadn’t been trampled along with her father. She barely moved as he carried her down the street at a brisk jog, the sounds of the riot growing behind them, a bitter taste in his mouth.

◆◆◆

The riot raged all night and the better part of the next morning. Armand laid low with Ophi in their parents’ house, trying to care for the child. She would barely look at them. Eventually they wrapped her in a blanket and let her be, planning to find any surviving family once the streets had calmed. Ophi brought the child food as the sun reached its zenith, then took Armand aside. He followed her to the overgrown courtyard they once shared with neighbours, the other house now abandoned. Smoke hung thick in the air, lending an overcast feel to the otherwise sunny day. Armand felt filled with dread even as he knew the riot was mostly contained.

“What happened?” Ophi sat a stone bench.

Armand detailed the riot’s outbreak and Cecie’s response. Much as he tried to stay calm, the look on Ophi’s face told him she was fighting the urge to give comfort.

“It disturbed you, the way the Resistance behaved?” Her tone was so careful, she sounded as though she were speaking to one of her charges.

“It did,” he agreed. “She barely faltered before she was egging the crowd on, even as the bodies were still warm.”

He shook his head. Images of the feral man’s attack mingled with the lifeless eyes of the trampled Ilaseans flashed in his mind. Witnessing it had been bad enough, but even as he slept last night, he had heard the initial shriek and seen the wave of death roll over the crowd. When he woke it was the crushed face of the child’s father that greeted him.

They sat in silence for some time. Armand felt Ophi shift once or twice as though about to speak, but the words never left her lips. Eventually he clasped her shoulder and made to rise, but a shadow in the doorway to the house caught his eye.

Cecie looked tired but unconcerned that she disturbed them. Armand set his jaw and bade Ophi go back inside. The way Cecie watched his sister leave rankled him.

“Your sister’s Sight is strong,” she commented once Ophi had left. “She should join us. We could use more like her.”

“She’s no fighter.” Armand pursed his lips. “Why are you here?”

Cecie reached into her skirts and drew out a tattered piece of cream cloth, crude markings etched in charcoal marring one side.

“We didn’t have time to get an exact location on the drain and the patrols yesterday.” She held out the cloth map to him. “Would you be so kind?”

Armand took the cloth, fighting against his anger, and made rough notes on the map. Cecie felt no need to explain her behaviour the previous day. Her reticence galled him, but he swallowed it down. He handed her back the map, expecting her to leave. Instead she tucked it into her skirts and gave him an appraising look.

“I didn’t see you in the riot yesterday.” Something about her tone only stoked the burning in Armand’s chest.

“Why would you have?” He spat. “I want no part of inciting death among our people.”

Cecie raised an eyebrow at him. For several long moments they stared at each other, then Cecie scoffed.

“Is that why? I could’ve sworn I saw you filling your loincloth when it broke out.” She bared her teeth in a grin,  her eyes remaining cold. “I thought you felt as we do about the Vraithii.”

Armand felt his face going red, though whether from anger or shame he didn’t know.

“How do you think the people under that mob felt?” He glared at her. “Did their last breaths and dying gasps mean nothing to you? Their feet had barely stilled when you ran forward to bring more bodies into that - that death trap.”

“They died in the service of a greater good,” Cecie shot back. “They died so that one more nail in the coffin these invaders have trapped us in might burst and we might be one step closer to freedom.”

“There is a child in there who saw her father’s face caved so deep his brains lay in the street.” Armand pointed towards the house. “A child who has neither eaten nor spoken since she saw that. Will you tell her that her father died for some cause she has no knowledge of? That their morning at the market ended that way in service of a fight he had no part in?”

“It is the truth. She would be glad of it if only she knew what his sacrifice meant for her future.”

Looking at her, Armand detected no trace of remorse. Her dark face was unlined, her gaze steady. A horrible suspicion crept up on him.

“Did you bring that sick man to the market?” The words caught in his throat. “Did you infect him with some affliction and set him loose on those people?”

That brought a line between her brows. She gave him a look he couldn’t quite read, then shook her head.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t believe you. You were ready for him, ready for what happened.”

Cecie sighed and glanced across the courtyard, her eyes wandering to a dwindling column of smoke above the city.

“I can see you’re upset.” She turned back to him, her face serene once more. “But the Resistance had nothing to do with that man, or what ailed him. Calm yourself down before you next meet me.”

She turned and made her way back through the house without waiting for a response, leaving Armand swallowing bitterness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ELSEPHERE

The nobles gathered in the foyer of the witan chamber, gravitating in order of importance around either Ithrien and Atham or Eifie Fairfaxe and Aurris Warre. Meto stuck close by his mother, dipping in and out of conversation as he pleased. Kanika stood stiff and silent by Atham’s side. Elsephere surveyed the room with calculated warmth from the doorway. Morgaine hovered a respectful distance behind her. They would compare notes later.

Dark wooden floorboards stretched out before her. Patches of sun from the arches leading out into a courtyard illuminated the wood grains in deep reds. Smooth frescoed walls, some still depicting ancient Ilasean feats and others being revised to glorify her father’s conquest, curved into a smooth marble dome above their heads. Given the state of the coffers, she was surprised her father had signed off on the expense. Elsephere made a mental note to look into it.

Atham’s voice rang out above the rest of the nobles, confident and smug. The nobles around him smiled and nodded with terse postures. Elsephere guessed what he might be saying: more faux humility at having ‘tamed’ an Ilas for his bride, further implications that his behaviour was above reproach and extravagant exaggeration of his accomplishments. Elsephere knew what was said behind his back. She wondered how long it would be until it reached his ears, if it hadn’t already.

Satisfied with the lay of the witan foyer, Elsephere took a breath and stepped into the room. More heads turned to watch her enter than usual. For half a second she was afraid she had something out of place, but banished the thought immediately. Morgaine would not let her be seen as anything less than perfect in public. The reason became clear when several nobles who usually flocked to Atham approached her. They didn’t move on once pleasantries were exchanged.

“We were impressed to hear of your diligence to the troops, Your Highness,” twittered one woman, whose name Elsephere would have to ask of Morgaine later. “Such a comfort to know the royal family is at the helm in these troubled times.”

“Of course.” Elsephere blinked; she had never been addressed in that honeyed toned before. “We must defend against any incursions, and make the gods proud to call us their children.”

A wave of nods and smiles greeted her words. A quick glance at the entourage surrounding her mother and brother revealed their words were met with a similar response. Another glance at Eifie and Aurris confirmed it. She now had an entourage.

She moved slowly around the chamber, greeting nobles as she went. A few joined the group. Morgaine moved to mingle on her own with the other servants. Elsephere smiled. If Fate had seen fit to set her station higher, Morgaine would have made a formidable diplomat.

Elsephere drew within range of Atham, her small following in a loose semi-circle behind her. He failed to moderate his tone. As she’d expected, he was expounding on the innate virtue of the Ilasean way of life. He  believed himself an expert, despite having never spent more than one consecutive hour in the lower town. She scoffed.

“If they have such enlightened lives, why can they not uplift themselves from beneath our boots, brother?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Her entourage gave startled looks, and within seconds the entire chamber went silent. Atham’s face reddened.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, sister.” His haughty tone didn’t hide his fluster at being challenged. “The Ilas existed for hundreds of years in peace before we arrived and destroyed their way of life. If you weren’t so busy exploiting them, you might actually learn something from them. They are a highly advanced race.”

Elsephere tilted her head to the side and pretended to consider his point. She was keenly aware of every eye in the chamber on her.

“Perhaps.” She righted her head. “Or perhaps they are not the mysterious, mythical elite you think they are. Perhaps they are nothing more than people, same as us, who fell before our might through ill fortune, lack of skill, disfavour from their gods, or some combination. Though I understand why that’s not so appealing, as it is less like a bedtime story.”

Elsephere’s heart pounded. She called her brother, the heir to the throne, a swaddling child in front of the entire court. She saw his rage rising. If he exerted his power, she would not be able to escape punishment. But he did so love to think himself intellectually superior. To use brute force was not his style.

The court waited with bated breath for his response. For a moment, Elsephere feared her grave miscalculation. Then she saw him shift his posture. She suppressed a triumphant smile.

“As I said, you wouldn’t understand.”

Elsephere nodded as though conceding defeat and turned away, earning a scoff from Atham. The fool really thought he had come out on top. Elsephere noted how the eyes of his entourage followed her as she moved. By her estimate, a few would seek her out next time the court gathered informally.

Eifie Fairfaxe fell in step with her as she walked, inclining her head in a gracious bow. Elsephere returned it, curious.

“Have you heard about the recent riot, Your Highness?” Eifie slowed her steps. “It broke out in the marketplace close to the docks.”

“Yes, I have.” Elsephere had skimmed the report over breakfast. “It seemed a common, sordid affair. Three guards lost their lives. We should honour their sacrifice next Moonday in the chapel.”

“Indeed. Though I have heard rumours that the outbreak was not the usual agitators.”

“Oh?” Elsephere raised an eyebrow. “The report only detailed what the guards found when they arrived.”

“There were others present. A strange man entered the square and killed a guard, then fled on foot. A corpse matching his description was found - or rather, pieces of a corpse. It was not intact.”

Elsephere frowned. Strange could mean many things. She resisted asking for more details, unwilling to appear uninformed. Then she cast the notion out of her head. Better to have all of the information rather than save face and lose insight.

“How intriguing. In what way was he strange?”

“Witnesses reported that he appeared ill with some unrecognised ailment.” Eifie glanced at the nobles around them, who studiously avoiding looking like they were listening. “And that he bore no weapons or armour, yet managed to kill the guard without taking a single blow.”

Elsephere’s frown deepened. A sick man who needed no blade to kill? No wonder the Ilas had rioted.

“Have there been further reports of this ailment?” she asked. “If it is a contagion, we must contain it.”

Eifie shook her head.

“No, Your Highness. But I would be glad to supply you with the details I have discovered in writing.”

Elsephere nodded and thanked her.

“We were impressed with your performance in the witan,” Eifie told her. “In light of that, we wondered if perhaps there was some light you could shed on the king’s refusal to shift the border. We trust in his reasons, but we would be able to support his efforts more effectively if we knew his aim.”

Elsephere bit back a sigh. Her father had sworn her to secrecy. Whatever information Eifie had, she doubted it would be worth betraying him.

“It is a question of expense and risk in equal measure.” She met Eifie’s eye. “You know the state of the coffers. If we move it, we risk not being able to defend it, and we have no guarantee the assaults will stop. If we knew how many our enemy numbered we might better assess how to proceed.”

It was only partially a lie. Information from beyond the border was scarce. They might face anything from a hundred to ten thousand if the wall fell.

“Thank you, Your Highness. Let us hope that the gods show us the way forward.”

◆◆◆

Elsephere read over the document Eifie sent as Morgaine undressed her and prepared her for bed. Some elements were beyond Elsephere’s comprehension, but she agreed that what was left of the corpse seemed odd. They found only the face, ripped off the skull and missing the eyeballs, and a few fingers. Elsephere wondered how Eifie claimed he matched any description of a living person. The report was interesting either way.

The physician who examined it had left so many contradictory notes that Elsephere could be certain of only two things; that the blood had decayed with astonishing speed, and that the skin seemed pickled somehow.

“Have you ever heard of such an illness?” Elsephere asked Morgaine. The petite slave peered at the vellum and shook her head.

“That does not sound like a fresh corpse to me, Your Highness.” She held up a robe for Elsephere. “Might Lady Fairfaxe’s informants have been mistaken?”

“It’s possible.” Elsephere did the robe up herself, placing the vellum on her desk. “Witnesses lost sight of the man after he left the market for some time. The corpse had attacked a hen, then turned on the hen’s owner before being beaten into submission and ripped apart by pursuers. It seems unlikely there would be two separate maniacs attacking at once, but it is possible.”

Morgaine pursed her lips, then collected Elsephere’s discarded clothes. Elsephere sat in her armchair and loaded her pipe. Once she had it glowing she reached out for Morgaine to join her.

“And what did you do while I was being solicited for favours by the Empress’ spy?” She pulled Morgaine into her lap, wrapping her arms around her waist.

“The usual gossip.” Morgaine shrugged, adjusting to be more comfortable. “The other slaves are beginning to favour Kanika. Some say she is marrying your brother to further the Ilasean cause.”

Elsephere chuckled and drew on her pipe. The idea was ludicrous. Kanika never looked anything less than terrified. In such a state Elsephere doubted she could strategise herself out of a latrine, let alone plot to undermine the royal family.

“Perhaps I should worry over it then,” she joked. “Lest she bring the Empire to its knees and put us all to the sword.”

Morgaine smiled at Elsephere’s mirth. Elsephere gave her a squeeze then sighed. After the confusing physician’s report, her mind was muddled.

“You need not worry,” Morgaine told her. “If the rumour spreads it may quiet the riots and encourage the people to accept Vraithii rule more readily.”

“You’re right, of course,” Elsephere replied. “As long as she doesn’t get any ideas.”

Elsephere ran her hand up Morgaine’s side, enjoying the way her lover cuddled closer at the contact. Elsephere puffed thoughtfully on her pipe, mind straying to the physician’s notes even as her body craved Morgaine’s touch. As though sensing her troubled thoughts, Morgaine rose and took her pipe from her, setting it on its stand to burn out.

“Come to bed, my lady.” She smiled and held out her hand. “The monarchy will not end before morning.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ARMAND

Had there always been so many beggars skulking around his parents’ house? Armand was convinced they were a recent addition to the street. They sought no shelter when it rained, nor moved to greener pastures when nobody offered them a coin. Their boots, though worn, had no holes in them, their cloaks tattered in deliberate patterns. To the casual observer they looked like beggars, but Armand had seen them too often to be fooled.

Since his conflict with Cecie he had not sought her out. His anger had not abated. The images of the countless Ilaseans crushed underfoot only amplified in his mind. A stark contrast to Cecie’s complete disregard for their sacrifice. He hoped that the Resistance would let him go without hassle, but there was no mistaking their intent. They no longer trusted him. He was a loose end in need of tying.

Armand watched the cloaked spy across the street from a second-storey window. The man glared back at him, not hiding his purpose once Armand met his eye. Armand sighed. This was not how he wanted to spend his day off. Ophi would return soon from delivering the silent, bereaved child to her grandparents’ house.

Passers-by ignored the spy, and he ignored them, until a woman wrapped in a shawl made her way down the street. The spy shifted and followed her with his gaze, then looked at Armand with a wicked grin.

Ophi. A knife of fear shot through Armand’s heart. Ophi waited a moment to allow a group of masons to pass, then crossed the street and entered the house.

Armand pushed away from the windowsill and fetched paper and ink to send a message. He could wait out them threatening his life, but if they had no honour, who knew where it would end? He and Ophi must leave.

And one other person, if she would accept it.

◆◆◆

The biggest tree in the abandoned palace garden was a giant oak. The beautiful oak grew where the wall dividing palace from town had once stood. Armand knew Kanika visited it often. The tree’s girth measured at least twenty feet, its thickest branches as wide as two horses abreast Its height had been dwarfed by its own weight splitting down the middle to form a basin filled with rain in the autumnal downpours. Though it must have been centuries since the last had been carved, old symbols that predated written records could still be traced if one’s fingers were attentive enough inside the basin. Kanika would know where he meant.

Armand waited amongst the shadows of the tree's basin until Kanika approached. He gave her a small smile when he spotted her.

“I wasn't sure you'd come.” He stepped forward to meet her.

“I've not much else I'd care to do today.” She kept her distance, her shoulders tense. Armand realised she was wary of him. “What do you want?”

“Do not be alarmed, but I must leave the city,” Armand told her. “My involvement with the Resistance crossed a line, and now I must go.”

As he spoke he felt echoes of the conversation they'd had not so long ago, when Atham had first taken an interest in her. She frowned, much as she had the first time they’d spoken of leaving.

“Why do you think I would care?” she asked. “What you do with your life is no concern of mine anymore.”

“I know,” he replied. “And I know the way I've treated you since, ah, since everything happened. I'm sorry for that. But I have booked passage out of the city to the farms, and from there it's only a short boat ride to the mainland. It would be wrong of me not to extend an invitation, given how things are for you now.”

It was more than that, it always would be for him, but she need not know of it. The important thing was that she came with him. Everything else could happen in its own time.

“What exactly are you fleeing, Armand?” Her gaze roved over the grass. “Last time you wanted to run away with me, it was to escape the attention of the Vraithii. I can't believe your friends in the Resistance would scare you enough to send you to ground like this. What have you done?”

Armand stayed silent for so long that she turned back to face him. He stood in the shadow of the tree's basin, eyes hard and fixed on the ground. How to admit to her that he had been wrong? Not just about her relationship with Atham, but the Resistance as well. How to explain the fear that had risen in him at the realisation that he might have doomed not only himself, but his sister and Kanika as well? That the Resistance cared less for the lives they claimed to save than for the thrill of seeing the Vraithii fall?

His mouth pressed in a hard, tight line. A small part of him expected her to soothe away his worry. Instead she gave him a cold glare.

“If you cannot be honest with me, then you know my answer.” She turned without waiting for a response.

He called her name once, then fell silent. Frustration twisted up inside him, followed by heavy sorrow. He would have to pray that she fared better than he had with the Resistance.

Armand watched Kanika walk into the long grass, then almost jumped out of his skin when a giant man appeared from nowhere by her side. One moment she was alone, then next the air itself put the man beside her. Armand swallowed a lump in his throat. He had no doubt that Kanika’s companion was an Acolyte of Erwen. No other cult had the power to command the shadows like that.

Kanika turned as though to look back at Armand and he ducked deeper into the tree. The Acolytes of Erwen had no mercy. He would rather not add to the list of people aiming to kill him.

As he made his way back to his parents’ house, he prayed Kanika knew what she was doing.

◆◆◆

“Ophi?” Armand hung his cloak on a peg by the door. “Kanika would not listen, we will have to-”

Armand stopped short as he realised Ophi was not the only one seated at their table. His sister cast a tense glance at their guest; Meto Vallariath. The young prince sat back, at ease. A pile of papers sat on the table between them. Several guards stood around the room.

“Run,” Ophi mouthed at her brother.

Armand hesitated. He couldn’t leave her in Vraithii company alone. In the moment’s pause, a guard put himself between Armand and the door. The other guards blocked his exit out the back.

“You must be Armand Savastro.” Meto stood, hand resting on a blade at his hip. “We have found interesting documents in your house, Armand. Documents requiring explanation.”

Armand struggled to follow the prince’s words. He had a basic grasp of Vraithii, but Meto’s words flowed too fast and in an upper class accent.

“I done no wrong thing, Highness.” He prayed Meto did not know of his involvement with the Resistance, but something told him it was exactly that which brought the prince to his home.

Meto reached for the papers and held them up, shaking them. Armand felt a cold sweat break out across his brow.

“Not mine, Highness.”

Meto looked unconvinced. He nodded to the guards and they moved forward in unison. Ophi gasped and opened her mouth to protest, but Meto shot her a hard stare and the words died in her throat. Armand took a nervous step, and the guards swarmed him.

He tried to go quietly, but even without resisting the guards were intent on hurting him. One punched him square in the jaw and another grabbed him around the throat from behind. Armand struggled instinctively. He managed to throw the guard strangling him off and tried to duck under the grasping arms of the others. But before he could reach the door, Ophi’s scream froze him in place.

He turned slowly and found Meto pressing his sword against her neck. Terrified tears flowed down his sister’s face. The prince grinned as Armand froze, clutching Ophi tighter.

“You will come to the palace and answer our questions,” Meto told him. “And then you will be executed. The only choice you have is whether or not she dies with you.”

Armand’s chest heaved, his mind whirling. He struggled to understand every word Meto spoke. Rage bubbled beneath his horror at the situation, threatening to spill over and cost them both their lives. But before Armand could act, one of the guards knocked him in the back of the head with the butt of his sword. Armand dropped to the floor.

Vaguely aware of hands on his arms, of being rolled over and bound, of Ophi’s panicked sobs, he tried to fight off the men and women pinning him. His limbs felt disconnected from his mind. Nausea rose in lazy waves from his belly. By some grace he avoided throwing up. The motion as the guards lifted him made his head spin.

His senses returned to him gradually as the guards and Prince Meto took him to the dungeons. Even as they locked the cell door behind him his legs felt weak.

The cell was small, three barred walls closed off by a stone fourth. Other cells stretched out on either side of his. Limp straw lined the cold stone floor. All he could smell were people, far too many of them with nowhere near enough fresh air between them. He settled himself heavily by the door. To his knowledge, Ophi had not been arrested, but the gloom of the cells prevented him seeing if she occupied one of the other cells.

Long hours passed as he waited, but finally he was sure she wasn’t coming. He breathed a sigh of relief. They had discussed the escape plan often as they’d grown up; he hoped she would follow through with it without him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

KANIKA

The atmosphere in the palace grew increasingly tense between Ithrien and Elsephere since Eoghan's drafting of the Ilasean restrictions amendment. Each week brought new covert attacks from one or the other, restrained enough to avoid all-out retaliation. Over breakfast each morning, Kanika was expected to sit at her future mother-in-law's left side at a table designed to be used by at least six people. Elsephere sat at Ithrien's right hand, as a blood-born daughter must, and the two snarked and sniped at each other almost without faltering. Kanika ate as quickly as possible most days, but found that Ithrien often used her haste to leave as an excuse to turn whatever ire she felt towards Elsephere onto Kanika.

That morning Kanika dawdled outside the royal family's private dining hall, reluctant to subject herself to the hostility she knew awaited her inside. She spent too long checking her dress and adjusting her hair in the speckled seal glass windows, even though the thinly shaved tusks were far from reflective and served only to admit light whilst excluding weather and wind. Finally she knew she could delay no longer and let her feet carry her into the dining hall.

As she entered the hall, she barely paid attention to her surroundings beyond noticing that both tables were conspicuously quiet. She frowned and looked up towards the table where she usually sat. Ithrien sometimes took breakfast in her own chambers, but it seemed that was not the case today. Her flaming red hair was unmissable.

Kanika took her seat and waited for a slave to bring out her food, but they never came. Instead she found Elsephere and Ithrien both staring at her more intently than she could stand. She forced herself not to squirm in her seat. After a moment of surveying her, Ithrien turned and called to no one in particular.

“Bring him in.” Her voice cut through the still air, and at her command there was a commotion at the far end of the hall. Kanika turned to look to the source of the disturbance, puzzled, but her face froze in shock as her eyes focused on the bloodied Seer being dragged across the floor towards them. At first she thought he was a stranger, but as he was dragged closer and forced to his knees before them, she recognised Armand's stout features.

All eyes rested on her, waiting for her reaction. She took a moment to soothe her racing heart and calm her mind before turning to Ithrien.

“This hardly seems appropriate entertainment for breakfast, Your Majesty.” She surprised herself at how even she kept her voice.

“Perhaps,” Ithrien replied. “But he's been screaming in the dungeons all night, insisting on speaking with you. Usually we wouldn't consider such a request, but he really was quite insistent. Let's hope this doesn't became a habit among the lower classes.” She raised her voice as she finished speaking so that Atham and Eoghan might hear her.

Armand stared up at her with raw eyes, his sandy blond hair dishevelled and, in parts, caked with grime. He wore his familiar blue and yellow tunic and trousers, but they looked terrible. The marks and cuts along his face and neck showed the guards’ response to his cries for her. Much as it pained her, she knew she must steel her heart against his plight. Her heart twisted and her head began to ache at all the useless options she came up with. With a soft sigh, she forced herself to drop it. How she responded might dictate the length of her own life.

“So go on, Seer.” Ithrien spoke to Armand. “She is here now. Say your piece.”

Two guards held Armand by his forearms. He leaned closer to Kanika, as far as their grip would allow. His eyes darted from Kanika to Ithrien, then back again.

“Kanika,” he started, his voice urgent. “Nimin esh ifuwynn, car'calle esh inseirin-”

One of the guards released his forearm long enough to punch him in the gut.

“Speak proper, Seer. Don't you know you’re before royalty here?” The guard turned a more respectful tone to Ithrien. “He were caught trying to flee the peninsula by boat from the farms, Your Majesty.” The guard punched his gut harder.

Armand fell limp, his sides heaving. Kanika pursed her lips and snuck a glance at Elsephere. The princess watched the Seer's plight with an unreadable expression, picking at her food as the scene played out before them.

“Yes, slave, do speak something other than that barbarous gibberish you people call a language.” Ithrien kept her eyes on Kanika. After a few moments, Armand continued, this time in the broken Vraithan the lower classes often used.

“Please, Your Highnesses.” The foreign tongue rasped and stilted on his tongue. “I am accused of crimes I haven’t do.”

“As well as a few you did, correct?” Ithrien interjected. “Stealing imperial property is treason. By all rights you should be executed as soon as possible.”

“I stealed none things!” Armand insisted. His Vraithan reminded Kanika of a very young child still learning tenses and phrases. Her heart broke for him, only adding to the panic bubbling inside her. She tried to use Aldert's advice to calm herself, but Armand's ragged breathing pierced the walls she tried to erect. “Please, believe, I done no crimes. They said it... the ones that did it, said it, so that I can die.”

The commotion around them continued until Eoghan wiped his mouth on a soft linen napkin and stood.

“What nonsense is this?” His thick grey eyebrows joined in the middle in a tight frown. “Why is this babbling fool being allowed to disrupt my breakfast?”

“He claims to know Kanika, my liege,” Ithrien replied. Her pale eyes sparkled wickedly. “Not unlikely, given the sordid origins of our dear Seer guest.”

Atham frowned from his seat, but said nothing in defence of his fiancée. Kanika wished he might protest Ithrien's open hatred of her once they were officially to be married, but he still had no stomach for sparring with the High Queen.

“He says he didn't do it, Your Majesty.” Kanika directed her words at Eoghan. A single word from him might spare Armand and prevent Ithrien from saying another spiteful word about it, but the High King was vague at the best of times. “He says he is being framed for something. I believe it is probable.”

Eoghan's eyes turned on her with surprise, as they always did, as though he forgot she was there and could make no sense of a Seer in his private dining hall.

“But treason is a heavy crime,” Ithrien countered. “The most dire of offences, I would say, for treason exposes the rot of a soul so dark and impure that it feels joy at the thought of anarchy and blood in the streets. Can we really take the chance? I would not risk the lives of my children on it. Would you vouch for this criminal, Kanika, even knowing that, should the charges prove true, you might have endangered every Vraithii in this city?”

Kanika kept control of herself as best she could. Ithrien's hyperbole was ridiculous, but none present pointed it out. Kanika didn't dare to say it.

Armand stood accused of treason, by way of theft of imperial property, by the sounds of it, but that could mean that he merely plucked a fruit from the wrong tree at the wrong time.

“The Seer witch wouldn't mind that,” Meto muttered from his place, loud enough for all to hear. “I bet she warms herself at night with dreams of us hanging from hooks in the square.”

Kanika felt the situation spiralling. Armand struggled to keep up with the conversation.

“He is not necessarily a criminal,” she tried. “He has been accused, but that doesn't mean he is guilty – and he thinks he's being framed. Surely that, more than what he is accused of, is worth investigating–”

Eoghan's eyebrows had sunk so low they threatened to completely obscure his eyes. Kanika grasped around for someone, anyone, to help. Elsephere often enjoyed defending her just to frustrate her mother, but today she sat silently and watched everything unfold. Meto was more likely to stab Kanika directly in the eye over breakfast than assist her. Atham should, by all rights, be stepping in – his word carried the weight of the heir, no small thing – and he wore a compassionate expression. But were he going to speak up, Kanika knew he would have done already.

“Will you vouch for this Seer, then, err... Kendi... Kan-Kanri...” Eoghan's eyes focused on Kanika's left shoulder as he struggled to recall her name.

“Kanika, Your Majesty.” She stared for several long moments as the High King's gaze danced around the room, his mouth slightly agape. Just when she was about to say something, he spoke again.

“Throw the brigand in the dungeons, I'll deal with him later,” Eoghan decreed, though he slurred over the words. Before Kanika could do or say anything more, the guards lifted Armand’s body from the floor and dragged him away. Eoghan and Meto turned back to their food. Atham seemed poised to say something, though the longer he waited, the less hope Kanika had that he would.

She hid the tears in her eyes by bending her head over her empty place setting.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

METO

Meto didn’t stop seething the entire night. His mother had informed him, white-faced and furious, that Eoghan was prosecuting her for reckless copulation.

He spent a fitful night on his divan alternately pouring over scrolls and trying to sleep. It seemed grim, though he would be the first to admit that law was not his strength. The more he read, the more it seemed like there was nothing to be done about a guilty verdict. Meto's colouring gave significant doubt as to who had fathered him, regardless of Ithrien's genealogists and their assurance he had Vallariath blood.

He had never been angry at his mother for having him, nor his dark skin for setting him apart. Such arrangements were far from uncommon. Eoghan himself was the son of the late Empress but not the late Emperor, and it was widely known and accepted as truth.

Resentment burned fiercely inside of him, every ounce directed towards Eoghan and his spiteful crusade to make Meto's life miserable. Elwin had often insisted that Eoghan did not hate him, or surely he would hate Ithrien just as much, and if he did then they would not have conceived Elsephere. Meto always scoffed at that. Elsephere's birth could just as easily be the product of duty as affection.

He awoke groggy and irate far earlier than needed, the stiffness in his neck testament to his poor treatment of himself. He sent for food and wine and bathed himself in his private tub. Scented oils and waters added to the water helped soothe his aching limbs as he ruminated on the previous day.

His brother was marrying a witch, his little sister was in line to inherit before him, and his mother seemed powerless to do anything about it.

He had never seen the heathen witchcraft of the Seers performed, but he always felt he would know it when he saw it, and he was sure he had seen it at the border fort. He felt the burning shame of needing to be saved from the battlewolf by Kanika, of all people. Atham had insisted that Kanika had merely told the warrior to leave in Caerphian, but Meto wasn't sure. There had been no visible change to her, but something in Kanika's voice sent chills down his spine.

He thought back on the training his war master, Elwin's father, had given him about the usefulness of thinking about absolutely nothing. He closed his eyes and tried to just exist in the steaming, scented water. The gentle current swept over his legs and midriff. He felt tension melting into the heat of the pool.

As he lay back, he realised he had not yet taken into account his deal with Saffron. She promised him whatever his heart desired, and he still had the contract as proof. He wondered how the most recent turn of events factored into Saffron's estimation of him ascending to the throne after Eoghan's death. He would summon her and demand answers once he was done with his bath.

He wrapped in a towel and made his way back to his chamber, the smell of fresh bread coaxing his stomach into rolling growls.

He abruptly stopped in the doorway, nearly dropping the towel. He pursed his lips. Saffron sat on his divan, eating his food and drinking his wine as she flicked through his law tome.

“You're holding that upside down, you know.” He grinned at her. “Not so many tutors in assassin-land, I suppose.”

Saffron smiled at him, her head on one side.

“Your language is barbaric and stupid, and I have no desire to learn it.”

He rolled his eyes and stepped behind a screen to get dressed, not bothering with formal modesty. She could kill him at any moment, he had little concern of what she may see behind his screen. Though part of him knew he should be questioning his own sudden comfort with her, that part was sounding progressively fainter and less reasonable.

“I was actually just thinking about you.”

“In the bath?” she replied. “Tsk, tsk... I would never have guessed you felt that way, what with me being a 'dirty barbarian' and all.”

Meto bit back a chuckle as he threw on a long tunic and wide satin belt. His hair dripped onto the dry fabric. As the weather warmed, he grew more and more envious of the poorer classes, who in the summertime walked around in little but loincloths to keep cool. As a noble, he was expected to wear the same clothes he always did, though thankfully of lighter cloth and weave.

“Have you heard of the development?” he asked, sidestepping her ribald comment altogether. “My father has passed me and Atham over and all but made Elsephere heir instead.”

He stepped out from the privacy of the screen and found her examining his bed, her strong fingers tracing the carved wood and bronze headboard. He sat on his divan to keep an eye on her. She sat herself on the edge of the bed.

“I am aware.” She popped a morsel of bread into her mouth. “When I heard the line of succession had changed, I assumed you would want a chat. Is this not your heart's dearest desire? The Seer will never be queen.”

“No. Elsephere on the throne does nothing for my dreams. I wish to make my mother proud and shower myself in glory in her name.”

Saffron raised an eyebrow, a small smile forming on her lips.

“I hope you were more specific in your contract, Vraithii. Or who knows where you will end up, to sate your mother's thirst for glory?”

“I had no hand in wording the contract,” he retorted. “You brought it to me all but signed. Surely poor wording of it falls on you, not me.”

“I cannot tell if you are very brave or very, very foolish.” Saffron smiled. “But I find myself hoping that you will succeed, if for nothing else than the trade routes. Have you made any progress on opening them for us?”

Meto grimaced and shook his head.

“Remember your deal is not without responsibilities. Perhaps progress would be quicker if you put in some effort rather than signing away your soul and trusting it will all work out on its own.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” He stood, miffed. “My brother is set to marry that temple slave in less than a month, putting even more distance between myself and the throne. If they are wed and if Elsephere dies childless, they may still inherit before me, or their children might. And as for your bloody trade route, what makes you think Eoghan would listen now, when he's about to see his bloodline joined with that of a filthy Seer? It hardly puts him in a mood to welcome foreigners.”

Saffron's grin grew slowly wider as he spoke. She nodded slowly, her eyes unblinking and bright.

“Very good, princeling,” she mused. “At least you know some of the obstacles before you. The Seer, your sister, and Eoghan. So how do you plan to overcome them? How will you get the Seer out of your way, to mollify Eoghan and persuade him first to open the trade routes for us? You have killed before, have you not?”

He sat back, hands behind his head. She met his cold stare with one of her own, then stood up to leave.

“Hey, wait!” Meto called after her. “I doubt Kanika needs to be killed. Atham would know it was murder, no matter how it came about. He might grow a spine just to spite me. I just need to find a way to prevent the wedding, right? So I'll... do that.”

He waited for the inevitable mockery, but her dark eyes were solemn.

“Perhaps you're right,” she replied. He almost betrayed his surprise at her lack of condescension. “No doubt you'll find some elegant solution to this problem, as is your custom. You do have such a reputation as a great thinker.”

Ah, there it was.

“And in the meantime, I will be achieving the impossible, convincing the court that you are not the violent thug many still think you are.”

Meto rolled his eyes.

“I am a prince,” he said. “How hard can it be..?”

He looked around, and found himself speaking to an empty room.

◆◆◆

Spring blended so seamlessly into summer Meto barely noticed its arrival. Though he was chagrined by Saffron's blasé attitude towards Elsephere being named heir, he had never been one to back down from a challenge. He may not be renowned as a great thinker, but his skills as a strategist were sharp. Each situation required playing to his strengths. He knew very little of the Ilas, but he knew more than he'd ever thought he'd need of his own culture. He took to sitting in the peristyle outside his quarters and pondering over it almost every spare moment.

Summer was stifling, though he knew it was not yet at its peak. Argorien was so far from the centre of the world the sun didn't bother to rise in the winter, then relented and allowed enough light for the pathetic natives to grow food in the summer – and in doing so shut the moon out completely for almost three months.

This stark contrast frequently drove to madness both foreigners and natives. A disease of the mind called sunsickness hit its peak in tandem with the sun's domination of the sky. Many vulnerable took their own lives in the longest days of the year, struck by mania. Such a contrast to Vraith, where suicide was reserved for those needing to redeem their family honour after the ultimate disgrace. Though he had been only a child when they left, he could still recall the nighttime summer festivals, Arch Day and Harvest's Promise and the shortest night. But night came to Vraith all year.The sky darkened as the ovates danced around bonfires to honour Accorius and Archillio, the twin gods of the hunt, glory and victory. In Vraith he could close his eyes after a long day and be assured sleep would soothe away his troubles, even if only for a few hours.

Sitting in his peristyle, his thoughts wandered to his deal, the terms of failure  more severe than he anticipated. Saffron was still the only person he knew capable of coming and going from the palace without detection.

He had a tiny replica of the Arch Day altar among his possessions. He lit charcoals from a taper and let them sit in the bonfire's place, then sprinkled granules of resin over them to invoke their aid.

Saffron didn't think he had the mind of a great thinker. He'd show her. He'd have her overawed at how badly she'd misjudged him when he sat on the throne, doubly so when he swept through her pitiful Acolyte village and added it to his list of conquests. He didn't imagine the barbarians putting up much resistance, nor did he imagine Saffron would have choice but to submit to him once her village was burned.

A sharp rap on his door brought him out of his daydream. He shook it off and straightened up in his chair, adjusting his tunic quickly.

“Come in.” He smiled broadly when Ithrien entered. “Mother!”

“No, darling, don't get up.” She swept towards him, kissing him on the top of the head. Elwin brought out a chair for her, setting it quickly in place.

“Taking the air, are we? Or just brooding?”

“Brooding,” Meto admitted. “Mother, it's not fair. Passing over Atham makes sense, he is a fool and he is marrying a slave-”

Ithrien's lips tightened fractionally at the reminder.

“-but surely he can see that I am different. I could rule.”

“Of course you could,” Ithrien replied. “No doubt the first thing you'd do is have that horrid little slave executed. Honestly, I can't think why your father is allowing it.”

“There must be a way to bring Atham's folly to an end, with this Seer at least. He does us a grave insult by marrying her.”

Ithrien nodded contentedly at Meto' assertion. Meto did his best not to preen at the validation. There were times he could not understand the insane world he lived in, where slaves could marry princes, but his mother was a constant source of stability.

“He is old, though he may not always seem it. At times I almost think he's forgotten he's a king.”

“I have been thinking over it,” Meto began. “Mightn't there be a way to prevent them marrying? Atham will not be dissuaded, but still-”

“How? The High King allows it, whatever his reasons. Neither you nor I can overrule it.”

“But even he is not omnipotent,” Meto said, almost without thinking, his eyes resting on the smouldering incense on the Arch Day altar replica. The potential of his comment only struck him in the silence after he had spoken it. He looked up at his mother, the light growing in his eyes. He found Ithrien's eyes mirroring his own.

“So simple,” she breathed. “The gods. Of course.” Her lips widened into a delighted grin. “Brilliant boy. You will redeem us all yet.”

◆◆◆

Once the idea occurred to him, the plan formed tightly in his mind. Elsephere employed the services of vagrants and criminals to further her own agenda. He took another leaf out of her book and began spending more and more time in the streets, buying drinks for any and all who would take him up on it, keeping his identity secret. It was not difficult, with his colouring and a little grime and grit carefully applied by Elwin, he passed easily enough for a trader or a native from inland of Argorien. He had to dodge guards occasionally, but the Ilas accepted him.

At first only the occasional lush drank with him. He suffered through their slurred tales and seedy propositions. On more than one occasion he was tempted to give up and find another way. However, as the weeks went by and the taverns he frequented grew to know him better, he found his company sought after by a higher calibre of drunkard.

One night, dressed in his plainest tunic and sipping mediocre wine under a lantern, he came across an interesting character.

“How long have you been buying?” the stranger asked. He was Ilas through and through by the looks of him, his hands softer than might be expected of a poor man in a tavern. “Surely your pockets are not so deep. You will not be able to afford your rent soon.”

“My rent is already taken care of, friend,” Meto slurred back. “And I have reason enough to drink. You know that Vraithii prince who's marrying the Seer soon?”

The stranger paused a long while over his drink. Meto doubted he was the first to buy him a round that night. Finally, the stranger nodded.

“It is an affront to the gods,” Meto went on. He had long since learned to approach the topic from the Ilas point of view, much as it disgusted him. “She is surely not consenting to the prince, but how could she refuse him? Especially now, with the day approaching so fast...”

The stranger nodded, his head continuing under its own momentum.

“Well said, brother,” he intoned. “Well said. Poor lass, she must be dreading the day.”

“It could be stopped, you know,” Meto confided. “The royals, they stand so much on ceremony. All it would take would be one interruption, one sufficiently large protest as the ceremony goes down, and surely they would insist he cast her off. Their gods would not allow anything less. She would be free, finally, and with no blame or stain on herself.” He took another sip of the rancid ale the Ilas favoured, spilling some down his front purely to avoid having to drink. “But none of these gutless malcontents would do it, much as they know it's not right leaving her in his clutches. Poor lass.”

“Poor lass,” the stranger echoed sadly. Meto was shocked to see an actual tear in the man's eye. He stared glumly into his cup for so long Meto wondered if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. He was about to slip away and try the next haunt when the man spoke.

“I knew her mother, you know,” he said softly. “Karinya. Brilliant woman. Kanika was never supposed to be as she is now. My husband was her god's guard, before...” He made a face and gestured vaguely. Meto assumed he meant the invasion.

“We summered with her family every year. Karinya was the finest merchant sailor I've ever seen. 'Twas a dark day indeed, the day we had to send her off on the pyre.” The man let a tear trickle freely down his face.

Meto couldn't believe his luck. He slowed his drinking. The man mustn't realise who he really was, a task infinitely easier with a clearer head. He had not emptied his pockets for so many weeks in vain.

He drew closer and filled his new friend's cup.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

KANIKA

“Kanika! There you are.”

Kanika looked up, her face draining of blood. Her secret garden seemed less secret by the day. Relaxing in the tall grasses, passing the day in idle chatter with Aldert had seemed such a blessing. She should have known it would not last. She knew better than to look around. Aldert would have vanished into a shadow before anyone had so much as drawn breath in their vicinity. Kanika stood from where she reclined in the grass, still hoping she had not properly recognised the voice calling to her.

Ithrien smiled graciously at her future daughter-in-law. Kanika knew only spite and hatred lurked beneath the surface. She wore layers of cloudcloth in deep greens and blues, a tall Vraithii wig of rose gold arranged in braids and twists adorned in shimmering crystal flowers towering atop her head.

Kanika wore a plain blue linen tunic with slits from ankle to waist over a simple white cotton dress. The only thing separating her from a wealthy merchant's daughter were the glass beads around her neck and the gold thread woven in spiralling royal patterns along the hem of her tunic. Kanika brushed stray blades of grass off herself and bowed low to the High Queen, awkward that she could not stand quickly enough.

“Come, come, my dear, no need for such formality.” Ithrien wore her wide, gracious smile, while her eyes surveyed the state of Kanika's dress with obvious disdain. Ithrien dismissed the Vraithii servants attending her with a slight flick of her wrist. “My, you have found quite the hidden gem in this garden, haven't you? I wondered if you might know a nice spot to sit on such a fine day.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Kanika replied, succeeding at not letting her emotions overwhelm her. “There are lovely stone benches in an alcove down by the well by the eastern wall.”

“Perfect,” Ithrien replied. “Walk with me.”

Kanika struggled to her feet. She walked with the queen, one step behind her, aware of every breath she took and every movement she made.

“Will you not get burrs in your clothes if we walk like this, Your Majesty?” Kanika broke the silence, though she found her own voice harsh and grating even as she spoke. The queen merely smiled and kept walking until they reached the benches.

Once seated, Ithrien turned to Kanika with a kindly expression. Were it not for the months of torment and fear at the High Queen's hands, Kanika might have believed the apparent concern and care on Ithrien's face.

“Your wedding day approaches, child,” Ithrien said. “The priests’ omens are good. Such a blessed day. How are you feeling?”

“Excited,” Kanika lied. “Nervous. Happy. It will be a glorious day, and I shall be welcomed into his family and never feel alone again. As you know, I am an orphan. I can't imagine how it will feel to have a family again, but I know it will be good.”

She and Ithrien exchanged looks as false as the High Queen's wig. Kanika maintained the image of a fragile orphan girl, relieved to have the protection of a powerful family after so long alone, far better than Ithrien hid her disgust at having an Ilasean join the family. Kanika was not foolish enough to think that Ithrien believed her act entirely.

“I'm glad,” Ithrien replied. “It will indeed be a glorious day. After which, of course, you will cast aside your Ilasean roots and embrace the unending empire of Vraith. Almost like a rebirth.”

Kanika smiled, reminded of the Ilasean custom of burying newlyweds overnight on the first darkened moon after their nuptials to be reborn from the earth as one entity. She knew better than to bring such a thing to Ithrien's attention. The Vraithii interred only the dead..

“It occurs to me, however,” Ithrien continued. “That, though we have heard much from Atham of his love for you, you are by far quieter.”

Kanika's eyes flew to Ithrien's face, willing herself not to redden.

“I pray I have not given offence by my reserved nature, Your Majesty?”

Ithrien shook her head.

“No, no, of course not. But I want you to know, I understand your position. I, too, was once powerless in the face of the desires of those around me. And I married Eoghan shortly after.”

Kanika struggled to imagine Ithrien as anything but an immutable, unstoppable force of nature, but she bit back her disbelief.

“And now, you, in a similar state of powerlessness, stand poised to wed my son.” Ithrien's mouth quirked in a sympathetic smile. “It is not a fate I would wish on anyone. Marriage must be made for love or for power, but if it is the latter then that power must be a thing desired by both parties. And you have no interest in power, have you, Kanika?”

“I marry for love, so what need have I for power?”

Ithrien sighed.

“I am not blind. And I know my son. He told me you were in the company of a young man the night you met. Atham believes him but a friend, but I was young once. I remember the draw of love between old friends.”

For half a moment, Kanika thought she saw genuine feeling behind Ithrien's words. She reminded herself even raw feeling could be conjured by those adept in deceit.

“I have not been unfaithful to the prince, Your Majesty,” Kanika said.

“No, I don't doubt that, but I wonder if by being with him you are being unfaithful to another. Or to yourself.” Ithrien smiled. “Perhaps I'm growing soft in my old age, but I would not want to see love thwarted when the die is not yet cast. I saw how you looked at that poor thief the other morning - fear not, I will not betray your secret.”

Kanika closed her mouth on the protest about to escape it. Ithrien's gaze followed the motion, her customary cunning at the edges of her eyes again.

“My family was friends with his, long ago,” Kanika insisted. “It pains me that he has taken to a life of crime. Nothing more.”

“His death is necessary by law, as you well know. But none could kill him if he were nowhere to be found in the city. Nor would there be any need for his friendship with you to come to light, if you were no longer in the city either.”

Kanika blinked. Was the queen suggesting this? The possibility of leaving Argorien, with Armand and perhaps Ophi, going somewhere far away and beginning a new life? Even as she recognised her desire, she knew it was a trap.

Atham enjoyed the prospect of their union far more than her, and Ithrien had more reason than most to want Kanika out of the picture. Her family's honour being tarnished by marrying so far beneath Atham's status, especially if her rise from powerlessness were true, would be chief among the events she wished to prevent. Would she risk Kanika leaving only to return at some later date? Kanika thought not. More likely she and any she chose to accompany her would be left to rot in some field outside the city bounds. That was the Vraithii way.

“I appreciate your concern, Your Majesty,” Kanika replied. “It is good to know I will have a sympathetic friend in the palace should ever the need arise.”

For a moment Kanika thought the rebuff, though gentle, had been too blunt. Ithrien's face hardened briefly before resuming her customary facade. She patted Kanika's hand gently.

“Of course, my dear.” She stood and beckoned to her retinue. “I hope you will think on my offer further before coming to your final conclusion.”

As Ithrien sashayed away through the tall grass, Kanika steadied her racing mind. As she thought over what had passed between them, she felt sure she had made a terrible blunder somewhere.

If only she could put her finger on it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

KANIKA

The day of the hand fasting ceremony arrived. She wore what she chose, traditional Ilasean style. Ithrien didn't approve, but the political impact of a Seer in Seer clothes marrying a Vraithii in the Vraithan style made a striking image of unity. Atham assured her of this, in conspiratorial tones, as though he expected reward for marrying her in clothing sacred to her people. Atham’s arrogance aside, Kanika suspected that the Vallariath family allowed her culture so much influence on her nuptials because they didn't intend for her to last long.

Atham dressed in white, as Vraithan custom dictated, along with every Vraithii in the temple. White linen, white buttons, white leather shoes, white everything, hair tightly bound. According to their gods and ovates, it was a way to ensure no stain could be found in the temple to cast a shadow over the union.

The Ilasean hand fasting style definitely counted as a stain by Vraithan standards. Kanika had asked the priestesses at the Temple of Ilas to find her the most traditional hand fasting clothes they could. Unlike the solemn imperial rites, Ilasean custom dictated that they must celebrate with as much fervour as possible so that the gods would look down and be amused at their antics. Amuse them well enough, and the happy couple would have a blessed and prosperous union.

Dark blues, shimmering golds, hints of violet and streaks of cream overwhelmed her dress, all textured and layered over her in spiralling sheaths. Her face, neck, wrists and ankles were painted with the ancient symbols of union and Sight. She left her hair loose, tumbling over her shoulders and neck with the wild abandon of a dryad at the height of summer. She smiled as the last strokes of the brush tickled over her ankles. She would be the stain on her own hand fasting, and taint the shrine to foreign gods that the Vraithans held so high and pure.

As she had no family, she waited in the hidden room alone. She used the time to reflect on the challenges in the coming days and weeks.

She heard the temple being cleansed and sanctified with smoke and scented waters. The smell recalled the times she spent preparing other women for their hand-fastings in the Temple of Ilas All-Seer. The Vraithan variants of the waters were more sweet and floral than the tangy Ilasean recipes. The smoke was very similar. She wondered at the strange synchronicity of worship, whereby cultures from across the globe used the same herbs and resins to achieve the same ends, and yet had such wildly different interpretations of the gods.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her rumination. She readied herself at the doorway, then swept through with as much grace as she could muster.

Across the daïs, Atham and the royal family advanced. Atham continued forward after the others stopped. On the altar stood a cup of wine, the masked ovate behind it reverently holding a small dagger on open palms. Everything in the room was pale and full of light. The ceiling and the sky were separated only by thin panes of polished crystal, held in place by intricate golden wires. The rest of the chamber was swathed in so much cream, white, beige and eggshell Kanika felt she was walking into the sun.

She and Atham faced each other as the ovate sprinkled them with water, wafted them with smoke from a censer, dropped earth over them and encircled them in fire. The earth and fire were Ilasean variations, though watered down to suit Vraithan tastes.

As the ovate chanted and prayed in High Vraithii, Kanika found her mind wandering. She looked over at Atham. How far she had come since she had first met him? She had been afraid of him, afraid of the power he wielded over her and her people. Felt compelled to obey, to be compliant, to behave as he wanted her to, for fear his brutality had no limit. Now, on the altar of their union, she felt no fear. She knew she would do what must be done, for as long as was needed.

She would never feel for him as he wanted her to; they would never sit on easy chairs in old age and exchange loving glances as their grandchildren danced and played in gardens. The whole union was a farce of his own creation.

The ovate took her by the hand and made a small cut on her wrist, a few inches higher than the fading scar from her pact with Cassia, and allowed seven drops to fall into the cup. The ovate did the same with Atham's wrist, then bound their hands together with a long, thin strip of white cloth.

Atham gave her a small smile as the ovate placed the bands on their fingers and finished the ceremony. She smiled back.

As Atham raised the cup to his lips, a scream rang out through the chamber.

“For Ilas!” someone screamed in Ilasean, followed by a whoosh and a crack.

A pot full of thick, red liquid landed on the altar, splashing over both her and Atham. She spun around instinctively to find the source of the attack. The assembled guests and clergy hung frozen for an endless second, then someone screamed and the temple hurtled into frantic movement.

One person stayed still, drawing Kanika's attention. A haggard Ilasean man stood wide-eyed in the midst of the guests, near the front. His face nagged at the edge of Kanika's thoughts, something about it eerily familiar. The crowd parted hurriedly as he raised his arm, another cheap pot in his hand. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, a sadness falling over his eyes as he looked up at Kanika. Then he hurled the pot directly at Atham. Kanika ducked and dragged Atham, still bound to her wrist, down with her, the pot narrowly missing his head. Blood rained over them. Most of the guests sought cover as guards apprehended the man responsible for the projectiles.

All the soft, pale furnishings in the chamber turned bright red with blood soaking into the silk. The rough, dark guards surrounded the distraught man. His eyes were streaked with tears and anguish, fixed in the right of the centre of the room.

Ithrien fussed over Atham, cleaning the blood off him and casting evil glances at the interrupter. Kanika slipped her hand out of the tied cloth around her wrist and picked a shard of pottery off herself.

The ovate barked orders to the temple slaves insisting the temple be purified immediately. They ran forward, vigorously wafting the smoke from the censer. Others added to the cloud with heaped handfuls of resin incense on all of the braziers..

Their eerie chants of penance to the gods, requesting cleansing and protection, mingled with outraged confusion. The Vraithii ovate and slaves didn’t falter, though chaos reigned around them. It was going to take more than smoke and prayers to cleanse away the desecration done to the altar and the ceremony.

Another projectile whizzed somewhere overhead. Realising the man must not have acted alone, Kanika discarded her outer clothes, leaving her in a plain white under tunic. In the confusion she could easily be recognised and assaulted, but in plain white she passed for any other attendant. She ducked behind the altar, stepping over the prostrated ovate and attendants. Among them, the roughness of her clothing served only to help her blend in. She found her way to the bower where she'd waited before the ceremony began.

She closed the door. Quiet. Eerie, unnerving silence surrounded her. Kanika forced a breath. Muffled pandemonium raged in the temple. She shut her eyes in the safety of this room. Her body shook. What had happened?

Kanika sat on the bench trembling, lost in her thoughts and praying that the fracas in the temple would not find its way to her. The bower door burst open, snapping her into reality in an instant. She grabbed at a vase, the first thing she could lay her hands on, then exclaimed in relief when she saw it was only Atham. He was still dressed in white, blood spattered across his chest and sleeves. Someone had made efforts to clean it off his skin. Through the open door, she heard the outrage was coming to an end. He rushed to her as she rose to embrace him, tolerating the numerous kisses he planted on her face.

“My love, thank goodness you're alright.” He clung to her, then pulled away. “Are you hurt?”

Kanika shook her head and smiled.

“What happened? Are we married?”

Atham shrugged.

“Come now.” He led her to the groom’s bower, where the royal family had retreated.

“It's an outrage,” Eoghan muttered. “That scum, that filthy Seer shite. How dare he desecrate the holy temple? He should be put to death on the spot, no trial. His blood will appease the gods.”

Kanika watched the High King pace as slaves washed the residual blood off Atham’s clothes. Meto vanished in the smoke to assist the guards as soon as Kanika arrived. Elsephere lounged on a bench in the bower, gazing out the window.

“We shall need the auguries read to determine if the union needs redoing,” Atham said offhand, loudly enough that all heard.

Elsephere gave him a sharp look. She glanced at her parents.

“Atham, darling, no,” she said gently. “This, more than anything else, this – I hope it has shown you that the gods do not agree with your union to-to dear Kanika. Such a bad omen, to have the temple desecrated in the middle of the ceremony.”

“The gods decreed nothing, Mother.” Atham sighed. “It was a mortal who threw the pot, not an immortal being. I will not accept prophecies and omens from any mortal, only from the gods.”

He waved the slaves away and stood up, straightening his tunic. Eoghan was almost frothing, his eyes roving in a way that told Kanika he would not be chastising his son. After a few moments, Eoghan seemed to lose his train of thought and wandered towards the door. Ithrien gave Atham a hard stare, then she and Elsephere followed Eoghan out.

Light cascaded into the smokey space, illuminating everything in a surreal blaze. The temple was now empty but for them, the long, low benches lay prone, knocked over in the fracas of guards and angry Seers and ovates rushing around. The silence hanging in the air felt dense and final.

She took Atham more firmly by the hand and lead him up to the altar. The censers were still smoking, the dishes and bowls and ornaments all still laid out for the ceremony that almost was. She turned to him and smiled, the strange symbols painted on her skin seeming to undulate in the dappled, hazy light. She glanced at Atham and found his mouth pressed in a hard line. Suddenly, he turned to her and took her by the hand.

“Kanika Omari Verais, I take you,” he said. “With no witnesses but the gods, with no end but the love I bear you. I will please you until we are warm, I will hold you until we are cold. If our love defies the will of others, so be it. I defy them.” He smiled more broadly, mirroring her. “I love you, so it is today, and for every day after this.”

Kanika’s throat closed as she realised what he was doing. He retrieved the binding cloth from the floor and wrapped it around her wrist. She felt the cloth cut into her skin and her hand throb as the fabric tightened. She knew what he wanted her to do.

“Atham Vallariath, I take you.” The words caught in her throat as though her body was urging against them. “With no witness but the gods and the skies, with no end but the love in my heart. I will please you until we are warm, I will hold you until we are cold. If my love for you defies the will of others, I defy them. So I speak it on this day, and so shall it be from this day forth.”

He smiled at her, and she forced her mouth into an upwards slant in return. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed or lay in the grass for hours with Aldert and doze in the sun.

Atham leaned in and kissed her, hand already tugging at her clothes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

METO

The augurs pronounced the marriage valid after thinking on it for thirteen days. The omens seemed unclear, but finally the verdict was reached and the celebrations began. Despite his best efforts, Meto had to toast and feast and dance in honour of the unholy union of Ilas and Vraithii. His ancestors were spinning in their graves. Although, his ancestors had never even heard of Caerphy, let alone developed strong feelings of any sort towards its inhabitants.

On the seventh day of celebration Atham seemed so serenely complacent about his sister usurping the throne that Meto wanted to throw himself out of a high tower window.

Atham sat with Kanika, slightly apart from the rest of the royal family, as they took a light meal in the tallest gardens. Where once stood sturdy white marble arches and decorated walls, crumbled ruins remained. Garden beds and exotic plants grew in dizzying spirals around bowers and benches. The Ilas Council and royal family had once enjoyed many a pleasant afternoon on the same ground. Eoghan had always said it pleased him to sit on their ruins and toast to their demise, and no refurbishing efforts had ever been made to restore it.

Everyone dressed in light summer tunics and wore thin shawls and scarves to cover their exposed skin from the sun's strengthened rays. The view beneath them was stunning, some twenty metres above the rocky shores on the outer coast of the inlet the city lay on.

The sun caught Kanika's hair setting a halo of gold around her unnaturally pale face. Even after the union she had not adopted the custom of applying kohl to her eyes and rouging her lips and skin. Because of this, she looked transparent. Morgaine and Willan sat nearby, two Ilaseans who made far more effort with pigments and cosmetics. Meto found the stark contrast profoundly unnerving.

“We shall be honeymooning a week from now,” Atham said. “We've decided to take a merchant ship back to Vraith and do a tour. The passage is already paid, and we must simply pack our bags and be off.”

Those words tipped Meto over the edge. The thought of all of Vraith sneering at them, treating Kanika as some strange specimen, wondering at Atham's sanity, thinking what a good thing it was that such strange people as his family had been banished to Caerphy. Meto’s blood boiled to action.

Kanika often seemed restless, more so since the wedding. She stretched and rose to take a walk, and Meto followed.

“Allow me to accompany you,” he insisted. “We are all family now, no?”

She hesitated for a long moment, eyes watchful. Outright refusal would be seen as an insult. Everyone looked at them, burning with interest. After a moment, she allowed him to take her by the arm and walk with her towards the edge of the cliff. Meto thought he saw Elsephere smile, her cold grey eyes watching them walk away. A wide clump of twisted trees had sprouted there, providing dappled shade.

“It will be good to get these gardens fixed up,” Meto said. “These stone walls here, the ones holding the cliff intact. They were damaged in the siege, or so I'm told. They are far weaker than they look.”

“Oh, really?” She cast a nervous look at the edge, stepping a little further from it. Meto smiled at her.

“Don't worry, it's safe to stand on. Look.” He walked closer to the edge. The barrier shifted slightly under his feet. “It's quite safe. But it will look nicer once it's restructured.”

Kanika glanced towards the picnicking royals. They weren't far away, maybe a dozen feet. Ithrien watched Meto. Her brows creased with concern and she leaned forward about to call out to him, as though he were still a child, to stay away from the edge. Atham's pale eyes were trained on his spouse. Elsephere and Eoghan stayed unaware aware of their antics.

“It's safe enough,” Meto tried. “And the view is quite spectacular. Come, see it.”

His smile tightened, and his eyes left little room for disagreement. She barely shifted towards him. He talked about the coast and the ancient Ilasean structures. The sound of small talk set her somewhat at ease, though now that he had her there, he was not quite sure how to proceed.

“My father's architects estimate that these walls have stood for over three hundred years,” he said. “And they reckon that, without the siege, they would have stood firm for at least another three hundred. Perhaps more.”

“The Seers of old were quite gifted in building and maintaining structures.” Kanika leaned away from him. “We learned of them from milk tutors in the square.”

“Indeed,” Meto replied. “There is much to be proud of. And the view from the tops of these walls, or from your – Skytowers? Is that what they're called?” He whistled as she nodded to confirm it. “Breathtaking. Even from here, the skies are so clear, I feel I can almost see Vraith, far off on the horizon. Do you see it?”

He pointed out to the west, his eyes squinting against the water's glare. He leaned out a little further, the old waist-height wall having long since crumbled to rocks scattered around their feet. Kanika stepped closer. She looked torn between wanting him to step back, and staying at a distance herself.

“I-I'm not sure...” she said. “Do be careful, it's quite a drop.”

“It's fine,” he insisted, guiding her closer to the edge. “Look, that sliver of dark grey and brown just there. It seems so far away, but when you're there, it is Caerphy which looks tiny.”

He kept pointing, outlining the coast with his finger. Her glances back at the picnic grew increasingly frequent. He would have to act soon, or risk missing his chance.

Almost as though the gods had heard his thoughts, an idea struck him. He pretended to slip a little on the loose earth and stones. As he had hoped, she startled and stepped forward instinctively to reach for him.

“Kanika! Watch out!” He reached as though to steady her.

Quick as a flash, he grabbed her arm and yanked, sending her careening over the edge. She screamed as she fell. She tried to latch onto a large stone, but only succeeded in pulling it loose from the cliff face.

“Help! Atham, Mother, she's slipped!” He clasped his hair in both hands, widening his eyes. It was only half for show. His heart felt set to beat right out of his chest, his mind whirling in disbelief.

What had he done?

“Atham, be careful!” Ithrien shouted as they approached. The words fell distant in Meto’s shocked mind.

Meto gripped Atham as he tried to lean out to see, his face a mask of shock and grief.

“No... no...” His voice broke. Meto held his shaking brother back, struggling to contain him despite his superior strength.

“Atham!”

The voice was so small and tense that Meto almost didn't hear it. It was only when it sounded out, louder, stronger, that he turned. Atham heard it as well. He pushed Meto away with force and rushed to the side of the cliff, his eyes wide.

“My love!” He froze. His face twisted in fear and confusion. Meto peered out as well, then blinked in disbelief as his brain tried to comprehend what he saw.

The large boulder Kanika had pulled free was frozen in the air, as though caught by an invisible net. She was grasping onto it with all her might, her knuckles and face somehow whiter than usual. Despite the high breeze whipping around the coast, her hair and tunic were motionless. Meto looked to ensure that no tree root or ledge connected her and the boulder to the cliff. There was none.

“She is a witch,” he breathed. The realisation struck him like a rock. He turned to the guards, action overriding his conflict. “Fetch a rope! The Seer has fallen! Quickly, fetch a rope!”

Ithrien gave him a sharp look. Her strong hands held Atham from craning himself too far. It was evident he had no concern for his own safety. Meto herded them away from the edge as the guards hoisted Kanika up. His mind whirled with the impact of what had happened. Had he actually pushed her? He felt reasonably sure no one had seen him do it – from behind any sudden movements would look like him moving to catch her – but she knew. She had to know he had pulled, not grasped, when he had shouted for her to be careful. Trying to kill a witch was more than he had bargained for.

He returned to the edge, wondering if he could somehow push her again to finish the job, but Eoghan intercepted his stride. He gripped Meto' arm far tighter than necessary.

“She was using magic. Her fate is sealed. Let it go, son,” Eoghan hissed at him.

He released Meto' arm and moved away as though nothing had passed between them. Meto was frozen on the spot. To say that Kanika's fate was sealed for using magic in front of them all and let it go... did Eoghan know? Did he see Meto push her, did he know it had been an attempt on her life? Or was he now simply stating the obvious, that Ilaseans using magic was forbidden on pain of torture and public execution? Meto knew only that Eoghan had never called him son before, and it was no time to find out what he meant.

Kanika came over the edge. Once she was clear, she stumbled a few more paces onto solid ground, tripped onto her knees and threw up. Her fine tunic was stained all over with dirt and grass, her hands bleeding from where she had gripped the rock.

“Seer,” Eoghan boomed. “You have been witnessed using illicit arcane arts by the highest court in the land.”

“What?” Atham gasped. He rushed to her side, putting his arm around her as she struggled on the ground. “Father, no!”

“Silence!” Eoghan growled. “Do you not see what has happened here, Atham? She has bewitched you, made you do and say all of these unnatural things! I must. It is the law, and it is for your own good.”

Kanika's entire body shook, her face hidden by the long curtain of her hair. Atham's face, so serene just minutes earlier, twisted into rage and hurt. He glared at Eoghan, then turned his ire on Meto.

“You! You did this on purpose!” he shouted. “You've never liked her, any of you, and now you try to murder her, and condemn her for saving herself!”

Meto stepped back. Atham's face was red, spittle flying out of his mouth as he enunciated each word, tears flowing down his cheeks. He held Kanika close. Meto scowled to hide the swirling guilt his brother's accusation stirred in him.

“Don't be daft, Atham,” he sputtered. “You can't blame me for the fact that your Seer is a witch. It's right there in their name.”

Atham struggled to pull Kanika up with him. She was still shaking. Atham tried harder, succeeding only in moving her head so it lolled to one side. Her face was ashen, her eyes all but closed. Meto saw the shift as it happened. Atham's attention moved to Kanika, leaving him open. Without fully knowing why, he glanced at Ithrien. She gave a fractional nod.

As Meto swooped forward to tackle his brother, two guards stepped in to whisk Kanika's prone, seizing body away. Atham fought hard, even landing a few blows, but his fists and feet bounced off Meto's back harmlessly.

By the time he had stood up, Kanika and the guards were gone, along with Ithrien and Elsephere. Eoghan glared down at his son with contempt.

“You risked the future of our nation, the future of this family, on a Seer's charms, and now you shame yourself further by enacting violence on the brother who saved you from a life of bewitched servitude?” he seethed. “Guards, see that my son does not leave his chambers. Allow him no visits beyond those which I sanction.”

Four guards approached with their blades drawn. Atham stared at Eoghan and Meto with the most pure, intense hatred Meto had ever seen on his gentle brother's face.

The guards surrounded Atham and led him away, at his own pace and without restraining him. Only Eoghan and Meto were left in the suddenly still garden. Eoghan turned to Meto. Meto braced himself, unsure of what to expect.

“Well done,” Eoghan smiled. “I misjudged you. I should have known Atham was under a spell. You have my gratitude for revealing the truth. The shadow of impurity can finally be lifted.”

And with that, he turned and left. Meto found himself completely alone, the guards having departed with their liege. The sun still shone, the skies still clear and the birds still singing. Meto stood rooted to the floor, swaying slightly. The magnitude of his actions washed over him in waves. He sat and held his head in his hands.

After everything he had promised and sacrificed and schemed, he would not let himself waver. He had tried to kill, in a most horrifying way, the woman his brother loved and who had once saved his life. She would face public humiliation and execution, probably intense torture too, but he could not falter. He could afford no conscience if he was to make Saffron earn the trade route he had promised her.

Returning to his chambers, he drowned himself in drink and distraction until his memory faded into patches, then finally into blackness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ARMAND

Boredom permeated every fibre of Armand’s being. The relentless drip of condensation and the ever-present sobs from far away cells broke the silence in the dank dungeon. Armand lost track of how long he had been there.

His head throbbed, he was cold and damp, and all he focused on was how many guards he would kill if he ever got out. Their treatment of the prisoners bounced between indifferent and cruel, though the beatings at least gave him something to feel.

He had never understood incarceration. Locking a person up with nothing but their thoughts was a good way to make them angry, not teach them the error of their ways. He wished the Vraithii would hurry up and execute him if only to end the monotony.

Somewhere in the gloom Armand heard a door scrape open. He ignored it. At best it would be time for the meagre scraps they fed the prisoners once a day, at worst the guards were ready to beat him. Armand hoped it was just food. Another miserable voice coming to scream and cry until they went hoarse was not something he relished.

Hobnailed footfalls clacked on the slick stone floor, drawing ever closer. Two guards carried an Ilasean between them. Unlike most prisoners, though, the one being escorted made no protest. Armand drew closer to the cell door despite himself.

His heart jumped into his throat at the sight that greeted him.

Her hair covered her face, but Armand knew the curve of that neck anywhere. Kanika.

She looked unconscious, her feet dragging on the floor. Her shawl hung loose off her shoulders and back. When the guards dumped her in the cell beside him, she lay still and silent. Armand pressed himself against the bars separating them.

“Kanika?” He spoke quietly, knowing the guards were near. Kanika gave no response beyond a pained sigh. Armand paced along the cell bars, trying to find a point where he might reach her, but she was too far from the wall.

After a few minutes she regained consciousness. Her neck tensed and then released in a failed attempt to sit. Something was wrong with her. What had that monster Atham done?

Rapid breaths followed her twitches, her shoulders quaking with each gasp. Armand watched without blinking. Kanika rolled onto her side to face him, though he wasn’t sure it was deliberate. He tried to smile at her but his face disobeyed.

Her eyes darted around, unfocused, then fixed on the corner of her cell. Deep red flushed her cheeks, the rest of her skin ashen grey.

“Kanika?” Armand held his breath, praying for her to snap out of this unusual condition. Moments passed slowly. He stretched his arms through the bars, unable to reach her. Finally she managed to look up at him. He held her gaze, making his smile warm and reassuring despite the knots churning in his stomach.

She blinked as though her eyelids were made of stone, then groaned. Armand pressed his body against the bars again, trying desperately to reach her. She exerted effort to  clasp his hand. Instead of connecting her arm flopped uselessly.

After another failed attempt, she pulled her knees to her chest, curling in on herself. Shakes began to roll over her without end. Realisation dawned on Armand all at once. He knew the symptoms of magical overexertion from when Ophi was a young girl. There was nothing to do but wait it out. Kanika likely felt like she was dying.

“You’ll be alright.” He spoke soothingly, remembering the way she worried about things. “Its just the effects of your magic.” What manner of magic had she performed to leave her in such a state? Most of the Ilasean magic was far too subtle to elicit a severe reaction. Her voice brought him back from his thoughts.

“Armand?” Her eyes wouldn’t focus on his face. “He pushed…”

“Hush now, wait for the sickness to pass.” It would be so much easier to help if he could reach her. “It is a common side effect, have no fear.”

She reached for him again, just close enough that he managed to grip her by the wrist, dragging her closer. Kanika hung limp as he pulled her gently upright and held her, stroking her hair. Soft sobs broke across her lips, increasing as she gradually regained her senses. He did his best to comfort her. After failing to find any words, he fell back on humming a soothing tune.

Armand didn’t know how long they stayed like that. All that mattered was that she was alright, or would be. The sickness would pass. They would find a way out of the cells. For the first time since his incarceration, a glimmer of hope sparked in his chest.

“He pushed me off the cliff.” Her voice cracked. “Prince Meto. I couldn’t stop him.”

“You used magic in front of him?”

“In front of all of them.” Kanika sighed. “I froze a rock in mid air to clamber back up to safety, and instead threw myself further into danger.”

Armand gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“No matter.” He didn’t know if he was trying to convince her or himself. “Once you are recovered, with that much power, we can easily escape.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Armand jumped and nearly let Kanika fall. He hadn't even heard the door open, let alone the soft footfalls of the woman who stood before them. He recognised her from being dragged before the royal family at breakfast.

“Such a shame you wound up in here, Seer.” Elsephere smirked. “I actually rather liked you as a sister-in-law. Though at least you are reunited with this strapping young man. That must be such a comfort.”

Armand glared at her, her words striking fear into his heart. Something about the placid way she continued eating her strawberries at breakfast, while he was beaten, struck him as colder than the Vraithii usually behaved. The woman had enough power to unleash a world of pain. Kanika struggled to turn her head and look at the princess. She muttered something under her breath.

“Don’t worry, I will not be hurting him.” Elsephere paced around the cell. She went to perch on a broken stool, then thought better of it and remained standing.

Kanika curled herself closer into Armand. He put a protective hand on her shoulder, well aware that he would be able to do nothing if Elsephere chose to be violent.

“You are a witch, though,” Elsephere continued. “We have everything we need to beat you and drown you and slit your throat in the square. But a confession would go a long way towards your death being painless.”

“Why do you care?” Kanika’s voice cracked around her steely tone.

“My brother is already trying to persuade us we were mistaken.” Elsephere sighed. “If you care for him at all, you will confess and spare him the humiliation of spreading his delusions around the city.”

Kanika clenched her jaw and met Elsephere’s eye. Armand didn’t know how she summoned the strength.

“I have nothing to confess.” Kanika spat on the floor. “Let him say what he wants, I do not care.”

Elsephere’s grin widened. Armand had the uneasy feeling she had hoped for that response. The princess turned and stepped gingerly over a murky puddle. When she was almost gone, she stopped and looked back.

“Since you are charged with treason by way of arcane arts, you will need to take the suppressants.” She clicked her fingers to someone in the corridor beyond. “Nothing terrible. They have a pleasantly intoxicating effect, or so I'm told.”

She grinned again as she left. Armand's heart dropped. The suppressants were powerful liquids milked from trumpet's tears flowers. They were known to be soporific and were favoured by drunkards who could afford no more ale and craved something stronger than spirits.

Kanika managed to claw her way half upright before an apothecary and two strong guards caught hold of her. Armand tried to help, but they struck at his hands and forced Kanika’s mouth open. The liquid they poured into her mouth smelled putrid. She fought them off as best she could, but the vile drink slid down her throat. Armand saw the muscles in her stomach stomach heave.

“It will be okay, Kanika.” Armand heard the desperation in his voice.

Kanika’s struggle weakened. Even with two guards pinning her arms, it didn’t seem she was giving in, rather that the drugs were taking effect. The apothecary moved forward with another dose.

“No, stop!” Armand’s panic intensified. “She took the first, she cannot take another. It will kill her. Please.”

The apothecary hesitated, eyeing the spilled soporific soaking into the straw. For a moment Armand thought the man might listen. But then he gripped Kanika roughly by the chin and twisted her face towards him. She barely moved as he tipped the vile liquid into her mouth. By the time they left she was lying in a stupefied heap on the floor, her eyes staring dully into nothing. Armand crouched in his cell, trying to reach her as dark, liquid vomit spilled from her mouth in a slow stream.

◆◆◆

Armand spent the time she was drugged prying a stone from the floor and collecting water from the mossy walls. He knew very little of the healing arts, but it made sense to purge the poison from her with something pure. Not that the water on the cell walls was without contamination, but it was better than nothing, or so he reasoned. Each drip he collected marked a fraught glance at her prone form, praying he would not see her breathing cease.

Once the stone could hold no more, he placed it carefully by the bars and squatted on his heels to await her awakening. When she finally took a deeper breath and seemed to stir, he startled and almost knocked the stone over. The urge to call to her and ask if she was alright all but overwhelmed him. From what he knew, the suppressants could take hours to dissipate enough for the victim to speak or be spoken to. He held himself in check and waited on her to show more signs of life.

Endless minutes culminated in her opening her eyes and finding his face with her gaze, though she appeared to be looking right through him.

“They gave it to me as well,” he told her softly. “Until they realised it has no effect on me. I guess it really does only work on Seers.”

Kanika managed to move an inch away from her pool of vomit, then rolled in agonising stages to the bars between them. Armand didn’t try to lift her, leaving her to shudder on the floor until some colour returned to her cheeks.

“First time... you've ever been glad... about that...” Her voice sounded monotone and dull, but she was trying to make a joke.

“Take your time,” he told her. “Some take hours to recover, others days. But you need water.”

Armand dipped his fingers into the water and washed the vomit away from her lips with careful strokes. Her ragged breaths were soft and warm against his skin. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes at the hopelessness of their situation. Seeing her decline from the vibrant love of his life to this shell of her former self hit him all at once. He was glad she had her eyes closed, lest his distress transfer to her.

“Best not to drink down any more of that vile shite.” He tried to distract himself from his heartache with chatter. “Here. Just sips, you'll be alright.”

He poured water a little at a time into her mouth. She tested her arms and hands, then pushed herself up little by little until she was resting against the bars. Armand reached through and moved her hair off her face, detaching it from her neck where it had crusted with vomit.

“Why are you being so nice?” She breathed. “I could not save you, and I wouldn’t run away with you. You don't owe me anything.”

Armand was silent. All he heard was her irregular breathing and the occasional drip of water somewhere deeper into the dungeons. He found no answer for her, or at least not one he was willing to give. Telling her that he still craved her love would not go over well, even in her dazed state.

“This will not be the end of us,” she said into the darkness. “I cannot die by Vraithii hands.”

Armand didn’t know what to say to that. It had a ring of prophetic truth to it, but equally she had stronger soporifics in her body than was safe. He poured the last of the water into her to avoid answering.

“Ophi will save us. Ophi can do it.”

“Of course.” He assumed she was falling prey to the drugs once more. “Get some rest and perhaps she’ll be here when you wake.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

METO

Meto paced nervously outside Eoghan's rooms the next day. With the Seer problem out of his way, he wanted to strike while the iron was hot and surge forward with his end of the deal.

Reopening the trade route was something his parents craved as much as those beyond their lands. Given the hostile relations between the Vraithans and the native Caerphians, he would have to tread carefully in explaining how he was in a position to negotiate for it. With one prince in a depressed, bewitched state, it might be easy to lump the other onto the defective pile. But given the way Eoghan had spoken to him in the tall garden, he was willing to risk it.

Finally, he knocked. He was shown into Eoghan's study, a room he had seldom reason to visit in all the years they had lived in the palace. The study had a well-used feel to it. Meto saw where two upright chairs had been frequently used, facing out the tall glass doors into the private courtyard beyond. He imagined the grizzled old warlord soaking his feet and smoking his pipe, looking out as the sun set over the city he'd subdued.

As Eoghan was nowhere to be seen – the sun had only just risen, and he was known to be a busy man in the mornings – Meto waited by the glass doors. The garden was well-tended, unlike the tall gardens where everything had happened the day before. Meto saw climbing vines of golden fires draped over a bower of ash and oak, several priceless statues and ornate fountains decorating the open spaces around it. He wondered if Eoghan had slaves to care for his private garden, or if he took trowel in hand himself. Neither would surprise him.

“...She is not to leave her chambers.” Eoghan’s voice filtered through from deeper in his quarters. “With her wealth, she is a flight risk. She must answer for the boy’s birth.”

Meto frowned. Surely Eoghan was not referring to Ithrien? But who else could it be? He stepped closer to the overheard voice, then stopped when footsteps echoed towards him.

“Meto.” Eoghan's stern voice seemed a little less harsh that morning, or perhaps it was only Meto who perceived it so.

“Your Majesty.” He turned and bowed low. Best to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping. “Sorry to disturb you so early, but I have news I think you will be pleased to hear.”

Eoghan waved away his apology and stood beside him at the glass doors. He sighed and looked out into the garden.

“Elsephere has kept me abreast of the situation with the Seer,” he told Meto.

“She does a fine job of managing such things,” Meto commented automatically. “But that is not what I'm here to discuss. I have the opportunity to negotiate a trade agreement with some of the natives. A result of my recent excursion to the border. I thought it best to secure your approval before proceeding.”

Meto noticed in extreme detail the way Eoghan's shoulders tightened and his eyes sharpened at the mention of trade. Eoghan turned a beady blue eye on him.

“I never took you for a diplomat,” he commented wryly. “I can grant you a provisional royal allowance for a month. But I will want some assurances. And I shall need to meet your contact.”

Meto' grin faltered slightly. He didn't know how to ensure Saffron would show up to a meeting with the High King of Vraithii-controlled Argorien. Truth be told, at times he didn't quite know how he'd managed to enlist her help himself. Eoghan raised an eyebrow.

“That won't be a problem, will it?”

Meto couldn't tell if he was toying with him or not.

“Perhaps,” Meto admitted. “My contact is not fond of meeting new people. She is... she only agreed to deal with me because she wished the trade route opened. Our relationship is tenuous, at best.”

Eoghan chuckled and walked over to his chair stiffly. He eased himself into it slowly, waving away the slave who stepped forward to assist him.

“Sit with me, boy,” he growled. “And I will tell you how deals with the barbarians here end.”

Meto moved cautiously to the chair beside the king. He had never heard firsthand the tales from when Eoghan and Ithrien had landed on Caerphian shores. The events of that fateful summer were the stuff of epic poems and legend. Meto had always hung on every word when his tutors had recounted them, and the chance to hear such a thrilling tale from one of the protagonists was thrilling.

“When I was a young man – well, a younger one, at least,” Eoghan smiled with self deprecation. “And before the city had opened its gates to us, I met with the Seer Queen to negotiate a truce. As you no doubt are aware.”

Meto nodded. The Luminous Crusade, the war to conquer Ilasean Caerphy, had been all but won – and then the Seer Queen had called a meeting to discuss terms of her people laying down arms. Nobody but Ithrien, Eoghan and the Ilas queen knew what had transpired in the tent that day. All that was known was that the very next day, at dawn, the great gates of Argorien had been found wide open, the people inside on their knees, weapons in piles in each square.

“She was an amazing leader,” Eoghan reminisced. “The Seers here, now, they have nothing on her. Her whole being radiated power and strength. I had never been so intimidated by an adversary in my life, nor have I since. There were no negotiations. She simply informed me that we had won the battle, and she would no longer stand in our way.”

“What?” Meto frowned. “But... they had held out for almost a year. Why would she give up so easily, when they might still have been reinforced and driven you out?”

“I will never know,” Eoghan sighed. He gestured for his pipe. A slave loaded it and hurried forward. “She said that she would allow us to live in her city until she saw fit to have it back. She warned us that we must pay our rent to her in actions. She told us we were to be judged. Your mother and I were quite shocked, as I'm sure you can imagine. I made the mistake of saying that once she was gone, it would be over. She would never take her city back. She simply smiled and said it would be over when it was over, and not a moment before.”

Despite the warm summer air Meto found himself with a chill. With the bleached features and unnerving eyes of the Ilas, he could almost see the Seer Queen's knowing smile, almost feel the scrutiny as she surveyed the two Vraithans before her.

“Of course, it was her way of surrendering. To save face no doubt, or so I thought at the time,” Eoghan continued. “But by the next morning, she and her family - and a large portion of the Seer populace – were simply gone. They had vanished as if into thin air. Just like Greys and the cohort at the border. Cups half full, food halfway cooked, fires still smoking. We could never get any information from the Seers who remained, no matter how many we tortured. She tricked us. She did not surrender. She merely retreated. I cannot fathom in what way, but she made a fool of me and of your mother, and of every Vraithan who lives. To this day her agents sabotage us and hound us at every turn. Even from beyond the wall, she mocks me at every opportunity.”

Meto' looked at Eoghan with sudden realisation. The tone of the king's voice was no longer that of an elderly man telling a story. As he looked into Eoghan's eyes, he saw a bitter fire unlike any he had seen before. He seemed almost unaware of his audience. His tale descended into fitful mutters as his glare deepened. Meto didn't know what to do. He had come to Eoghan to seek his authority to open the trade route, but the man was consumed in something dark and foreign to him. Whatever his mind was telling him, it was antithetical to authority on every level.

Meto saw it so clearly now. Aside from the obvious fruitlessness of asking for his approval, it rose disturbing questions. Meto had never been close to him. He had noticed no change beyond the greying of hair and the lengthening of teeth. The way the king behaved spoke of months of mental decay, if not longer. Meto thought over the previous years. So many important decisions had been made, from legislative changes to mercantile licenses. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that the vast majority of wealth and power granted had been weighted heavily in favour of nobles who held allegiance of some sort with Elsephere.

He felt himself paling. Eoghan muttered to himself darkly, a thin bead of spittle drooping slowly from the corner of his mouth. The slaves had their eyes carefully averted. Clearly such lapses in dignity were common.

Meto took a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and reached out to wipe away the drool.

The king started suddenly at the touch, his eyes wild. They settled on Meto with a frantic lack of recognition.

“Out! Damn you, Touktai!” he bellowed. “Get out, and stay away from the Queen of Morriden!”

Meto startled off the chair, edging away in confusion. The king continued to shout and curse at thin air as Meto left, his mind whirling.

◆◆◆

Meto hurried towards the dungeons. So much became clear to him in the wake of Eoghan’s sudden change. Elsephere’s insistence on keeping him to herself made sense now. Meto cursed himself for not seeing the signs earlier. His sister had hid it so well. It would take insights beyond the norm to have noticed. A second sight. Which brought his thoughts to Kanika.

He had heard her scream in his dreams during the night. Despite having killed his fair share of natives, her terror as she fell haunted him in a place somewhere softer than he’d known existed. Were the Seers witches by choice, he wondered? If not, if Kanika felt herself cursed by the magic she wielded rather than empowered by it, would that change how he viewed her? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he’d been standing by the entrance to the cells for far too long.

He fished the key off his belt and entered, ignoring the sudden flurry of activity in his wake as guards startled to attention. First he went to the tomb-like cells he had found Saffron in, but found each one empty.

“My lord, are you looking for the Seer?” a guard asked. Meto gave a curt nod. “This way.”

By all rights Kanika was a political enemy, given that she had been poised to become a member of the royal family, and thus should be in the more secure cells. But he forewent mentioning it. Given the state she’d been in, perhaps it wasn’t necessary.

When the guard stopped outside a cell, Meto almost didn’t spot Kanika inside. Her dirty form lay in a pool of shadow, knees clutched to her chest, face buried in her arms. Her sides heaved with uneven breaths. She jolted as the key screeched in the lock to allow Meto entry.

“Stay away from her!”

Meto glanced at the cell beside Kanika’s. Furious Ilasean eyes glared at him from beneath thick brows. It took him a moment to place the man’s face, then it came to him. The traitor-thief Ithrien had paraded before Kanika at breakfast. Meto’s face slipped into a mocking sneer out of habit.

“Or what?” he replied. “I should have your head for speaking to me like that.”

“Don’t bother, Armand.” Kanika’s voice croaked and she rose on shaky limbs. “The noble prince fights best when his enemies have no defence. That’s what nobility is to them.”

Meto dismissed the guard with a nod and approached Kanika. As her face came into view, Meto stifled a gasp. Sickly blue stains ran from her mouth down her chin and vanished beneath her clothes. Her eyes couldn’t focus, pupils shifting from pinpricks to so large they all but obscured the iris. Despite her apparent weakness, she stared up at Meto with cool defiance. He stiffened his jaw.

“The trials of love,” he commented. “No doubt my brother will be so proud of how his noble bride bears her torment.”

“Love?” Kanika spat on the cell floor just by Meto’s feet.

“She was to be my wife,” Armand interjected. His voice held a tremble. “Since children, we were. It is… cruel. Your brother is cruel.”

Kanika watched Armand as he spoke, then turned her unnerving eyes back on Meto. Meto raised an eyebrow at her in query. Kanika scoffed.

“It is true,” she told him. “Armand and I would be wed and likely with child by now had your brother not stolen me.”

“Stolen?” Meto pondered on it a moment. “Most would think all their dreams come true if a prince plucked them from poverty.”

“He stole my life,” Kanika’s face twisted in bitterness. “It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and he destroyed it all. And for what? So I could be his pretty Ilasean doll? A treasure to keep in a chest and display so that all his pretentious friends could pat him on the back and tell him how virtuous he is? Even you believe it.”

Meto thought back on all the times he had seen his brother with Kanika. He recalled Atham showering her with affection, it was true, but in that moment he could not see her reaching tenderly for his arm, or the warmth of her eyes as she looked on him. But surely she must have, he reasoned. Surely she had been glad of her rising status, her newfound power. Who would not be?

“So why let him, then? Why not simply reject his advances and carry on with your life?”

Kanika shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. Meto struggled to force down the image of her flailing as she fell from the cliff and the regret which had brought him to her cell.

“He would not let me. I tried.” Her voice broke. “I didn’t want it. I never wanted any of it. What was I to do? Risk the wrath of the future king? No.” She took a shuddering breath. “He may not seem the type, but one can never be sure. Absolute power over the life of another does strange things to a person. Perhaps he would not have retaliated, but we have all seen the bodies of my countrymen and women in the square. I would not risk it.”

Meto stayed silent, watching myriad emotions flash across Kanika’s face. The tears that gathered in her eyes spilled out over her cheeks, and when she spoke it was barely a whisper. “I should have risked it.”

Armand’s hand twitched in the cell next door. Meto studied the concern on Armand’s face and the slight tremors that rocked through Kanika’s body as she sat. Finally, she took a breath and stared up at him with defiance once more.

“Why are you here, Meto?” She sounded tired. “Come to gloat, like your sister? Or maybe beat me for your own amusement?”

Meto bit his lip. Elsephere would not have been kind. The things Kanika said all fit, though he hated the picture they painted of his actions on the cliff. It was one thing to strike down a witch, quite another to try to kill a creature as pitiful as the woman before him.

He reminded himself sternly that she was just a Seer, a barbaric Caerphian standing between Vraith and its riches, between Meto and his glory, but it rang hollow in his mind. Perhaps his conflict showed on his face. Kanika closed her eyes and sat against the bars of Armand’s cell. He wrapped his arms protectively around her as best he could.

“It hardly matters. Whatever happens to me, you are not long for this land now.” She opened her eyes and gave a weak grin. “I have Seen it. Do your worst.”

With that, she closed her eyes once more. Meto opened his mouth, though what he might say, he was not sure. A man came bustling towards the cell with a small glass phial in hand. Two guards followed a pace behind him. When they saw the prince, they stopped and bowed.

“I must administer the suppressants, my lord,” the apothecary said. “If not, she will use her magic and escape, or worse.”

Meto frowned and eyed the phial. Through the semi-opaque glass, he saw the dark blue liquid, like the stain on her chin. After a moment, Meto nodded and moved aside. Armand clutched Kanika tighter to the bars and bared his teeth at the man, but a guard stepped forward and smashed him in the forehead with his wooden baton. Armand fell back, eyes unfocused. The apothecary stepped forward and poured the phial out into Kanika’s mouth. She put up her arms to try and stop him, but her blows fell like feathers. Meto tried to quash the guilt twisting in his gut.

He turned on his heel and left without a glance back. Only once he reached his chambers did he realise he had not asked her about Eoghan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ELSEPHERE

“That's right, Father, just a few more steps,” Elsephere coaxed. “Have you got it?”

Eoghan had stumbled on the stairs leading to the judiciary dock in the palace's courtroom. As long as he did not falter while adjudicating, he would be fine. Elsephere sat at his side throughout the proceedings to ensure nothing went awry. Her father went vague at a few points, but his liberal doses of medication rendered him pliable and sedate enough to smooth the mishaps.

“The Seer witch being tried before us is the most malicious and devious of her kind,” Elsephere announced to the room once Eoghan was settled. “She mayn't look like much, but she can appear in the courtroom only under heavy guard, for the safety of all present. Bear that in mind as you witness today's events.”

The spectators gasped and muttered while she delivered her speech. The gossip that the Seer was a danger to her own kind as much as to the noble gentry struck fear in their hearts. Any who disagreed had been quietly ferreted out and excluded from the courtroom. As far as Elsephere saw, everything was proceeding nicely.

Elsephere smiled as she settled herself beside her father. Atham wouldn’t be there to hear Kanika condemned for her crimes. Perhaps soon he would find it in him to forgive the High King and Queen and drag himself out of his quarters, maybe even bathe for the first time in a month.

Kanika wore the same rags from that fateful day on the cliffs. Her face was gaunt, her long white hair a wild mess of tangles, her pale eyes dull and heavy. She barely glanced around and slumped to the side in her seat. Guards locked manacles in place. She had no noticeable reaction as the High King said her name and read the charges against her.

Elsephere’s breath caught in her throat as she watched. As drool dribbled out of Kanika’s mouth, Elsephere was struck by the similarities between her stupefied state and Eoghan during one of his seizures. She forced her mind to focus elsewhere while the charges concluded and the next phase of the trial began.

“Kanika Omari Veraïs, ward of the heathen shrine in the central square of Argorien, you stand here accused of treason, witchcraft, undermining the authority of the Crown, and colluding with traitors,” Eoghan said. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Kanika didn't blink, her icy blue eyes staring unfocused, her head resting on an awkward angle on the upright wooden chair.

“Will anyone speak on her behalf?” Eoghan barely waited for a response. Her father had always been a magnificent king. She saw his mind sharpening, if only slightly, as he settled into his role in the courtroom.

Silence hung heavy over the spectators, both noble and native. The trial should conclude without opposition. Tensions ran high since Kanika had been ceremonially divorced from Atham and confined to the cells. Riots quelled almost every night in the lower town, though thankfully no soldiers had lost their lives. Elsephere knew the body count for the Ilaseans grew, but she hoped order would soon restore.

It became clear that despite all their bluster and violence in the streets, none of the Ilaseans in attendance would be speaking on behalf of their doomed sister.

“Then, by the power vested in me by the True Gods and the right of conquest, given the evidence I have seen presented, I must find you, Kanika Omari Veraïs, guilty on all charges. Execution is the only punishment of worth in such a grave case as this.” Eoghan’s voice was almost drowned out by the sudden angry growl emanating from the back of the room.

Guards bolstered around the doors and windows, bracing for any disruption beyond general dissent. As calm descended, Elsephere saw the vague look she knew all too well flicker over her father's eyes. She tensed in case he began seizing. He leaned forward over the bench, his eyes dangerously dark.

“I will not tolerate such behaviour in my courtroom,” he growled, the sound echoing eerily around the chamber. “Execution is set for dawn, three days hence, and anyone who so much as scoffs at my verdict will join the accused on the letting grate.”

Mutinous silence met the verdict. Satisfied, Eoghan lit a stub of sealing wax and let the blood-red liquid drip onto the death warrant before him. He pressed the royal seal into the wax and signed beside it, then passed it to Elsephere to do the same. As she reached for the stylus, she noticed his jaw slacken and his eyes grow hazy. Her heart dropped, but he blinked suddenly and closed his mouth.

Guards stepped forward to return Kanika to the cells. The commoners in the back filed out in sullen disgust, the nobles leaving through separate doorways to the sides in clusters of three and four. Elsephere began to relax. Her father had not had a seizure in days. Since the day on the cliffs she had begun to suspect Kanika was the source of Eoghan's illness. A part of her, tiny though it was, hoped that once Kanika lost her head Eoghan would regain his.

As the last few nobles meandered towards the doors, Elsephere's heart dropped. She thought her father had shaken off the momentary slip into whichever dark corner of his mind his seizures dwelled in, but she saw him rapidly being overtaken. His eye movements became erratic as he watched the nobles take their time leaving.

“Father?” Elsephere tried.

Eoghan spun and stared at her without recognition, fury deepening the furrows between his brows. Elsephere gestured quickly to the guards to hurry along the dawdling nobles. Her sense of urgency bordered on panic as her father advanced towards her from the bench. She braced herself in case he turned violent. As long as no one of importance witnessed her father's outburst, she could handle it.

“You dare refer to me in such a familiar fashion?” Bubbles of frothy spittle collected in the corners of his mouth, his words growing increasingly slurred. “I knew your father, you Garnelian scum, and he was an insolent pup too! But we both know how that ended, don't we? Here, let me refresh your memory.”

He stumbled towards her. As he lunged, she sidestepped him and he stumbled over a low step. With a gurgled cry he sank to the ground, muttering into unconsciousness. Elsephere dropped to her knees and checked him as the apothecary had instructed her, making sure he was breathing, that his pupils calmed after he fainted, that he would not swallow his tongue or choke if his mouth made too much saliva.

A soft gasp sounded behind her. She reached for her sword and turned. Atham's manservant Willan stood frozen in shock at the prone king. His eyes moved to Elsephere. She should have anticipated Willan. Of course he would come to plead on his master's behalf for leniency after the verdict.

He tried to run through the servants' door. She caught him by the arm, then pressed him into the wall, blade at his throat.

She considered running him through. He had seen too much. But his disappearance on the day of the trial, the amount of blood there would be to clean up, arrangements for the secret disposal of his body, not to mention the effort needed already to hide Eoghan's seizure and get him somewhere safe to recover... The time was not yet right, she decided reluctantly. But she hoped it soon would be.

“Please, Your Highness, I will tell nobody, I swear it...” he blathered. Elsephere shut him up by pressing the blade into his neck a little more, drawing a droplet of blood onto its polished edge.

“Of course you won't.” Elsephere smiled grimly. “You strike me as the sensible type, but perhaps a little too noble for your own good.”

He gave no response beyond a frightened swallow. With the pressure, she saw his pulse increase in his neck. She met his kohl-lined eyes squarely, ensuring there was no misunderstanding.

“You might not care enough to preserve your own life, but we both know someone you would rather serve with silence than death. Don't we?”

“Morgaine,” he whispered.

Elsephere hid her surprise. She had been referring to Atham. What connection had he to Morgaine? But leverage was leverage. Her heart was far from it. She couldn't even bear to speak of anything happening to Morgaine, but thankfully she knew he would believe it without additional threats. The royal family had a reputation for violence and brutality among the Ilas. Leave his own mind to fill in the gruesome details, and he would scare himself into silence more effectively than she ever could.

Morgaine was sure to arrive sooner rather than later to assist Elsephere with post-trial paperwork. Elsephere gripped Willan by the collar and shoved him forcefully towards the servant's corridor.

“Our secret, then,” she reiterated, sword still in hand. He nodded vigorously and vanished into the warren of walkways in the palace walls.

Elsephere sheathed the blade. The number of people who knew of her father's condition grew too rapidly. First Meto, and now Willan. She would have to deal with them at some point. Atham's manservant could easily disappear into one of the sewers with his throat slit when the time was right, but Meto was her flesh and blood. She could not abide the thought of him dispatched to hide a secret. Would it even matter once she was crowned and Eoghan laid to rest?

She carried Eoghan to a private chamber, summoning the apothecary. The middle-aged woman sighed as she checked him.

“His condition has deteriorated further,” she murmured as she worked. “Though, it is a miracle he's lasted this long, I suppose...”

“What can I do for him?” Elsephere asked. The apothecary clicked her tongue and thought for a minute, then sighed and shook her head.

“Not much, Your Highness,” she sighed. “His mind has lost most of its ability to distinguish between itself and reality. The brain has many mucuses and humours which regulate the individual's mood, behaviour, memories and so forth. As you know, his are almost dried up and evaporated. The mucus which separates the past from the present is all but gone.”

Elsephere nodded slowly as the apothecary prepared more of the king's medication. She had seen strategists draw victory from far worse odds than hers.

“Do what you can, and take him his rooms to recover,” she instructed. The apothecary bowed low and Elsephere took her leave.

CHAPTER THIRTY

KANIKA

The waves of consciousness hung tangibly in the air. At times wispy and elusive, at others wrapping tightly around her neck threatening to crush the life out of her. She cowered and thrashed and sobbed. The tendrils of it burned through her eyelids and left her whimpering. She forgot she had ever been anything or anywhere but shivering in the tiny dark room. Seconds and eons flashed by her in rapid succession.

An age and a minute after the doors echoed closed around her, she noticed a familiarity hovering in the periphery of her mind. She reached out for it desperately, and it vanished, leaving her miserable. Even the misery was a welcome relief. The roaring speed of panic in her chest increased to a realm of pain she had never before experienced. The misery was a cold dose of something vaguely reminiscent of another time and place. A place the sun had not sulked but simply shone, inanimate and constant.

In a flicker, the familiarity returned in force. It cascaded over her in waves until the panic had washed away. She stood, squinting instinctively at the bright light around her. It didn’t sting. She expected it to sting. With a jolt she realised what expectations of any kind meant... something besides this dull incoherency.

Her mind sped up again and again, a rapidly deteriorating spiral towards something deep and dark and full of horror. The more she struggled against it, the harder it was to resist the tide.

From nowhere it dissipated.

She tested it, poking gently at a wall in her mind she was sure she hadn't created.  It shimmered black and silver, as though the night sky had wrapped her in an embrace. Was this what guarded her against the pull?

It shuddered with deafening warning.

She pulled back, afraid, and caught sight of her own prone form on the floor. The terror edged at her from inside, the promise of calm freedom just out of reach.

In that instant, she stopped. Reality was lost, with its confines and limitations. Instead of a peon among millions, she was a queen – no, a god in her own mind. She and she alone was the decider of what was and what was not.

She turned to the seething wall and tested it again, poking at it with increasing confidence. It recoiled from her, clearing a path where her mind had touched it. She gasped, elated, and a flicker of doubt shuddered through her. In that instant, the fears swarmed on her, dragging her away from her newfound power.

She clawed her way back to control. Never mind what was happening, she decided. All she had was what had worked, and what had not.

She pressed forward and found the wall receded further. The more she believed it would, the more she felt sure she would escape the prison in her mind. She couldn't say for sure what she had faith in, but it felt very different to the hours she'd spent in contemplation at the temple. Instead it was more of an underlying certainty that, no matter what she did, all would be well.

Images of grandiose arches and cozy fireplaces flickered before her. A smirking figure peered out at her from a straight-backed chair, eyes hidden beneath thick brows. She frowned. No, not that building...

She pondered on it a moment longer, then shrugged it off and swanned over to where the glistening freedom had been. In its place, she found a cave.

At first, she almost didn't notice it, its sliver of an entrance surrounded by wide-leafed bright purple foliage and dusky, crumbling boulders. Sunlight bounced in arcs and pools from towering heights above her. She stepped towards the cave and found a cool, tingling sensation. It was  water around her ankles. She looked down and found she was standing in a shallow pond of crystalline water. It was so clear she could see every speck of debris on its bed. She crouched to wash, naked and pale, but her hands passed through it like smoke.

She frustratedly stood, retreating to the cave’s entrance.

“...this place must be ancient... it was bigger in my vision...”

Her own voice echoed around her. She was surprised to find she had spoken the words herself, her tongue flicking endlessly behind her teeth over the final consonant. She felt cloth hanging heavily on her body, the rank stench of a long journey wafting through her nose. She glanced down and saw nothing, her own skin glowing despite the shadows around her. She had never travelled further than the border, certainly not to this cave, if it even existed in anything remotely resembling the world where she'd been born.

She pressed deeper. Cold torches flickered without flame, lighting her way. As she passed stalagmites and half-formed pathways into the darkness, the walls and floors grew smoother. Carved scenes in the walls depicted landmarks, battles, migrations and disasters dating further back than any Ilas scroll.

“...older than even the gods, perhaps… older than the gods' gods...”

The voice answering was not hers, but she spoke it anyway in deeper tones, a lilting, mirthful accent creeping in. She frowned, the concept of gods having gods too much to comprehend even without the restrictions of a physical brain.

“There's nothing older than the gods,” she chastised. “How could there be anything before the beginning?”

She felt the bottom of her legs disintegrating, leaving her breathless, as the atoms of her being brushed against each other by the millions. The cave swallowed itself three times over and dissolved into nothing before her eyes.

◆◆◆

Cold air cut through as her cell pieced itself together before her eyes. She tried to struggle upright, vomit spilling out her mouth as her head spun.

“Seer?”

A low voice was saying something to her, gravelly tones grating over her temples. She thought she recognised it from her excursion in confusion.

“Seer, wake up!” they commanded. She flopped uselessly on the floor, her vision fading in and out. “The princess wants you to last until morning, at least. She is determined you will not deny her.”

Kanika peered up at the source of the voice. A man glared sternly at her. His face was familiar, dark brows almost completely overshadowing his eyes. As she tried to piece him together, her mind swirled. Panic rose up in her chest as she felt the cracks in her mind widening, threatening to swallow her whole.

“Hey,” the man growled, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “Look at me, Seer.”

The cracks closed painfully, keeping her firmly rooted in the stark cell with the stern man before her. Unlike the walls she had placed before, these offered no sweet relief, serving only to constrain the panic to a finite space. It stung more than she remembered, being trapped in her own body and mind. She missed the eternity stuck in the Void. She stared slack-jawed at the man.

“I know you,” she rasped, the words slipping from her mouth along with strings of saliva. “You're like me... but they don't know... they don't know, they think you're like them...”

The man paused a moment. She threw up on the ground, a sharp pounding in her head pulsating with each heave.

“M'lord Rune?” another voice asked. “The apothecary is saying...”

“Pass it to me,” the man snapped. “She's alive now, whatever she was before. She can take another dose.”

“You don't want to, you don't want to,” Kanika mumbled in a slurring sing-song. “You don't want to but you have to, and she doesn't know...”

Kanika heard her voice as though from a distance. She didn't know why she was saying it, but she saw the impression it made on him. She rallied to press her advantage, if only to upset his haughty composure further, but all that escaped was a wraith-like sigh.

Firm hands tilted her head back, pouring vile liquid down her throat. She wondered briefly if they were helping her, sending her back to the cave with the silver flames. All she could taste was broth, though far too little to nourish her.

She lay still after the men left, trying to get comfortable in her own skin. Little by little strength returned to her. In between ragged breaths, she saw Armand’s worried face. His presence was a comfort. It seemed Eoghan had forgotten his promise to ‘deal with’ Armand later; he would live out his days in prison, forgotten in perpetuity.

“Kanika?” Armand's voice was hoarse and reverberated eerily around her cell. “Are you there?”

“I am here,” she slurred. A fraction at a time her breathing steadied and her eyes opened. Several minutes passed and her pupils no longer dilated and contracted at random. Colour returned to her cheeks. “For whatever reason, today they are not sending me to nightmarish oblivion.” She attempted a wry smile. She struggled around to find a more comfortable position, the fleshy cushioning she was used to no longer adequate to stop her bones pressing painfully against the stone floors.

“We cannot continue like this,” Armand said.

“And yet we must, for what other choice do we have? It's not like we can slip through the bars.” Kanika closed her eyes. “I think I'm not far off such a feat, if they continue feeding me so little. You might need a little longer though.”

“You'll die,” Armand said. Kanika sighed at the pain in his voice. If only he could see the cave with the silver fire and feel the warmth of the water against his skin, she knew he would see such an end to their suffering as the blessing it truly was. “You stopped breathing again. Your face went grey. Is there nothing you can do?”

“I am not so skilled as to be able to alter reality at will,” she replied. “Halting my descent on the cliffs was not intentional.”
Armand stayed silent so long that Kanika didn't know if he was still by the bars dividing them.
“It was beautiful this time.” She edged closer to where she thought he was. “There was water, and the smell of damp earth. And there was someone there with me.”
Armand settled on the ground in his cell. Whether to please her or because he truly wanted to know, this had become their habit after the drugs wore off.
“I could feel it all.” She smiled at the memory. “Fresh water on my legs, the damp air of the cave. Silver flames burned eternal to light my passage. It felt like I was really there.”
“Maybe you were.” Armand pressed his cheek against the bars. “You were definitely not here.”
“Maybe I was,” Kanika mused. “Regaining consciousness was like cutting short a holiday.”
Kanika fell silent as sadness washed over her. The cave glimmered before her for a moment, just as real as before. Armand spoke and broke her concentration before she could reach the cave.
“If it was real, could you use it to travel elsewhere? Could you contact Ophi?” he asked.

“Maybe.” Kanika sighed. Traveling to the silver flamed cave was easier and easier every time the drugs were poured into her, but in the process she felt untethered from the physical world.

They stared at each other silently for several long minutes. Kanika felt the intensity of her gaze on him, but did nothing to alter or divert it. Finally he broke the stare.

“We have to try. I cannot watch you die like this.” His face was determined. She sighed and closed her eyes.

“Give me some time. I'll do my best. No promises.”

◆◆◆

Ophi would be at her desk waiting for the children to wake from their afternoon sleep. She would be writing out lessons for them in her neat cursive, her stylus passing flawlessly over the foreign Vraithii letters. Kanika saw it fade in and out of her mind's eye. She had visited Ophi often enough there, distracted her from her work, that she could see the ink stain on the curtains where Jillie had thrown her ink well in a tantrum. She could smell the stark scent of foreign washing liquid, an extravagance only Vraithii enjoyed. The sweet citrus always hung heavily in the air, sickly sweet, forcing Kanika to hold her nose and beg for an open window.

For several minutes Kanika knew she was just imagining the scene. Her awareness stayed in herself. The image was clear but not real. Then she felt a heave somewhere under her solar plexus. The rushing darkness of the Void broke through the walls in her mind and she found herself standing just behind Ophi, looking down as her friend carved out deep letters in the soft clay tablet. Ophi's long dark hair fell in waves over her shoulder, the roots starting to show shocking white where her hair had grown since the last pungent application of ash and lye. Kanika stepped closer, though she could not feel the floor beneath her feet.

“Ophi,” she called, startling herself with how her voice carried and echoed around the room. Ophi jumped, the stylus in her hand carving a long dark line through the clay before clattering to the floor. She lurched to her feet and looked directly at Kanika– no, not at her, through her. Kanika waved her fingers in front of Ophi's face. Ophi made no reaction, though just as Kanika felt her strength leaving her, Ophi's eyes narrowed.

“Kanika?” Her voice caught. Her eyes filled instantly with tears. Kanika stepped forward, tried to put her arms on Ophi's shoulders, pull her close, comfort her and tell her everything would be alright. But her arms passed right through her friend and then, eerily, through her own body as well.

“Ophi, find Cassia,” Kanika said. Ophi was still looking through her, her eyes darting around the room with alarming speed. “Find Cassia! Find Cassia! Find...Cassia...”

The room compressed and spun, Ophi's face melting as the colours and lines of the study twisted and bled into each other.

Kanika fell back into her cell, sharp pains stabbing her limbs. She gasped, the pain too intense to cry out. Her back convulsed and spasmed beyond her control. Armand's low, urgent, voice distorted into waves. Pushing her mind to and fro like water in a bowl, sloshing up the sides of her skull and collapsing on itself with each frisson of sound. The darkness descended over her, clutching her close and soothing her with promises that she need not return to the world of pain and light.

This time she knew it for the sweet lie that it was.

She Saw it so clearly now.

The deal she had struck with Cassia, that she would not die by the hands or designs of her enemies, kept her alive. Life might be done with her, but Cassia’s bond preserved her.

Tears filled her eyes. No death allowed, no matter the horror life inflicted. Kanika could think of no worse fate. She let the darkness hold her, relishing the sharp claws that tugged at her skin and the rasping screeches of all that called the darkness Mother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ELSEPHERE

Elsephere stood over her father's prone body. The fit came swiftly and without mercy. First yelling garbled accusations at all those he spotted, then frothing at the mouth and trying to brain himself against the wall. His ankles had swollen so badly his shoes had needed to be sliced off with deft hands and razor-sharp blades. Unless her eyes deceived her, their were mottled green and purple, a new development.

Elsephere posted a guard at her father's door and paced along the hallway, deep in thought. He was not yet old enough for such an affliction to be common, though she had heard that it could strike at any time in life. Every report she had come across of such degenerative afflictions stated that the patients had remained in a steady decline for years, even decades, before getting to such a state. This did not match any other account.

The swellings, and the strange bloodied froth that sometimes accompanied a fit, did not match another account. She had trawled through books of poisons from her personal library, but none presented all of the symptoms. The more she thought about it, the more only poison made sense. There had to be others not recorded. There had to be a way for her to find out what it was and who administered it. All his food was sampled by slaves before he consumed it, and administering poisons by other methods was hardly reliable enough to cause this level of damage.

A memory swam to the surface as she paced along past her mother's quarters. Before her ascension to the conquered throne of Argorien, Ithrien had been a fearsome queen in her own right. She had remained undefeated in battle during the entire ten years her country had been besieged. Her homeland, Morriden, remained one of only four countries who had negotiated terms instead of being obliterated by the Empress' army.

Ithrien had always known how to navigate the tides of politics, and these tides were no different. Her parents – Elsephere's grandparents - hadn't understood. By all accounts they had been fat ludicrous fools who had hindered rather than helped their brilliant daughter at every step. She had coerced them into abdication as soon as she reached legal adulthood at thirteen, and Morriden had prospered and flourished thanks to her efforts. She had even netted what was at the time an advantageous deal in exchange for her allowing Morriden's annexation. A ruling council in Morriden including five councillors of her choosing, fosterage in a noble Vraithii household of her choosing, and a marriage alliance of her choosing. Morriden was crucially situated on a pass through mountains separating Vraith from the fertile lands of Yanukiin. Morriden would never fall, and the Empress would never stop trying to claim it. Ithrien had pressed every inch of her advantage, even subverting assassins sent by the Empress and returning them either peacefully or in pieces.

Elsephere knew little of politics beyond her own sphere. The only person she could guarantee held the same goal of retaining Eoghan as High King was her mother, at least for the time being.

Elsephere stood outside her mother's quarters. The fire in the pit of her belly raged ferociously. She needed a cool head to deal with Ithrien. She had stripped her of power and had her locked her in her rooms. Ithrien was far too proud to take that lying down. Elsephere hoped she was still as practical as she was proud, and would see the advantages clearly enough to help.

Taking her hundredth deep breath, she calmed enough to step forward. She opened the door silently and made her way into the quarters, her feet light. The small antechamber was in shadow. Three doors led into two reception chambers and the queen's private study. She moved to rap on the door to the study, but stopped short on hearing muffled voices.

“Khrazika val n'afre.” Elsephere froze. Nobody was allowed in the queen's quarters. “How are you faring, my queen?”

“Well enough, matrinya,” came Ithrien's reply. “Thank you for the reading material. It's so good to relive the fairy tales of my childhood.”

Elsephere crept forward and listened closely. She wished she could see, but opening the door even a crack would lead to her discovery. She heard rustling, and then a loud slap.

“Thank you, matrinya,” Ithrien said. “Any word from my allies in Vraith?”

“None so far, though there is an unrelated missive from Cyrus Crowseye. And I have other good news as well,” the other voice told her. “But we must speak of it later. I will be missed in the estuary if I am gone much longer. Be strong, my queen. We will soon see you out of this most unjust of incarcerations.”

After several minutes there was only silence and the occasional rustling of papers from inside the room. Elsephere sighed and knocked at the door. The rustling intensified before her mother's voice rang out.

“Enter.”

People like Ithrien did not stay so powerful without informants, both local and abroad. Elsephere had tightened the noose around her mother. Bit by bit she chipped away at Ithrien’s freedoms. Part of her confinement was that her letters be held from her. She had found a way around that, of course. Elsephere guessed it was the first thing she’d done.

“Hello, Mother.” Elsephere entered. Imprisonment had done nothing to diminish her mother's sharp, haughty demeanour. If anything she looked healthier than ever.

“Ah, the treacherous one arrives to gloat, at last,” Ithrien responded. “No doubt come straight from tormenting your sister-in-law, poor girl. How vicious you've become.”

“Nothing of the sort, Mother. Perhaps you are the vicious one among us, for even thinking such a thing.” Elsephere took a seat on the divan opposite her mother, noting the impression left by someone else. She raised her eyebrow at her mother, though Ithrien was far too cold to react. “Actually, I've come with a proposal. Information for certain freedoms previously denied to you.”

“Always straight to the point, just like your father,” Ithrien scoffed. “Very well then, let's hear what you've got to say, girl.”

Elsephere smiled placidly to hide the terrified beating of her heart. She wondered briefly if Ithrien ever felt like this anymore, or if she was so used to conflict and the cruel twist of the knife that she took it all in stride.

“I've heard you want a private shrine installed,” she said. “To while away your days in holy contemplation. Such a good look for a disgraced queen, no?”

“Quite,” her mother replied. “Are you here with such paltry offerings? My dear, I expect the shrine in exchange for merely speaking to you without clawing out your eyes on principle.”

“Of course,” Elsephere replied. “And perhaps you'd prefer to get your mail through the usual channels, instead of relying on light-footed spies to steal it and bring it to your chambers.”

“Insolent girl! You dare imply that I would disgrace myself by employing common criminals?”

“Why Mother, I would never suggest such a thing.” Elsephere smiled broadly. “Or at least, not without being able to prove it. If I had the guards search this room right now, are you telling me they would find no bundle of contraband letters in your divan?”

She raised her hands as if to clap and summon the guards, and Ithrien tensed all over. Elsephere smiled again, and lowered her hands.

“Lucky for you, I'm not here to drag you through the mud. I do expect your cooperation, and I expect you to count yourself lucky that what I require of you necessitates you being freed from your quarters. Your properties in the countryside have been confiscated. They will be redistributed after the allotted time. And the treasury is out of bounds to you from now on. As is the town. Fair?”

Ithrien looked as though she could think of nothing more unfair than what Elsephere suggested, but she deigned to nod her head slightly.

“Excellent. In exchange, all I require is information, Mother,” Elsephere went on. “And nothing you'll find invasive.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” Ithrien shot back. She reached over to a small table and poured herself a cup of sweet wine. She offered none to Elsephere.

“You were at the head of an extensive network of information in Vraith, and I know that you being here has changed very little,” Elsephere began. “Predominantly tidbits of information to gain advantages in the courts and councils, but not only. I don't care about who you may or may not have killed in the past, Mother, but I need you to tell me how you would go about poisoning Father. His age is catching up with him, but I must eliminate all possibilities.”

Ithrien watched Elsephere carefully as she took a long draught from her cup, then set it down on the table. Elsephere waited patiently, unsure what to expect. She fought the urge to fiddle with her tunic to calm herself. Her mother's piercing grey eyes, that stare, as though she could peel everything away down to the very soul of a person. Elsephere found it as terrifying as when she was a child.

“Are you suggesting I am poisoning him?” Ithrien asked softly. Elsephere knew that tone. She steeled herself to reply, reminding herself that her mother was powerless now, that the worst she could do was hurl insults.

“No, Mother,” Elsephere said. “I am merely asking for your opinion on how one might go about it, should they wish to poison my dear father and your High King.”

“You're terrible at this,” Ithrien said suddenly. She smiled and shook her head. “You are far too direct for your own good. Absolutely transparent. No, don't be insulted. It's quite charming, really.” She grew more serious. “Elsephere, if someone is poisoning the High King, you must tell me. Our position here has always been precarious. After your brother's cock-induced insanity, it is imperative now more than ever that we maintain control. Tell me everything, or you can keep your ruddy shrine, and you'll get nothing from me.”

Elsephere sighed. She knew she should have prepared more thoroughly before visiting her mother, but there was no point whining about that now. She sat back and sighed again, then laid out everything that had brought her to the High Queen as a supplicant.

◆◆◆

Ithrien switched from sweet wine to strong ale when Elsephere reached the point in the tale of Eoghan's fit in the courthouse. She was on her third cup before Elsephere finished, and only sat in silence for several minutes afterwards, absorbing the information.

“Months, this has been going on, at least. If not years.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. Elsephere couldn't remember seeing her so shaken. “You should have told me. Elsephere...”

“I'm surprised you were unaware, if I'm honest,” Elsephere replied. “What with all your little friends, scuttling around, listening in on everyone's conversations.”

“If nothing else, you've contained it well,” Ithrien commented. “I knew he was a little off, but I would never have guessed it was so bad.”

Elsephere ignored the compliment. The relief of sharing her troubles with another person, even one as slippery as her mother, exhausted her.

“Are you familiar with any poisons that might have that effect?” Elsephere asked. “I couldn't find any in my library, but it occurred to me that most of those poisons are from Vraith. The gods only know what demonic concoctions are available here.”

“I haven't had much need for such things since arriving here,” Ithrien replied. “The only recipe we've adopted is the suppressants we use on the Seers, and we would know if your father was imbibing that.”

“How would we know?” Elsephere asked. “I've seen the higher doses in action, we would know if he was receiving that much. But I've also seen them when they're recover, and it bears some similarity.”

Ithrien inclined her head in concession, though her eyes were still distant. The sun dipped low in the sky. Elsephere felt her eyelids growing heavier. Her stomach growled, reminding her she had missed the evening meal.

“Leave it with me,” Ithrien stood and paced slowly around the back of her divan. “I shall see what I can find.”

“And keep me informed?” Elsephere added.

Ithrien paused briefly, one hand resting lightly on the head of the divan.

“Yes. Of course.” Ithrien glanced at the window. “You should go and get some rest. You've an execution to organise, after all.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SAFFRON

Saffron knew her way around the palace well. The ancient ties between Anukthar and Argorien had their uses, even now. It didn't hurt that the Vraithii occupants had discovered barely a tenth of the ancient building's secret passageways and false walls.

The Ilas had not been the first to inhabit Argorien. The palace had once been a labyrinth much like the one guarding Anukthar and the Acolytes, and before that a simple temple to a god whose face and name were lost to the ages. The Temple of Erwen housed scrolls and epics in languages so ancient even the gods could not read them. Their maps held value if one could recognise the locations they described, Argorien among them. Saffron was not a scholar by any means. She left interpretation to those who had the minds for it, and paid her dues to them each Frostmourne in coins and prayers.

She marvelled at the ancient protective seals embedded in the walls, smirked at the fact that they helped rather than hindered her. The Vraithii had not learned that the very building they lived in despised them. The seals slowed everything for the invaders, and upheld the ancient pact between the Ilas and the Acolytes.

The tutors in the temple had never fully explained the skills Erwen bequeathed on her faithful, but Saffron saw it as an embrace from the shadows themselves. They wrapped their arms around her like tendrils, consumed her whole, leaving no trace for the eternity that lived between breaths. In those endless moments, she was nothing. Every sense of identity or desire vanished. And when she was reborn from the Void, she was in an entirely different location. She and Cassia enjoyed pondering the expression on the First Acolytes face when she had discovered the technique.

“One minute minding my own business in the privy, the next – poof! I'm shivering on a mountain with my drawers around my ankles. Scared the life out of some goats” was Saffron's favourite memory. Cassia believed the First Acolyte was seeking enlightenment, and instead found an ally in the darkness. Though Saffron was a Yhulanene heir from an ancient noble family and Cassia was an orphan abandoned by her older brother Cuinn and raised at the temple, their attitude to authority and those who sought to assign places in a hierarchy was identical.

As she flitted through increasingly dark hallways, she realised how much she looked forward to returning home and reconnecting with herself. Wearing too many masks, becoming one with the shadows, removed her identity. They had been gone over two years. Aldert passed their messages back and forth from Anukthar but it was no replacement. Cecie had been away far longer. Saffron couldn't even imagine how distant her memories of the Temple and fortress must be.

Saffron materialised in the dungeons and stopped to collect herself. Being one with the Void left her more sensitive to other realms, and the cells around her had seen enough torment and death to have the staunchest skeptic cowering in a heap if they caught the brunt of it. It didn't help that in recent years the vast majority of those imprisoned had been of a magical persuasion. She glanced around, seeing the dying souls of more than a dozen imprisoned Ilas, their outlines blurred through the grated cells and dulled by the soporific suppressants the Vraithii employed to keep them passive. She waited a few moments to anchor herself more firmly.

Dark, narrow, corridors stretched on all sides around her, barely illuminated by the braziers. At the end of each hallway, a high, grated window allowed a little light and fresh air, though it did nothing to alleviate the stench of waste and agony. An occasional trill of water echoed through the quiet passageways. Somewhere far off she heard the muted murmur of people talking. Guards, she surmised from the even timbre.

She made a mental note to chart their escape route through areas with lower lighting. With the magical aids, she knew the best ways to avoid detection included mundane precautions. She felt the power emanating off the packets in her pocket. Cecie's concoctions were far beyond Saffron's realm of knowledge, and the items held a life of their own. They itched to deploy and fulfil their purpose. She hurried along towards Kanika's cell, mindful of the distorted voices somewhere beyond her. For a moment she thought she recognised one of the voices, but a second later she was sure it was just a trick of the acoustics.

She traced her way from the waste grate towards Kanika's cell. As she went, she left a fine mist of Cecie's powders, stopping at the chosen places to copy sigils in shell chalk onto discreet places. They shimmered into invisibility once complete, the faintest haze over them the only indication of their existence. She felt the energies in the packets rising with each stop she made. As she rounded the last corner she felt light enough to float away. The seal took hold with a satisfied hum on the wall, and she turned her attention to finding the waste grate again.

With no warning, the voices that burbled far off became sharp and clear. Two pairs of footfalls rounded heart-rendingly close as the niggling feeling of familiarity increased. Kanika's cell was within view. As she tumbled back into the shadows, she caught a glimpse of the men approaching. The piercing glare of the bearded Ilas man almost dragged her back into herself. The Void held her tighter.

“Stop – did you hear that?” he said as they passed. Saffron heard him as if from deep underwater, her mind cloaked in the dark, pulsating warmth of non-existence.

“I heard nothing,” replied his companion. “Perhaps you're catching ebbs of the past. So many have lost their hearts in these walls since last you were here.”

More footfalls approached from the opposite direction. All of a sudden Saffron felt a disturbance in the place between places. Something unusual in the Void, something that  passed from shadow to shadow had joined her. She fought the urge to assert her identity. A frenzied swirl rippled around the darkness as the footfalls paused and more voices sounded out.

“Lord Rune,” a voice said. “Are you here to watch the shearing?”

“I am,” Lord Rune replied. “I was told it would be soon.”

“Of course, my lord,” the second voice intoned. “This way, sir.”

Saffron faltered. The swirling continued as three pairs of footsteps faded into the distance. The threat of becoming real in an unreal place carried fear. The tutors had warned against this more than anything else. If she slipped one iota into herself without reemerging into the corridor, she would lose herself to the Void, reborn into the physical world without a shred of memory or ability.

In some strange way, she could tell the disturbance was worried too. As it swooped, she felt the edge of someone else flicker through her. It pulled visions from her in a way only Erwen ever had before, so quickly there was no time to protest. Her initiation into the Temple. Faded purple sailcloths layered over golden sickles. The high priestess' eyes rolling back in her head to reveal deep night in her sockets, a million stars gleaming within. The blood running down her forehead as she spoke with a thousand voices. The flames on the altar turning black and an Acolyte guiding Saffron's arm into the fires.

She was losing. The disturbance challenged her and she was helpless against it. Panic rose in her.

The next instant the disturbance was gone, the sound of ragged breathing echoing from the dungeon hall. A thin tendril of energy snaked into the Void, not enough to disrupt but enough to be noticed. The Void held her closer, coddling her like a child, and she nuzzled into its bosom with sulky relief. The tendril retreated. Saffron let herself drift in the Void, the current ebbing and flowing surrounding her in warm thrills. She saw the temptation to simply let go and be carried off by it, to be adrift in the Void and become one with its serenity. The ties to Argorien, to Anukthar, to the events surrounding Kanika and Meto and the Seer Heirs all seemed so distant and irrelevant. Cassia could handle it. Cassia had always been the more skilled between them... Cassia...

Her friend's dark face swirled through the part of the Void that held Saffron, and she felt a tiny tug of sadness that she would never see her friend again if she chose to let go. The darkness gathered so close around her, soothing her into submission. She felt rather than saw the glow of The wisp lights approaching, looking to soak her up into themselves and welcome her home.

Cassia's face tugged at her, her teeth and the whites of her eyes illuminated against the smooth dark umber of her skin.

Exiting the Void had never been so difficult. She had passed through it for longer, but it never knew she was there, and she never acknowledged its presence. The full attention of the realm-between-realms was on her and her alone.  She must avoid the things stalking the darkness, or rebirth would be beyond her.

She swirled through the nothingness, dancing in tandem with the wisps and wights. They pressed close then receded, pressed close then receded. She darted as they swooped, she paused as they roared, until finally she saw the empty sockets filled with stars. This signalled Erwen arrived. Saffron hung suspended, in between nothing and all things, while the goddess passed her judgement. Erwen’s eyes dissolved into hot red sparks and swarmed around her like a cascade of hornets. With no say in how or where, Saffron found herself consumed by the fire and pushed out into the corridor again. Her chest heaved and stung, a burning sensation settling over her shoulders and back. Warm wetness seeped into her charcoal shift. It took all her training and effort not to scream as the pain sank into her bones.

Nauseated and dazed, she fell in a heap against the wall. Additional layers of reality shimmered like heat waves. As she gasped for air, the human realm reasserted itself. After a few minutes she still saw the haze. Colours shone more brightly despite the shadows. The edges of each brick and brazier outlined in molten, electric, vines as thick as her arm. The electricity stayed visible with her eyes closed, the wild hum twisting through her eyelids as though she hadn't even closed them. She heard Rune conversing in low tones ahead. She tried to focus on the sounds of the voices, to anchor herself. Sharp panic rose in her chest as she moved away from the Void.

“Such a shame,” Rune said. Saffron pushed her panic down. She edged closer, wiping the cold sweat off her brow. The distraction eased her pain. The burning ache settled. She must have been blessed with a cicatrix.

I will be able to outdo Aldert when the subject of scars comes up, she thought grimly. If I survive the cicatrix.

Kanika's cell came into view as Saffron approached. Rune and his companion stood over a frail figure strapped to a chair. Long ribbons of matted white hair lay in clumpy heaps on the floor, the seated figure shaved bald and bleeding from the cutter's careless slashes. Saffron had never seen the Seer Cassia had decided to rescue, but she assumed that it was she who slumped senseless before her.

“Will you help her?” Rune asked. Beside him, his companion sighed and cocked his head to one side. Saffron knew that the suppressants could leave permanent damage if allowed to run their course. She hoped that Cassia would not find herself rescuing a vegetable.

“Best I can do is administer a purge,” the man said after a time. “If she's recovered by the time they take her to the letting grate, I may be able to get her out, but it will be messy. And she likely will never be quite right. Seers cast into that realm without proper training are vulnerable.” He paused and turned to Rune. “It would likely cast suspicion on any who have visited her, as well.”

“I have covered my tracks,” Rune replied. “Beyond that it is in the hands of the gods, may they be blessed and prosper.”

His companion nodded and bent over the unconscious woman. He pulled a phial of clear liquid from his belt and tilted her head back.

“Hold her still,” he instructed Rune. “She won't like this.”

Rune held Kanika's head as the other man pried open her eyes. He whispered quickly into the phial, a staccato stream of silver words that filtered to the surface of the liquid and disintegrated into it like mist. Saffron blinked and realised that his words being visible was a by-product of the void clinging to her mind. To anyone else he was simply speaking. Today, she got to watch.

He tilted the phial over Kanika's eye and allowed three drops to fall in, then closed it with his fingers and held it shut. More words tumbled over each other to find her mind. She convulsed. Froth and foam, vile-smelling and dark grey, rose like a tide from her nose and mouth.

“Hold her–hold her, Rune.” The man moved to Kanika's other eye. He repeated his ritual carefully and efficiently, then held both eyes closed. He pulled charcoal from his belt and drew two lines carefully over each eye, stretching from the top of her brow down to the bottom of her sockets. After a moment Kanika stopped convulsing. The foam had become like sludge. Rune shifted it from her mouth and nose with his fingers until at last she drew a ragged breath. She hung like a rag doll from the chair.

“If she survives the night, she should have a chance.” Rune pulled a cloth from his clothes and wiped the sludge off his hands. Distaste evident on his face, he dropped the bundle of cloth and sludge into a brazier and watched it catch alight.

“Good,” his companion said. “I'll be there tomorrow, watching. If she shows signs of life before they gut her, I will do what I can for her. If not...”

“Best let her go in peace. An arrow to the heart is kinder than bleeding out upside down,” Rune finished. “I know.”

The two men left the cell and bolted the door behind them. Saffron pressed into the wall, careful not to press too far. As the two men departed, Rune’s companion glanced back. He stared directly at her and held her gaze for a long moment. For a second Saffron thought he would call out and come after her, but instead he simply turned and followed Rune into the darkness.

Saffron waited a few long minutes for the shimmering Void layers to fade again, settling in the end for partial recovery. She felt blood running down her back and sides underneath her shift. Shadow-walking her way back to the Skytowers was out of the question, so she crept towards the waste grate. It was partially overgrown with mould and slime when she reached it. A few minutes of agonising digging had it sliding loudly out of its hole. She slipped in and pulled the grate as she dangled from it. Her skin stretching across the embers of her cicatrix seared through her like a blade.

Five feet below her a stream of inky water flowed. The sewer was six feet wide. Saffron couldn't tell how deep the water below her was, but she knew there was little option but to drop.

With a deep breath, she let go.

The water was glacial despite the season, swallowing her whole until she found her toes on the bottom. Standing up tall, the water still lapped around her chin. She oriented herself towards the outlet. Her back stung from the icy waters. Her feet rose and she floated slowly along the gentle current. It was pitch black, only thin rays of light finding their way in through other grates further along. The drain left the palace and found its way to the sea and would carry her quickly at a later point on the current.

She was glad that she had witnessed Rune purging Kanika of the suppressants. It meant that they need not send Cassia into the dungeons to complete the task Saffron had failed and rid Kanika of the toxins. Another purge might easily kill the weakened Seer.

The icy current sped up suddenly, shaking Saffron from her dazed thoughts. She had reached the sea. She took a deep breath and let the drain spit her into the ocean, the tumbling rush of water swirling around her until she found the surface.

She dragged herself onto the shore and stumbled off to find Cassia, her back burning and her vision blurring.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

METO

Meto bounced in full armour. Sweat ran down his back. He hated the heat, but he kept training. A handful of foot soldiers passed to and fro, changing posts and heading to muck out horses. Elwin hung back, scrawling his boredom away on slips of parchment. His dark mop of hair hung in strings against his tawny brow. Meto noted Elwin regularly checking the hourglass by his side. As the last grains of sand trickled into the base, he stopped his writing and stood up to stretch, stifling a yawn. The sun barely peeked above the horizon, the odd half-night stretching interminably before them.

Meto stopped bouncing as Elwin paced over to him and offered him a flask of water. He drank it down gratefully and handed it back. There was a peculiar look in Elwin's eye.

“What is it?” he asked. Elwin suppressed a sigh, his eyes dark and heavy in their sockets.

“Highness, it is approaching midnight,” he said. “I must remind you that sunsickness can be fatal.”

“I know that,” Meto scoffed, shoving the flask back to him. “I'm not some blathering foreigner.”

Elwin accepted the flask with barely a batted eyelash. Meto frowned, his mind muddling through why he did not wish to go to bed yet.

“The conversation with Elsephere has left me elated. Traders and representatives from who knows how many different places will be arriving any day, perhaps even within the hour. I am close to accomplishing goals I thought far beyond anyone's reach,” Meto said. “But I understand if you are not so thrilled as I am. Rather be in your bed with the windows shuttered and a blindfold while history is made.”

“Highness, if I have offended, I am sorry,” Elwin replied. “We all must rest, no matter how--”

“Enough,” Meto snapped. “You are dismissed. Send for the slave Nagi, and do not return to me until you've slept away your disrespect.”

Elwin bowed and hurried off, stumbling slightly over the uneven ground where the training yard met the path.

Meto paused to readjust his armour and noticed a small huddle of dark-skinned people gathered at the edge of the yard. They were covered with gold chains and gems and wore rich clothes of silk and cloudcloth. Meto smoothed his hair back from his forehead and tried to calm his laboured breathing. He strode over to the group with a debonair smile.

Six women and five men of varying ages stood before him, talking amongst themselves. The vast array of styles and features had him pausing briefly in awe. Kanika's assertion that the land of Caerphy was far bigger than the Vraithii knew proved to be true. Less like a phrase designed to dissuade him from routing the final stragglers from her shattered kingdom to their deaths, but an accurate assessment.

A tall, broad man with streaks of grey through his curly dark hair smiled and stepped towards him. He was dressed in swathes of red and white cloudcloth, layered to preserve his modesty. An intricate wrapping of white cloth--interspersed with golden charms and coils of thick white thread--concealed most of his head, the few strands Meto could see adorned with more charms of gold and shell. Meto returned the smile curiously.

“Greetings.” He broadened his smile as he approached. “Can I help you?”

The man in red and white stepped forward and offered a hearty handshake, gripping firmly on Meto' forearm. When he stepped back, he produced the missive Meto had sent out to the outlanders known to be neutral to the Vraithii.

“We are in search of the Crown Prince, ser,” the man told him. “He has extended to us an invite we were eager to accept.”

The man's accent was far thicker than any of the Ilaseans, lilting on the consonants and extending the vowels in a way he found entrancing. He sorted out where to begin. Atham had not sent the invitation, nor was he in any state to receive visitors.

“I believe you are in search of me,” he replied after a pause. “I am not the Crown Prince, but I am he who extended an invitation. Prince Meto Vallariath, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Ah! Excellent! The pleasure is ours, Your Highness,” the man replied. “I am Ambassador Ojun Ndangru of the Northern Indric clan. My leader Fata Nakhati, Slayer of the Great Wyrm, Conqueror of the Dark Shrines of Ersmoor, Guardian of the Desert Roses, is eager to extend the hand of friendship to our southern neighbours.”

Meto nodded happily. Everything was going so well, he felt like his chest was too small for his heart.

“As we are glad to accept it, Ambassador,” Meto replied. “My apologies that you found me in this state. Please, follow me, we will find your party some suitable rooms for your stay.”

Meto led them through the most gilded and extravagantly decorated hallways to the reception hall reserved for visiting Vraithii nobles. Tall ceilings with latticed windows at the top and smooth tiled floors offered welcome relief from the heat in the yard. Large divans and strategically situated tables sat in a semi-circle by a natural spring following of a golden fountain. A shallow basin strewn with rose petals and scented with perfumes caught the sparkling water. Meto made a mental note to praise Elwin for having the slaves keep the reception hall ready. He pressed a concealed button on the floor with his foot.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” he told the traders. “Slaves will be along to attend to your needs. I will be with you shortly.”

The trade group settled as Meto left to find fresh clothes. He passed the slaves he'd summoned to attend on the traders. He stopped one and whispered instructions to make sure they were always in sight, fetch some guards to keep watch as well, and let Elsephere know the delegates had arrived.

He changed and freshened up as best he could in short time. Wearing a loose tunic with his hair braided back, he looked far too casual, but there was little to be done about it now. He spotted Elsephere from across the courtyard making her way towards the reception hall. Meto matched her pace. He saw her core retinue ensuring she was presentable for the meeting, though she had been asleep before being summoned. Meto was about to turn back towards the reception hall as he walked when he saw Elsephere's steward run up to her and whisper something frantically in her ear. Elsephere's pace increased so rapidly Meto almost didn't register what had happened. He sprinted towards the reception hall with a pit growing in his stomach.

“...they welcomed her in, you know? Said she was family, even gave their blessings, in a round-about sort of way--”

Meto burst into the room, Atham's voice slurring out loudly to the trade delegates. Every head spun to face him as the echo from the doors rang out around them. Atham's eyes fixed on Meto in red-eyed bitterness. Meto swallowed nervously.

“Ah! Atham,” he began. “So good to see you up and about. How are you feel--”

“That's him,” Atham hissed. “Usurper.” He stood unsteadily and pointed at Meto. “How long were you plotting against me?”

“Atham, please,” Meto tried. “You're not well, you need to rest.”

Meto glanced around frantically. Where the bloody hell was Elsephere? Atham was sniffing pitifully. Meto wasn't familiar with outlanders, but the way Ojun stared at him gave him the distinct impression they were losing ground on the trade negotiations, and fast.

“You'll never be able to trust them,” Atham slurred. “They could treat you like a brother for more than twenty years, then turn and stab you in the back without a moment's thought.”

Ojun's companions muttered amongst themselves. Meto couldn't tell if it was angry or worried.

“Friends,” he tried. “Ambassadors. My brother is, as you can tell, extremely unwell. Sunsickness, as you know, can strike even the stoutest heart.”

“He’s not sunsick. He’s drunk,” one of the delegates retorted.

Meto ignored the delegate and stepped closer to Atham, willing the drunken fool to either be silent or pass out. Atham glared at him, full of truculence.

“This young man is your brother, the Crown Prince?” Ojun asked. “He says you plan to execute his wife without fair trial and under false accusations.”

“She's not his wife,” Meto explained. “The ovates ruled the marriage invalid--”

“I love her!” Atham all but shrieked. “And you pushed her off a cliff, and called it witchcraft when she saved herself! And now you want to make a spectacle of her execution!”

Meto felt the room spiralling as though he was water circling a drain. He was about to fall back when Elsephere made it to the hall. The doors behind them burst open. Atham dissolved into tears.

“Ambassadors, welcome,” she purred. “Please forgive my brother's confusion. Sunsickness can strike anyone, as I'm sure you've heard. He is suffering quite badly from it.”

Ojun and his compatriots did not look convinced, but Elsephere's retinue was already surreptitiously removing Atham from the hall.

“No, no, I must... I must tell my people of the atrocities you intend to commit against them!” Atham cried as he was led away. “The Ilas must know of your plans for their princess! I must--”

His voice cut out abruptly as Elsephere's retinue hurried him towards his quarters. Meto turned his attention to the party.

“We are glad to have you here in our fair city, Ambassadors,” Elsephere said with a smile. The friendly warmth they had greeted Meto with left with Atham.

“We must speak with the High King,” Ojun replied. “In our lands, such deals must be struck with authority and order. Your brother's 'sunsickness' bodes ill for the faith of our negotiations, and we must be assured that the terms we set here today will be honoured and upheld in full.”

“Of course,” Meto replied, catching too late Elsephere's dark glare. He struggled to readjust. “In the morning, though, as our father is resting throughout the twilight. Please, let us show you to your quarters. We hope you will find them satisfactory.”

“No doubt we will,” Ojun replied. “We will find suitable accommodations in your mercantile quarters. We will reconvene here in the sixth hour, and we thank you for your kind offer of hospitality.”

The Caerphian traders left, the hall seeming gaudy and hollow with their departure.

Meto tasted his dreams melting away. Far from the kindly, generous face Ojun had shown him when they had first met, the outlander now seemed cold and unlikely to agree to any terms. Traders from beyond Argorien had already begun convening in and around the docks and marketplaces, eager to be the first to sample the long-awaited wares the Caerphian traders brought once a deal was struck. A dark emptiness grew in his belly as he imagined the outrage if they were thwarted in their desire for new wealth and wares.

From the look on her face, Elsephere saw it too. Meto paused for a long moment to collect his thoughts, a feat he found increasingly elusive.

“That stupid little shite,” Elsephere’s rheum still collected in her lashes. “The palace guards are your responsibility, are they not? Where were they this night?”

Meto stared blankly at her, then tried to cobble together an answer of some sort with his limited wits. She widened her eyes at him as he stuttered, a look he knew all too well.

“You fool... you are sunsick,” she breathed sharply. “One brother a naïve drunkard, the other such a swaddling babe as to let himself grow addled by the endless sun. I am surrounded by fools.”

“Elsephere, I am not, I-I am simply charged with the passion of our endeavour, I...” Meto swallowed, his throat thick and dry. “If you would allow me to seek Mother's advice, even for a short while--”

“The Queen is unavailable, as you well know,” Elsephere cut him off. “Get some sleep. Do not return to your duties until the circles are gone from your eyes, or face the penalty for disobeying me.”

Before Meto could find his way to a retort, she was gone, stalking off towards her chambers. As she vanished into the darkened corridors,  the edges of his vision blurred and swayed. From the shadows he could almost make out a familiar face, dark hair and dark eyes, dry mirth playing on pale lips...

“Saffron?” he mumbled, squinting at the figure though it was barely three paces from him. He took a step, willing his eyes to focus, though the harder he tried to see the figure clearly, the more fuzzy its outline became.

“My lord?”

Meto blinked, the figure gone the instant he closed his eyes. He turned to face the voice addressing him as though underwater.

“Nagi?” he mumbled. “What do you want?”

“M'lord, I was told to find you by your steward, Elwin,” she replied. “Are you well? It is no hour to be wandering.”

“I...I am well,” Meto replied. Her voice was soothing, mesmerising almost. He found a smile blossoming on his lips. “And all the better for seeing you again. Will you join me in my chambers? I have been sent to bed, but there was no mention of forbidding company.”

“I would be glad to, my lord.” Nagi struggled against a grin. “I found our last encounter most enjoyable.”

He offered her his arm without realising. An awkward pause hung between them as Meto realised he could not be seen treating a slave as a lady. He covered up his gaffe with a short cough, and they returned to his chambers in silence, with her walking a respectable distance behind him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

KANIKA

“Someone's coming.”

Kanika lolled towards Armand's cell as she, too, heard the approaching footsteps. Armand reached through the bars and gripped her arm, his eyes screaming that which neither of them had the heart to say. It was time. They took her to die. She let Armand hold her. With luck, the one who strung her up would not be Vraithii-born, and her next trip into the Void would be her last. The constant flux between life and death only grew more painful each time she crossed.

She cast her eyes around her cell for the last time, then got to her feet as the locks on her cell ground open. Her head swam as she straightened, but she was feeling remarkably lucid.

“Kanika...” Armand murmured, his voice almost breaking.

“Shush,” Kanika replied. “Don't draw attention to yourself, don't give them any reason to hurt you.”

She glanced over her shoulder and caught his eye. He glared at her with such grief she almost thawed and exposed her own fear. The door swung open, not to her cell but to his. A cloaked figure stepped into the cell.

“Armand?” the figure asked. He gave no response. The door to Kanika's cell swung open, another figure entering. This one, taller, more boxy in shape than the willowy first. Kanika guessed by the figure's hands as they gripped her under the arms that he was male, the other more feminine. Armand's cell door was left open as the feminine figure moved around and came to help support Kanika's weight.

“Come on, we've got you.” The feminine figure’s voice was low and familiar. Kanika tried to take a step, but found her legs unwilling to support her. She felt the longing sadness of the darkness as the cloaked figures lured her towards life.

Armand did not deserve to die in prison, nor be crushed under a slab of granite, or nailed to a pole and left to suffocate on his own weight, or any other of the ways the Vraithii enjoyed snuffing the life out of their Ilasean subjects. He still hadn't moved from his cell.

“Come on, Armand.” Her voice echoed distantly around her head as the darkness left her to life's devices. “We can fetch Ophi and leave now. The city is done with us.”

Kanika couldn't tell where the words had come from, but he followed as the two cloaked figures hurried her along the dungeon corridors. Kanika didn't know who the pair was, but as they crept from shadow to shadow, she realised the darkness crept along with them. It stalked in her footsteps and swept down the hall until she felt as though her nerves were on fire, then all of a sudden, it was gone. They slowed, crouching over a grate in the floor. Fear crept into her heart. Inside, the darkness grew further and further away. She knew, with the sort of certainty reserved for madmen and gods, that something or somebody would die that night.

The grate slid out smoothly, and the male stranger dropped into the hole. Kanika peered in after him.The hole was big enough for a medium sized person to fit through, made of cast iron and sitting slightly loose in the stone floor. A soft rushing and occasional twinkling somewhere below the opening proved it was a sewer. The cloaked figure maneuvered Kanika over the grate, her limbs all but useless; it had been a month since she had last used them.

Armand helped lower Kanika down until the man below supported her weight. The water was gelid, needles of cold sinking right down to her bones as the water engulfed her. When her body relaxed enough, Kanika sniffed, surprised by the lack of shit and piss detectable in the air. She hadn't the energy to ponder why that might be, and before she knew it Armand dropped beside them in the frigid water.

“Will you be alright?” the woman whispered from above them. “The Indric will be waiting for you at the specified place.”

“I've got her,” the man whispered. “Be safe, siser.”

Kanika clung to Armand as they moved in the darkness. The water muffled some sounds and amplified others. She hoped the man knew his way. The water-logged tunnels were like a warren, innumerable paths leading off into the dark. Faint glimmers of moonlight and torchlight filtered through grates every few hundred metres. At first it had seemed darker than pitch, but Kanika found her eyes adjusting. She could make out only the faintest grey outlines of the walls, the barest glimmer of light reflecting off the water's surface.

Finally the tunnel widened, the shapes around them becoming clearer. The grate over the end of the tunnel was rusted and brittle, some parts having fallen away. Somewhere in the back of Kanika's mind she heard the typical Ilasean whispers about how the Vraithii ruined the city with tyranny and neglect.

The mystery stranger pushed through the grate. It lifted more easily than she expected, far enough for Armand and Kanika to tumble into the shallow water below.

Kanika's limbs were so weak she could only just move them. Armand's strong arms wrapped underneath her knees and shoulders and lifted her, the stench of sweat and salt, fire and alcohol, hitting her nose as she realised they were not alone in whatever reservoir where they stood. A second glance told her they were in the harbour shallows, ships looming high above them further out.

“Easy there, easy,” a low male voice soothed her, though not Armand's. She heard the stranger drop into the water somewhere behind her. She looked around, over Armand's shoulder as he lifted her, and the dim light of torches overhead illuminated the gormless, beautiful grin of Aldert. She had never been so glad to see the giant. As the stranger waded over to them, Aldert's grin dimmed. He bowed his head to him briefly, seemed about to say something, but the man interrupted.

“Can you carry her up the ladder by yourselves?” he asked. Aldert glanced at the wall, estimating, then nodded.

“If you can help me secure her, I can do it,” he replied. The man moved forward and used a shawl to tie Kanika to Aldert's chest. Armand watched silently, the water lapping around his collarbone.

Confident the knots would hold, the man stepped back into the darkness. Aldert and Kanika ascended the ladder, Armand close behind them.

As they crested the lip of the basin and dropped quietly to the unpaved street, Aldert moved to hide her face, surprising Kanika with the gentleness of his thick arms. She found her feet enough to lean against a wall as he untied her shawl and wrapped it tightly around her.

“I must go to my sister,” Armand said in a low murmur. “As soon as they discover we're gone, they will try to get her.”

Aldert made sure Kanika could stand then stopped Armand before he left. They spoke in low tones for a few seconds. She overheard something about the city wall and a field, then Armand was gone. Aldert lifted her under the arms, carrying her as he waded through the salt water towards the shore. He helped her stand once they reached the rocky beach, steadying her as she swayed.

“There we go, heh?” Aldert grinned as she faded in and out. “Just keep your face down–pretend you've been in your cups, may-haps? Let me do the talking, don't talk, you'll be fine...”

His words washed over her, nodded slowly as he spoke, then followed him as he led her away from the harbour and along a wandering route to the city wall. She frowned. From what she could tell the nearest gate was nowhere near them. She turned to Aldert with raised eyebrows, her eyes worried. He flashed her his carefree smile and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close to him. She was about to protest when she heard the hobnailed boots of a pair of guards approaching. She buried her face in his chest, doing her best to appear a drunken lover in the arms of her more sober partner.

“Evening, citizens,” one of the guards greeted them, though the tone was far from friendly. “No loitering.”

“Ahh, of course, good sers,” Aldert replied, his tone light. “If you'll just give us a moment, my lovely love here has her mind in the sky.”

“No loitering,” the guard reiterated.

Even in her befuddled state, Kanika could tell he was looking for a fight by the way his hand went instantly to his sword. The other guard followed suit and both advanced on the pair.

Aldert waited until the very last moment to strike. The first guard lunged at Kanika. Aldert dropped her and ducked around the blade. She gasped as it looked like the second guard would run him through, but instead Aldert gave a flap of his hand and caught the man in the face. From a man Aldert’s size it was barely a lovepat. Nonetheless, the guard reeled back and fell. The first guard turned to attack again, but Aldert gripped his head in two hands and twisted. His neck broke with a crack that sent waves of nausea over Kanika. Aldert confiscated the guard’s blade and turned to the one he’d slapped. He walked over and held the sword over the man’s neck.

“Please, I have a fam--”

The guard’s plea cut short as Aldert sunk the sword into his neck. Blood entered his windpipe and splashed out in bubbles with the man’s death rattle.

Aldert withdrew the blade and threw a cheeky grin at Kanika. The eerie midsummer light caught on the blood spattered across his face. She tried to pull herself upright using the wall, but succeeded only in heaving herself up and then slipping onto her face. Aldert tutted.

“What a pair we are,” he said. “Come on.”

Just as he hoisted her up, a clatter followed by a scream rang out in the streets. Behind them, a woman in her nightgown stood stock still, her mouth frozen open. A bedpan lay spilled at her feet. Aldert cursed and tossed Kanika over his shoulder. She did her best to hold onto his shirt and prevent herself vomiting down his back.

As Aldert ducked and wove through the streets, heavy footfalls followed them. At first only a few, then more. Kanika risked a glance up and spotted half a dozen guards on their tail.

“They’re catching up!” she gasped. Aldert redoubled his pace.

As they rounded a corner, Aldert lowered his free shoulder and bowled through a guard heading them off. The smaller man bounced head first into a wall and had not got up by the time Kanika lost sight of him.

Alarm bells sounded first behind them, then ahead. Aldert cursed again. Kanika lifted her head to try and find her bearings.

“The gate isn’t far,” Aldert told her. “We’ll have to hope there are few guards there.”

Kanika puzzled over what he meant right up until the gate came into sight. She heard Aldert give a smug chuckle. Before she knew what was happening, he had lowered his shoulder once more and suddenly there was an impact greater than any person could make. Wood splintered around them. The strong stench of the slums hit Kanika’s nose and they kept going. In their wake, the gate hung uneven on its hinges. A large chunk was missing from where the two sides met, the bar lying broken some way away. Kanika could only gape at the destruction Aldert had wrought.

After darting between lean-tos in an ever-widening arc, they reached the shore. Tall, jagged rocks clung to the city walls along the stoney beach. Aldert found a small crevice and tucked Kanika inside first, then followed. He put his arm around her to mitigate the cramped space.

“How did you do that?” Kanika’s head spun even as she thought about it. Perhaps she had not truly escaped. Perhaps even now the suppressants were drawing her back into their tangled web of illusions. “That was no human feat. That was… that was the strength of a god! You broke the gate! How are you so strong?”

Aldert gave her a strange look. For a moment Kanika was aware of just how big and dangerous he was. She swallowed nervously. Then the moment passed and Aldert flashed her his customary grin.

“I’m big,” he replied. “And I always ate my vegetables as a child.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

METO

Meto paced in his bedclothes. Word had come from Elwin that Kanika had vanished. She was no longer in her cell, nor was she anywhere to be found in the lower town or the citadel. Elwin had delivered the news, then exited as quickly as he could when Meto instructed him to head up the search.

As Meto dressed, his thoughts turned to the sorry state Kanika had been in when he’d seen her last. If she had escaped, he found it unlikely she would return. The venom with which she spoke of Atham ran deep. If she’d been a warrior there might be some concern, but she was not.

He considered calling off the search. Then he remembered the spectacle Elsephere had made of her trial. If she were not hung on a hook, they would appear weak. Worse, it would embolden not just the Ilas who rebelled, but perhaps his family’s enemies in Vraith to move against them. He stormed through the halls, his foul mood over his inner conflict serving only to send the few slaves and servants awake scurrying out of his way.

Wherever Elwin had gone he was well-hidden, Meto suddenly realised. He slowed down a fraction, and realised he hadn't seen anyone in a few minutes. The tapestries ahead of him and behind him seemed to be repeating.

With a start, he realised the corridor had no doors, nor windows, nor any semblance of a beginning or end. He went for his blade, only to find it turning quickly to dust in his grip. He turned on the spot in confusion. The old scar on his wrist burned and itched, and in an instant he understood what was happening.

“Saffron!” He cursed and spat on the ground. “Kanika isn't missing, is she? Was that even Elwin who came to tell me of it?”

He kept turning, kept thinking he could hear her mocking laughter, thinking he could see her stepping out of the corner of his vision each time he turned.

She came into view. He glared at her. She smiled with smug satisfaction.

“You broke your deal,” she purred. “Now you belong to me. Those are the rules.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “I reopened the trade route, as promised. My sister won't delay in negotiating terms with the traders, nor will she continue excluding me from the throne room. She's just throwing her weight around.”

“Your hope would be touching, if it weren't so inconvenient,” Saffron tutted. “Your brother laid your family’s shame bare, and told the traders they were next! You might as well have ridden to Fata Nakhtati's camp and taken a shit on her plate. She will not send more ambassadors, not while you Vraithii are in power. If the route is opened again it will be despite you. You were never very good at diplomacy and the intricacies of court politics, were you? No. No, that was your mother. And she is in no position to navigate the court for you anymore. Soon enough, she will be a widow, and your sister will be free to do as she pleases.”

Meto swallowed uncomfortably, shifting on the spot. No warrior could best him. He could command troops and duel with the best of them. But he knew the scales were tipped in Saffron’s favour.

“Elsephere will respect my wishes,” he asserted. “She is ruthless, but she is not heartless. We grew up together.”

“Or perhaps,” Saffron countered. “With your mother a widow and stripped of all power, and your brother a wreck after the exposure and execution of the love of his life, your presence will serve only to irritate a woman with absolute power. Perhaps she will break and ruin you just to avoid seeing your face.”

A chill shuddered down Meto’s his spine. Elsephere's swift to take advantage of the situation after Kanika's witchcraft was revealed was more opportunistic than he thought his sister capable of. He had never detected any interest from her to rule. And yet, she was comfortable wearing a crown.

For the first time in his life, Meto felt useless. He hated it more than being overlooked. He shook the thoughts out of his mind, though the sense of disorientation only increased as he waded through.

“Why trap me in this illusion, then? Let it play out,” he said. “If I am to become an untranquil, or whatever the word is, then be sure I deserve it!”

Saffron skittered towards him, her eyes growing dark. Her mouth suddenly seemed too wide for her face. He did his best not to flinch.

“You deserved it from the moment your kind set foot on these shores,” she told him. “You all do. And we will have you all, one at a time if need be.”

She became ethereal, slowly flickering away, just as she'd appeared. As she faded from his mind, he tried to cling on to the sight of her, the frustration she evoked in him. Something inside him felt sure it was the last chance he had to save himself.

“At least fight me on even turf!” he shouted. “Or are all Acolytes cowards as well as liars?”

A breath of a touch, almost imperceptible, settled on his back and shoulders. Hoping it was Saffron, he prayed she would reply.

“Any punishment I suffer should be equally borne by you, should it not?” he tried. “You said you'd put me on the throne, your blood is on that deal as well. How do you think your goddess will react to that? She doesn't seem to enjoy grey areas–will she see it so black and white as you?”

A sharp pain dragged down his face and neck. He twitched and cried. It seared him deeper than any pain he'd felt before. He felt his mind spiralling into something incoherent and fragmented. As ghost-like as it had started, it receded.

The regal corridor dissolved into a dark, damp pit about ten metres across. It seemed like a sewer. There were no brackets on the walls for torches, or signs of doors or windows beyond a grate overhead letting in light. Saffron held her cheek in the corner. A wound the mirror of his own bled down her neck. By her wide, shocked eyes, Meto guessed she had not anticipated his return from the endless corridor.

Better still, she was off-guard. Certain he’d have no other chance, he stumbled toward her agile frame.

She parried as he lunged, but he caught her round the stomach and they fell to the floor together. As they struggled, Meto’s strength faltered. He struggled harder, but she was overcoming him, even though he was on top of her.

She reached up, gripped around his neck and squeezed. Desperate for release, he smashed his head against her  nose. She lost her grip and he rolled to the ground, coughing.

Just as he had righted himself to face her, she was there, one of her infuriatingly tiny blades at his neck. He froze. She breathed heavily, her eyes narrowed.

“Such a shame you're so stupid,” she panted. “Or I might have had more use for you.”

She got up slowly, her blade still pointed at him. He propped himself up on his elbows, then slowly rose to his feet on shaking limbs. As he lifted both palms towards her, she wiped blood from her face and spat into the darkness. Every wound she had inflicted on him also blossomed on her flesh. Every blow he had dealt her ached in his own bones. He didn’t understand it, but somehow they were linked.

“Such a shame you caught yourself in your own trap,” he smirked. “Or you might be able to just kill me right now.”

Her eyes turned, if possible, even colder, and his cockiness faltered. She punched him squarely between the eyes. By the time he had his senses back she was muttering curses in her native tongue and tying his hands far too tightly behind his back. A rag stuffed in his mouth muffled his protests.

She prodded him along the room, into complete darkness. They walked for what felt like hours. When they emerged, he spotted the tree he had waited for her under all those months ago in the rain. He didn't need to look back to know that the city was far away, too far to be of any use to him. His heart sank as she led him to a covered wagon with an aurochs already hitched to the front. She dragged him around to the back and lifted the lid on a deep chest. It looked large enough to hold a substantial amount of treasure or supplies, but she wasn’t concerned with food or gold today. He tried to buck out of her grip and succeeded in knocking them both to the floor. She punched him in the jaw, sending stars swirling across his vision. Though it took her several excruciating minutes, she wrestled him into the chest and locked it shut.

“Don't worry, I won't forget you in there, Vraithii,” she told him through the wood.

Anger and shame washed over him. After everything he and his mother had trained for and done to ensure his success, he had failed; at the hands of a native no less. He wondered if Elsephere had put Saffron up to it. He just hoped he wouldn't run out of air before they reached their destination, or he'd have to rely on Atham to avenge him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ELSEPHERE

Elsephere’s eyes flew open in her bed. The slightest disturbance woke her. A young slave stood in the corner, bearing a note in hasty scrawl. Elsephere read it, then read it again with colour rising in her cheeks and neck.

Escaped.

Elsephere sprang out of bed and threw on a tunic, strapped a dagger to her belt and her bow and quiver to her back, and pushed past the slave. Throwing decorum to the wind, she ran to the dungeons, ready to flay alive every guard responsible for letting them past. Morgaine intercepted her minutes from her goal, in the narrow corridor separating opulence from incarceration.

“This had better be important,” she snapped. Morgaine faltered a moment.

“There has been a disturbance in the east corridor, Highness,” she replied. “And now none of the guards and servants are willing to go there. Something about a darkness settling in.”

Elsephere cursed the superstitious minds of the lesser classes and decided which required her attention more.

“Cordon off the corridor,” she told Morgaine. “And send for an ovate to bless the area. That should settle the guards.”

Morgaine bobbed her white-blonde head and scurried off. Elsephere continued on her way to the dungeons with equal haste.

She found a gaggle of shamefaced guards standing around Kanika’s cell. A faint smell of chicory and sulphur hung in the air, an unusual twist of the usual filth and misery emanating from the cells. The cell's door was wide open. A few strands of Kanika’s long silvery hair lay on the floor from where the Seer had been shorn.

Elsephere held back her scream and impulse to punch the incompetents who had let her escape. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a few calming breaths. As her gaze was on the ground, she noticed a strange symbol, almost invisible except for a tiny smudge reflecting the light of the braziers.

“Your Majesty, she cannot have gone far,” the captain told her. “The patrol saw her still locked up tight only an hour ago, maybe less.”

“It was well-timed, then.” Elsephere pointed at the strange symbol. “That must be magic, and she is in no state to perform it herself. Find out who helped her, and bring them to me quietly. I don't want a single person outside of this room knowing that she is gone, or that she had inside help. Understood?”

The captain barked orders at her soldiers, then waited a moment for further instructions. Two guards remained with them. Elsephere instructed they accompany her until they were sure no threat lingered to target her.

“Send more guards to find my brother's slave, Willan,” Elsephere ordered. Though she had no reason to suspect him, antipathy set him squarely in her sights. She had not forgotten the name which slipped out of his lips when his life was in peril. “I have a feeling he's mixed up in all this. Don't let him slip away.”

The captain nodded respectfully and went to do as she was bidden. Elsephere bent down once the captain was gone and examined the symbol. As she did so, a glimmer further off in the corridor caught her eye. She followed the glimmer and caught sight of another, then another, until she heard a noise up ahead. She moved quickly to the shadows and peeked around the next corner, a cruel smile twisting her lips as she caught sight of Willan. Perhaps her hatred of him had aligned with the truth after all. She motioned the guards with her to stay silent. He was feverishly screwing in bolts to hold down a grate.

He poured sandy liquid from a flask over each bolt. It was clever, Elsephere thought to herself. If anyone examined the grate once the liquid set, it would appear rusted and impossible to shift. He must have Kanika stashed somewhere around the city. He would open up under torture, as so many did. Willan stood and glanced around once he was finished, then stowed the flask. Elsephere followed him out of the dungeons. He was in a quiet stretch of hall before she accelerated to catch him. She pinned him to the wall with ease. He squeaked and struggled. She twisted his arm behind his back and leaned against it until he gasped. The flask poked out of his belt as his tunic shifted with the unnatural angle of his shoulder.

“What's this then, slave?” Her eyes were lit from within by a triumphant fire. “A flask? No doubt you'd like a drink now, wouldn't you?”

She grabbed the flask, popped the cork from it and held it up to his lips. A foul stench rose from it, not a smell of something edible. She saw his eyes widen as he resisted.

“What's that? No drink?” she mocked. “Well, perhaps you'll be more comfortable in a cell.” She released her grip on his arm and shoved him along the corridor. “Move. Or die, painfully.”

His eyes flickered to the blade on her belt. He was tall with longer legs, but he was no warrior, nor a runner. He did as she instructed without a word.

“It seems you are in the wrong place at very much the wrong time,” she told him. “That Seer wretch has escaped, along with one of her cellmates. And I know how you Ilasean scum like to plot and scheme behind your masters’ backs. So tell me; did my dear bereaved brother put you up to this?”

He gave no reply, though she noticed his breath catch as she accused him. She wanted to run him through with her blade, but she knew that would not help her track down Kanika. It would also rob her of his screams as she took him apart piece by piece.

She felt rather than heard the messenger arrive behind them.

“What is it?” she snapped. The boy jumped, eyes fixed on Willan’s peril.

“A riot has broken out in the square, Your Highness,” he said. “The rioters set fires in the spice shop owned by Lord Warre. It's spreading through the wharfs and lower town.”

Elsephere cursed and looked over at Willan. He would have to wait.

“Take him to the cells.” Elsephere clicked her fingers and a guard stepped forward. “Have him ready on my return.”

Elsephere had been waiting for a riot. The unrest in the city had been growing as Kanika's execution drew closer. The Ilas had gathered to protest the execution, initially only obstructing streets and denying entry into Vraithii businesses.  Unlike the detached brutality her father had employed to keep the Ilas in line, she had decided on more proactive methods.

The chosen establishment was above a brothel. Men and women of negotiable affections continued to entertain, either unaware of the violence brewing outside or determined not to lose a single copper of their night's commerce. Elsephere picked through them with disdain, careful not to breathe in the sour musk of copulation that hung in the air. How Meto could stand to drink with them, let alone take them to bed, was beyond her. She slipped a coin to the brothel's peacekeeper and climbed carefully up the rickety staircase to the rooftop balcony, a single guard for back up trailing after her, also dressed to blend in. She trusted the guards in uniform to maintain order.

She strung her bow with effort once she was in position. Over a hundred Ilas and assorted malcontents gathered in the square. Fires burned already around the city, targeting Vraithii businesses and spreading quickly. A few familiar faces lurked among them, loafers who always managed to turn up whenever there was trouble, but the rest seemed more organised. Guards in armour formed lines to contain the unruly crowd.

“Free our sister! Free Ilas' servant!”

The protesters armed themselves with rocks and staves. The guards closed ranks around them. Interlacing their shields to form a solid wall, they advanced to pen the protesters.

Surrounding the square, the other archers were doing the same. She heard a guard's voice just barely over the din of the crowd.

“Disperse and go back to your homes peacefully. This is your only warning.”

The crowd aimed several projectiles at the guards. The flickering flames added to the unreal feel of the endless sun and the scene of anger and violence before her. They would not back down peacefully. The fools. She let her arrow fly with the rest of the volley, her smile broadening as it found its mark in a young woman brandishing a club. The guards lowered their spears and advanced relentlessly, stabbing in unison. Shrieks and cries rose from the panicked crowd. The endless sun illuminated their death masks, reflecting a red tinge from the rivers of blood that ran through the square.

The streets went silent. Dozens of bodies lay in heaps around the square. Elsephere unstrung her bow and went down with her guard. The guards killed the few surviving Ilas.  Elsephere grabbed a spear. Each gurgle and death rattle brought music to her ears. The Ilas would fear her as they had once feared her father. Soon she would reinforce the iron grip her family held on the city, and then turn their gaze back on the Empire. Avenge the insult done to her father. Assume their rightful place in the imperial court.

She was so caught up in her fantasy she failed to notice the unnerving face staring at her. She jumped, then bent over to get a better look.

A middle-aged man - unlike any she had seen before - lay among the dead. His skin caked in a layer or grime and blood, his eyes elongated teardrops like those of some Ilaseans. The Ilaseans  were all fair skinned and blonde, but this man had tawny skin and black hair. Ringed bruises covered his arms, neck and on his temples. At the centre of each bruise was a thick dark scab with a thin green film at the edges. Blood caked down his chin and the front of his clothes. At first she thought he had bitten off his tongue in the fray, but a closer look revealed someone else’s flesh in his mouth.

“Fetch a stretcher,” she called to the guard. “This one needs to go to the royal undertaker. Cover him with a blanket, too.”

The guard hurried off to do her bidding. Thoroughly disturbed, Elsephere turned back to her task.

◆◆◆

Though the sky was still light, as it would be for another month, Elsephere’s lack of sleep caught up to her. She settled in her chambers with a pipe and flicked through various papers from her father’s desk. Her mind spun with the events of  the last short hours. Two prisoners were lost, one of whom had somehow emerged as a martyr despite not yet being dead, and had almost been responsible for her older brother’s death.

Morgaine sat in her easy chair by the fire mending a pair of Elsephere’s riding breeches. Her skilled work pulled the split seam together with careful tugs until the hole was all but invisible. As Morgaine completed the repair and replaced the breeches among her mistress’ clothes, a soft knock disturbed the silent solar. Elsephere groaned and glanced at the door. Morgaine greeted the caller as Elsephere closed her eyes, wondering if her mind would allow her to sleep. Morgaine spoke in hushed tones with whoever had knocked, then the door closed and Morgaine returned.

“Who was it?” Elsephere asked. She waited, eyes still closed, for several moments. A small crease formed between her brows and she opened her eyes. “Morgaine?”

The Seer stood in the doorway, her pale eyes wide. Elsephere sat abruptly.

“What is it, Morgaine?” she asked again, a note of tension entering her voice. Morgaine tried to speak, realised all that came out was a croak, then cleared her throat and tried again.

“Your Highness, it’s your father…” Morgaine did not blink as she fixed on her mistress’ face. Elsephere’s stomach dropped, knowing what she was about to say. “The king is dead.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

ELSEPHERE

Standing over her father’s corpse in a traditional mourning veil and gloves, Elsephere examined things she hadn’t previously bothered with. How his bedchamber had decor unlike those of either Vraithii or Ilasean tastes. When had the lines around his eyes and across his forehead dug so deep into his flesh? She couldn’t remember his hair being so white, either, though it had been only a few hours since last they spoke. Powdery pallor settled in his skin. Though his eyes were closed as though he slept, something that once accompanied her father’s presence was absent. She reached for his hand and found it stiff. A sob choked in her throat as she let a comfortable emotion take its place.  Whoever had waited to inform her of his death until his hand was long since bereft of life would pay. She wiped away hot tears with the back of her hand.

“There is no shame in grieving.”

Elsephere started at her mother’s voice.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” She looked at Ithrien’s drawn face, hidden beneath a sheer grey veil. “You have no tears for your husband?”

Ithrien stood opposite her, the dead king’s bed separating them. She looked on her husband with dry eyes. Ithrien lifted Eoghan’s stiff hand, turning it slightly to examine it. A deep green tinge spread from the nail bed halfway to the edge of each nail.

“I will mourn him once we have caught his murderer,” she replied. “And once you have returned my son to me.”

Elsephere glared across the king’s corpse. Her mother’s arrogance knew no bounds. Even standing over the body of the High King, she found it in her to slander her daughter.

“Even if I knew what you were talking about,” Elsephere retorted through grit teeth. “I would not discuss it here. Atham will be fine, he’s being tended to by his physician.”

Ithrien eyed her with suspicion. Elsephere breathed out hard through her nose and turned on her heel to leave. She would deal with her mother later, once she figured out how to proceed in the wake of the king’s death. She ran through the customs which needed to be observed before any semblance of normal life could continue, if only to take her mind off her father’s lifeless face. A nine-day vigil in the temple of Jarun, the feast of the dead on the final night as a sculptor created Eoghan’s immortal death mask, city wide bans on luxuries for a further twenty-one days…the list felt endless. Her father had not even commissioned a sepulchre. She was unaware of any plots set aside for him. He had not intended to die in the frigid, godsforsaken lands of his exile. He should be buried in Vraith, beside his mother.

Elsephere realised two things in tandem. The first was that she was halfway to the dungeons without noticing her feet had carried her there. The second was that Ithrien was haunting her steps. Slaves skirted out of their way. She stopped and turned an irate glare on her mother.

“I know you have taken Meto,” Ithrien hissed. “You are playing with fire, child, and I will see you scream on the pyre for this.”

A puzzled frown creased the princess’ brow. Meto? What did he have to do with anything? And why was Ithrien focused on him at such a time? Elsephere restrained herself from punching the queen. “I swear to you, on my life, I have done nothing to Meto. Can you not find it in yourself to at least pretend to grieve your king’s death?”

Elsephere continued to the dungeons, more eager than ever to take out her frustrations on a helpless victim, when her mother’s words sank in. She looked back at Ithrien.

“Why do you think something happened to Meto?”

Ithrien glared at her for several long moments, her grey eyes now threatening tears where in the face of death they had stayed dry. Finally came to a decision.

“He was seen consumed by a dark cloud in a hallway by his steward,” she said. “The man is Vraithii, so no chance of betrayal on his part. His master did not respond to his attempts to speak with him before vanishing.”

Elsephere felt the blood rush from her face as her head spun. Ithrien examined her face.

“Kanika escaped last night, with another Seer from the cells. The one we hosted for breakfast some time ago,” Elsephere breathed. “It must be her doing. We know she is capable of witchcraft.”

Ithrien’s face contorted at the mention of her erstwhile daughter-in-law. She seemed unaware of Kanika’s escape.

“We must find them,” Ithrien said. “The Seer she was imprisoned with, I know where his family lives. When he took such an interest in Kanika, I had him investigated. He has a younger sister.”

“Let us hope he cares for her,” Elsephere replied.

◆◆◆

The house of Armand and Ophi Savastro used to be opulent, clearly. Though it fell into disrepair, the building bore remains of a valuable glass mosaic on the outside. The windows which weren’t boarded up had panes of polished tusk to keep the wind out. Elsephere positioned with a handful of soldiers across the street. A bigger party risked drawing unwanted attention and, in the wake of the slaughter in the square, she preferred the capture of the two Seers to be as quiet as possible. The roads were quite empty, with only stallholders from the market on their way to set up shop in the square. A team of slaves erased traces of the riot. Though the curfew was still in effect, Elsephere didn’t waste her small guard arresting the Ilaseans and merchants who passed.

A young Seer woman with short white-blonde hair wrapped in a scarf almost ran them over with her handcart. She looked up in alarm as she spotted Elsephere’s boot, just in time to steer the cart out of the way. Their gazes met, Elsephere’s cool grey eyes locking on to the Seer’s. The Seer hurried on with her head down. Elsephere frowned and turned her attention back to the house. Everything was still inside, but without other leads, they had no choice but to wait.

As she began her clear signal to search the house, something moved in the upper storey. She smiled as the movement repeated. Her guards readied their weapons.

Three of the soldiers blocked the exit to prevent anyone from fleeing the old house. The other two shadowed her to the entrance. The door was old, bearing the marks of a past break-in; the hinges were far newer than the wood. Elsephere lifted the latch and gave a gentle push. The door swung open. They crept into the house. Voices filtered from the floor above, arguing in Ilasean. Elsephere spared a moment to ensure there were no others in sight.

The entry was a short corridor that led into a large room with the remains of wooden furnishings scattered across the floor in pieces. Nothing of value remained, either collected by the owners on their departure or looted by whoever had broken the door. The entire house was covered in a thick layer of dust, though some areas bore less grime. Twilight haze broke through the dirty windows and illuminated the once-proud home in a muted blood-red glow.

One of the voices from upstairs raised in pitch to a sharp crescendo. Elsephere went to the staircase while one of her guards checked the kitchen. The staircase opened onto a landing with a door to her left, a corridor leading deeper into the house flanked by four more doors. Short sword drawn, she followed the voices until she came to a closed door. She could not understand the  Ilasean, spoken too low and fast for her to follow, but surmised from their hurried movements that they were packing as they argued.

She was about to push the door open and arrest them both when a muffled shout sounded from outside. Elsephere froze. Glass shattered on the floor below. The arguing Seers silenced. Heavy footfalls rushed to the door, and she rose her weapon. She came face to face with the startling blue eyes of the Seer she had ignored so many weeks ago over breakfast as he begged for his life. He recognised her, stepping back and reaching for something inside the room.

“No sudden moves.” She pressed her blade into his neck.

She backed him into the room and set eyes on his sister. Where was her guard? Last she knew, the men had been on her heels. More voices outside joined the first shout in an angry cacophony. She felt a sharp line of panic run through her chest.

“Your Majesty, please…” The Seer’s sister barely had an accent, her soft tones edged with fear as she enunciated each Vraithii word with polished care.

“Shut up.” Elsephere turned her attention on Armand. “So, you thought you could kidnap my brother and escape from the cells, did you? I will have you flayed for it. Your co-conspirators will not make it out of the city. You will burn for this.”

The young man frowned, his mouth slightly open. The usual expression of a witless Seer struggling to keep up with the elegant Vraithii language. Elsephere turned to the sister, pointing the sharp blade at her heart.

“You will submit to arrest and be questioned.” She spoke slowly so the Seers could follow. His sister looked on the verge of tears. Elsephere moved to grab her, to drive home the message.

As Elsephere lunged, the sister screamed and shied away. Armand leapt forward, wrestling the blade out of Elsephere’s hands, shouting in Ilasean at his terrified sister. Another crash rang out from the stairs, this time bringing with it a hot gust of wind and the sharp tang of smoke. Shouts from the street merged into a clamouring chorus of Ilasean rage, the voices of her guards holding back the tide swiftly drowned in the din.

She held onto her sword, though Armand used his mass to shove her away from the door. The sister squeaked and darted down the hallway with her head bowed, all care gone for the belongings she had been collecting. The brother yelled something and ran after her, his feet slipping in his haste to reach her. Elsephere righted herself and gave chase.

The stairs cracked from the heat, their dry wooden boards hot even through her boots. She caught sight of the brother’s sandy hair and broad shoulders ducking towards the kitchen, through thick black smoke. Fire spread from a torch tossed in through the broken window, a large stone revealing the method of entry. The front door hung ajar, a rapidly growing crowd of angry Ilaseans congregating in front of her overwhelmed guard as they defended their position. More would come soon, she knew, both of soldiers and peasants.

Capturing the two Seer siblings was out of the question now, but she was damned if she’d let them get away with their lives. Fire scorched the edge of her tunic and set her nerves on edge. The old house full of dust was a tinderbox. She had to act fast.

A rumble shook the house and the sister screamed, followed by a loud crack and the sound of wood hitting the floor. Elsephere beelined for the sound.

She found them in the kitchen. A decorative wooden beam caught and tore the sister’s dress, trapping her and leaving a long red gash down her shoulder. Ash and hot coals fell from where the wood had stood. Her brother gripped the burning beam with a gasp and lifted, allowing her just enough space to get free. Elsephere slashed at the brother with her sword. The smoke blurred her vision and her cut didn’t land. The brother pushed the burning beam at her and reached for his wounded sister, hurrying her out the back door. Elsephere ducked the burning beam and followed. She caught sight of the sister’s body vanishing over the garden wall. The brother hoisted himself up after his sister, heedless of Elsephere charging him.

Elsephere sheathed her sword with a curse and pulled onto the wall, expecting to see the pair fleeing into neighbouring gardens. Something hard struck her in the forehead and she fell on her side. She gazed up with dazed eyes as the brother dropped the rock, his sister hanging off his arm, urging him to flee with her.

The Ilas never fight back. Her last thought drifted in the wind like the rising smoke, before she lost consciousness.

◆◆◆

Elsephere stood over Willan. He was unbound in the cell. The lack of bindings was deliberate; it gave the illusion he might escape. Though he met her gaze squarely a slight tremble throughout his body gave away his terror. Two guards watched from outside the cell to ensure he could not overpower her.

Kanika escaped. Armand escaped, along with his sister. The audacity, the brazen insolence of them. Willan’s soft, blond Ilasean curls only stoked the rage in her. He would pay in their place.

Elsephere began with a sudden flurry of whip strikes, leaving him gasping. He rose to fight back and she punched him in the neck. Another round with the whip while he clutched his throat on the floor slashed open his flesh in a crisscross pattern all down his back and across his shoulders. She watched his shaking form huddled by the cell wall and considered her options. Either way, by the time she was done with him, he would be broken. He turned a fearful gaze on her. They always grew nervous when she paused. The trepidation on his face warmed her.

Finally she settled on a course. Grasping small calipers, she darted over and pinned him to the cell floor with her knee in his back. The speed of her approach took him off guard and he offered little resistance. His arms spread out beside him. She grabbed one and twisted it until he sobbed, then leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“Tell me what you know of Kanika’s escape.”

His only response was a sob. She tutted and gripped one of his fingernails with the calipers. The metal grip latched easily. Milimetre by milimetre, his sobs turned to screams. His body bucked beneath her but she did not let go. Blood gathered around the edge of each nail bed then broke free in rivulets, running down his fingers and staining the calipers. She watched it flow, fascinated and delighted. The nail broke free with a wet squelch. She dropped it beside his face and leaned in again.

“Tell me what you know of Kanika’s escape,” she repeated. He was too busy gasping and crying to respond, so she started on the next nail. Instead of screaming, this time only a low moan escaped him as she tugged. She saw his eyelids flutter closed and sighed in frustration. He had passed out. She let his hand fall and drew her knife. Her fingers dragged across his bloodied back, but he did not stir, so she took his earlobe and pulled it away from his head. Perfect. With one quick slash, his ear came away in her hand.

He jolted awake, dislodging her from his back. She stepped away to watch him. His hands shook as they found the place his ear had once been. More Ilasean garbage spewed from him as he curled himself into a ball and wept. Elsephere sighed again.Pacing along her array of tools, she selected a curved claw with five talons. Careful not to place it near his arteries, she pressed it into his shoulder and worked the contraption to close into his flesh. Blood erupted from each claw, running in rivulets down his back and chest. He screamed. His clothes absorbed most of the blood. Elsephere tutted; that wouldn’t do. Withdrawing the claw she took her knife and made quick slices through the fabric, leaving him naked and trembling.
“Please, Your Highness, please… please…” Spittle flew from his lips and dribbled down his chin to mingle with tears and snot. His lean ribs drew ragged breaths around the pain, every inch of him in uncontrollable spasms. “I-I don’t know anything…”
Elsephere ignored him, choosing a wicked whip with tiny blades woven into it and unleashing a flurry of blows across his back. The taunt skin opened and spilled crimson. Willan’s cries weakened. Instead of hoarse screams he reduced to shuddering sobs. Elsephere scoffed. At this rate he would bleed to death before she got anything out of him. Perhaps pain was not the way to make him talk.

“Fetch the shite buckets from the other cells,” she told one of the guards. “Drinking it might loosen his tongue.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

KANIKA

Several days later, with a splitting headache and unshakable nausea, Kanika helped Aldert and Armand collect wood for the fire. Cassia tended to Ophi's burn. The sun beat down relentlessly from morning until night, leaving a warm haze in the air when the moons rode high in the sky. Despite the dissipated tension between her and Armand, she spoke very little with him. She employed her minimal strength to being useful as they waited for whoever Cassia expected.

Aldert was simple, Cassia was aloof and detached, and Ophi and Armand spoke softly together or stayed silent. Kanika began and ended each day tired and sweaty, longing for a few months to sit and peel her mind off the sides of her skull. The Acolytes said that the drugs would wear off sooner if she sweated it out with physical labour.

Cassia insisted they could go no further until at least seven days had passed otherwise, as a sign of respect for her likely fallen comrade.

As Kanika dropped her pitiful handful of twigs next to the mountain of logs Aldert collected, a covered wagon came into view. Armand joined Ophi to watch it's arrival. Cassia perked up instantly, though Aldert looked apprehensive. Considering Kanika spent half her time throwing up and the other half wishing she were dead,  she felt no emotion towards the new arrival beyond a relief that they would move on soon. She sat on a rock and watched Cassia converse with the new arrival.

The wagon's driver dropped from her perch and led Cassia around the back. Aldert offered Kanika a drink of water. She sipped it slowly as Cassia and her friend dissolved in peals of laughter. They looked into a chest suspended beneath the cart. Kanika frowned and passed the water back to Aldert, intent on seeing what was so funny. Aldert held her back with a hand on her shoulder.

“I advise you leave them be.” He squinted against the sun. “I love my mistress dearly, but she and her assassin friends are quite twisted. Best stay out of their business.”

Kanika pursed her lips, but relented. Armand and Ophi ignored him, moving as one towards the wagon.

Another wave of nausea overcame Kanika as the water settled in her stomach. She sidled off to vomit amongst the trees, away from their camp.

As she choked and sputtered, bent double with clear liquid gushing out her mouth in waves, she thought she heard raised voices. She tried to focus on them, but only made herself dizzy.

When she was sure her stomach had nothing left to eject, she stood up, wiped her mouth with her trembling hand, and braced herself against a nearby tree. Whoever she had heard, if it was anyone at all, had fallen silent. She leaned her head back and gazed upwards, wispy clouds chasing each other across the sky.

It was these moments that she longed for and dreaded in equal measure. Without Aldert's antics, Armand's wary familiarity, she heard her own voice so clearly in her mind. It muttered and rumbled in strange tides, at times in tones much like those she'd heard her whole life, but at others something more sinister.

She couldn't brush it off forever, and she had not the strength to make it do as she commanded. Where she would go now? To wherever the Acolytes dwelt, somewhere far to the east in their walled fortress? To the north, where rumour held that the Seer Queen bided her time and gathered her forces to retake Argorien? There was always the forests, Kanika supposed, but a life alone in the wild would end with her becoming prey to some creature of the night.

The horrible options suffocated her. Her heart raced as her vision tunnelled and her mind detached itself from her, floating somewhere above. She gripped the tree. Her knuckles scraped and her fingers burned against the rough surface. To let go was to fall back into the abyss. Dizziness swept over her as a vision took hold.

The eye atop the Skytowers winked at her. Sturdy stone freshly laid supported it, and joyful song rose up from the streets below. The eye winked again. When it opened she saw herself, Ophi, Armand, and Cassia standing in a courtyard.

“South.” Reverberations shook Kanika’s mind until she thought her skull would burst. “Go south.”

The vision passed as quickly as it rose. An answer to her dilemma, handed to her from above. She resisted. Her stomach coiled at the vision’s insistence. She had just escaped the clutches of a controlling entity, and wouldn’t fall prey to another.

Conflict churned in her mind as she remembered the blood she had spilled on Ilas’ altar and the oath she had sworn to serve Her. How could she say for certain that it was Ilas who sent the vision? There was no certainty in her, not with her heart  pounding and her head spinning.

She tried to focus on the world around her. Somewhere nearby she heard the stream where they collected water, and birdsong trilling and echoing through the trees. The sun beamed in gentle rays, the contrast between the bright open camp, and the dappled shade of the thicket, sending goosebumps up her arms.

She regulated her breathing until the world returned to its usual state. Tendrils of the sinister episode clung on. She felt them laying like wolves among sheep in her mind, just waiting for the moment she turned her attention elsewhere. The episodes rarely lasted long, but there was no pattern to them, no way of anticipating which days would treat her kindly and which would leave her a giddy, shuddering wreck.

She sank to the ground and waited for the aftershocks to settle. If the vision urged her south, she would head north. And damn the consequences.

◆◆◆

She headed back towards the camp, her feet falling softly on the springy earth and leaf litter. As she walked, she overheard voices arguing in heated whispers amongst the full green summer leaves of a wild hydrangea bush.

“...just try to kill him now and be done with it.”

That was Armand, she'd know him anywhere. She stopped and listened carefully for Ophi's reply, wondering what on earth would have caused Armand such distress.

“I'm sure they have a reason for bringing him here. They've done so much for us, we should trust them at least to know what they're doing,” came Ophi's nervous reply.

“We cannot travel with him. Bound or not, he will slit all our throats while we sleep. They won't hear it, but let's see what Kanika thinks. Perhaps they will listen to her.”

Kanika sighed. Clearly there was more at play here. She continued to the camp, too exhausted to involve herself in whatever they were so upset about.

She’d barely walked a dozen paces when Cassia’s voice cut through the trees around her. A male voice she recognised joined Cassia’s.

“You were granted this in order to serve a greater purpose.” Cassia sounded terse. “Do not renege on your deal. You know My Lady is not one for forgiveness.”

“I know.” Surely that was Lord Rune’s voice. “Though I cannot guarantee the same zeal I once bore for the task. Revenge is a young man’s errand.”

Kanika rolled her eyes and altered her course once more. How many people were meeting in secret in these woods?

She arrived at the camp. Meto sat bound and fuming on her rock. He was guarded by a stranger with long dark hair. Aldert stacked wood where Kanika emerged. The tunnel vision roared back to life as though it had never dissipated, her head spun, and she almost tripped in her haste to back away. Strong hands gripped her forearms before she hit the ground.

“Alright there, little Seer?” Aldert's smile, usually infectious, did nothing to quell her trembling heart. He followed her gaze and nodded slowly. “You know this lout too, do you not? Here, let's go sit a while away from them.”

He hoisted her to her feet as though she weighed nothing. He put his thick arm around her shoulders, guiding her through the long grass until they were far enough away that she could pretend she hadn't seen Meto. Aldert plopped down in a warrior's crouch and patted the grass beside him. She obliged him, squatting beside him so that all that was visible was a sea of grass stalks and the tops of the trees.

“You were drugged when we rescued you,” Aldert said. She nodded, though it hadn't been a question. “Were you always drugged whilst you were imprisoned?”

Kanika frowned and tried to think back, then shrugged.

“Mostly, yes,” she replied. “Though there were some times they didn't dose me high enough, or the effects wore off quicker than expected.”

“I know of the drug they use to subdue the Seers,” Aldert said. “In my lands, it's a powerful and sacred voyaging tool. Very few are left under the influence of it for so long. But there are some who have undergone it, and returned full of wisdom from the other side.”

The full weight of her exhaustion settled on Kanika's shoulders. Aldert attempted to take her mind off Meto, but he could not have chosen a worse subject.

“Well, I got none of that,” she snapped. “Only nightmares that haunt me even as I wake.” The gentle giant's face froze, startled by her curt reply. She sighed. “Thank you for trying to help. I'm sorry for snapping, I'm just eager to be somewhere safe. I think I'm ready to face him now.”

Aldert smiled, harbouring no ill will, and rose to accompany her back to the others. Ophi and Armand reappeared, though they lingered on the fringe of the forest in silence. Armand stared at her as though he expected her to join them. She ignored him, moving to greet Cassia's companion.

“So is this the other Seer from the dungeons?” The companion asked before Kanika could speak.

“I am,” Kanika replied. Meto seethed from his rock seat. They had always been enemies, she rationalised. Now they had no need to hide it. “I'm Kanika. Are we waiting on anyone else, or can we get the hells away from here now?”

“Saffron,” She extended her hand in greeting. “And this royal cur needs no introduction, at least not with you.”

Kanika didn't like the way Saffron watched her as she indicated Meto, but followed her gesture anyway. She glared at Meto, making it clear that he would find no quarter from her.

“We are already acquainted, unfortunately,” Kanika confirmed.

Saffron and Cassia exchanged a smirk.

“I will journey to the north-east and reach Anukthar within six weeks, even with my hostage,” Saffron explained. “I am eager to return to my homeland. My family has need of me, and I have completed my apprenticeship here. I will be blooded as an Acolyte on my return.”

Kanika thought for a minute, then nodded. She had heard that the Seer Queen waited in the forests at the foot of the Ananuk Ranges.

“I, too, will be blooded when I return to Anukthar. But I am in no hurry. The South Seer has summoned me.” She and Saffron exchanged a look. “We agree that Aldert must accompany Saffron and the spoiled princeling. So, which will it be, Kanika?”

Kanika guessed what Armand and Ophi would decide. They would never travel for six weeks into foreign territory on a mere rumour of the Seer Queen's activity. Crossing the Sunless Marsh meant facing battlewolves and who knew what else.

The more she thought about it, the more she knew that such folly was exactly the course she had to take. Her information could greatly aid the Seer Queen's tacticians. She could entrust it to Aldert or Saffron, but she had little faith they would deliver her message.

And if the rumours proved untrue? If the Seer Queen was long dead and buried, and any forces she might have commanded scattered to the winds? She would deal with that eventuality if and when it arose. Perhaps Saffron would allow her to enter Anukthar and she could seek lodgings at the temple and serve Erwen much as she had served Ilas.

“I will accompany Saffron to Anukthar, or at least most of the way there.”

Behind her, Ophi gasped.

“Kanika, no, we must find the free Seers and-”

“And what, Ophi? What then?” She hadn't meant to speak so sharply to her friend, but Ophi's face fell. Kanika forced herself not to feel guilty. Ophi gave no reply, her eyes downcast. “We must stop running and hiding. The Vraithii will keep hunting us. The blood of every Ilasean will run in the streets before they are sated.”

“Don't speak to her like that.” Armand’s face was dark with anger, but Kanika didn't care. “You are a Seer, Kanika, you are not built to be an assassin.”

“I'm not going to be an assassin. But I'm not sticking around here or skulking off to hide in the South Seer's fortress. There are rumours that the Seer Queen still lives. I will seek her out. I am tired of having my fate dictated by others. And there's no use arguing with me about it. Our paths diverge here. I have decided.”

Armand opened his mouth, then only glared at her, moving to put his arm around his sister.

“Don't mind her, Ophi, she's been around savages too long. She's picked up more than just their language.”

Kanika turned on her heel, heading to Aldert, suppressing the urge to rage and scream at Armand for being so awful. She might never see him or Ophi again.

◆◆◆

As dusk fell and set the sky ablaze in fierce reds and greens, Cassia and Saffron bid farewell, talking in low tones too quiet for Kanika to make sense of. Aldert loaded the bound Meto into the wagon.

Cassia would lead the two Ilaseans to the most narrow crossing between the peninsula and the mainland, escort them through the waters by boat and then continue with them to the South Seer's Keep before the road became impassable. If they made good time, she would find a horse and join Saffron in Anukthar after she arrived. If not, she would winter with the South Seer and return when the roads thawed and the wilds held more bountiful sustenance than frozen roots and scrawny rabbits.

Armand stood as far from Kanika as he could without separating completely from the group. Ophi pulled Kanika close with tears in her eyes, refusing to let go.

“Please come with us, Nika,” she begged. “Maybe the South Seer will know what to do, maybe the Seer Queen is there.”

“And maybe she is not, maybe the South Seer has no more idea of what the gods want than we do. I must go north. Please try to understand.” She squeezed Ophi tighter, savouring every second of comfort they provided each other before the darkness of the unknown overtook her. “I love you, Ophi. I'll miss you.”

Cassia cleared her throat beside them. They broke apart, tears streaming down Ophi's face. She sniffed them away and wiped her cheeks on her sleeve, then gave a small smile and followed Cassia and Armand. Armand didn't look at her as he left. Cassia assured them that travelling at night was safest for the direction they were going, but still Kanika worried they would meet some misfortune. As the white-haired heads were swallowed up completely in the darkness, Kanika steeled herself. Her gut urged her on, regardless of how unpleasant the journey would be.